𓃗
Doug Jones
Show & Tell
The Stonewall Inn
gracie abrams
occasionally subtle
blake kathryn
EXPECTATIONS
Monterey Bay Aquarium
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
hello vonnie
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Andulka
Not today Justin
todays bird
The Bowery Presents
Origami Around
🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
#extradirty
Game Changer & Make Some Noise
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from Brazil
seen from Brazil
seen from Bangladesh
seen from United States
seen from Romania
seen from Iraq
seen from Venezuela
seen from Thailand
seen from Brazil
seen from Bangladesh
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Germany
seen from France
@poshboysherlockholmes
creator and follower of chaos. brooding. prefers the cold. lover of finely made things, quiet, and ballroom dancing. critical, snide. favorite color green. unsure. tender-hearted when john or mycroft is involved. passively suicidal. eats food on occasion but mostly refuses as it sharpens the senses. light sleeper, enjoyer of gingernut biscuits and earl grey. very gentle with children. blatantly autistic. hates ambiguity. loves chemistry.
[text: John Watson]
Please come. If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH
@watson-the-lionhearted
[text: Sherlock Holmes] What is it this time, Sherlock? I'm in the middle of a shift at the clinic. - JW
[text: John Watson]
My nose itches. Also a new murder case. But mostly my nose. -SW
[text: Sherlock Holmes]
Your nose. Right. I'm on my way over, you can fill me in when I get there. I'll prescribe you a tissue. - JW
[text: John Watson]
Excellent. Do you have those soft ones? -SH
Frozen Moments: Norilsk, Siberia through the Lens of Christophe Jacrot
[text: John Watson]
Please come. If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH
@watson-the-lionhearted
[text: Sherlock Holmes] What is it this time, Sherlock? I'm in the middle of a shift at the clinic. - JW
[text: John Watson]
My nose itches. Also a new murder case. But mostly my nose. -SW
[text: John Watson]
Please come. If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH
@watson-the-lionhearted
Monday night. No case. Trash telly.
Is this how blog posts work?
John seems to do well with his...
@watson-the-lionhearted
Yeah, mate. You're getting better at this.
.... Did I do something funny?
When Sherlock opened the door to 221B that afternoon, he froze at the sight in front of him: John sleeping on the couch.
He didn't think he'd ever seen John sleep in the living room before, but from the looks of him, doing so was an act of desperate exhaustion. Apparently sleep hadn't come easily or was interrupted last night, again.
Sherlock quietly closed the door behind him and stepped into the kitchen, putting away what he'd bought at the store and then going to sit in his armchair to think.
He certainly had much to think about since Moriarty's appearance nearly a week ago, and it was unusual how much thoughts of the man both fascinated and disturbed him. He wasn't sure what he expected Moriarty to be like, exactly, but what struck him first and most potently were the similarities to himself. He did not like that.
He looked over at John, laid on his side with a pillow under his head, expression smoothed and calm in sleep. Sherlock studied his face for longer than he had any logical reason to, and tried to identify the feeling in his chest. Whatever had cracked open yesterday when they were talking about John's nightmares... it hadn't gone away, and Sherlock couldn't even identify it. As a scientist first, that bothered him deeply.
But, while he was thinking over that, he'd resolved to be a better friend and in the process maybe laid it on a little thick. He let John pick the takeaway a little too quickly, opened every door for him, and even bothered to tell him yesterday's jumper "looked nice" (that one had gotten him a strange look though, admittedly). Maybe he was just trying everything and seeing what stuck, including what he'd done today.
While still gazing at John's face, he realized that he was seeing the first signs of stirring-- John would be awake in only a few seconds.
For no apparent reason whatsoever, Sherlock panicked and grabbed the newspaper to make it look like he'd been occupied when John woke. Only, he'd grabbed it upside down and didn't have time to fix it now.
"Oh."
A blatantly fake expression of surprise.
What next? Good morning? It was 2:45pm.
"Hi," he decided on, just as John blinked awake.
@watson-the-lionhearted
John blinked up at him blearily before slowly but surely beginning to sit upright and untangle himself from his blanket. 'Hi', he muttered softly back before trying to clear the residual sleep from his throat.
'How long have you been sitting there?' This question was asked with a bit more embarrassment as John seemed to realise he was not, in fact, comfortably resting in his own bed but rather open and exposed in the middle of their flat. Then his brow furrowed. 'And why is your newspaper upside down?' Ah. Caught. Looks like John wasn't one to stay groggy for long upon waking.
"A bit," Sherlock answered evasively, and then kicked himself internally.
"Anagrams. Palindromes. Ciphers." He waved one hand with an irritated flick, hoping it came off as boredom instead of annoyance at his own flimsy disguise. "Practicing my cryptography."
Sherlock wanted to keep looking at him but kept up the ruse, feigning interest in the upside-down letters for a few seconds and leaned back in his chair with a breath.
"I did the shopping. Well, some of it. Got the milk. And..." he looked over, paper still held in front of him, trying his hardest to look casual.
"... And Tunnock's. You like their tea cakes, right?"
He knew John did. Did some searching through their bins and supplemented with some Mycroft-style research online to look at what John had purchased and had done and seen in his past, including medical school in Edinburgh.
"They were...." He drifted off and went back to his newspaper, making a face while he crossed his legs. " 'On sale'. Suppose that's good."
