Johnlock Fic Recommendations

A way for me to categorize my favorite fics and share them with others. Fics are (hopefully) posted once a day.

[johnlockficrecommendations]

They’ve never… never talked about it. What… what Sherlock’s real place in her life means. Sherlock knows, though. Sherlock implicitly knows what they mean to him. What they are to him. What it means that John comes home to them at night. That Rosie coos when he’s back from work and Sherlock drops her into John’s arms. That in the morning it’s reversed and she babbles happily when John places her into his. He slams the door open and climbs the staircase in a blur…. and then there they are. John humming quietly, rocking the baby in his arms. His family. They are his family. John smiles up at him, and Sherlock’s heart expands ever so much more. His family. The one he didn’t realize he had so desperately wanted and then, somehow, made.

NomdePlume, Father

[johnlockficrecommendations]

Hi lovelies! I ought to have mentioned this a few months ago, but I've updated my blog header to reflect that doing fic rec lists is not something I have the time to do at this point. Apologies to anyone who has sent in requests! By the way, regardless of my feelings about s4 (I lean slightly closer to disappointed, but I'm genuinely glad that a lot of people love it), I can't wait to see what you all bring forth in terms of fic! (And if you didn't love it, there are some wonderful pilot!verse blogs. Check out @pilotbillytheskull, it's lovely.)

[johnlockficrecommendations]

It’s hard to anticipate John Watson. John is a world unto himself, really, a whole universe of contradictions to be unearthed, opposing forces and competing motivations: a doctor and a soldier, exasperation and fondness, a gun hidden under cardigans, careful attention to and yet almost total disregard for social expectation, for legalities and morals, when he finds they don’t suit him. He creates routines and forms habits, and likes to break them as much as follow them. He walks along the lines of order and looks out over chaos and grins, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s like he’s sharing every unknowable thing he knows, magnificent and vulnerable both, flawed and broken and raw and yet not shattered, not defeated. He is extraordinary and gorgeous and full of complexities, half-wild humanity with bared teeth alongside soft palms and quiet whispers in the dark, and every time he surprises Sherlock, Sherlock falls impossibly more in love with him. John is surprising Sherlock rather a lot, these days.

darcylindbergh, the first day of forever

[johnlockficrecommendations]

Do you know that poem?” John asks him. “’Do not go gentle into that good night’?” Sherlock closes his eyes, briefly. Imprints the image in front of him into his synapses: John, smiling. John, tender. John, old; John, young; John, in-between. John. Just that. John. “Yes,” he says. “’Rage, rage, against the dying of the light’?” “I know it.” John takes his hands between his own. The texture of his skin is pressed against Sherlock’s once more. For the last time. Calloused at the fingertips, soft in the middle. A metaphor, in that, Sherlock thinks. The wedding band that has been there so many times cold, but always clean, shining, and warmed by the both of them now. “Let’s go gently,” John says.

Teatrolley, The cosmology of you and me

[johnlockficrecommendations]

There had been a moment. A swift, sudden, terrifying moment. Sherlock and John didn’t speak of it, and John was pretty sure that Sherlock had absolutely no recollection of the event because when John had casually mentioned it the following morning as a joke, there had been no reaction. John remembered them stumbling up the stairs and into the flat, Sherlock bustling around the kitchen preparing yet more drinks. When he appeared again in the door from the kitchen to the sitting room, John recalled the way he had felt- awed. Sherlock’s curls were disheveled from his bar fight, and his cheeks had a high and rosy blush from drinking so much alcohol. He wore a look of dopey happiness and he swayed slightly to and fro like he was standing on the deck of a boat. He was so beautiful when he looked stupid. Striding across the room in his long coat, he had kneeled down next to John, handed him his drink, and kissed him. For a full eight seconds. Surprised and embarrassed, John had tried to recover but there was no use. The damage had been done. As unpredictable as a lightning storm, Sherlock had giggled, wiped his mouth and sat down in his chair like nothing was wrong. And they had gotten on drinking so heavily after that that neither of them thought about it at all. That is, until a few months after, when John had been thinking the night over, and the view of Sherlock’s gently closed eyes and long, sloping nose had suddenly flashed through his thoughts.

paminapickett, The Unexpected Deduction

[johnlockficrecommendations]

