#like a weed

[emmasmoke8]

Why does the audience have the same relationship with Flambae as Flambae has with Robert—

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

Impossible To Get Rid Of

Sherlock has always loved animals. Dogs and bees in particular. Mycroft did not share his little brother’s fascination with the creatures. He liked to be superior and moving people around like pawns on a chessboard. Besides, he was allergic to dogs, bee stings, cats, and sentimentality. The latter diagnosis was set by Sherlock.

Even when Mycroft left his childhood home for university, way earlier than his peers, Sherlock couldn’t persuade their parents to buy a dog.

“Myc comes home during the holidays, darling,” their mother said. “I won’t have him all puffy and sneezing when he visits.”

So, Sherlock played with the neighbour’s dog, Redbeard instead. He followed the boy everywhere. They were best friends. 

***

He eventually moved out to attend uni at Cambridge, and for decades he only encountered dogs that were walked by their owners in the streets or the parks. After Redbeard’s death, Sherlock felt an emptiness in his heart, and whenever he got a glimpse of red fur, he winced.

When he moved to London and Baker Street, he realised that the dream of getting a dog was further away than ever. It would be cruel to leave an animal in the flat for hours on end when he ran around catching criminals, never knowing when he would get home. Sometimes, it took days before he returned to 221B.

***

John was by many called Sherlock’s pet, his loyal dog. They both bristled at that ludicrous assumption.

“People are idiots. None of them know you for real, not to mention what you mean to me, John” Sherlock reassured his beloved blogger when he got in a strop.

“I know, love. It’s just so presumptuous, and undignified. As if all I’m good for is – “

Sherlock stopped John’s tirade by cradling his face in his hands, kissed him deeply, and by doing so explicitly saying:

You are my everything. My conductor of light. My best friend. My lover. My soulmate. My John.

***

“You are like a weed; impossible to get rid of,” Sherlock murmured good-naturedly.

The Irish setter, Reginald, John called him Reggie, looked up at him with dark brown eyes, and wiggled his tail happily.

Sherlock had never told John that Reginald was Mycroft’s middle name. If his brother had still been alive, he would’ve scoffed at the well-established abbreviation of his name.

“Stay, Reginald. I don’t want a bee to sting your nose. Besides, you will make me trip when you walk between my feet. We both know how John will react to that, don’t we,” Sherlock said sternly.

He walked towards the beehives and made sure that the dog stayed as commanded.

A bark was the dog’s response.

“Good boy,” Sherlock praised when he returned, and scratched him behind his ears.

***

“Should I be jealous?” John asked when they sat on the sofa after dinner.

“Beg pardon,” Sherlock said and looked bemused at his husband.

“Me. Jealous. Of him,” John clarified and pointed at the bundle of mahogany coat at Sherlock’s feet. “You don’t need slippers or woollen socks as long as you’re sitting here. He’s more resistant than the weed I filled the wheelbarrow with today.”

“John,” Sherlock hummed in that way of his. “I married you and not the dog.”

“Fair point, I guess,” John grumbled, still not entirely appeased.

“I rather like it when you’re jealous, you know,” Sherlock said, lowering his voice an octave. “It makes the sex far more…dedicated than normal.”

“Are you saying I’m not dedicated on a regular basis?” John teased.

“I wouldn’t dare. In fact, you are fanatically devoted to me in every possible way; just how I prefer it.”

John’s laughter was still addictive, just as it had been all those years ago. 

Sherlock stood, reached out his hands to John, and pulled him in for a tight embrace. 

“Reginald,” he warned, when the dog started to whine. 

The dog looked over at John for support.

“Go find your bed, Reggie,” John said firmly, but not unkindly. “You can’t follow him everywhere. Sleep tight. I’ll give him back to you tomorrow.”

Reginald gave a deep sigh, tried again to get some scraps of sympathy. When none was forthcoming, he padded over to his comfortable bed by the fireplace and curled up with his stuffed bee between his paws.

“He’s such a baby,” John whispered fondly.

Sherlock hummed in agreement and led the way to the bedroom, his heart full of anticipation. John’s jealousy was still discernible…

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[lobsterminator]

RUUUULERS ARE AFRAID OF THE WIND

FOR THE

RUSTLING

OF THE LEAVES

MIGHT TAKE THE NIIIIGHT FROM THEEEM

[imakewordsandpics]

Stubborn Shoot

@flashfictionfridayofficial

Fandom: Sherlock

Rating: Gen

Words: 187

I had not wholly abandoned hope when they met. Rather, my expectations for Sherlock had leveled, after years of relentless slopes of variable incline. The previous twelve months had offered a tenuous reprieve—stable, working, clean. A fragile plateau, perhaps, but one I was determined to uphold with every resource at my disposal.

Enter Dr. John Watson, an unassuming presence where I had foreseen only solitude. That very day, I had him shadowed, captured and questioned in a draughty warehouse. His response was neither frantic panic nor reckless bravado, but a quiet, immovable resolve—an outlier steadfastly holding his ground. Within hours of their meeting, he had taken root at my brother’s side, a stubborn shoot in barren soil.

Years on, through storms that would shatter lesser bonds, he endures. Like a weed, Watson defies eradication, thriving in the cracks of Sherlock’s chaos. I once deemed him an intrusion, an overgrowth to be pruned—yet now I see how he braces the earth beneath my brother’s feet, easing a burden I long carried. I intend to safeguard the ground remains untamed, a domain where this unforeseen companionship can take hold.

[wolfythewitch]

Agamemnon intrigues me in a "I want to see him get worse" way

[baubeautyandthegeek]

Growing - Camille Sims/Juliette Nichols

A/N: Fic for the latest prompt from @flashfictionfridayofficial

“He’s growing like a weed…” The words come naturally, Juliette’s smile softly fond even as she focuses on the boy and his mother, not entirely sure why she looks at her with such confusion, before… “Sorry, must be a down deep saying…” Camille hesitates, then, smiling, accepts it as truth. “Must be….” There’s peace, of course, the boy’s childish glee and laughter bringing a smile to both their faces as they watch him with the few friends he’s made, Juliette’s fingers tangling together a little before she speaks again, almost awkwardly. “Thank you…. For everything.” “Of course. Bernard was always a shithead…. You just gave us a reason to act up.” A pause then Camille smiles. “The rebellion grew like a weed you know, second they sent you out there… nobody wanted to believe he’d won.” “He didn’t… in the end.” “You did.” Camille’s voice softens. “You did.”

[renee-writer]

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial #297 prompt: Like a weed

Dandelion

Unwanted

Ugly

Ruining the pristine

Green expanse

Of the yard

Pulled up

Thrown away

Just a weed

Just a dandelion

Worth nothing

But

The wakening bees

Searching for that

First taste of nectar

They are vital

Unwanted

Ugly

Ruinous

Well I guess that depends on who you ask

The next time someone makes you

Feel like a weed

Unwanted

Ugly

Ruinous

Remember the bees

You may just be exactly what someone needs

None of us are useless weeds

Not even the dandelion.