John had been rolling his eyes and nodding along at Sherlock's excuse, deciding not too think too hard on how the mind of a genius worked. But then at hearing what Sherlock had done while he slept, John cocked his head and blinked a few times in disbelief. He couldn't help but wonder if he was still asleep and dreaming. 'Sorry, what? You...You actually got the milk? And tea cakes?'
John couldn't believe it. There must be a catch, right? He got up from their couch, marched right past Sherlock, and quickly into their kitchen to open their fridge. There, sitting as innocently as you please, was a carton of milk. It wasn't expired, it was the brand John liked, and Sherlock had even remembered John prefered semi-skimmed. But perhaps most shocking of all was the lack of any decomposing body parts or half finished experiments sharing the shelf with it. Sherlock's oddities had been moved to a lower shelf, leaving the milk safe and untouched. John whipped around to gawk at Sherlock with an amazed chuckle. 'You did. Blimey, you...' John caught himself and bashfully lowered his head as he consciously made an effort to shift his expression to a more casually pleased one. But even then he could not hide his genuine appreciation. 'Thank you, Sherlock. That was...Good. That was very good.'
The praise sounded so much warmer than it had before.
Sherlock couldn't hide a smirk at John's disbelief, but it quickly melted into a genuine smile when he went to check the fridge like a child looking for presents on Christmas morning. Happy to be done with the excuse, Sherlock folded the newspaper across his lap and watched.
By the time John turned he was practically beaming with pride at the praise. This was his best victory yet, making him take a mental note to include in the file labeled "John Watson, friend": Do the shopping. He wasn't sure why that made John happy, exactly, but it only mattered that it did.
"You're welcome."
It didn't take long for him to slip into treating others like servants though, even if he had more self awareness than Mycroft and sort of joked about it.
"Oh, well, you're just there by the kettle for tea. Convenient."
Sherlock's eyes glittered with amusement at the huff of annoyance he knew would be coming from John. Still, he knew it didn't bother him too badly. Sherlock lifted his chin and angled it slightly, feeling... well, a bit spoiled at the moment. After all, he'd just accomplished a monumental task of finding a place called Tesco and doing the shopping. He deserved some tea, made by his John.
John did huff. He did shake his head. Sherlock's deductions were rarely wrong. But his smile didn't leave his thin lips. 'Right. Fair enough. I'll put the kettle on. Don't suppose I could convince you to have a biscuit with me, though? I haven't seen you eat since...Well, you know.'
John began busying himself in their kitchen, and at last it didn't feel as stiff and on-edge as it had been in the days prior. Sherlock's sharp grey-blue eyes instantly noticed John's military posture eased. His movements became more relaxed and fluid. John had finally recovered. His blogger was safe. 221B felt like a home again. Sherlock would make sure that their next case wasn't so strenuious. The one after that, however? No promises.
But he knew John wouldn't have it any other way.
When Sherlock opened the door to 221B that afternoon, he froze at the sight in front of him: John sleeping on the couch.
He didn't think he'd ever seen John sleep in the living room before, but from the looks of him, doing so was an act of desperate exhaustion. Apparently sleep hadn't come easily or was interrupted last night, again.
Sherlock quietly closed the door behind him and stepped into the kitchen, putting away what he'd bought at the store and then going to sit in his armchair to think.
He certainly had much to think about since Moriarty's appearance nearly a week ago, and it was unusual how much thoughts of the man both fascinated and disturbed him. He wasn't sure what he expected Moriarty to be like, exactly, but what struck him first and most potently were the similarities to himself. He did not like that.
He looked over at John, laid on his side with a pillow under his head, expression smoothed and calm in sleep. Sherlock studied his face for longer than he had any logical reason to, and tried to identify the feeling in his chest. Whatever had cracked open yesterday when they were talking about John's nightmares... it hadn't gone away, and Sherlock couldn't even identify it. As a scientist first, that bothered him deeply.
But, while he was thinking over that, he'd resolved to be a better friend and in the process maybe laid it on a little thick. He let John pick the takeaway a little too quickly, opened every door for him, and even bothered to tell him yesterday's jumper "looked nice" (that one had gotten him a strange look though, admittedly). Maybe he was just trying everything and seeing what stuck, including what he'd done today.
While still gazing at John's face, he realized that he was seeing the first signs of stirring-- John would be awake in only a few seconds.
For no apparent reason whatsoever, Sherlock panicked and grabbed the newspaper to make it look like he'd been occupied when John woke. Only, he'd grabbed it upside down and didn't have time to fix it now.
"Oh."
A blatantly fake expression of surprise.
What next? Good morning? It was 2:45pm.
"Hi," he decided on, just as John blinked awake.
@watson-the-lionhearted
John blinked up at him blearily before slowly but surely beginning to sit upright and untangle himself from his blanket. 'Hi', he muttered softly back before trying to clear the residual sleep from his throat.
'How long have you been sitting there?' This question was asked with a bit more embarrassment as John seemed to realise he was not, in fact, comfortably resting in his own bed but rather open and exposed in the middle of their flat. Then his brow furrowed. 'And why is your newspaper upside down?' Ah. Caught. Looks like John wasn't one to stay groggy for long upon waking.
"A bit," Sherlock answered evasively, and then kicked himself internally.
"Anagrams. Palindromes. Ciphers." He waved one hand with an irritated flick, hoping it came off as boredom instead of annoyance at his own flimsy disguise. "Practicing my cryptography."
Sherlock wanted to keep looking at him but kept up the ruse, feigning interest in the upside-down letters for a few seconds and leaned back in his chair with a breath.