John breaks the Sherlock-induced silence: “That was beautiful.” The architecture of Sherlock’s reasoning soars in his mind’s eye, gleaming, elegant. He has a moment of giddy discomfort — did he just use the word “beautiful”? Yes, dammit, he did, because Sherlock’s mind is the most splendid and wildest thing he has ever in his life seen. Settling this with himself almost reconciles him to the fact that Dr. Molly Hooper wears the same look of dazed admiration that must be on his own face. Sherlock turns just his head toward John. “You know you say those things out loud?” John squashes down a spike of embarrassment. “Sorry. I’ll, ah, try to keep a lid on it.” “No, no, it’s—it’s fine.” Has someone pressed Sherlock’s Pause button? A beat, two beats, and he’s still looking at John. Puzzled? Can he be puzzled? If John weren’t transfixed he would miss the instant: Sherlock’s face softening, the corners of his mouth rising so minutely you couldn’t even call the expression tentative. Also, in that same instant, a sensation as of a cord between them. Gossamer, unbreakable. When Sherlock looks away, John becomes aware that no one else in the room has missed the moment either. Molly Hooper is blushing. Well, he doesn’t have many friends, you idiot. It’s bound to feel significant that he likes you. Lestrade clears his throat. “Thanks, Sherlock, that’s given us a good bit to go on with. Enjoy the rest of your supper, yeah?” And he gives John another of those interrogative looks.

ancientreader, The Beginning of Knowledge

[johnlockficrecommendations]

‘Though I’m wondering,’ continues John, calm now because they’re fast transitioning to the place where he’s in absolute control: ‘How many bloody stupid, feeble people have run away from you because they couldn’t cope, with your brains or your kinks or whatever fantastic weirdness was too much for them this week?’ Sherlock pushes forward with his captured wrist, hard. ‘All of them, eventually,’ he says. John sways a little on his knees, holds firm, then gets to his feet, dragging Sherlock with him. They stand in the middle of the floor, just staring at each other, Sherlock looming over John, seemingly fiercer, harsher, readier to fight. It isn’t so, though; not this time. John has seen him gradually weakening; John has seen him terrified and suffering; John has seen him reaching out. ‘I will never do that,’ promises John. ‘Get downstairs.’

pennypaperbrain, Malta Bright

[johnlockficrecommendations]

‘The noise snow makes as it falls,’ Sherlock said with a shrug. 'I don’t think there’s a word for it in English.’ 'Peace,’ John supplied after a moment of thought. 'Not quite silence, but almost.’ He shivered again, more over the eerie edge the weather had lent to London’s night than the cold, but Sherlock quickly pressed closer as if to share his warmth. 'I can’t believe there’s so little noise. We could be the only people left in the world.’ 'At least I would be in good company.’ John looked up at Sherlock, his reply dying in his throat as he realised how close they were. At arm’s length and locked in friendship’s orbit, he might have stood half-a-chance, but right now he could understand precisely why it was called “falling” in love. It was sacrifice and surrender: a leap of faith that could make or break a man, and John was not sure he had the courage to find out which would be his fate.

BeautifulFiction, Their Great Reward

[johnlockficrecommendations]

He squeezed Sherlock’s arm one more time, then glanced up and froze. Sherlock followed his gaze to… ah. Some cheeky bastard had tacked a sprig of mistletoe over their doorway where it couldn’t be avoided. Must have done it on their way out after the party. Greg, at Molly’s encouragement, most likely. Sherlock’s face went hot, couldn’t seem to form words. “Um…” John dropped his bag and wrapped both arms around Sherlock’s lean frame, one hand on the back of his neck, the other at the curve of his waist. Sherlock hesitated, then brought his arms around John’s shoulders and leaned down to rest his temple against the side of John’s head. John’s arms tightened into a fierce hug, and Sherlock was on the verge of cracking wide open, his heart displayed, everything he felt for this man there for all to see. Then John turned his head, and pressed a single, slow kiss to Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone. “Don’t worry,” John whispered, his voice pitched low. “I’m not spending Christmas without you this year.” Sherlock’s watched in a daze as John picked up his bag and left. His head swam with the heart-pounding intimacy of the moment, his cheek burning with the memory of John’s lips. He stared at the spot where John had stood, silent, trying to process, when a thought occurred to him: That could have been their first kiss. John probably would have kissed him, really kissed him, had his parents not been sitting there. Damn them. Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall with a pained groan. “You really should just make a move already,” Mummy said, matter-of-fact.

