Oct 8, 2021
Today for my inking exercise one of my favorite canon, John Watson playing rugby. I would be higly obliged if you'll like to link some fiction with this trope for me! Please!!
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Today for my inking exercise one of my favorite canon, John Watson playing rugby. I would be higly obliged if you'll like to link some fiction with this trope for me! Please!!
[half-assed fic rec] a.k.a. i read too much johnlock not to share some with you
A Hooligans’ Game Played By Gentlemen
by @scullyseviltwin - (words: 15213 / rated E)
He was no spring chicken - as it were - and the extra stress of running and jumping and tripping and falling and climbing and leaping and - in one notable instance - swimming to the bank of the Thames was putting his body through the proverbial ringer.
John commits to getting back in shape by jogging, working out and, yes, weekend rugby matches. Of course, Sherlock notices and is quite impressed, and the way they fall in love is just delightful. Features some remarkable descriptions of John's physical prowess that will definitely live rent free in my head from now on.
Getting Into You
Summary: John is being pressured to have second thoughts about his relationship with Sherlock
Word: <1500
Warnings: None
A/N: This is my first time writing JohnLock. Hope I did it justice. This is the shortest thing I have written so far!
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John had always been confident. Starting with his pursuit of Sherlock. It was casual at first; he would pop by his studio at the end of practice to make casual conversation. It had confused Sherlock, why would the handsome, popular captain of the rugby team spend a moment of his time with the weirdo outcast, too smart for his own good, ballet dancing boy two years younger than him? Let alone that he was doing it on purpose? That Sherlock had decided was outside of his realm of understanding so he ignored it because it pained him to not know something, and he didn’t want to question it and have it go away either. Over time it had grown into more, oh, so much more. Sherlock had welcomed his friendship openly, never having had a friend before, he quite enjoyed it. He indulged in it completely. John giving him a ride home after both practices had finished. Spending most of their weekends together, Sherlock would study and John would wander around his room digging old things out of his closet or drawers to investigate or just listening to music on the bed. John often stayed nights there, Sherlock never questioned why, assuming he already knew the answers. Then things changed one night when John showed up at his house late, sweaty as if he had run the whole way. He had collapsed into Sherlock's arms and wept openly about his situation at home, confirming all of Sherlock's deductions. It was then, wrapped in Sherlock's arms sitting on the bed, that John gave one last confession, lacing his fingers in black hair he pressed his lips to the other boys mouth, putting all of his wants and desires in a single kiss.
After that John seemed more alive. Sherlock had felt that way the moment John had walked into the studio for the first time. It was the start of his second year, seeing John walk in and appraise him in full leotard and slippers, dance belt and all, he had braced himself for an onslaught of insults and vulgar slang but John's words had been kind.
"That was uh," his eyes cast down, unable to meet his object of desire, that he had pined over all of last year, for fear of not getting the words out. "that was bloody brilliant. Can you do that turny thing all the time, or just like uh...." He didn't know a thing about ballet and cursed himself for not doing enough research to call it anything other than 'that turny thing'. That was the moment Sherlock came to life. Regardless of if this moment would turn into anything more, finding kindness instead of hate lit something inside of him. Spending the next few months with his rugby playing jock best friend had only fueled it.
This fire was now burning inside John. He never wanted to be apart from the other boy. He went out of his way to catch him in the hall for a quick kiss. He held his hand at lunch. Sherlock had tried to stop him by slowly pulling back but he loved seeing the shy smile that crept across his new boyfriend when he did this too much to stop. John was so confident that, against his better judgement, Sherlok indulged these open displays of affection.
Then it started. In the locker room, a few of his mates were talking to him as they were getting things together to leave and one of them started in. "We're just worried about you mate. You could have anyone, being with him is just going to make things hard for no reason. No one cares he’s a bloke, it’s ‘cause he’s sooo weird. He's not like you, you’ll see. I just don't think you know what you're getting yourself into."
