#johnlockfic

[whodwantmeasaflatmate]

I've started a new thing! Grand Mère's Soup. Sherlock and John figuring themselves out. Childhood comforts and what really happened with Sherlock's so-called death. Mummy knows.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/84108336/chapters/221776216

[mama-orion]

Hello amazing humans.

I'm nervous, I'm giddy. I’m back. I promise not to paint on a bad mustache and pretend two years haven’t happened.

After a long, long, nourishing hibernation, The Man in the Iron Collar is back. Many chapters are in progress, so while I am a sloth-slow writer, there will be more to read in the days and weeks ahead, with the great goal of keeping up the momentum until the tale is told in full. Wish me luck.

Chapter 24 - Tea and Tendrils

Scraps of foresight had peppered Sherlock’s dreams since childhood, but this summer the trickle had become a torrent. What was coming? Who was this man who appeared in so many of the visions?

And then Captain John Watson had strode into his circus tent and the cryptic visions had begun to come true.

Fragments of dream-premonitions replayed in his mind on a frenetic loop.

The wind screams in his ears as he pulls out of a loop-de-loop, John gripped tightly to his chest, the circus far below–

Netters close, close – a forest full of fire, smoke chokes his lungs, panic in his veins as he grabs hold of John and launches skyward, away away –

An Adelidae keening in pain, her flesh turning to stone. He shows John how to heal her–

An obelisk of pyrite looms below him in a cavern. He grabs John’s hand, they jump off the ledge–

They run through alleyways toward a half-constructed zeppelin. Netters are close behind. They need to jump unseen–

These visions had come to pass, but more – many more – still eluded him. Some were innocuous. A few were deeply pleasant. But most of the images squeezed him in a fist of fear.

In one dark vision, Sherlock was pushing John through a glimmering rent in the air, his cheeks wet with tears. In another, the snarling tarnished tiger-helm of a Netter glared down at him, an antlered head looming behind it with eyes like cold stars; in a third, he was walking through a too-still forest approaching an ash tree. His fingers brushed over the bark’s ridges, the whorls and grooves forming the likeness of a face –

He shuddered. What pieces of dream-sight held importance, and which were just subconscious flotsam? Was there a pattern he was missing? Some clue that would tell him what danger was truly coming? It was maddening. It felt as if the answers were just on the edge of thought. The fractured scenes flashed through his mind, faster, faster –

John’s fingers slid over Sherlock’s sharply-bouncing knee, his touch anchoring him back in the present.

Alright?

The visions ebbed away.

Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath. Thank you. Got lost in my thoughts.

He was sitting in a comfortable chair by Mrs. Hudson’s crackling magical fire, so close to John’s own chair that their knees lightly brushed. His hands were holding a cooling cup of tea. He took a sip of the earthy jasmine. The wards and seals of the Haven hummed just on the edge of his perception. They were free. They were safe.

Read the rest of Chapter 24 on AO3

While I’m going forward unbeta’d, @shirleycarlton will always have my profound gratitude for hours of excellent beta’ing and support.

And cover art by @spenglernot is still so utterly perfect.

Back to writing. Damn it feels good to be back.

[multifandomforthemostpart]

“you mean to say you like men."

"of course I do." he whispered softly, as though it was the most simple thing in the world. as if it wasn’t some earth-shattering new piece of information, that would cause upheaval throughout sherlock’s mind. “i thought you’d, ah, I don’t know, deduced it when you saw sholto. that i’m bi.”

sherlock swallows at the admission. it’s not a long pause, but it feels achingly silent, so he fills it with the truth. “I thought my judgement was clouded. blind spot. complicated day, the uh...the wedding, so many...emotions in one place.

"blind spot?"

Snippet from a johnlock fic I’m in the process of writing - post s4 case angst w/confession & a dash of parentlock for y’all

[sherlockwatson-holmesblog]

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” John murmured, with his face buried in Sherlock’s chest.

“No,-- but it is what it is.” It was true, this relationship, this life made him a fortress, the one which you couldn’t possibly punch your way through. John kept his sorrow hidden inside his small and unassuming body and Sherlock kept his hidden behind the visage of a cold and calculating machine.

A fortress, indeed

He comforted John, but who was going to comfort him? He’d been beaten after all.

****************

There seems to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance, for They have loved each other. However, Some Days, love isn’t enough.

Sherlock and John persevering, as always.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25496095/chapters/61850914

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

@johnlockunicorn @trustmesherlock @sherlockedcarmilla @sherlockwatson-holmes @purplegori @lakoda0518 @221bvanshika @morganeuk @chriscalledmesweetie @shelleysprometheus @7-percent @shiplocks-of-love @88thparallel @butwemadethemcocoa @bilbon-socket @jobooksncoffee @inevitably-johnlocked @totallysilvergirl @cortinita @loveismyrevolution @jbaillier @sgam76

Please tell me if you want to be tagged or untagged.

[mama-orion]

Chapter 28, Resonance, is up!

A picnic, a read-aloud, shocking magical revelations, and the rating has changed to Mature. Which was inevitable.