Itsallfine, Merlot

[johnlockficrecommendations]

Sherlock begins to laugh, which surprises John. It’s a nice laugh, long and low, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “What?” John asks, not quite frowning at him. “What’s so funny?” “You and I,” Sherlock says, still chuckling. “Having this discussion. We may be the worst people qualified to determine what makes Christmas significant apart from the religious celebration associated. You could make it a blog post: Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Missing Christmas Spirit.” John begins to laugh, too. “That’s not bad,” he admits. He looks over at the fire and sighs again without meaning to. “I suppose we are rather the blind leading the blind here.” Sherlock gives him a long, thoughtful look. “Tell you what,” he proposes. “Let’s experiment. This year, we’ll do all of it. We’ll do everything associated with Christmas and see if we can’t solve the mystery.” John looks at him in surprise. “Really?” he says, astounded by this suggestion. Sherlock shrugs. “Why not? It seems important to you. It won’t hurt. We’ll investigate and see where the magic is, or if it’s all just a cruel hoax to teach children a longstanding life lesson that everything in life is a disappointment and a lie.

SilentAuror, Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Missing Christmas Spirit

[johnlockficrecommendations]

John cast him a dark glare, pitching another bulb into the bin and slotting a new one in its place. ‘Because it’s Christmas, and we need to decorate the tree. Because if I do it by myself, it will take ages and because you promised.’ ‘When?’ 'Yesterday, after you set fire to the jumper my mother knitted for me.’ John ramped up the tone of accusation. Sherlock was abysmal at empathy, but if you pushed hard enough, it was still possible to send him on a very minor guilt trip. 'My mother who has been dead for almost a decade and can’t make me a new one.’ Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes took in the stately majesty of the Christmas tree, which was already filling the flat with the fresh scent of pine. It had been carefully placed a safe distance from the fire, and while John felt marginally bad for sacrificing a living tree for the sake of Christmas, he didn’t feel contrite enough to go out and buy something eco-friendly and made of plastic. 'I don’t see the point,’ Sherlock muttered, reluctantly getting to his feet and accepting a bundle of fairy-lights from John. 'It’s tradition.’ John looped a strand around Sherlock’s neck, trying to stop the string from getting tangled as he slotted in the plug and grinned in satisfaction when they lit up beautifully. Sherlock’s skin was cast in gemstone hues: blues and reds and greens all adding festive cheer to his highly sceptical expression. 'John, dear, you’re meant to be decorating the tree, not Sherlock,’ Mrs Hudson pointed out as she bustled in with a tea tray, some mince pies, and a considerable amount of sherry in a bottle.

BeautifulFiction, No Mistletoe Required

[johnlockficrecommendations]

In Christmases past, Sherlock has given him practical things, interesting things. Books, scarves, a new alarm clock for his bedroom when his old one started to get fussy around the snooze button. Last year he’d gotten him a pass to an underground, top secret shooting range, so he could practice with his gun and a couple of other firearms, in exchange for five solid favours for Mycroft. John had taught Sherlock how to stand and shoot, correcting his stance with a hand on his shoulder and on his hip, and the silence in the empty shooting range had been deafening, and three days later John had gone to Sherlock’s parents’ house and pretended to forgive his wife. That’s over now, Sherlock reminds himself fiercely. Over and done. This Christmas is different. This Christmas they are different. This will be the first Christmas since John had kissed Sherlock months ago, so gentle and cautious and hopeful, in the rain outside 221B, the day he’d come home for good. I’m sorry we had to wait so long, John had said, God, I’m so sorry, I feel like we’ve waited forever. So it has to be perfect. He wants John to feel like the wait was worth it. He wants John to know that he’d have waited longer, as long as it took, that he’d have waited forever, for John. What do you give a person when you want to give them the rest of your life? And Sherlock stands there, in the middle of a Christmas market as John hums along to Silent Night, John’s hand warm in his with fingertips a little gritty from the cinnamon-sugar doused churros they’d shared, and thinks, oh, that’s–that’s an idea, isn’t it?

darcylindbergh, a good old-fashioned happy ending

[johnlockficrecommendations]

Sherlock?” John calls, as he opens the door. “What the hell are you up to now? It’s blazing in…” He trails off as his eyes take in the state of the flat, dawning confusion on his face. “Oh. It’s… Christmas. Again. Of course it is.” Sherlock swallows and works up his courage with a deep breath. They should eat first. They should, then sit down with wine and start all over again. But John looks warmly, softly beautiful in the flickering firelight, and sod the dinner, just sod it all, and he takes John by the hand and leads him to his chair. John sits, surprised and curious when Sherlock hands him a cup of mulled wine and sits in his chair opposite. “Christ, you even found the crackers, and, and, the books,” John says. “And when did you get my candlesticks? What’s all this in aid of?” Sherlock takes a deep swallow of wine. “Recreating exact conditions.” “Christmas Eve is an exact condition? Condition of what?” A little curl of suspicion is starting to form on John’s face, and he looks for a moment like he can’t decide whether to laugh or make a run for it. “Kiss me again,” Sherlock demands, because he’s out of words for the first time in his life and his chest is tight and he’s ready to crawl out of his skin with anticipation. “What? You said—“ “I know what I said. Kiss me again.” Why isn’t this working, this should work, he realizes what I’m asking please John. “Please.” John grins, big and bright and blinding, and he stands next to Sherlock’s chair, slides his palm along Sherlock’s jaw and tilts his head up. Sherlock closes his eyes, heart hammering in his ears and waits, waits, barely breathing until John finally kisses him softly, achingly slowly, his other hand sliding around the back of Sherlock’s neck to tangle in his hair.

