@flashfictionfridayofficial My first flash-fic challenge response! This is for the BBC Sherlock fandom. I immediately realized that this prompt - Leap of faith - fit exceptionally well into my existing two-work series âEarthly Pomp (is But a Dream)â as a short prequel, from Johnâs perspective. Here it is in its entirety below, as challenge stipulations requested, but you can also read it on AO3 HERE.
__________
Fuck.
Fuck.
He wonât want this. He doesnât want me. He canât possibly. I donât want me anymore, for Christâs sake. I wouldnât be⊠here if not for Rosie. Well, probably. Iâve not had the bollocks yet to ever go that far, despite having considered it at various stages in my life. Melodrama. Overreacting. Woe is me, huh? What a mess. Ellaâs told me otherwise, of course. Sherlock too, though a swollen lip. Trauma. Grief. Blah blah blah. Boo bloody hoo. Plenty of men have been to war and managed not to extend their misery unto others. Granted, quite a lot more⊠unusual trauma followed afterwards, but there are no excuses. Eurus as my therapist or no. And here I am, trying to do it again. To force my presence. Why has Sherlock put up with me as long as he has? What could possibly redeem me at this point?
He looks so sad whenever I leave. At least I think he does. Iâve been trying to look back over my shoulder whenever I turn my back on him, these days.
He bought rounded furniture after the explosion. Iâd thought heâd opt for perfect replicas from before, but⊠no.
Rounded corners.
Baby safe.
He cleans. Before I come, now.
He bought Rosie a puzzle of the periodic table for no particular reason three days ago. About four years beyond her capabilities, yes, but his eyes shone with eager excitement as he shyly handed it over.
She loves to gnaw on the blue cardboard âSâ for Sulfur.
For Sherlock.
Jesus.
The black hole looms up ahead. I count my steps and try to align them with my breaths. Perhaps Iâll float when I jump in, like the freeing antigravity of outer space. Or perhaps Iâll fall, like a medieval castle oubliette. With spikes at the bottom.
Faith, John.
Whichever the outcome, thereâs no choice. Iâm drowning now. Utterly alone. A bit of myself is left behind whenever I step down from that seventeenth step, one more task removed from the post-explosion flat recovery checklist thatâs kept me tethered to Baker Street. Not much is left, now. And what then? What excuse will I have to return?
No. I have to jump.
I know him. I do. Iâve recently remembered that Iâve always known him.
Iâd forgotten, for a while.
I donât think he ever has. I think heâs been waiting for me.
I hope heâs been waiting.
The thought makes me indescribably sad for him, but the hope is all I have.
I think heâll have me. Even if just for Rosieâs sake. Iâm a shit father alone. I canât trust myself. Thereâs no way he trusts me, either. I see his eyes narrow whenever he greets me; assessing my mental state. My BAL. The level of my temper.
I pat Rosieâs head a bit absently, closing my eyes and sucking in a breath of smoggy London air as I pull her closer toward my chest in her carrier. She screams; tries to escape. Itâs just the instinctual response of a toddler to confinement, right? To wanting to get out and explore the city streets. To needing a nappy change. A bit of a kip. Some lunch, soon. Itâs nothing about me. Itâs not about me. Itâs not about me.
Except I often feel like it is.
Before I know it, Iâm standing outside of the familiar black door of 221 Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson isnât home, I know. Sheâll still be away with Mr. Chatterjee. Theyâve patched things up, much to Sherlockâs chagrin. Something about just never filing divorce paperwork to avoid the headache. I was here just yesterday. I know this. Iâm not supposed to be here. We hadnât scheduled anything.
Thatâs what we do, now. Schedule things.
He wonât be expecting me. I glance upwards â the curtains flutter, then shut again.
I â well. Iâm not sure what to make of that, but itâs too late now. I fumble for my key, shushing a still-crying Rosie. My heart is racing.
The door opens. Sherlock stands there. His eyes are slightly wide for a moment, then his expression calms. He looks immaculate, as always.
âJohn, I wasnât expecting you. Hello, little Watson.â
Rosie giggles. She giggles. From a right strop.
Suddenly I have no words. Nothing to say. I just⊠shrug. And Sherlock understands. He smiles, a little mismatched quirk of his lips and a crinkling at the corners of his eyes. âIâve been waiting for you to come home, you know.â
My breath leaves me. I feel like I might cry. I take my leap of faith.
This is an additional post to my âEurus shot John and TFP is his imagination while dying / John is the girl on the planeâ theory, so please consider this while reading this post, thanks. :)
This whole post will be a bit random because I have so much thoughts about this. I hope you donât mind.
