#justawaystogo

[bakerstmel]

For @justawaystogo (timewellspent, AKA my good friend Holly), who placed the winning bid on me for Fandom Trumps Hate, a new fic: The Winter Garden.

As Sherlock nears the end of his career, he's given the gift of a cottage in Sussex. The honey from the beehives out back is amazing. Almost...magical.

Posting Mondays and Thursdays until Christmas.

Eternal gratitude to @bluebellofbakerstreet for the stunningly gorgeous cover art.

[homosociallyyours]

@justawaystogo

replied to your post

“YES, HELLO,  who wants to send me writing prompts?  I’m gonna post a...”

Oooooh ohhhh........Happy rainy night. If so inspired, I'm a total sucker for sickfic/parentlock Rosie style and definitely with heavy johnlock flare and angst. If your in the mood ❤️

Heyyy I almost missed this one but I will write something for it now! I was imagining Rosie as about 3 or 4 years old here, so several years after the events of TFP (or whatever version of them happened in my/your head). Obviously I think they are all living at Baker Street and that John and Sherlock have finally figured their shit out and are husbands, which is why John is (somewhat uncharacteristically) demonstrative and affectionate, tossing around pet names. 

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John pushed open the door to 221B, arms weighed down with shopping bags full of electrolyte drinks and the best canned chicken soup he could find. 

“Sherlock, love,” he called quietly, setting the bags down in the kitchen. “I’m home.” He kept his voice down and toed off his shoes, not wanting to wake Rosie if she’d finally fallen asleep. He headed toward their bedroom, carrying two of the electrolyte drinks with him, and poked his head in for a look. He was surprised to find that the bed was empty, the duvet hastily smoothed flat and Sherlock’s morning cuppa half empty on the bedside table. 

Turning around, John headed upstairs to Rosie’s room. The hallway was decorated with the pictures she drew whenever she and Sherlock spent the day together: their hands, traced next to each other, which Sherlock had labeled with all the bones contained therein; a stick figure that was meant to be Sherlock wearing a deerstalker hat and holding a magnifying glass in one hand and a beaker in the other; a stick figure that was meant to be John wearing a blue sweater and holding a gun in one hand and a stethoscope in the other; a picture of 221 Baker Street with Sherlock, John, and Rosie standing in front and blonde stick figure--Mary--floating above the building. That was the latest addition. 

He skipped the creaky steps and made it to the door, listening for a moment. Inside Rosie’s room, he could hear her congested breathing, and he frowned. He’d need to put something on her chest later to help her breathe better. 

The bed creaked as John opened the door, and he worried momentarily that Rosie was stirring awake. Instead, he found Sherlock curled up in the child-sized bed, his feet hanging off one side and his arm off the other. Rosie laid on his chest, her knees tucked into his side, and Sherlock’s arm was around her, wrapping her in his dressing gown. Even from this distance, it was clear that his earlier guess--that Sherlock would catch Rosie’s flu--was right. They both looked feverish. 

Though he hated to do it, John put his hand on Sherlock’s forehead to wake him. He pulled over the little chair that they kept by Rosie’s bed for reading her bedtime stories and sat close to the bed, whispering in Sherlock’s ear. “Wake up, Sherlock. Time to take something for that fever.” 

Sherlock blinked awake, arm tightening protectively around Rosie. “Good morning, John,” he said. “You were gone so long.” 

“Only a few hours, love. Are you comfortable here, or shall we move you downstairs?” 

“It’s fine here,” Sherlock said. “You should get in too.” 

“Don’t think I’ll fit,” John said, shrugging.

“Pity,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes.

“Alright, but you’ve got to take this,” John said, hand running through Sherlock’s hair. He held out a fever reducer to Sherlock and then handed him a bottle of electrolyte drink. 

Sherlock smiled back, swallowing the pill with a few chugs of the drink. Rosie stirred on his chest. 

“Hullo Daddy,” she said, sleepily. “Papa sick too.” She patted Sherlock, and John smoothed a hand through her hair. 

“Yes, and Daddy’s here to take care of the both of you,” he said. “Now let’s get a bit of rest, alright my darlings?” 

Sherlock and Rosie both smiled, the same small twitch of their lips, and John leaned over and put his head next to Sherlock’s, his arm wrapping around Rosie, his unimaginably brilliant little family.   

[crimson-winter]

justawaystogo replied to your post “here lies helen an ace who wrote great porn ”

That. Is amazing.

amazing and tru as shit