"I did the shopping. Well, some of it. Got the milk. And..." he looked over, paper still held in front of him, trying his hardest to look casual.
"... And Tunnock's. You like their tea cakes, right?"
He knew John did. Did some searching through their bins and supplemented with some Mycroft-style research online to look at what John had purchased and had done and seen in his past, including medical school in Edinburgh.
"They were...." He drifted off and went back to his newspaper, making a face while he crossed his legs. " 'On sale'. Suppose that's good."
John had been rolling his eyes and nodding along at Sherlock's excuse, deciding not too think too hard on how the mind of a genius worked. But then at hearing what Sherlock had done while he slept, John cocked his head and blinked a few times in disbelief. He couldn't help but wonder if he was still asleep and dreaming. 'Sorry, what? You...You actually got the milk? And tea cakes?'
John couldn't believe it. There must be a catch, right? He got up from their couch, marched right past Sherlock, and quickly into their kitchen to open their fridge. There, sitting as innocently as you please, was a carton of milk. It wasn't expired, it was the brand John liked, and Sherlock had even remembered John prefered semi-skimmed. But perhaps most shocking of all was the lack of any decomposing body parts or half finished experiments sharing the shelf with it. Sherlock's oddities had been moved to a lower shelf, leaving the milk safe and untouched. John whipped around to gawk at Sherlock with an amazed chuckle. 'You did. Blimey, you...' John caught himself and bashfully lowered his head as he consciously made an effort to shift his expression to a more casually pleased one. But even then he could not hide his genuine appreciation. 'Thank you, Sherlock. That was...Good. That was very good.'
The praise sounded so much warmer than it had before.
Sherlock couldn't hide a smirk at John's disbelief, but it quickly melted into a genuine smile when he went to check the fridge like a child looking for presents on Christmas morning. Happy to be done with the excuse, Sherlock folded the newspaper across his lap and watched.
By the time John turned he was practically beaming with pride at the praise. This was his best victory yet, making him take a mental note to include in the file labeled "John Watson, friend": Do the shopping. He wasn't sure why that made John happy, exactly, but it only mattered that it did.
"You're welcome."
It didn't take long for him to slip into treating others like servants though, even if he had more self awareness than Mycroft and sort of joked about it.
"Oh, well, you're just there by the kettle for tea. Convenient."
Sherlock's eyes glittered with amusement at the huff of annoyance he knew would be coming from John. Still, he knew it didn't bother him too badly. Sherlock lifted his chin and angled it slightly, feeling... well, a bit spoiled at the moment. After all, he'd just accomplished a monumental task of finding a place called Tesco and doing the shopping. He deserved some tea, made by his John.
John did huff. He did shake his head. Sherlock's deductions were rarely wrong. But his smile didn't leave his thin lips. 'Right. Fair enough. I'll put the kettle on. Don't suppose I could convince you to have a biscuit with me, though? I haven't seen you eat since...Well, you know.'
John began busying himself in their kitchen, and at last it didn't feel as stiff and on-edge as it had been in the days prior. Sherlock's sharp grey-blue eyes instantly noticed John's military posture eased. His movements became more relaxed and fluid. John had finally recovered. His blogger was safe. 221B felt like a home again. Sherlock would make sure that their next case wasn't so strenuious. The one after that, however? No promises.
But he knew John wouldn't have it any other way.
When Sherlock opened the door to 221B that afternoon, he froze at the sight in front of him: John sleeping on the couch.
He didn't think he'd ever seen John sleep in the living room before, but from the looks of him, doing so was an act of desperate exhaustion. Apparently sleep hadn't come easily or was interrupted last night, again.
Sherlock quietly closed the door behind him and stepped into the kitchen, putting away what he'd bought at the store and then going to sit in his armchair to think.
He certainly had much to think about since Moriarty's appearance nearly a week ago, and it was unusual how much thoughts of the man both fascinated and disturbed him. He wasn't sure what he expected Moriarty to be like, exactly, but what struck him first and most potently were the similarities to himself. He did not like that.
He looked over at John, laid on his side with a pillow under his head, expression smoothed and calm in sleep. Sherlock studied his face for longer than he had any logical reason to, and tried to identify the feeling in his chest. Whatever had cracked open yesterday when they were talking about John's nightmares... it hadn't gone away, and Sherlock couldn't even identify it. As a scientist first, that bothered him deeply.
But, while he was thinking over that, he'd resolved to be a better friend and in the process maybe laid it on a little thick. He let John pick the takeaway a little too quickly, opened every door for him, and even bothered to tell him yesterday's jumper "looked nice" (that one had gotten him a strange look though, admittedly). Maybe he was just trying everything and seeing what stuck, including what he'd done today.
While still gazing at John's face, he realized that he was seeing the first signs of stirring-- John would be awake in only a few seconds.
For no apparent reason whatsoever, Sherlock panicked and grabbed the newspaper to make it look like he'd been occupied when John woke. Only, he'd grabbed it upside down and didn't have time to fix it now.
"Oh."
A blatantly fake expression of surprise.
What next? Good morning? It was 2:45pm.
"Hi," he decided on, just as John blinked awake.
@watson-the-lionhearted
John blinked up at him blearily before slowly but surely beginning to sit upright and untangle himself from his blanket. 'Hi', he muttered softly back before trying to clear the residual sleep from his throat.