At the end of TLD, we see how Sherlock finds the âMiss Me?â on the paper. And thatâs usually the moment where Sherlock drops all his shit (he did so in HLV with his chips) and RUNS to save John. But we didnât see that. Weird, huh?
Also, we get a bit of Johnâs imagination/foreshadowing in TLD:
And in TFP, the girl on the plane (= John) says this:
âThe lightsâ are very common when it comes to near-death experiences. Walking towards light, a tunnel with light at the end and closer coming lights.
Okay, that was that. So, letâs talk about TAB: There are things in TAB they included on purpose to make us think âThatâs fucky!â in order to figure it out. An guess what? THE SAME SHIT APPEARS IN TFP.
First of all: Cringeworthy spinning shots.
Also:
Eurus = Emelia Ricoletti
Both of them look as if they were taken out of a horror movie. AND THEY BOTH SING A FUCKING SONG!
And Remember Me = Do Not Forget Me
Same with the graveyard scene in TAB ⊠THAT SCENE WAS FAKE because the corpse came to life at the end.
An guess what else is fake and has fake graves âŠ
And letâs not forget fat Mycroft:
Aaand back to TFP, where Sherlock says âGregâ:
When you watch the scene, youâll first be like: âOh, thatâs nice, Sherlock finally got Lestradeâs name right!â But the thing is ⊠THEY TOLD US THAT SHERLOCK NEVER GETS HIS NAME RIGHT JUST TWO EPISODE EARLIER. John had to MOUTH âGregâ to Sherlock so he could say it right:
So why the flying fuck would he suddenly remember his name? Weird AF? Yes, itâs John imagination. Because HE never gets Lestradeâs name wrong, thatâs why!
Also, when I first saw the scene where they are at Johnâs, I had the feeling that Sherlock ⊠looked so out of place? Heâs standing in the room and has his coat on.
And then I thought ⊠FUCK, I know this scene, it looks like the scene in âMany Happy Returnsâ!
This scenes too (first one from TFP, the other from MHR):
These too:
And when Mary (aka Johnâs imagination) said this:
I knew I heard it before ⊠itâs on Johnâs fucking blog, he wrote it when he met Sherlock for the first time:
Oh, and I mentioned earlier what people see while having a near-death experience ⊠itâs not just light, on of the things is also FAMILY.
And you know what else is fucky? This quote from âMaryâ at the of TFP âŠ
Well, the thing is ⊠SHE CANâT KNOW THIS QUOTE. We do, and Sherlock and John, but Mary canât. Well, she could have made it up, BUT (!!!) John said it to Sherlock in TEH:
Mary wasnât in that scene. Sherlock said something like that at the wedding, but itâs not the same:
Also, in her speech at the end of TFP, we see this shot from ASiP:
Well ⊠nothing weird about that, right? Except for the fact that THIS is the first scene they used in TAB! If you donât believe me, go and watch it.
And this:
Actually, there is more I could write about, but some things have already been pointed out. That Eurus wore a John-sweater as a kid or that John responded to Sherlock instead of the child on the plane.
So. If there is no fourth episode, then at least we know that the fandom is a million times cleverer than Mofftiss. ÂŻ\_(ă)_/ÂŻ
So, I'm sure John uses a very commonplace type of aftershave (because he doesn't strike me as the type to spend much thought or money in that as long as it smells alright).
So imagine, at some point during his two years away, Sherlock will weave through a crowd, probably following a suspect or scouting a suspicious place, and this smell will hit him and his body will whirl around before he even fully comprehends, because no and John and it can't be and he will gasp a little and how did John find out and this is impossible - and then his brain will catch up and Sherlock will realize that all of this is, indeed, impossible, and he will stare into the face of a boring, unimportant, loathsome stranger and Sherlock will suddenly feel sick to his stomach.
And he will hate himself because John following him would have been the worst possible case. But Sherlock is still devastatingly disappointed and feels bereft of a hope he didn't know he had at all, and he does miss him and suddenly he feels desperately, achingly empty when he really should be glad that John is safely back in London.
And he will interrupt his mission for the day because otherwise he might be sick in public place, and he will certainly attract the attention of the wrong people. And he will silently retreat to his bolthole and make a mental note to get John a new aftershave if Sherlock is ever so lucky to see him again or, alternatively, pour all of John's aftershave into the sink in 221b without his consent if necessary.
And then, months, years later, Sherlock will see John again. But John will no longer live at 221b, and when Sherlock comes close enough to smell, John will already wear a new aftershave and a new moustache, and then everything will go very wrong and Sherlock will very much concentrate to never think about John's aftershave ever again.
