I saw someone asked earlier for a fic where John uses Sherlock as a weighted blanket? I was bored so here’s really short something I came up with
John blinked his eyes open as he woke, and felt a heavy pressure pinning him to the mattress.
He was lying on his stomach, his face smooshed sideways into his pillow. For half a second, still in an almost dream state, he thought the ceiling had collapsed.
Then, he heard slow breathing right against his ear.
“Sherlock.”John’s throat felt scratchy as he spoke. "What are you doing?”
“Experimenting.” John felt a short spike of irritation.
"Get off.”
“No.”
Sherlock didn’t move. He was completely limp, sprawled completely over John’s back like a giant cat. He had his chin tucked into the crook of John’s neck and his long legs woven between John’s calves.
John groaned, intending to shove the other man off and reclaim his bed. Yet, the longer he stayed the more he realised… he liked it. The weight. Pressure. Everything. It was like an extra warm weighted blanked.
John let his breath out in a long sigh. He melted back into the mattress.
“You’re heavy,” John muttered, though the irritation was gone from his voice.
“I told you I eat,” Sherlock murmured back, shifting a little. “You worry too much.”
“Shut up.” John closed his eyes. He relaxed back into the pillows, Sherlock still curled on top of him, and drifted back to sleep.
(submitted by lem0nf0x)
=====
(referencing this post)
ASKFHAKDFHA @lem0nf0x!!
OMG THIS IS SO SWEET!! I hope Nonny sees this and enjoys it as much as I do!! Thank you so much for taking time out of your day to write this for us!!! It’s beautiful!!!!
He startles awake at the ten toes tucked into the bare backs of his knees.
“Oi, that’s cold, you tit,” he mutters without heat. He jerks his legs away under the duvet.
Sherlock presses his mouth to the soft spot behind John’s ear and gives him a little nip.
“Miss me?”
“You’re freezing. Go an’ have a bath…warm up.”
“I much prefer this method.” Sherlock dips cool fingers beneath the hem of John’s t-shirt, which makes his body arch, incidentally, closer still.
“Bugger off, I’m sleeping,” and John rolls over on top of Sherlock, pinning him down limb to limb.
Sherlock sighs and wraps an arm over John’s shoulders. The other finds the curve of his bum.
For a moment they breathe together. Sherlock defrosts. He’s a tea bag, dunked into John’s mug.
“Who said this was allowed,” John yawns as he rocks his hips, a lazy rhythm that lights its own fire under Sherlock’s skin.
“I believe you did.”
“Mm.”
“Wake me up when you get home, you said.”
“Did I,” John says as he pulls Sherlock’s mouth to his. They kiss, long and slow. “Don’t remember now.”
“No matter what, you said. I worry when you’re away.”
“I do.”
Sherlock gives John’s bum a little pat. “Warm me up?”
John obliges. There goes the rest of the morning.
+
Thank you to @calaisreno for the fun prompt series!
Tagging in the replies a few people who've asked for a tag or commented on yesterday's prompt (please let me know if you'd like one or would like yours removed). Thanks for reading! <3
Molly had always known that Greg wasn’t the kind of man who retired and had hobbies. Sitting around the house all day would drive him mad, and it did for a few weeks. When he told her he’d been offered a job consulting for the Met, she encouraged him to take it. It meant odd hours and missed dinners, but he was happier that way.
Consulting Detective.
She frequently thought of another consulting detective, one who’d left on a secret mission eighteen years ago and never returned. Something had happened, she suspected, something connected to the mysterious death of Charles Augustus Magnussen, the media mogul. Sherlock was involved, somehow, but the details never came out, and within a week he was gone.
She’d asked John about it, but he just shook his head. His wife had left him by then, suddenly and without explanation. She was pregnant, expecting a little girl, and they’d seemed happy about it.
Gone, he told Molly. The baby wasn’t his. Mary wasn’t what he’d thought. He didn’t know anything about Sherlock, but his look told her what he believed. He wouldn’t be coming back this time.
It was disorienting, as if reality were unravelling, revealing another, very different reality beneath.
Greg was the one stable thing during that time. He could make no sense of Sherlock’s sudden disappearance, either, and when John left too, he seemed as surprised as Molly.
“I never understood it,” he told her. “Those two. They loved each other. Never understood what went wrong.”
She’d replied that when Sherlock returned after faking his death, they never really worked it out. Rubbish at talking, those two.
She and Greg talked. A death could be mourned. It was a different kind of grief when people simply left and you didn’t hear from them again.
That was when they’d started seeing one another, having coffee, and then dinner, and eventually moving in together. The wedding was a small affair, just Greg’s kids and a few close friends. After a few years, Molly gave up working at the morgue and began teaching. A few years later, Greg retired, then started working as a consultant. They had a nice life, she often thought.