'How long have you been sitting there?' This question was asked with a bit more embarrassment as John seemed to realise he was not, in fact, comfortably resting in his own bed but rather open and exposed in the middle of their flat. Then his brow furrowed. 'And why is your newspaper upside down?' Ah. Caught. Looks like John wasn't one to stay groggy for long upon waking.
"A bit," Sherlock answered evasively, and then kicked himself internally.
"Anagrams. Palindromes. Ciphers." He waved one hand with an irritated flick, hoping it came off as boredom instead of annoyance at his own flimsy disguise. "Practicing my cryptography."
Sherlock wanted to keep looking at him but kept up the ruse, feigning interest in the upside-down letters for a few seconds and leaned back in his chair with a breath.
"I did the shopping. Well, some of it. Got the milk. And..." he looked over, paper still held in front of him, trying his hardest to look casual.
"... And Tunnock's. You like their tea cakes, right?"
He knew John did. Did some searching through their bins and supplemented with some Mycroft-style research online to look at what John had purchased and had done and seen in his past, including medical school in Edinburgh.
"They were...." He drifted off and went back to his newspaper, making a face while he crossed his legs. " 'On sale'. Suppose that's good."
John had been rolling his eyes and nodding along at Sherlock's excuse, deciding not too think too hard on how the mind of a genius worked. But then at hearing what Sherlock had done while he slept, John cocked his head and blinked a few times in disbelief. He couldn't help but wonder if he was still asleep and dreaming. 'Sorry, what? You...You actually got the milk? And tea cakes?'
John couldn't believe it. There must be a catch, right? He got up from their couch, marched right past Sherlock, and quickly into their kitchen to open their fridge. There, sitting as innocently as you please, was a carton of milk. It wasn't expired, it was the brand John liked, and Sherlock had even remembered John prefered semi-skimmed. But perhaps most shocking of all was the lack of any decomposing body parts or half finished experiments sharing the shelf with it. Sherlock's oddities had been moved to a lower shelf, leaving the milk safe and untouched. John whipped around to gawk at Sherlock with an amazed chuckle. 'You did. Blimey, you...' John caught himself and bashfully lowered his head as he consciously made an effort to shift his expression to a more casually pleased one. But even then he could not hide his genuine appreciation. 'Thank you, Sherlock. That was...Good. That was very good.'
The praise sounded so much warmer than it had before.
Sherlock couldn't hide a smirk at John's disbelief, but it quickly melted into a genuine smile when he went to check the fridge like a child looking for presents on Christmas morning. Happy to be done with the excuse, Sherlock folded the newspaper across his lap and watched.
By the time John turned he was practically beaming with pride at the praise. This was his best victory yet, making him take a mental note to include in the file labeled "John Watson, friend": Do the shopping. He wasn't sure why that made John happy, exactly, but it only mattered that it did.
"You're welcome."
It didn't take long for him to slip into treating others like servants though, even if he had more self awareness than Mycroft and sort of joked about it.
"Oh, well, you're just there by the kettle for tea. Convenient."
Sherlock's eyes glittered with amusement at the huff of annoyance he knew would be coming from John. Still, he knew it didn't bother him too badly. Sherlock lifted his chin and angled it slightly, feeling... well, a bit spoiled at the moment. After all, he'd just accomplished a monumental task of finding a place called Tesco and doing the shopping. He deserved some tea, made by his John.
When Sherlock opened the door to 221B that afternoon, he froze at the sight in front of him: John sleeping on the couch.
He didn't think he'd ever seen John sleep in the living room before, but from the looks of him, doing so was an act of desperate exhaustion. Apparently sleep hadn't come easily or was interrupted last night, again.
Sherlock quietly closed the door behind him and stepped into the kitchen, putting away what he'd bought at the store and then going to sit in his armchair to think.
He certainly had much to think about since Moriarty's appearance nearly a week ago, and it was unusual how much thoughts of the man both fascinated and disturbed him. He wasn't sure what he expected Moriarty to be like, exactly, but what struck him first and most potently were the similarities to himself. He did not like that.
He looked over at John, laid on his side with a pillow under his head, expression smoothed and calm in sleep. Sherlock studied his face for longer than he had any logical reason to, and tried to identify the feeling in his chest. Whatever had cracked open yesterday when they were talking about John's nightmares... it hadn't gone away, and Sherlock couldn't even identify it. As a scientist first, that bothered him deeply.
But, while he was thinking over that, he'd resolved to be a better friend and in the process maybe laid it on a little thick. He let John pick the takeaway a little too quickly, opened every door for him, and even bothered to tell him yesterday's jumper "looked nice" (that one had gotten him a strange look though, admittedly). Maybe he was just trying everything and seeing what stuck, including what he'd done today.
While still gazing at John's face, he realized that he was seeing the first signs of stirring-- John would be awake in only a few seconds.
For no apparent reason whatsoever, Sherlock panicked and grabbed the newspaper to make it look like he'd been occupied when John woke. Only, he'd grabbed it upside down and didn't have time to fix it now.
"Oh."
A blatantly fake expression of surprise.
What next? Good morning? It was 2:45pm.
"Hi," he decided on, just as John blinked awake.
@watson-the-lionhearted
John blinked up at him blearily before slowly but surely beginning to sit upright and untangle himself from his blanket. 'Hi', he muttered softly back before trying to clear the residual sleep from his throat.