I love the fact that sherlock holmes doesnt really have any qualifications hes just some autistic guy whos allowed to do what he likes and i aspire to be that
This heavily implies that at a certain point the people of London started bringing crime complaints to their awkward neighbor instead of the police and there was fuck all Lestrade could do about it
my super super late sherlock mini-bang work Burning Low, novel of same name by mildredandbobbin here . apologies to her. i really wanted to finish this earlier but a snow storm left my network paralyzed and i donât have a car to drive away soâŠ
i kept my promise not to watch S3 before i finish this. imagine my pain and stressâŠ
for my dearest reine-einfuhlung, with late happy birthday. thank you for everything; without you i would be nobody.Â
many happy returns :D
p.s.: since the pics are too small to be legible, iâve uploaded the full-res version onto deviantart. click here to visit stash. (they are also in my gallery)
As he looks into his microscope, Sherlock is thinking about the book he picked up last night. About the brave pirate who's currently exploring a desert island, following an ancient map and trusting his companions more than himself. Getting lost in the process. Walking alone inside a deep, dark cave without listening to the bad feeling in his gut.
Something about that pulls a broken string Sherlock is not willing to repair. It's not about the danger, or the possibility that the book could end tragically. It's not about being alone, or helpless, or too exhausted to think about fighting. It's about getting lost, and never finding your way home.
It's ridiculous how much the topic seems to affect him. He knows that, to get lost, it's necessary to have a home to begin with. Or a place in the world, at least.
Sherlock Holmes doesn't belong anywhere, instead.
Not in his childhood home, that's filled with dark memories. Pictures of two kids with bright smiles on their faces, even if Sherlock doesn't remember being happy. A dog bowl Mr. Holmes doesn't have the heart to throw away, although his dog is long gone. Echoes of screams and cries, even if Sherlock can't tell who's the boy asking for help in the dark.
In the past, during primary schools, his five years old version found his temporary home in his father's car, and in that long road that connected Mr Holmes' house to his ex wife's. A backpack with clothes and snacks became his best friend, because it was impossible to make a real one.
Mommy's home, free from voices and pain, was better than his father's for many reasons. And yet, Sherlock never dared to call it his home. The car deserved that title.
That, until his father decided to buy a new model without asking for his son's opinion. Sherlock remembers sobbing for hours, and ending up being grounded for it.
He tried to turn his high school into his new safe space, but he was too thin, too weird and too gay for that. In few months, the building became his personal house of horrors. He was pushed around in the corridors, laughed at in the locker rooms, or dragged to the rooftop and kept from falling off by three giggling idiots. He spent his lunch pause in the bathrooms, locking himself in one of the stalls and holding his sandwich with shaky hands. Most of the times, he was too tense to take a bite without throwing up.
And then, when Mrs. Hudson finally walked into his life, he was too damaged to have hope.
He likes Baker Street more than he cares to admit, but...
But something is missing. And it frustrates him to no end, because he can't quite place what that is. Can't even make hypothesis. He simply knows something isn't right, like a itch in a spot he can't reach, or the sensation of forgetting something at home although he has no idea what that item is. It keeps him up at night.
Someone pushes the lab door open.
Mike Stamford, judging by how heavy his footsteps are. There's the sound of a cane clacking against the floor, too, and another voice whispering something he isn't interested in hearing. He doesn't even look up from the experiment he is occupied with.
He asks for a phone, because he can't waste time searching for his own. Says there's no signal on it, although he isn't sure if that's true. Refuses the landlineâ he prefers to text anyway. Mike replies that he forgot his own, and Sherlock somehow resists the urge to roll his eyes.
"Here," the other man says casually. "Take mine."
Sherlock's heart skips a beat, and he frowns at it in confusion. Confusion that fades incredibly quickly, as soon as he lays his eyes on the soldier waiting with his phone in his hand. Almost like he isn't giving his heart to a stranger in the most reckless way possible.
Sherlock blinks.
Once.
Twice.
And he knows, then. He knows John is exactly what he's searching for, because the itch isn't there anymore. Because he feels like he met the man already, perhaps in another place or another time, but always when he needed him the most.
He imagines a meeting settled in a past without cars and technology, or in a world where Charming Princes exist to save lost creatures like him. A world where he can stop feeling like the freak he's destined to be.
"Oh," he lets out, standing up and ignoring the dizziness and the butterflies in his stomach.
"Thank you." He adds, because he doubts it's appropriate to reply with the words buzzing in his head.
I missed you.
Where have you been?
I'm lost without you.
You left me alone for so long.
Show me the way out of this deep, dark cave, will you?
