|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
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
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
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
John rose from his crouching position at the edge of the rooftop, his leg starting to ache a bit from the cold and his general sense of unease. Exhaling a thick fog into the frigid autumn air, he turned again to Sherlock with a sigh.
"Remind me again what we're doing up here?" His body let out a little shiver as the chill seeped into him. They'd already been up there for ten minutes, staring at the intersection below.
Sherlock adjusted his coat as it blew in the tailwind. "We're keeping watch for the murderer. He'll strike next at that inn across the street."
John stifled his protests about how they could have done this just as easily from the warm cafe below them, and instead shoved his hands into the pockets of his meager jacket. He wished he'd had a chance to check the weather report before they'd left, as the temperature seemed to be steadily dropping into the 10s. A sidelong glance at Sherlock, warm in his scarf and Belstaff beauty, (like all things) did not go unnoticed.
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 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
Before Sherlock died, the two flatmates rarely touched. John was withdrawn and still used to the homophobic atmosphere of the military. Sherlock was just as withdrawn, more concerned with clues and details than with people, even those most prominent in his life. Why put forth the effort?
After Sherlock died, that all changed. Small touches were exchanged between the two, a shorthand system of communication which they learned instinctively as they went along. A punch to the cheek was easy; "You're an ass." A gentle palm on the knee; "I'm sorry, forgive me, I need you." A slow tracing along the cheekbone; "You're actually real and not-dead."
Time progressed, and the language between them grew as more vocabulary was added. A tug on the elbow; "Don't leave me." A quick squeeze of the thumb; "I'll be back." A chin on the shoulder; "Keep watch over me." An arm around the waist; "I will, now and forever." A gentle grip at a tense shoulder; "Ignore him, he means you harm, I'm with y
John had been helping Sherlock with his physical therapy after the short fall from a second-story balcony which had dislocated his shoulder. The joint had healed very well, and was almost entirely functional again, the stubborn detective urging it forward in its recovery perhaps a little too quickly. John was keen to slow him down whenever he winced at the residual pain or stiffness.
As a final exercise, John had dragged Sherlock back to the university swimming pool, this time during hours of operation. The water-based strain would do the joint good, and John looked forward to the swim. In addition to the lifeguard, there was only one other person in the pool, an elderly fellow who swam steady laps back and forth and minded his own business.
John waited in the shallow end for Sherlock to come out of the locker room and join him, lazily treading water in his swim trunks, diving under to wet his hair as he kept his shoulders beneath the surface out of a slight sense of modesty. The water
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
John's Chair It had taken months for John to work up the courage to admit that the feelings he felt for Sherlock were more than what one feels for a best friend. It had taken another month for John to decide that he couldn't put up with the almost bipolar emotions he went through when he was near Sherlock. It had only taken an hour for Sherlock to kiss John.
It wasn't like he had meant for it to happen. He had come home from surgery, tired, grumpy, and sore. Sherlock was leaning back in the armchair, mind elsewhere. John put up with a lot from Sherlock-more than flatmates normally put up with- but he would not put up with Sherlock stealing his armchair. "Sherlock," John cleared his throat, "you're in my seat."
Sherlock looked up, glaring at John. "Yes, brilliant, John."
I Could Watch You For A Lifetime
Running, running, more running. Thats what most of John's days now consisted off, that and watching the back of Sherlock's tailcoat, and broad shoulders, and slim waist, and....He always did this, getting caught up in Sherlock's appearance, but how could one not? With those tall cheekbones, sharp, silver eyes, and full lips....He did it again. He knew it wasn't healthy, he would never do more than look at Sherlock, but he was content to do that for the rest of his lifetime.
Sherlock and John stopped to breathe as their chase of the china-vase-thief was brought to an end, by cornering him into Lestrade's waiting people. Their breathe's came out heavy as both tried to regain their posture and John let out a chuckle at their struggle. Sherlock caught his eye and laughed once enjoying the way John's mouth turned at the edges with his grin and the small lines around his eyes crinkled. Once they f
I Feel So Close To You
There he was, falling away as the masked criminals pulled him away by his dark curls. "Sherlock" John yelled after him. Sherlock's cold eyes stared back silently at him mixed with an emotion he could not quite discern. "Sherlo-" and then the world was a sudden abyss of black and cold.
