Fic on Fire

Doodles and writing and such. There will be fanfiction. I take requests too so shoot me an ask if you want me to write something (no guarantees but it couldn't hurt to ask).

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College Captivation (Johnlock Fanfic)

Read it below or on Archive of Our Own.

Chapter 1

This was going to be John’s fifth year teaching at the university.

He still had nightmares.

He still woke up in cold sweat, clutching at his chest with one hand and reaching for a gun that wasn’t there with the other. He still heard the cries for help, still felt himself rushing from person to person, realizing he would never be able to reach everyone. Many of those cries had ended in desperate gasps, in hopeless pleas, and then a deathly silence. A silence that shook John Watson more than any sound of gunfire ever would.

John woke up in a daze, his groggy half-awake state making complex thought impossible. This was the consequence of preparing for class late into the evening, followed by his usual restless night.

He really couldn't afford to be out of it today. It was, after all, his first day of the new semester. New faces, all who had never taken his class before, many who he only knew as names on paper. It would be a battle in its own way.

John gave one more morning sigh for good measure and began the difficult process of getting himself out of bed. He swung his legs around to the side, sitting up in the process. The blood rushed away from his head, and he spent the next few seconds recollecting himself from the slight dizziness. It wasn’t that he was old or at all out of shape. No, it was as if John’s body had agreed with his mind in the assumption that now that he was back from Afghanistan, nothing needed to operate at full capacity.

John reached his hands out beside his bed, grasping blindly for his cane while his eyes adjusted to the early morning dimness of the room. He got ahold of the rubber handle, letting his hand grip tight as he made an effort to stand.

The walk to the bathroom was a long one, the dull thud of his cane a small reminder of his failings. A psychosomatic limp according to his therapist. Something he’s doing to himself. Pathetic. John washed his face in the sink, hoping to wash away his negative thoughts as well.

No such luck.

***

John arrived to his classroom about thirty minutes early. He put his cane down before placing both hands in front of him to lean on his desk. He looked out across the empty room. The slightly curved tables, the chairs soon to be filled with students. It was a small classroom, it would only have around thirty students total, but John liked the personal feeling of small classes. He cared about each individual student, and wanted to see them be successful.

Hopefully more successful than himself.

John shook his head clear as the first students began to file into class. He gave his best smile, hoping this semester would be a good one.

“Hello. Welcome to Physiology.”

***

John soon lost himself in his own lecture. He had an hour and a half to capture the minds of his students, and he always tried to use it as best as possible. They were starting with a basic overview of the course and what it would cover, but by the the time class had only around ten minutes remaining John was already talking animatedly about the anatomy of the heart.

It was five minutes before class was over when a tall young man walked into the room, just in time to catch the end of John’s lecture. Hearing the door open, a couple of students turned around to see him, refocusing their attention on John once they saw who it was causing the noise.

John looked to the new student, their eyes meeting.

He was definitely tall, all limbs really, with dark hair that was just a mess of curls. He wore a slightly-too-big-on-him blue shirt. His piercing grey eyes focused in on John without hesitation, leaving John feeling as though he was being judged. He made a mental note to talk to the student about his tardy policy once his lecture was finished. Many college professors didn't care if there students made it to class or not, but John was very strict about trying to get his students to come. The newcomer stood in the back of the room leaned up against the wall, making no movement to join the rest of the class.

John finished his lecture, thanking the students for coming and encouraging them to come to the next one. He told everyone the assigned reading could be found on the class’ website and he recommended they look at it for any future tests or quizzes. The students filed out soon after, and the curly-headed boy was beginning to leave as well, his face unreadable.

“Wait one second.”

The boy’s head snapped up and his eyes met John’s yet again. He seemed near scowling at being addressed, as if John was preventing him from much more important things.

“Yes, sorry I haven’t quite learned everyone’s name yet. I’m Dr.Watson. And you are?”

The young man stared long enough that John had to wonder if he was going to respond. Finally, he did. “...Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.” John had to make an effort to not look surprised. Sherlock had a shockingly deep voice for a student. It was somewhat beautiful, really. It suits him, John decided. A beautiful voice for a beautiful person.

John realized his train of thought was beginning to take a turn where he didn't need it to, so he quickly reminded himself of his reason for stopping the young Mr.Holmes.

“Right. Nice too meet you, Mr.Holmes. I noticed you arrived to class very late today. I think it would be beneficial to you if-”

John was interrupted. “I wasn't aware you were in charge of my schedule, Dr. Watson. It was my understanding that, as an adult, it is entirely my choice whether or not I come to class at the appropriate time, if I even come at all. Besides, your lecturing is mediocre at best. And I highly doubt there’s anything you can teach me about the human body that I don’t already know.”

John was more than a little surprised to be spoken to like this, and he could feel heat rising in his cheeks. Sherlock just watched him, like a child might watch an animal at the zoo, waiting for him to do something. John felt his gaze and calmed himself down. No reason to get worked up, he was used to arrogant college students at this point. “I obviously can’t force you to come, Mr.Holmes,” John said, putting an emphasis on calling Sherlock Mr.Holmes, “but I do believe that my lectures will give you knowledge you didn't have before. Five minutes is hardly enough time to judge someone on their ability to teach.”