"Yeah, no man, it's ok. It’s worth it. He makes me happy." John replied, always polite. They were just looking out for him he thought. He grabbed his stuff and walked off.
The second time it happened it was much less kind. John was sitting at the usual lunch table waiting for his gorgeous boy to arrive when a pack of cheerleaders made their way over. One of them slid his lunch tray to the side and sat in its place, straddling her feet on either side of John's chair. Leaning forward deliciously she whispered into his ear. "Come back to us baby. Think about all the fun we used to have, and can again." She placed her palms on his chest. His whole body tensed and he cleared his thought, not giving any other response. This apparently was not the response she was looking for and her words turned sour. She leaned out of his personal space and told him crossly, "You have no idea what you're getting yourself into. But figure it out quickly or we might not be here when you do." With that she hopped off the table and walked away revealing Sherlock sitting in his usual spot across from him fidgeting with his fork. John cleared his throat, baring himself for whatever lashing he was sure was about to come.
"Right then," the younger boy started, taking a bite of macaroni, "how was bio?" Looking up at him, expression unphased.
The third time hit the hardest. He was giving his sister Harry a ride home. As they pulled into the drive she sighed, placing a soft hand on his forearm and turning to face him. "Look, all I'm saying is that I'm no stranger to self-inflicted heartache. And I'm saying he will break your heart but being with him isn't going to make things easier. I hear people talking and no one is happy about it. I guess all I'm asking is, do you really know what you're getting yourself into?" With that she kissed him on the cheek and got out the car. So there he was, his relationship less than two weeks old, wondering 'did he know what he was getting himself into?' He pulled out the drive and headed to Sherlock's.
John was pacing the room. He was tossing a ball back and forth between his hands. A ball he was certain he must has left there at some point. Sherlock would never own something to trivial as a ball. He was rambling. Sherlock was sitting at his desk, his nose in a textbook, scribbling things into his binder, studying, as usual. John's brain was moving just as fast as his mouth was words and thoughts mixed together as he tried to work this all out. He had been so confident in his pursuit of Sherlock. He had wanted him, laid a plan carefully, stalked him like prey and now he was his. He knew he had wanted him that's why this was so hard, they were already messing with his head and he didn't like that. He usually relied on Sherlock to sort things like this out. He had grown accustom in such a short time to having him do the work. So he rambled on trying to sort it all, good thing Sherlock wasn't really listening. As fast as he was talking he was still minding his words. He didn't want to say anything that would hurt his beautiful boy or God forbid something that would make him lose the boy forever.
His brain was racing faster, reasoning out thoughts. Sherlock was resilient and rational. He was logical. Not emotional. But he was still unsure his limit of what he could say to get help reasoning this out but in turn not hurt his feelings that he might he questioning this. All the words were spilling out too quickly now, "I'm not a weak minded man, you know that Sherlock. But what am I getting myself into? Is th-" John stopped when he saw the pen in the other boy’s perfect hand stop writing. He had done it. Sherlock was furious. He had every right to be. John had pursued him. Called him out of his comfort zone for his own selfish desires. He had done all this with the promise of safety and time and now he was questioning things. Moments passed and the only thing registering in John’s head now was the sound of his own breath.
Not looking up from his page he said, “I love you, and that is what you are getting yourself into, John Watson.”
All the air left John’s body and he was certain that his heart had actually stopped, or at least skipped a couple beats. He realized for the first time in his life that no one had ever said those three words to him before. He did not deserve Sherlock Holmes. He knew that now and he would not stop pursuing him until that gorgeous boy before him knew it.
“Now, would you please stop of that incessant pacing and LIE. DOWN.”
"Please, come with me" Johnlock style 💜💜💜
My dear friend @mssmithlove1 is sick today, so I took some extra special care with this one. Get well soon, frand!!💜💜
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“Hold still.”
“But people are going in!”
“And you can too if you hold still!” Molly tugged at the completed knot of his tie, tightening it into his throat. “Oops,” she deadpanned, loosening it with a smile as he coughed. “There.” She centered the striped navy tie between his slate grey lapels, plucking a piece of lint from his white dress shirt. “I wouldn’t be embarrassed of you at all.”