Excellent cover art by @spenglernot

[mama-orion]

Chapter 21: The Wolf

Go below…

Protect them…

Lestrade jolted awake, disoriented to find himself in an unfamiliar bed, but his mind quickly righted itself. He lay fully dressed on a hard mattress in a narrow servant’s room. Bleary with sleep, he flopped back onto the lumpy pillow. The words of his last cryptic premonition echoed through his mind, still no clearer.

The previous afternoon, Lestrade had warily reported to the palace as summoned. He had endured an unusually extensive identity-verification by no fewer than five robotic monstrosities, including an unsettling copper arachnid the size of a pony.

Upon finally entering the palace grounds, he’d been told that he had missed his window of opportunity to meet with the Queen. She was immersed in an experiment, but had requested he be made comfortable until she sent for him.

He had been ushered to this sparse, whitewashed little room, identical to dozens of others off a long, low hallway behind the kitchens. He’d been given stew and encouraged to rest. Lestrade had devoured the food, then paced the room. Though determined to wait Toria out, his two sleepless days had pulled him onto the hard bed and he’d been snoring within minutes.

Bright sunlight now shone through the high, thin window. Lestrade frowned. The sun had only begun to set when he’d lain down for his nap. He fumbled for his pocket watch and squinted at the intricate dials on the device’s face. He swore under his breath. Some nap. He had been dead to the world for nearly thirteen hours.

He rolled off the bed, groaning from an ache in his back, and began slapping the wrinkles from his trousers and straightening the belt of his uniform’s coat. He hid his short, sleep-mussed grey hair beneath his black square cap, tugged the red bandolier straight, and glanced down to be sure his 12-pointed Inspector’s badge wasn’t askew.

He paced the narrow room. He needed news. A lot could have happened during the night. He chided himself for not carrying one of the blasted mechanical repeater birds with him to send to Tobi for an update. He stood on tiptoe to see out the window of his partially subterranean room, but the garden was empty of messenger birds.

There was a sharp knock on the door. Lestrade startled, opening it to find a kitchen boy holding a tray with a washbowl, tea, and bread.

“Morning, sir,” the boy piped, holding out the tray. “Eat up. They say it helps to go into it with a full belly.”

Lestrade set the offered food on a stool and gratefully sipped the tea. He was about to ask the boy to send for a repeater, but scowled into his cup. “Go into what, exactly?”

The boy smirked as if Lestrade had told a bad joke. “The ‘similation, course! En’t you excited?”

A bolt of shock passed through him and he nearly dropped his cup. Assimilation?

__

Read the rest on AO3

Thank you to @shirleycarlton for brilliant, long-haul beta’ing and @spenglernot for the stellar cover art!

[mama-orion]

Chapter 22: The Iron Army

Lestrade followed Mycroft back through the labyrinth of bustling passages into the dim, cavernous ballroom.

The posh ballroom Lestrade recalled from royal galas of his youth had been transformed to suit Queen Toria’s experiments. Once, elegant couples had waltzed across the parquet floor beneath blazing crystal chandeliers, but now the enormous, arched room was a grim shadow of itself. The stained-glass windows were bricked off, the ancient tapestries removed. Quartz lamps cast thin, blue light into the gloom.

As the massive double doors slid shut behind them, Lestrade had the unnerving feeling he was being sealed into a cave with a beast.

Read the rest on AO3

Thank you to @shirleycarlton for beta’ing a flood of writing and @spenglernot for the beautiful cover art.

[mama-orion]

CHAPTER 20: The Jump

Sherlock stared into the oppressive gloom of a Wormworks tunnel. Far ahead, John limped away from him, his silver hair glowing pale in the light cast by a roving cluster of will-o’-the-wisps.

John, I’m here –

He tried to catch up, but his legs felt sluggish, as if he were trying to run through deep water. “John, wait!” The echo bounced around the tunnel, but his companion did not turn. Growling with frustration, Sherlock struggled against the invisible force like an insect trapped in nectar.

Ahead, John paused his pained progress to lean against the granite wall, oblivious to him and hunched with exhaustion. It hurt Sherlock’s heart to see John so alone and miserable, but at least he had stopped. Step by arduous step, he closed the distance between them.

Nearly there, John, nearly there. Hold on.

As his fingers caught onto the solid warmth of John’s shoulder, a tendril of purple light crackled between them, and with a sudden pulse of clarity, Sherlock knew that he was dreaming. He almost laughed as the invisible weight abruptly evaporated.

John whirled around, the alarm on his face quickly replaced by relief. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then gathered him into a tight hug, trying to erase the anxious dread that surrounded his bewildered companion like a swarm of hornets.

Where’d you come from? John clung to him, suffused with that honey-amber warmth that Sherlock was beginning to realize was only for him. Thought I was alone down here. John released him reluctantly. I was on my way to find a Wormworks healer, for my leg. He rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck. Got lost.

Sherlock smiled patiently. We’re dreaming.

Oh! John blinked rapidly as he absorbed this news. Bloody hell, that explains it. Feels like I’ve been wandering down here for years. He scowled at the offending tunnel his mind had conjured. Let’s get out of here. If we’re dreaming, we can go anywhere we want, yea?

Sherlock nodded, an idea blooming in his mind. Let’s go home.

____

Read the rest on AO3!

Thank you to @shirleycarlton for marathon beta’ing and @spenglernot for the perfect cover art!