The restaurant where she’s meeting him is a new one in their neighbourhood. Da Vinci, it’s called. An Italian bistro. They’ve been meaning to try it since it opened, and tonight they have a reservation.
Arriving a bit early, she takes a seat in the waiting area after letting the hostess know she’s still waiting for her husband, and takes out her phone to check for messages.
15 minutes, he texts.
Tucking her phone away, she notices that someone else is waiting. She glances at him and startles as if she’s seen a ghost.
He’s standing, a tall, thin man with dark hair sprinkled with grey. Not the luxuriant curls he used to wear; it’s cropped closer now. He’s wearing a black pullover and light wool trousers, no jewel-coloured shirt or dashing coat. The face is older, but the eyes have not changed. The colour of water, she’d always thought. Nobody, not even his brother, has eyes like that.
Those pale eyes are fixed on his phone, and he’s smiling. Glancing up, he clearly recognises her. An odd look crosses his features, as if he is not sure what such a moment calls for.
“Molly Hooper,” he says.
“Sherlock.”
All those years ago, before he left, he needed her help and told her his plan. Those two years were very different for her, her grief mostly for the people who believed him dead— Mrs Hudson, Greg, and especially John. John had never really recovered from the shock of it. When Sherlock returned, he resented Molly because she’d been taken into Sherlock’s confidence, and he had not. And Sherlock, who’d insisted on the secrecy mostly for John’s sake, had gone about his grand return all wrong. He never really got back on the right foot with John, who soon married a woman he’d just met. Sometimes Molly thought he’d done it to spite Sherlock, or at least to keep a safe distance from him. He never fully trusted Sherlock after that. But the love was still there. She could see the pain in his eyes when Sherlock left again.
Rising from her seat, she goes to him.
What do you say after eighteen years?
“When did you get back?”
“Just a few weeks ago.” He gives her a tentative smile. “I’m officially retired.”
How old is he? He’s about her age, so maybe mid-fifties. She supposes that undercover agents don’t have long careers. Though he’s still good-looking, she can see that the years have worn him down. A weariness hangs on him, so different from the manic man who swooped into her morgue and demanded body parts.
“You’re not retired,” he says. “You’re teaching in the pathology programme at Barts. And you’re married. Obviously.”
She laughs. “Can you deduce anything about my husband?”
He cocks his head and narrows his eyes. “Mrs Lestrade. You have a daughter, fourteen. She picked out your earrings.”
“Greg is on his way. He’ll be so happy to see you. Would you join us for dinner?”
“I’m expecting someone as well.”
That’s when she notices the ring. “You’re married.”
“Only just.” He suppresses a grin, glances at his phone again. “Says he’s running a bit late.”
Like everyone who knew Sherlock, she’s suspected that he’s gay. When she realised this, it made it easier to accept his lack of interest in her. An odd man, one who avoided sentiment; but clearly in love with his flatmate.
She might ask about John. But John has been gone for years, too, and she doesn’t know anyone who hears from him, not even Mike Stamford, who told her that he’d joined Doctors Without Borders. That was years ago.
“It’s so good to see you,” she repeats, unable to think of anything else to say.
“You as well.” He nods at the door. “Looks like your husband has arrived.”
Greg has caught sight of them and is standing, a look of stunned amazement on his face. He gives a short laugh and strides across the waiting area. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says, throwing his arms around his old friend. “In the flesh, once again.”
“Not quite as sensationally as the last time,” Sherlock says. “I’m old news now. More accurately, no news at all.”
“We never heard anything,” Greg says, stepping towards Molly and planting a kiss on her cheek. “All I could get out of your brother was that you were working for the government. The only way I knew anything at all was from talking with John—“
Molly cringes and Greg seems to realise he’s said the wrong thing.
“Mycroft believed it was critical to keep it all confidential,” Sherlock says. “In those days I’d been so much in the news, he was attempting to keep me out of the spotlight.”
“But you were on a mission, weren’t you?”
Molly takes Greg’s arm. “Won’t you sit with us, Sherlock? I’m sure you don’t want to be discussing this here.”
Sherlock speaks to the hostess while Greg and Molly are led to a table for four. Following them, he takes his seat, asks for a glass of wine, and fiddles with his napkin.
“Tell us about your husband,” Molly says. “Where did you meet?”
His eyes twinkle. “In Kazakhstan. We were on a flight from Beijing that had engine trouble, had to set down in the middle of nowhere. From there, we were bussed to a small hotel, where he and I ended up being roommates for the night.”