John awoke to the cold. A damned cold at that. Even during his tour in Afghanistan did the nights ever get this chilly. He opened his eyes to searing white and quickly closed them again. What the hell? He slowly opened his eyes once more and let the blinding light fade to focus. He realized the white light was snow. It was about 10 or 12 feet away from him and he...he looked around, he was under a rock? Quite literally John laid almost snuggly under a rock craig that stretched out ahead of him. Underneath him was hard rock and it's freezing temperature could be felt through John's wool jacket. It had to have be
Coming Home - Johnlock - 2/4As the gun pressed heavily into his temple, his sweat-slick finger slipped on the trigger, hand shaking like never before.
I can do this. I can. I will.
The hesitation was merely momentary. He steadied himself, thinking only of reuniting with Sherlock in whatever afterlife there may be, and took a deep breath. But before he could pull the trigger, he heard a sudden cry 'John, no!' and he was grabbed suddenly from behind, the gun wrestled away from his head. Some miserable survival instinct forced his hand, and he threw the person off, slamming them on the floor, and pointed the gun at them. He expected Mycroft, or maybe Greg, but instead he looked down to see a gaunt, white face, a mop of curly hair and pleading blue eyes.
'John,' Sherlock whispered, baritone rough with emotion, 'I'm so sorry.'
John paled, and the hand pressing Sherlock's chest to the ground clenched and unclenched in his coat fabric.
'Jesus Christ. It's happened. I've done it. I've actually gone i
Through All The Days Out Wandering It had taken a good 30 minutes, but John had finally gotten Sherlock from his fetal position on the floor onto the couch. Sherlock's head was in his lap and he was stroking Sherlock's dark hair as the detective tried to process his shock. Every few moments he could feel a tremor pass through Sherlock's lean frame and it made his heart ache to see his invincible friend brought into such a position.
"Just breath, Sherlock." he repeated for the fifth or sixth time that afternoon. Finally Sherlock seemed to respond as he turned his body over to look at John, the red from his eyes finally gone and replaced with a cold, calculating stare.
"Sherlock?" John asked warily not knowing why that hard gaze was aimed at him. Sherlock's eyes softened momentarily as he shook his head slightly and then he closed his eyes, bringing his fingers to his lips.
Coming Home - Johnlock - 1/4Grief, in many ways, is like any other strong emotion. Fear, joy, hatred, all wax and wane, but in theory begin with a spark, an event like no other that turns you upside down with heady feeling, and changes you, at least for a while, incredibly. And yet, after a period of hours or days or weeks or months, it is expected that the emotion will begin to dissipate. That you will no longer be frightened, that you will no longer feel ecstatic, that hatred will turn to indifference. That the pain in your chest will die away. But for John Watson, an anomaly like no other, this simply was not true.
It was a Friday afternoon, three years to the day that his best friend had jumped to his death from St. Bart's hospital, and John was tired. He was sat in his usual, threadbare armchair, cradling a lukewarm cup of tea in his hands, staring across at the dusty violin that lay undisturbed in the seat across from him. The tick of the clock seemed abnormally loud and slow as John waited for an un
It was dark, and John was asleep. His immediate reaction was to take his gun out of the nightstand, but after a moment he realized that it was probably Sherlock. But he decided he wouldn't be able to sleep until he was absolutely certain-
Sherlock had collapsed.
His flatmate was lying on the remains of the coffee table, which had fallen under his weight. John dropped his gun and ran to press two fingers to Sherlock's neck. He couldn't feel a pulse. Numbly, he called the emergency number and screamed into the receiver. Then, he rushed back to Sherlock's side and began chest compressions. Nothing was working and he screamed and screamed and screamed-
"John." There was a hand on his shoulder now, and John's brain whirled. His face was pressed into something soft and dark.
He was in bed, covered in sweat. A dream, he assured himself. But it felt so real.
"You were screaming again."
"Every night you scream." Sherlock bit his bottom lip. "It was worse
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
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
Parenting for Sex AddictsThe half-day.
We are not those folks that need an occasion to try. And that’s what they call it, too. Trying. As if the very idea of it is taxing. It’s not taxing and we are not those people.
No. We do not go by some magical calendar. Schedules aren’t really our thing in general. That’d be too organized. Too stuffy. Too… I don’t know… too planned. And we’re not the type of people whom plan.
If we could—plan—our lives would be much different. I think. It’s hard to say because this is how we’ve always been.
Our very togetherness is a result of impulse. I’m almost certain that the amount of time it took us to decide to move in together was significantly shorter than the amount of time it took us to remember each other’s names. We might have had our first conversation moments after that first… what I mean to say is we didn’t plan. Because planning would have been much t
Keep in Touch!
scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More