'How long have you been sitting there?' This question was asked with a bit more embarrassment as John seemed to realise he was not, in fact, comfortably resting in his own bed but rather open and exposed in the middle of their flat. Then his brow furrowed. 'And why is your newspaper upside down?' Ah. Caught. Looks like John wasn't one to stay groggy for long upon waking.
"A bit," Sherlock answered evasively, and then kicked himself internally.
"Anagrams. Palindromes. Ciphers." He waved one hand with an irritated flick, hoping it came off as boredom instead of annoyance at his own flimsy disguise. "Practicing my cryptography."
Sherlock wanted to keep looking at him but kept up the ruse, feigning interest in the upside-down letters for a few seconds and leaned back in his chair with a breath.
"I did the shopping. Well, some of it. Got the milk. And..." he looked over, paper still held in front of him, trying his hardest to look casual.
"... And Tunnock's. You like their tea cakes, right?"
He knew John did. Did some searching through their bins and supplemented with some Mycroft-style research online to look at what John had purchased and had done and seen in his past, including medical school in Edinburgh.
"They were...." He drifted off and went back to his newspaper, making a face while he crossed his legs. " 'On sale'. Suppose that's good."
When Sherlock opened the door to 221B that afternoon, he froze at the sight in front of him: John sleeping on the couch.
He didn't think he'd ever seen John sleep in the living room before, but from the looks of him, doing so was an act of desperate exhaustion. Apparently sleep hadn't come easily or was interrupted last night, again.
Sherlock quietly closed the door behind him and stepped into the kitchen, putting away what he'd bought at the store and then going to sit in his armchair to think.
He certainly had much to think about since Moriarty's appearance nearly a week ago, and it was unusual how much thoughts of the man both fascinated and disturbed him. He wasn't sure what he expected Moriarty to be like, exactly, but what struck him first and most potently were the similarities to himself. He did not like that.
He looked over at John, laid on his side with a pillow under his head, expression smoothed and calm in sleep. Sherlock studied his face for longer than he had any logical reason to, and tried to identify the feeling in his chest. Whatever had cracked open yesterday when they were talking about John's nightmares... it hadn't gone away, and Sherlock couldn't even identify it. As a scientist first, that bothered him deeply.
But, while he was thinking over that, he'd resolved to be a better friend and in the process maybe laid it on a little thick. He let John pick the takeaway a little too quickly, opened every door for him, and even bothered to tell him yesterday's jumper "looked nice" (that one had gotten him a strange look though, admittedly). Maybe he was just trying everything and seeing what stuck, including what he'd done today.
While still gazing at John's face, he realized that he was seeing the first signs of stirring-- John would be awake in only a few seconds.
For no apparent reason whatsoever, Sherlock panicked and grabbed the newspaper to make it look like he'd been occupied when John woke. Only, he'd grabbed it upside down and didn't have time to fix it now.
"Oh."
A blatantly fake expression of surprise.
What next? Good morning? It was 2:45pm.
"Hi," he decided on, just as John blinked awake.
@watson-the-lionhearted
two of a kind
pressed flower pngs ! free to use! likes and reblogs appreciated :)
Monday night. No case. Trash telly.
Is this how blog posts work?
John seems to do well with his...
@watson-the-lionhearted
"Please don't hide yourself from me."
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his armchair and took a sip of tea to have an excuse to cast away his gaze from John.
He crossed one leg over the other while he sat his cup back in its saucer and swallowed. He meant the words, genuinely, and felt they were pertinent after John seemed quieter following a night of PTSD nightmares, but now wondered if he should regret saying them. He'd only meant to be... encouraging.
The words hit John like a physical weight. Not a blow, but a sudden and uncomfortable pressure. He had been staring at his blog, watching the cursor blink in and out of exsistance as he tried to make his sleep-deprived brain think of how to best write the events of their most recent case. He never expected Sherlock to approach this subject. Of course they both knew how John was struggling as of late, but it wasn't the kind of thing people openly talked about. Then again, Sherlock Holmes has never been like other people.
'I'm not hiding', John replied lowly, sounding a touch more defensive than he meant too. He took a deep breath and shut his laptop's lid before dragging a hand down his face and standing up from his own armchair across from Sherlock's. 'It's nothing, Sherlock, nothing I haven't handled before. It's fine. I'm fine.' John sounded more and more like he was trying to convince himself rather than Sherlock. His soft tone was tighening as he trailed off, and he knew Sherlock had noticed. In a pointless attempt to avoid further scrutiny John turned and began walking away towards their kitchen, planning on making a cup of tea out of habit rather than actual interest.
Sherlock had been staring at the floor when the response came. John's tone made his shoulders stiffen and stole the breath from his lungs.
"I only meant..." The words died in his throat. Had John been looking at him when he stood, he would've seen Sherlock flinch at the way he drew himself to full height, expecting a confrontation.
When John turned instead, Sherlock realized with a swell of acid from his gut that he'd wished John had yelled at him instead. This was worse, somehow.
Sherlock had, of course, noticed the sound of John convincing himself moreso than him, and worried at his bottom lip while he studied the swirling designs in the dusty carpet. A moody sip of tea.
How was it that he was so socially inept that he'd angered the friend he was trying to comfort? Mycroft's smug voice rang in his ears.
Don't bother trying with people, Sherlock. They never react the way your deductions show they will.