“Love at first sight?” she asks.
He pauses, his lips twitching in a smile. “I felt as if I already knew him. We wasted no time in getting married.”
Molly tries to imagine the Sherlock she knew marrying a man on an impulse. Or marrying anyone. He’d proposed to a woman once, but that was for a case. He wasn’t like that, when she knew him.
“Where’s he from?” Greg asks. “What kind of work does he do?”
“Geneva is his home base, but he’s now relocated to London. He’s… a doctor.”
“You seem really happy,” Molly says. “I’m so glad.”
“I am happy.” Sherlock looks a bit surprised by this. “He’s everything I could ever want.”
They fall silent, sipping their wine and looking at the menu.
“Ah, here he is!” Sherlock’s face lights up in a way Molly has never seen. He’s standing, looking towards the door, impatiently rubbing his hands on his trousers, as if he can hardly restrain himself from running across the room. He waves.
Molly and Greg turn to see what kind of man could put that look on the face of Sherlock Holmes.
A short man in a trim suit, greying hair and beard, glasses. As he catches sight of Sherlock, he grins and opens his arms. They meet halfway in an embrace.
John Watson.
“Blimey.” Greg shakes his head. “Another ghost returns.”
Note: This is a sequel to The Tarmac, a fic I wrote 3 years ago.
Thank you all, readers and writers, for participating in this prompt fest! And thank you to @notjustamumj for starting us off, inspiring us with her prompts. It's been fun to wake up to lovely, fluffy, angsty little stories each day, but this is our last prompt. We'll have to do this again! Thank you 💕 and keep writing!
If any of you writers have posted your daily stories for these prompts in a collection or series on AO3, please share a link to them. Mine can be found here: Trifles Two.
will be uploaded to "That Stuff Called Fluff" on Ao3!
A/N: please excuse my lateness! yesterday was AWFUL. i literally could. not. but here is day 14 now and it's pretty darn fluffy imho. a bit of a different format: it is not over after the second row of hearts!
♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡
"... and it was always like you were right there in front of me, so close but always out of reach. You are like- the forbidden fruit! And god forbid me to eat it. But damnit! I want it. You understand what I am saying? You're the apple and I am Adam."
"Eve."
"Sorry, what?"
"Eve eats the apple. Not Adam."
"I DON'T CARE! I'm your Eve, then! What I'm trying to say is that not even god himself will keep me from loving and wanting you!"
"Well, for fuck's sake, John! HAVE ME THEN. I don't see a god around to stop you?"
"Unless, you're gonna stop me."
"Did- did you seriously just-"
"Yeah. I did."
♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡
"Teach me"
"Teach you what?"
"I wanna love you. In all the right ways. but I don't know how to. I don't know what you want to hear, what kind of gift you'd want, how to touch you, what you want me to do."
"You're overthinking this."
"Am I? Am I really? I wanna do this right. I'm not doing this half-heartedly. It's all or nothing - preferably everything by the way - but I just don't know how. I need you to teach me."
"Oh, You dumbass."
"Wha- why would you-"
"I don't need to teach you."
"What do you mea-"
"I don't need to, because your heart already taught you how to love me."
♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡
"Do you have any idea?"
"A bit more context please?"
"Do you have any idea how much I love you? How much I cherish, adore, worship and desire you? How badly I want to put you on a throne and fall to your knees, granting you every wish?"
"Never knew you could be this metaphorical."
"Irrelevant. Answer my question. Do you have any idea?"
"Yeah. Yes, of course."
"How? How could you possibly know?"
"Because I feel the exact same way, Sherlock."
♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡
A/N: *happily eats self-made fluff (it looks like cotton candy in my mind)* feedback is amazing! thanks for reading you sweet turtles! 🐢💚
tag list! (tell me if you wanna be added or removed💚) @justanobsessedpan @helloliriels @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @so-youre-unattached-like-me @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @pansherlock @the-smol-bean-libby-blog @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @francj15 @almosttinycowboy @ladylindaaa @we-r-loonies @mxster-jocale @sherlockcorner @noahspector @our-stars-graveside @jobooksncoffee @baker-street-blog @psychosociogentleman @quickslvxr @macgyvershe @myladylyssa @johnlock2708 @battledress @a-victorian-girl @dreamerofthemeadow @oetkb12 @ohnoesnotagain
Summary: Sherlock and John get home drunk and decide to have one more drink. What comes next?
Additional Tags: Drunkenness, Drunken Kissing, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Ficlet, Short One Shot, One Shot, PWP, Drunk Sex, Smut, Non-Graphic Smut, Mild Smut
Excerpt:
They stumble up the stairs using each other for balance. The bannister is too fixed to help their fluid minds and bodies right now. Fits of giggles at nothing in particular threaten to wake the neighbours, though the neighbours don’t matter right now. After what seemed to be an hour or maybe just a minute, or somewhere inbetween, they have ascended the impossible hill to arrive at 221B.