Sherlock gave John a look. “Five minutes is more than enough time to judge someone, doctor. For example, I know you served in the army, as a doctor of course. Either Afghanistan or Iraq, though I lean towards the former. You were shot in your left shoulder, which sent you home. So you returned to school and now you teach. But…” Sherlock stared at John, and then his eyes flickered to the cane still leaning against the desk. “...you still have psychological trauma from your time in the army. You probably have nightmares, as well as a psychosomatic limp.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to meet John’s. He seemed ready for a hit, for anger, for any sort of negative reaction. John just stared at him, his face the definition of surprise.

“That...that was amazing!”

Sherlock actually gaped. “What?”

“How did you know all that?! Did you look it up? You were spot on!” John was radiating excitement, the exact opposite reaction Sherlock had expected.

“No...I didn't look it up...I just...I deduced you.” Sherlock stared at John, his face a mixture of surprise and skepticism. His cheeks were beginning to turn a bright crimson.

“What’s the matter? Why do you look so worried?”

“It’s just that people don’t normally react this way.” Sherlock had managed to regain himself some, his eyes scanning John’s face, devouring every detail.

“How do they normally react?”

“They normally tell me to piss off. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been punched by fellow students. All just for telling them the truth.” Sherlock tutted, as if everyone he talked to was an idiot who couldn't accept facts for what they were. John imagined he most likely actually thought that.

John laughed. “It sounds like you deserved it.” He smiled a genuine smile, his face lighting up, forgetting that he was supposed to be having a professional conversation with a student.

Sherlock smirked before remembering himself and letting his face return to the blank slate he kept it at. He shook his head, turned around, and started walking to the door. He said only one thing before leaving the classroom.

“I’ll come to class, Dr.Watson. Make sure your lectures make it worth my time.”

John just smiled.

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Read it below or on Archive of Our Own.

Sherlock would never admit that he felt himself being trapped in the spider’s web more than anyone else. He would never admit that he thought he understood Jim Moriarty more than he understood most other humans. He would never admit that Moriarty was one of the few people who managed to surprise him.

But now that he knew Moriarty had a beating heart, that his brains hadn't been blown to pretty bits across a rooftop, Sherlock wouldn’t stop until he had won. The game was on again.

Jim Moriarty is a dangerous man. A dangerous man who was sitting in Sherlock’s chair, acting like he clearly belonged there.

Sherlock paused in the doorway, his face an unreadable slate, his tension invisible and pushed to the back of his mind. Focus on Moriarty. Sherlock smirked. “I was worried I’d have to find you. But you simply couldn't wait, could you?”

“Well, I was so sure you missed me. Two years is such a long time, isn't it? So much...change.”

Moriarty’s eyes drifted to the space once occupied by John’s chair. John’s lack of things. He read the room, a broad smile finding itself lazily on his face. “Don’t you just hate change?”

Sherlock stiffened. He hoped it was unnoticeable, but Moriarty was no doubt reading his every little movement. “Without change,” Sherlock said, “I would be bored.” He moved to the couch to sit down, where a warm tea was waiting on the stand.

The static in the room could almost be seen. Two similar yet opposing minds, sizing one another up, deciding their next moves. Talking to Jim Moriarty was almost exactly like playing a very complex game of chess. The difference being that if Sherlock made a wrong move, he could easily end up dead.

“How is my little virgin without dear John taking care of him? Really made the poor thing upset, didn't it, thinking you dead for two years? Pets are so funny like that. And they move on so easily too.” Sharp teeth, a wicked grin. Sherlock stared ahead, his face blank. He took a sip of tea. “Is there a reason for your visit?” he asked Jim, a casual tone to his voice.

Moriarty grinned. “I can’t come to see how old friends are doing? I missed you so dearly, Sherlock. You have no idea. The world is an absolute bore without someone to play with. Being dead for two years…” Moriarty paused, his face contorting. Sherlock’s head barely avoided the teacup, hearing it shatter against the wall behind him. “IT’S ALL SO BORING!”

His eyes met with Moriarty’s. “I see. You came to break my cups.”

Moriarty let a highly-pitched giggle slip from his lips. He responded quickly, his words beginning to become muddled. “You’re not funny, you know. You sit there and you think and you plan and you pretend not to care. But , Sherlock, oh Sherlock. I know you care. I know you more than you know yourself.” Sherlock stiffened, ready for Moriarty to launch at him. To pull a gun. To do something drastic. “I know you so very well. We’re so alike. You say you don’t have a heart. No, no you have one. You have one and it’s broken. How’s John, Sherlock? How’s...Mary?”

Sherlock stared at him, his mind whirring. How much did Moriarty know? About John? And Mary?

“You’re a mess, aren't you? But it will be okay, Sherlock. I’ll break John. I’ll break John and then you’ll be broken too. Won’t that be pretty? They have a baby on the way, don’t they? How sad it would be if-”

Sherlock was no longer waiting for Moriarty to lunge at him. Now he was lunging at Moriarty, the weight of the two of them toppling Sherlock’s chair over backwards. They rolled, Moriarty finding the upper hand, pinning Sherlock hard to the floor at his wrists.