“Cheers,” he grumbled, fishing his buzzing mobile out of his dark jeans, a casual counterpoint he hoped would make him look less desperate.
It was a text from Sherlock, three words that made his blood run cold even without understanding them
‘I’m so sorry!’
“What is it?” Molly asked, concerned at what he was sure was a rapidly paling complexion. “Has something happened?” She didn’t wait for an answer, stepping forward and bending her head to read the message on his screen. “An exclamation point? From Sherlock?” Her head gave a slow shake. “That can’t be good.”
“John Watson?”
John’s brown loafers squeaked in a spin on the tile, plastic wrap crinkling as he clutched the half dozen roses to his chest like a gentlewoman’s pearls.
The man standing there was unfamiliar, short and stocky, his hands wringing in front of him as a nervous smile puffed his portly features. “I’m Mr. Brogan. I’m part of the executive committee for the arts here at Imperial.”
John blinked, unsure why he was supposed to care, but proper manners compelled him to extend a hand. “John. But you knew that,” he muttered, bobbing the man’s hand in the air. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Mr. Brogan replied. “I’m sorry to interrupt”—he waved a hand at Molly—“but Mrs. Holmes wanted to be sure you didn’t lose your seat.”
John’s mouth fell open, uncertain where to even start with that mindfuck of a sentence. “Mrs. …Holmes?”
Mr. Brogan nodded brightly, oblivious to John’s internal monologue of terrified screaming. “They’re up front. Please”—he turned toward the door, waving an arm in beckoning—“come with me.”
John stared, eyes shifting between his jovial smile and the door up ahead, heart drumming a death march in his ears.
Molly’s hands clamped down around his free one, giving a comforting squeeze as he turned. “I’ll catch up with you after,” she assured, and then pulled away, heading toward the door and abandoning him in his hour of need.
He swallowed, looking back to Mr. Brogan’s expectant expression. “Okay,” he squeaked, battling to keep his breathing even as Mr. Brogan guided him into the auditorium.
His hand twitched at his side, and he shoved it in his pocket, the opposite fingers tightening around the small bouquet, ridged remnants of thorns digging into his sweaty palms. He scanned the front few rows as they approached, but the lights on the stage turned everyone into silhouettes, making it impossible to prepare himself until Mr. Brogan stopped in front of a woman in the exact center of the front row.
She looked…normal, a simple floral dress flowing down from a black jacket, her hands folded over a red clutch in her lap. Her hair was on the whiter end of grey, pulled back with a large silver clip to leave her fringe wisping over her forehead, her soft features seeming every bit the opposite of Sherlock’s sharp lines and shadows, but then she lifted her chin, the piercing blue gaze that settled on him all too familiar.
“There you are! Thank you, Clark,” she said as she rose, the man accepting his dismissal with a nod. “So sorry to spring this on you, dear, but I simply couldn’t go another minute without meeting you. Sherlock’s been so secretive.”
John chuckled, shaking his head. “No problem at all, Mrs. Holmes. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you too.” He took a subtle deep breath and extended a hand. “I’m John. John Watson.”
“Oh, none of that,” Mrs. Holmes fussed, swatting his arm aside and pulling him into a hug, John’s arms barely recovering from shock enough to lift around her back before she was fluttering away again. “And call me Violet, please. Mrs. Holmes was my mother-in-law.” She flashed a conspiratorial grimace, and then stepped back, gesturing to the man who had risen behind her. “This is my husband, Siger.”
The man was tall and slim, more similar to Sherlock’s frame than his mother’s, but had warm brown eyes and a face wrinkled from years of laughter. He was wearing dark trousers and a loose burgundy cardigan, his simple checked shirt fastened with a grey bowtie at the collar, more the picture of a history professor than the austere authoritarian John had imagined.
“Mr. Holmes,” he said, inclining his chin, the man reaching forward to envelop his hand in a warm grip. “It’s good to meet you.”