Mazarin221b, Last Christmas

[johnlockficrecommendations]

Um,” said John. “I was fired. No thanks to you.” John hurried past Sherlock and twitched the covers into place on his rumpled bed. And wondered why he didn’t tell Sherlock to leave. “Fired?” echoed Sherlock, sounding confused. “For what?” “For running off after you and Brian and leaving Santa’s Grotto completely unattended,” snapped John, losing his temper a little bit at Sherlock’s apparent cluelessness over how employment worked. Sherlock regarded him for a long moment, pale eyes curious. And then he ventured, cautiously, “You know that there’s no Santa Claus, right, John?” John rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, my God, what are you doing here?” “I was just checking,” said Sherlock, affronted. “It’s just that everyone seems obsessed with making sure Brian the would-be grand larcenist was hearing terrified children ask for things their parents prompted them to ask for. Everyone goes utterly mad at Christmastime, it’s horrible.” “Mm-hmm,” said John, noncommittally, because he wasn’t interested. “How did you even get hired to be an elf with an attitude like that? Oh, wait, you weren’t hired, because now my ex-boss thinks I have mental issues because I was babbling about a tall elf named Jangle. And you are much too tall to be an elf, you know.” Sherlock’s eyebrows raced upwards, toward the curls falling poetically over his alabaster forehead like he was a bloody Romantic poet. “That’s your issue with my being an elf? That I’m too tall?

earlgreytea68, John Watson’s Twelve Days of Christmas

[johnlockficrecommendations]

Hello,” Sherlock slurs up to him with the most agonizingly exquisite smile, his voice lazy and beautifully thick as he miraculously achieves what the doctor has asked, “You were correct, John, Christmas has come early. It’s perfect—no. It’s not merely perfect, it’s abhorrently brilliant. I have a part of you. Couldn’t have asked for anything better. Best one yet. I love this holiday.” “You,” John says with a dismaying twist of his own lips as he carefully brushes his fingertips against the inside of Sherlock’s white wrist, as he almost had done so many times before, “are higher than bloody a kite right now.” “You love me.” “Right, yes, I wouldn’t really—I just. You remember, brilliant. Good deduction, that. Saves us a bit of an awkward conversation later, I suppose.” “You love me and I have an internal organ of yours.” Sherlock says up to him as if it’s the most ground breaking deduction of his life, his eyes practically ablaze with very heavy pain killers, “It’s Christmas. It’s thirty four Christmases worth of gifts. I asked for a kidney, and I received your own. Oh, Father Christmas, you are brilliant, I never doubted your abilities, really, it was all just an act.

withoutawish, Our Enthusiasms Which Cannot Always Be Explained

[johnlockficrecommendations]

Happy Holidays!

Hello everyone! I recently realized that a) my queue ran out a while ago and b) I didn't have any Christmas fics lined up, so this my attempt to fix that. Over the next three days I'll be reccing multiple Christmas fics everyday! Hope you all enjoy and have a merry Christmas!

[johnlockficrecommendations]

Sherlock — Sherlock Holmes, are you secretly a Christmas romantic?!” Sherlock narrows his eyes and sloshes a small amount of punch out of his glass with his knee-jerk dismissive gesture. He tries to scoff, but it doesn’t quite come out right, and ends up more as a gargle. “Oh my God, you are, you actually are!” John crows. “You like Christmas!” “That’s not —“ “Sherlock, you just gave me a detailed discourse analysis of a Christmas song and you haven’t deleted the Grinch.” “I haven’t deleted many things, John,” Sherlock protests, but John shakes his head. “You deleted the solar system, don’t tell me you thought the Grinch would be more relevant than that.” “You never know what literature may be relevant, John, in fact, some serial killers are known to take ideas and inspiration from prominent works of fiction -“ “No, nope, you will not stand there and convince me that you didn’t delete the Grinch because you thought a serial killer might use it as inspiration. What would this hypothetical serial killer do, pat his victims on the head and send them to bed with a glass of water and a dash of arsenic?

1electricpirate, Happy Christmas, You Arse