Taking turns seems an utterly ridiculous idea so they both attempt to enter through the door together. More giggles. More whiskey? More whiskey.
The pair sit in their respective chairs watching one another, their drunken frames swaying in their backlit haze. With each sway the amber liquid threatens to spill the sides though never quite manages to break the surface.
John leans back, rests his glass on his chest. He watches it rise and fall with his breaths. He raises his eyebrows and nods.
“Breathing’s not as boring as you think, y’know,” he slurs, his words sticking together like toffee in his teeth.
Sherlock, with much effort, places his glass on the side table. It clinks as it connects, it receives an approving nod. He leans all the way forward resting his elbows on his knees, supporting his head with his hands.
“Is it not, Doctor? Please enlighten me.”
Click here to continue reading on AO3
tagging a few people below the cut (please let me know if you want to be added or removed next time)
You’re sitting on the comfy sofa by the window, perfect sunny day, a gentle breeze coming in through the window - when you hear a soft noise.
*hmm*
You lower the book you were reading slightly, just enough to look over the top, eyes searching for the direction the noise could have come from.
*hmhmnmSnort*
Bemusement takes over your face when you realise. Chancing a look down into your lap, all you see is mussed black curls, the slight pale profile letting you glimpse rose pink lips - parted in slumber - nose twitching cutely. Slowly you glide your fingers into the silky curls, rubbing the scalp with the lightest of pressures, drawing a groan from the parted lips – a pale pink tongue teasing at the edge of a pronounced cupid bow.
Keeping your hand resting on the back of your partner’s head, you return to the book you were reading, a soft smile on your face.
All the Light that Never Escapes: a one-shot by Elwinglyre
“Before I begin to explain,” he said, “you need to clear your head of preconceptions you have about life and death. It’s not what you believe, Sherlock.”
I’m making a willing fool of myself rereading this ficlet, choking out sobs and making horrible noises at this most beautiful, economical, and heart lifting story. It weaves Heaven Can Wait and Sherlock and Good Omens so deftly. The reversed positions of Sherlock mourning John and John returning from the dead in the body of an addict. The echoes of Eurus and of the Aquarium scene. The motif of light. Everything fits so neatly but so naturally that nothing feels forced at all, only inevitable. And all in the most wonderful first-person narration, where Sherlock is given a choice between accepting mystery and happiness and clinging to mechanistic rationalism and misery. (1602 words)
All the Light that Never Escapes
Thank you Elwinglyre for sharing this to the Getting to Know You / Johnlock Ficlet collection. https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Johnlock_ficlets
Hi! I’m so so so sorry I’m late. So many things happened so I’m just ugh.
Anyway, this is wonder wall for @valdavermillion and @bakersttardis for @winterlock-exchange and @sherlocksecretsanta
I have separate ones for each of you, and though it will be late, I will finish them both up for you. But, I hope you guys like Birthday Movie.
*****
The day was slow and filled with experiments on the table and books in the sitting room. Today was supposed to be different though. It was Sherlock’s birthday.
It was the first one since the boys are baker street became an item. And John wanted to celebrate it, damn it.
John said they could do anything that Sherlock wanted that wasn’t a case. Sherlock, after some complaining, admitted there was a movie he wanted to see.
“Alright,” John stated, “pull it up.” He turned and walked into the kitchen to finish up the tea.
Warm in the blanket, the detective flipped to Netflix and selected The Imitation Game. He quickly paused it before it started. The smell of Earl Grey slipped into the air as John entered the sitting room once more.
After handing Sherlock his cup, he sat on the couch with a nod. John sipped his tea as the screen lit up. Sherlock quietly cuddled into the doctor’s arms
The main character, Alan Turing, appeared a few minutes later. “That bloke is pretty attractive,” John whispered. Sherlock’s hair proofed as his head popped up with a pout.
John let out a little laugh at the sight. “Not as attractive as you, Love,” he said as he kissed his adorably jealous boyfriend, “no one is.”
The pair watched the movie happily through out the night. Once it was over, the older man yawned and began to stand up. The younger man, however, didn’t want to move.
“Mm, John, don’t move,” Sherlock whined. Another laugh echoed from John.
“I’m tired, Sherlock, we have to go to bed,” John told him. A groan came from the ball of blanket and curls. “Come on, up you get, birthday boy.”
After some more convincing and promises of kisses in bed, the couple finally disappeared into their room.