“You as well, John, you as well,” he replied, rattling John’s hand with more strength than one would give him credit for. “Sherlock’s told us so much about you. You know, I was captain of my university rugby team too.”
“Really?” John asked, relieved to have such easy common ground, but Mrs. Holmes cut in before Siger’s opening mouth could continue.
“Now, now, dear, there’ll be plenty of time to bore him with your glory days later.”
Mr. Holmes smiled, dipping John a nod and retaking his seat as Violet looped her arm through John’s free one, guiding him to the last in their party.
“And you’ve met Mike, of course.”
“Mycroft, mother; you wrote it on the birth certificate and everything.”
“Actually, that was your father,” she explained, tipping her head at the man. “I was high as a kite!”
“Mother,” Mycroft snapped, standing up and tugging at his already impeccable suit jacket. “Jonathan,” he greeted with a nod, and John sighed, rolling his eyes before he could stop himself.
“It really is just John,” he muttered, though it hadn’t done any good the first two times he’d been forced to endure Mycroft’s company. “On my birth certificate and everything.”
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “I know,” he said, a note of menace to it, and John frowned, tipping his head and scanning between the man’s eyes.
“How would you-”
“Don’t let Mike scare you, dear,” Violet interjected, patting him on the arm. “He’s always running his little background checks. Should’ve seen his face when he found out I’d been arrested for protesting.” She rolled her eyes, gaze landing on the flowers at John’s side. “Oh, what an unusual rose!” she chirped, opening a hand in question, and John obliged, passing her the bouquet. “I used to have a bush like this, I think. I grow them, you see. Roses.” She flicked up a smile, gently brushing her fingers over the striped scarlet and cream petals. “Don’t suppose you remember the name.”
“Abracadabra,” John supplied, taking the blooms back, the name and general oddity of their appearance the only reason he hadn’t felt ridiculous getting flowers at all.
She snapped her fingers. “That’s what it was! And such a thoughtful gesture! Don’t you think, dear?”
“Yes, quite,” Mr. Holmes answered, smiling up at them, and John found himself embarrassed for the first time in their company, grateful as the lights in the auditorium flashed, urging them to their seats.
“Ooo, it’s starting!” She bounced against his arm, shuffling them back to their chairs. “He’s been doing these shows since he could walk and I still get so excited.”
John chuckled, settling into the vacant spot beside her. “My sister did piano for a while,” he remarked, watching the stage as the last of the audience filed into place. “It was…less exciting.”
Violet laughed, snapping open her clutch and pulling out two caramels wrapped in crinkling dark plastic. “People tend to shush me if I open these in the middle,” she said, handing him one with a wink, and John smiled, hastily shoving the wrapper in his pocket and popping the candy into his mouth as Violet distributed her wares through the group.
Mycroft declined.
“So,” she said, the caramel a small bump in her cheek as she spoke, “have you ever seen any ballet before?”
“I-I’ve seen Sherlock practice a few times,” he admitted, wondering if he should, but he didn’t suppose Sherlock’s mother would guess at his more…intimate motivations for hanging about the studio after class, “but never a proper show.”
“Oh, well, even this isn’t a proper show,” she scoffed, waving a hand at the stage. “Sherlock is wonderful, of course—not that I need to tell you that—but you never get the full experience with these showcases.”
John nodded, sure that was true. “My sister went to see The Nutcracker last Christmas with her fiancée, Clara,” he said without thinking, though he supposed he would know by now if any of the Holmeses were harboring homophobic tendencies. “She didn’t like it, but Clara said it was amazing.”
“It is, it is,” Violet emphatically agreed, nodding so vigorously, she blurred. “The Nutcracker and Swan Lake are must-sees. I also quite liked Sleeping Beauty, but that might be the Disney princess in me.”
John shrugged. “I think there’s a little Disney princess in all of us.”