After the vows had been exchanged, they had all sat down to dinner under a sky painted rose and heather and tangerine by the setting sun, the faintest flecks of stars beginning to peek through. Now that the food has been eaten, the happy couple toasted, the champagne drunk, and the dancing begun, Sherlock finds himself alone at a table, looking around at nothing in particular. John has excused himself to give his regards to the newlyweds, and everyone else has made their way to the patio-turned-dance floor. Sherlock lets his eyes linger for a moment on the guests dancing there and wishes, for the millionth or so time in his life, that he were a different kind of manâperhaps the kind who feels comfortable asking a stranger to dance, or, better yet, asking the one person he really wants to hold in his arms as they spin gracefully around the floor, eyes locked on one another, the world around them melting away. But Sherlock isnât that kind of man.
The memory of the last time he had wanted to dance at a wedding needles him, and Sherlock has to fight to tamp down the regret and sadness he still feels about that entire situation. Yes, John is back at Baker Street now and Mary is long gone, but part of Sherlock still hates that he hadnât been more vocal about his desires, that he hadnât tried harder to stop John from marrying her. He knows itâs selfishâthough he tells himself it would have saved both of them a lot of pain and suffering in the long run. The whole thing fills him with self-loathing. He hadnât been good enough to peg Mary as the liar she really was from the start. He hadnât been brave enough to tell John how he felt. And in the end he hadnât been quick enough to prevent Mary from absconding with Johnâs daughter, both of them disappearing into the night like phantoms. The guilt eats at Sherlock until he pushes himself away from the table and slips into the darkness. He follows the low garden wall to the farthest corner, well outside the warm sphere of light cast by the lanterns surrounding the patio. Sherlock lifts his long legs carefully up and over before taking a seat on the wall, facing out at the surrounding hills looming nearly invisible in the darkness. He could really use a cigarette. Instead he watches the stars emerge as his vision adjusts, and when the slight autumn breeze ruffles his hair, he wishes he had thought to bring his coat.
Soft footsteps behind him. An all-too-familiar cadence. John.
âThere you are. I was wondering where youâd got off to.â
âMmm,â Sherlock hums noncommittally. John stops just behind him, close enough that Sherlock could lean his head back against Johnâs chest if he wanted to. And he does want to. But he doesnât move. Since John has come home, they seem to have found their rhythm again, and Sherlock doesnât want to screw that up. Sometimes though, there are little touchesâJohnâs arm glancing off Sherlockâs as they walk, Johnâs fingers brushing across his as John hands him a cup of tea, Johnâs hand gently squeezing Sherlockâs bicep in an occasional gesture of⊠friendship? understanding? support? Sherlock isnât sure. He also isnât sure if they actually happen more often now or if he just notices them more often now that he is more attuned to the effect that John has on him. Either way, he doesnât think that his head resting on Johnâs chest would be welcome. Itâs too⊠intimate. And so he restrains the desire that pulses through him with every beat of his heart.
John clambers over the wall, his shorter legs making the movement far less graceful than Sherlockâs had been, and takes a seat next to him. Sherlock can feel the fabric of Johnâs suit jacket catch ever so slightly on his own where their arms graze against each other. They sit in companionable silence, the strains of a recent pop hit floating gently away from the cottage, past where theyâre huddled on the wall, and out into the open night.
John eventually breaks the silence with a quiet sigh. âI never should have gotten married.â
Hello, all! The exciting news this month is that I'm going to be setting up an AO3 collection for this, so you can post anything you think fits the theme into it. As a reminder, the focus is on works in any Sherlockian fandom with a trans, nonbinary, or gnc flavour.
This month's prompt is:
Senses
I look forward to seeing how this inspires you! And stay tuned for the link to the AO3 collection. I'll be pinning a post with the month's prompt and the collection link on my blog.
Every once in a while, definitely more often than what Sherlock liked to admit, his senses inevitably betrayed him.
Sometimes he listened to children laughing, and thought about the days he'd spent crying in front of the mirror, hating the body some stupid God had given him.
Sometimes he smelled a particularly sweet perfume, and remembered all the times he'd allowed Mommy to spray some on him, just to play the part of a normal fourteen years old girl.
Sometimes, alone in the bathtub, Sherlock could still see that desperate teenager beneath the scars on his chest. The reminder of the girl he'd been, before becoming the man he'd always wished to be.
Sometimes the memories were loud and the nightmares were frequent, leaving him sweaty in the middle of the night. Dreaming of secrets, and fantasies, and everything he wasn't allowed to have in real life.