The silence left in the flat was deafening. John was busying himself in their small kitchen, but his movements felt distracted. He seemed to be making a conscious effort not to lift his head on the slim chance he would find himself meeting Sherlock's gaze. John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him with every practiced action he preformed as he went about making the tea, and with each second it felt more and more suffocating. The kettle began to whistle a shrill cry, but John felt like he was the one about to boil over. When he shut off the stovetop's hob he didn't just turn the dial, he practically slapped it in the opposite direction. He then yanked the kettle away and slammed it onto their countertop with a heavy huff of breath. John felt the pressure tensing in his shoulders right down to his arms, making his hands flex in his habitual fidget of distress. Sherlock was right. He was hiding. And he hated it. With a sharp inhale John finally turned on his heel to face an unexpectedly sheepish looking Sherlock, and John's armour began to show it's cracks. 'Fine. Okay. You want me to say it? Fine. I was scared. I was scared, in that pool, wearing that bloody bomb. I saw what IEDs did to unsuspecting soldiers in Afghanistan, Sherlock, and I've...I've been dreaming about it ever since.' The confession tumbled out of John faster than he could catch his breath, and by the end of it he felt like his throat was closing. He pursed his lips with an ashamed wince, bracing himself for a scoff and for Sherlock to scold him for being sentimental.
Sherlock clenched his jaw with a jump when John slammed the kettle even though he'd been watching, feeling something crack in his own chest that revealed something soft underneath, something that never saw the light of day. He had no choice but to lift his chin to meet John's gaze. Here would be the explosion-- should've kept your mouth shut, turn off those bloody deductions once in a while, you're insufferable, etc.
Sherlock's eyelids fluttered while John spoke-- he struggled to hold the weight of the words while he attempted to absorb them, but was determined to. He wanted to look away desperately but kept eye contact with John, feeling that he at least owed the admission that.
John seemed to brace for impact too, which had Sherlock spinning. Guilty. He understood exactly why John looked that way, as he'd previously preached about needing to push away fear as it obstructed logic, but this-- combat--
"John," he began, the word slow and measured in his throat, "... That is a normal response."
Great going, Sherlock.
Sherlock winced at his own ineptitude again and tried again.
"What I mean is-- what you experienced on the battlefield, as I understand it-- it is different. From what we do, even."
Sherlock's mouth opened slightly while he appraised his friend, hoping very much that his words were landing in any way that wasn't irritating.
"... I am sorry for your dreams, John. They must be awful."
Sherlock's reply made John's breath catch in his throat and his pinched expression of discomfort vanish. His eyes opened wide and he remet Sherlock's gaze with the most vulnerable look of confusion Sherlock had ever seen. John's shoulder dropped. The fists at his sides gradually unclenched. John briefly wet his lips as he collected himself. Well, attempted too, at least. The silence felt loud again, and they both hated it.
'Yeah. They are.' John's answer was an honest whisper this time, and it held a note of genuine appreciation that quickly put Sherlock more at ease. John understood what Sherlock was trying to do. He was surprised by it, certainly, but he understood. Of course he understood. One doesn't become Sherlock Holmes' conductor of light by failing to become fluent in his odd languge. John cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck before speaking again. 'It'll pass, though. I know it will. Flare ups like this...Flashbacks...They fade eventually. I think we'll both be glad for a new case when it comes.' A flicker of a smile graced John's lips at saying this. A smile that was wistful and hopeful all at once. The kind that John knew only Sherlock could ever truly read.
John then bashfully looked over his shoulder at the forgotten kettle and gave a nod, slipping seamlessly back into his armour of normal British politeness. 'Best forget about tea. I need to sleep. Try not to set anything on fire tonight, yeah?'
Sherlock remained quiet while John's tension broke like a fever in front of him, uncrossing his legs and setting his tea and saucer on the small table beside him. The split-second look of confusion only served to twist the dagger further-- had he really been such an arsehole?
John's confirmation brought Sherlock's mind back to last night when he'd been awoken. Sherlock had always been a light sleeper anyway, was accustomed to waking without full blown panic, but the moment he'd been snapped awake this time, he felt dread. There was no further noise from across the flat, but the desperate sound of the yelp played over in his mind. He knew what it was, but he wasn't sure how to help. How to be a friend and care for someone when they were in distress.
They laid together then, physically apart but both awake and alone in their beds, listening for sounds of the other.
It was safe to say that he regretted opening his mouth about it today. Sherlock dropped his eyes to the ground again in a small attempt to help John recover any lost dignity, though his shame would have pulled his gaze down anyway.
"Okay."
Another tortuous moment of silence.
"I'm sorry."
He was sorry that John was in pain, he was sorry that he had said anything about it. Sorry he didn't help, didn't know how. Sorry for making him of all people, the soldier with a golden heart, feel less than.
Sherlock's apology made John quickly turn his head back to look at him. John replayed the words over in his mind, making sure he had heard correctly. He didn't think he had, or ever would, hear that sentence leave Sherlock's perfectly arched lips. John felt a strange kind of ache in his chest as he processed it, and soon slowly made his way back into their ajoined living room. As if he were cautiously approaching an endangered creature.
'It's…It's okay, Sherlock. Really. I may complain about the chaos brought into this flat, but you still see me charging head first into the danger with you, yeah?' John offered him a more warm, genuine smile this time. One that fully reached his eyes and lingered on his face as his brow finally unfurrowed for the first time that evening. 'But I still…You know…I still appreciate you, uhm…Yeah. Ta.' John's second attempt was more awkward than the last. He always found opening up like this difficult. But if Sherlock was so clearly making an effort, so would he. It had sort of worked, after all. It's not everyday a man recieves comfort from Sherlock Holmes. John allowed himself to feel a touch of hope that he would actually be able to get some sleep tonight. So with that, he gave a light nod, and made his way for the stairs that lead up to his bedroom.