“Too right,” she replied, and then chuckled, curling a hand over his forearm with a small gasp as the lights dimmed. “Here we go!” she squealed, wriggling in her seat, and John smiled, settling back in his chair and lifting his arm to the armrest when it became clear Violet wasn’t intending to let go.
They chatted through the duller portions of the program—Violet supplying surprisingly riveting gossip about some of the dancers’ parents she knew from her various societies—and sat silent through others, a tissue appearing from her red purse when Sherlock’s group concluded, Violet dabbing her eyes and muttering something about being silly John assured her wasn’t true.
When the applause was over—obligatory and otherwise—they all filed out into the lobby, small groups gathering here and there as dancers slowly appeared from backstage to join their families. Molly found him a few minutes later, waving from a distance to get his attention before giving him a double thumbs-up and making her exit, her save-me services no longer required. They were halfway through breaking down what could possibly be going on in one of the abstract paintings on display when a very ruffled Sherlock appeared, struggling with his half-on jacket as he elbowed his way through the crowd.
“Mother!” he hissed, coming to rest at John’s shoulder. “You told me you’d wait until after!”
“I said no such thing,” Violet replied, lifting her chin in a stubborn gesture John was very familiar with, “and, besides, we had a wonderful time. I don’t know what you were so worried about. We’re not that embarrassing.”
Sherlock drew in a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose like his head might explode otherwise, and then blinked, brow creasing as he frowned at the flowers in John’s hand. “Are those for me?” he asked with all his usual grace, pointing down at them, and John laughed, shaking his head and lifting the roses to his chest.
“Might be,” he smirked, “but Mycroft’s been quite the charmer tonight as well. Don’t suppose you’d be up for splitting them?”
Mycroft huffed, Violet giggling while Mr. Holmes smiled in a well-accustomed way, Sherlock looking between them like he’d just seen a ghost throw up.
“What- What is happening?”
“We’re going to dinner,” Violet answered, stepping forward and looping her arm through John’s once more, Sherlock’s eyes fixing on the contact and threatening to leap from his head. “You don’t mind riding with your father, do you, dear? John said he’d take me in his car. It’s been an age since I rode in a convertible!” She giggled, Sherlock doing a perfect impression of a marble statue except for his owlish blinking.
“I- I guess no-”
“Excellent!” Violet exclaimed, tightening her grip and marching John toward the doors. “We’ll meet you there. I assume we’ll get there first,” she added to John, and he bowed a solemn nod.
“Of course,” he swore, turning over his shoulder to grin at Sherlock’s slack-jawed expression. He bounced the flower stems into the palm of his hand, testing the trajectory with a few short swings, and then launched the bouquet over his shoulder, the roses arcing in the air before landing petal-up in Sherlock’s waiting hands.
Sherlock seemed a little more like himself, looking up from the bouquet with a quizzical expression, a corner of his mouth lifting when John winked.
“You know, son,” John heard Mr. Holmes say before they faded from earshot, “I think that means you’re next.”
Prompt #253
BBC, Sherlock/John
Let's play a little game
It's called Sherlock or Handsome Devil? Here goes: Rugby star with a temper who doesn't get along with his alcoholic dad - BBC Sherlock or Handsome Devil? An outsider who refuses to interact with new people on principle - BBC Sherlock or Handsome Devil? Andrew Scott playing a dramatic gay - BBC Sherlock or Handsome Devil? Cup of tea as a metaphor for being gay - BBC Sherlock or Handsome Devil? 5/5 gayness despite zero(0) depicted gay intimacy - BBC Sherlock or Handsome Devil?
So a short rugby player named john and a tall drama nerd with unruly curls and they're gay for each other?? K
Rugby John headcanon!🏈
I headcanon John as the scrum half on his rugby team. This player needs to be intelligent, small and fast. Capable of making quick decisions under pressure. This is a role that John would be capable of and also thrive under. The scrum half is usually the person who is most likely to receive the ball straight out of the scrum. Rugby League or Union? Captain? Anyone have any thoughts about Rugby!john? I'd love to hear them!