Moriarty practically cackled. He found the whole thing so god-damn funny.

“Sherlock! So very emotional, aren't we?!” Moriarty lowered himself, his lips near Sherlock’s ear, his breath tickling Sherlock’s neck. “I’m going to take out your heart and ruin it. I’m going to make you feel every little piece of it shattering. I want you utterly broken.”

Sherlock squirmed. He tried to headbutt Moriarty. Kick him. Anything to get the upper hand again.

Moriarty straightened his arms, giving the squirming Sherlock one more good look before moving down to kiss him roughly.

Sherlock gasped, his open mouth becoming a new location for Moriarty’s tongue to explore. Sherlock stopped his struggle, the shock of the kiss putting his brain on pause. He felt his tongue moving against Moriarty’s, felt them in their own struggle for dominance. He observed his heart beating faster, his skin tingling with a new-found arousal.

The room seemed to be spinning.

Moriarty left the kiss to suck and nibble down Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock found himself breathing in deeply, unable to get enough air in his lungs. And then Moriarty bit down. Hard. Sherlock bucked up, surprising himself as a flash of pain and pleasure surged through him. Moriarty groaned at Sherlock’s movement, the two feeling their flesh separated by mere clothing.

And then Sherlock found that in his movement, Moriarty had conveniently forgotten to keep his hands on Sherlock’s wrists. He took the opportunity to push Moriarty hard, rolling himself over in the process until Moriarty was the one pinned. “Enough.” Sherlock released Moriarty and stood up in one swift motion, righting his scarf and collar, trying to calm his heart.

Moriarty backed away, gasping for air near the couch, his legs sprawled out on the floor. He grinned at Sherlock.

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Sherlock stood in front of his mirror, staring at the impression left near his right shoulder by Moriarty’s teeth. He saw the red and sensitive skin in the shape of the man’s bite and thought of Moriarty’s parting words before he left the flat, probably eager to cause Sherlock more trouble in the future.

I have so much fun planned for you. You know what they say, Sherlock. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.

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These two.

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I am so confused. (Johnlock Fanfic)

Read it below or on Archive of Our Own.

Writer’s Block

In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.

Prompt - I am so confused.

“I am so confused.” John had to pause his typing to look up at his flatmate, shocked to hear those words come from the mouth of the man who always seemed to have the answer. “What?”

“Me, John. I’m confused.” Sherlock said it as if John was an idiot for asking him to repeat himself. The tall man was staring intently at John, perched on his chair like a bird, his long fingers crossed under his chin. He had been in this position for quite some time, showing no signs of movement until he had started talking.

“Er...what are you confused about?” John closed his laptop, giving his full attention to Sherlock, who just continued to keep his eyes fixed on John without offering a word of explanation. John sighed, a slight exasperation apparent in his voice. “I’m sorry, were you actually talking to me? Or have you forgotten I’m in the room again?”

Sherlock bristled in response to the sarcasm, but his eyes never left John’s face. “Thinking, John. I’m thinking, but it still has me confused.” John smiled and shook his head, settling into his chair. Typical Sherlock, even with this new-found confusion he was as vague as ever. “It would be helpful to know what it is,” he said, reopening his laptop, “that has you so stumped.”

Sherlock stood up in one fluid motion. It took him two large strides to bring himself to a standing position right in front of John’s chair. “Um Sherl-” He put one hand on each side of John’s face, doing it so rapidly and with enough force that John couldn't do much but stare in surprise.

“It’s you,” was all Sherlock offered before pressing his lips roughly to John’s.

John gasped as Sherlock pulled his face away from John’s, his expression unreadable. John could feel his face redden, and it seemed he was suddenly unable to speak, his mouth producing a multitude of um’s and er’s. Sherlock seemed to be processing again, before settling on a look of disappointment.

“Well, that didn't solve much. I thought experimenting might help. But it seems I’m just as confused about you as I was. Perhaps more so.”

John managed to compose himself enough to form coherent sentences. “You...Sherlock! You bloody fool! You can’t just kiss people out of the blue like that!” Sherlock smirked in response. “Yes, I can. People do it all the time. And it’s for the purpose of solving a problem.” John’s face became a brighter shade of crimson. “Well...let’s see how you like it then!”

John wasn't sure if it was because he actually wanted to teach Sherlock a lesson or if it was just that he wanted an excuse to try kissing him again, but he soon found his hand on the back of Sherlock’s head, bringing his face down to meet his own.

The kiss was deeper this time. Whether that was Sherlock’s doing or not, John wasn’t sure. But when he felt his own tongue against Sherlock’s, he had trouble not groaning. The kiss was rough and messy, new and unexplained. John reached his arms under Sherlock’s, clawing at his back, dragging himself closer to the man. Sherlock couldn't seem to decide which part of John he wanted to touch most, moving his hands under John’s shirt to explore his chest. His shoulders. Every inch of him. When the two finally broke apart, John was gasping.

“I hope you’re happy, Sherlock. Now I'm just as confused as you.”