Sherlock's fingers flexed and tapped on the rests of the armchair while he sensed John approaching.
He looked up again after the first sentence, feeling a strange sort of ache in his chest too at the mention of John being at his side in danger. Why was it that he felt the urge to protect him, as though he couldn't protect himself? John was fully capable, moreso than him even in some physical aspects. John could hold his own, and yet Sherlock vowed to himself to take his wellbeing more seriously into consideration whenever possible.
A warm but weak smile like spring sunshine bloomed across his features, accompanied by a slight flush of color. Nobody ever thanked him, but he supposed that he didn't try very hard for anyone else to thank him.
"Good night, John."
Sherlock looked away again until his friend departed the room, picking up his violin and plucking absently at the strings. After a few minutes, he'd sorted effectively through the file in his mind of pieces to play and settled on a Brahms piece, soft and comforting.
He pressed his chin into the rest and lifted the instrument after grabbing his bow, closing his eyes and beginning to play.
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in a very familiar place-- the music hall of his mind palace. A grand but empty auditorium of Victorian architecture, where he liked to sit on stage and savor the resonant acoustics while he performed.
Today though, something was different. He'd gotten perhaps a quarter of the way through the piece when he noticed that he wasn't alone. He'd always been alone... but there sat John Watson, in the third row of empty seats, attentive and smiling serenely. Watching.
Sherlock hesitated for a single beat of musical time, hardly enough for anyone to know that he'd stopped, before continuing and trying to keep his eyes away from John. Here though, with no else to see it, he couldn't. Sherlock's light teal eyes glued to John despite the spotlight on himself making it difficult and stayed for the remainder of the performance.
When he finished, John's smile widened and he applauded, the sound echoing in the large space, and Sherlock stood to bow, a new pleased smile pulling at his lips.
"Please don't hide yourself from me."
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his armchair and took a sip of tea to have an excuse to cast away his gaze from John.
He crossed one leg over the other while he sat his cup back in its saucer and swallowed. He meant the words, genuinely, and felt they were pertinent after John seemed quieter following a night of PTSD nightmares, but now wondered if he should regret saying them. He'd only meant to be... encouraging.
The words hit John like a physical weight. Not a blow, but a sudden and uncomfortable pressure. He had been staring at his blog, watching the cursor blink in and out of exsistance as he tried to make his sleep-deprived brain think of how to best write the events of their most recent case. He never expected Sherlock to approach this subject. Of course they both knew how John was struggling as of late, but it wasn't the kind of thing people openly talked about. Then again, Sherlock Holmes has never been like other people.
'I'm not hiding', John replied lowly, sounding a touch more defensive than he meant too. He took a deep breath and shut his laptop's lid before dragging a hand down his face and standing up from his own armchair across from Sherlock's. 'It's nothing, Sherlock, nothing I haven't handled before. It's fine. I'm fine.' John sounded more and more like he was trying to convince himself rather than Sherlock. His soft tone was tighening as he trailed off, and he knew Sherlock had noticed. In a pointless attempt to avoid further scrutiny John turned and began walking away towards their kitchen, planning on making a cup of tea out of habit rather than actual interest.
Sherlock had been staring at the floor when the response came. John's tone made his shoulders stiffen and stole the breath from his lungs.
"I only meant..." The words died in his throat. Had John been looking at him when he stood, he would've seen Sherlock flinch at the way he drew himself to full height, expecting a confrontation.
When John turned instead, Sherlock realized with a swell of acid from his gut that he'd wished John had yelled at him instead. This was worse, somehow.
Sherlock had, of course, noticed the sound of John convincing himself moreso than him, and worried at his bottom lip while he studied the swirling designs in the dusty carpet. A moody sip of tea.
How was it that he was so socially inept that he'd angered the friend he was trying to comfort? Mycroft's smug voice rang in his ears.
Don't bother trying with people, Sherlock. They never react the way your deductions show they will.
The silence left in the flat was deafening. John was busying himself in their small kitchen, but his movements felt distracted. He seemed to be making a conscious effort not to lift his head on the slim chance he would find himself meeting Sherlock's gaze. John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him with every practiced action he preformed as he went about making the tea, and with each second it felt more and more suffocating. The kettle began to whistle a shrill cry, but John felt like he was the one about to boil over. When he shut off the stovetop's hob he didn't just turn the dial, he practically slapped it in the opposite direction. He then yanked the kettle away and slammed it onto their countertop with a heavy huff of breath. John felt the pressure tensing in his shoulders right down to his arms, making his hands flex in his habitual fidget of distress. Sherlock was right. He was hiding. And he hated it. With a sharp inhale John finally turned on his heel to face an unexpectedly sheepish looking Sherlock, and John's armour began to show it's cracks. 'Fine. Okay. You want me to say it? Fine. I was scared. I was scared, in that pool, wearing that bloody bomb. I saw what IEDs did to unsuspecting soldiers in Afghanistan, Sherlock, and I've...I've been dreaming about it ever since.' The confession tumbled out of John faster than he could catch his breath, and by the end of it he felt like his throat was closing. He pursed his lips with an ashamed wince, bracing himself for a scoff and for Sherlock to scold him for being sentimental.
Sherlock clenched his jaw with a jump when John slammed the kettle even though he'd been watching, feeling something crack in his own chest that revealed something soft underneath, something that never saw the light of day. He had no choice but to lift his chin to meet John's gaze. Here would be the explosion-- should've kept your mouth shut, turn off those bloody deductions once in a while, you're insufferable, etc.
Sherlock's eyelids fluttered while John spoke-- he struggled to hold the weight of the words while he attempted to absorb them, but was determined to. He wanted to look away desperately but kept eye contact with John, feeling that he at least owed the admission that.
John seemed to brace for impact too, which had Sherlock spinning. Guilty. He understood exactly why John looked that way, as he'd previously preached about needing to push away fear as it obstructed logic, but this-- combat--
"John," he began, the word slow and measured in his throat, "... That is a normal response."
Great going, Sherlock.
Sherlock winced at his own ineptitude again and tried again.
"What I mean is-- what you experienced on the battlefield, as I understand it-- it is different. From what we do, even."
Sherlock's mouth opened slightly while he appraised his friend, hoping very much that his words were landing in any way that wasn't irritating.
"... I am sorry for your dreams, John. They must be awful."
Sherlock's reply made John's breath catch in his throat and his pinched expression of discomfort vanish. His eyes opened wide and he remet Sherlock's gaze with the most vulnerable look of confusion Sherlock had ever seen. John's shoulder dropped. The fists at his sides gradually unclenched. John briefly wet his lips as he collected himself. Well, attempted too, at least. The silence felt loud again, and they both hated it.
'Yeah. They are.' John's answer was an honest whisper this time, and it held a note of genuine appreciation that quickly put Sherlock more at ease. John understood what Sherlock was trying to do. He was surprised by it, certainly, but he understood. Of course he understood. One doesn't become Sherlock Holmes' conductor of light by failing to become fluent in his odd languge. John cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck before speaking again. 'It'll pass, though. I know it will. Flare ups like this...Flashbacks...They fade eventually. I think we'll both be glad for a new case when it comes.' A flicker of a smile graced John's lips at saying this. A smile that was wistful and hopeful all at once. The kind that John knew only Sherlock could ever truly read.
John then bashfully looked over his shoulder at the forgotten kettle and gave a nod, slipping seamlessly back into his armour of normal British politeness. 'Best forget about tea. I need to sleep. Try not to set anything on fire tonight, yeah?'
Sherlock remained quiet while John's tension broke like a fever in front of him, uncrossing his legs and setting his tea and saucer on the small table beside him. The split-second look of confusion only served to twist the dagger further-- had he really been such an arsehole?
John's confirmation brought Sherlock's mind back to last night when he'd been awoken. Sherlock had always been a light sleeper anyway, was accustomed to waking without full blown panic, but the moment he'd been snapped awake this time, he felt dread. There was no further noise from across the flat, but the desperate sound of the yelp played over in his mind. He knew what it was, but he wasn't sure how to help. How to be a friend and care for someone when they were in distress.
They laid together then, physically apart but both awake and alone in their beds, listening for sounds of the other.
It was safe to say that he regretted opening his mouth about it today. Sherlock dropped his eyes to the ground again in a small attempt to help John recover any lost dignity, though his shame would have pulled his gaze down anyway.
"Okay."
Another tortuous moment of silence.
"I'm sorry."
He was sorry that John was in pain, he was sorry that he had said anything about it. Sorry he didn't help, didn't know how. Sorry for making him of all people, the soldier with a golden heart, feel less than.
first meeting sentence starters.
send one to have our muses meet for the first time.
“Sorry, were you just talking to me?”
“I think you dropped this.”
“You look lost. Need some help?”
“I don’t usually talk to strangers, but…”
“You’re sitting in my spot.”
“Whoa! Careful!”
“We’ve never met, right? You seem familiar.”
“Is that seat taken?”
“Sorry, I think I just spilled something on you.”
“You’re blocking the doorway.”
“Were you just staring at me?”
“Excuse me, do you know the time?”
“Wait — are you the person I’m supposed to meet?”
“I’ve been sent to find you.”
“Please don’t be alarmed, but I think we have the same bag.”
“Do you work here?”
“I’m fairly certain that’s mine.”
“You’ve got something on your face.”
“Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”
“Do you know the way to ___?”
“You’re hurt. Do you need help?”
“That’s a fine ___ (cloak/hat/book/etc.). Where did you get it?”
“This might sound strange, but can I hide behind you for a moment?”
“You look like you could use a friend.”
“I think your dog just stole my lunch.”
“Hey, you dropped your coin purse.”
“I think we’re stuck in here together.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear, but…”
“Are you the new neighbor?”
“First time in town?”
“I’m not sure if this belongs to you, but…”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’ve been hearing a lot about you.”
“Do you mind if I join you?”
“I think you’re in the wrong place.”
“You seem… out of place.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you following me?”
“That was a close call.”
“Not to alarm you, but someone’s watching you.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“You look like you’re in trouble.”
“Was that your doing back there?”
“You don’t look like you’re from around here.”
“That was impressive. How’d you manage it?”
“I’m guessing you’re not here by accident.”
“Do I want to know what just happened?”
“You might want to keep your voice down.”
“Is it always this strange around here?”
“I have a feeling we’re about to become acquainted whether we like it or not.”
“Looks like we’re in this together now.”
For anyone who is having writer's block/looking for inspiration/wanting a prompt/etc. Enjoy!