But other times, most times, small calloused hands settled over his racing heart as soon as he gasped awake. Caring and yet clumsy fingers searched for his tears in the dark, wiping them until he was able to breathe again. Strong arms turned him around, pulled him in a tight embrace that made him melt like ice in a summer morning. Lips were pressed against the soft, pale skin of his neck, jaw, wet cheeks.
I love yous were whispered. More kisses were left where he didn't deserve them. Sherlock's heartrate slowed down, matching John's. Delicate, long fingers traced the man's broad shoulders.
With his usual charming smile, John insisted that, for him, Sherlock had always been a man's name. Dried more tears as the words found their place in the detective's heart, as surprising as the first time he'd heard them.
Sometimes the doctor's tone was filled with lust and pure desire, dirty thoughts breathed, gasped and moaned right next to Sherlock's ear.
Sometimes John loved him roughly enough to leave bite marks where everyone could see them. To claim his body and his scars as his own, like he couldn't see what was wrong with them. Or with him.
Sometimes Sherlock sobbed through his own orgasm, because he didn't want the moment to end. Clinging to his flatmate even when it was too hot to tolerate skin to skin contact, he never lose the opportunity to watch John sleep.
Those were the best dreams.
And the worst nightmares.
Because, in the morning, the real John was never in bed with him.
I've been thinking this morning about Holmes's feelings when Watson reveals that he's going to marry Mary. So this little snippet happened.
"Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?" he asks me.
My tongue sticks in my mouth. There is no reason, except that his choice is her, not me. I say polite things about her, all the while wanting to scream, "I love you. Choose me."
In the end, I wish him happiness, although it feels hollow. I do truly want to see him happy, and I suppose that the pain of him leaving will dull in time. I see how it hurts him when I tell him I will return to my cocaine. I do not want to hurt him, but I cannot see anything else that I can do.
When he leaves to ascend to his room, I let my tears fall. I sob in silence, fat tears cascading down my cheeks. I want to dose myself with cocaine to dull this awful ache, but I need to sleep after all the work I have done for the case. I am unsure whether I want to sleep. If I sleep, I will dream of Watson. I will dream that he loves me, and then I will wake to remember that he is leaving me.
In some small servive to my health, I go to lie down on my bed. I wrap my arms around myself, imagining he is holding me. I cry myself to sleep.
Every time she flaked or never even emailed him back for a visit there was a part of John that would be relieved because he knew that she would see.
She had come over to their house to see the baby, her newborn niece, how could she not?
Sherlock was coincidentally there at the same moment, picking up a case file John had accidentally taken from the flat. John couldnât get away from Mary and the baby so he came here himself.
Standing stiffly in a room with John, Harry, Mary and the baby.
Mary insisted Sherlock hold the baby.
John should have kept his distance.
He just couldnât not stare, seeing Sherlock cradle her, hold her so gently. He looked uncomfortable and a little anxious, but he was getting along just fine. He knew his expression was soft, seeing at Sherlock like that. He knew he shouldnât have placed his own hand along the curve of Sherlocks back. Maybe his arm or shoulder, somewhere less obvious.
But really he shouldnât have touched Sherlock at all.
John: Heâs started leaving meâŠgifts, I guess you could say.
Lestrade: Oh yeah?
John: Found a dead bird on my coffee table. Gave me a bit of a start.
Lestrade: Ha! Heâs just warming you up, mate. Wait until he leaves a human hand in your teacup!
John: o_O|||
=====
Mrs. Turner: Well, it seems my John is getting along quite well with your Sherlock!
Mrs. Hudson: Oh thatâs wonderful! With the way that poor lovesick boy goes on about his new neightbor, I was wondering when heâd make a move.
Mrs. Turner: Mmhmm. I was just nipping upstairs with a bit of tea but I turned right back around when I heard John giving your Sherlock the most adorable earful~ All âwhoâs my beautiful boyâ and âarenât you gorgeousâ. Oh! It gave me the flutters, I tell you.
Ms Hudson: Oh hello Doctor Watson, I hear that you go along well with Sherlock!
John: yes, really nicely I think. Donât know why everyone is so surprised! Heâs a bit of a loner but heâs always happy when someone picked him up.
Ms Hudson: you⊠You sharing him?
John: Of course, I mustnt keep that goodness to myself!
Ms Hudson: I⊠I know that weâve got a lot of different kind in the neighborhood⊠But⊠Okay.
JOHN: Sherlock is so fastidious about his hygiene! When heâs not up to his neck in a skip, I mean. I love watching him when he takes care of his hair, itâs so relaxing.
MRS HUDSON: Yes, heâs always been scrupulous about his looks. Itâs so cute that he lets you watch him!
JOHN: Well, he doesnât mind my seeing him when he relieves himself, soâŠ
MRS HUDSON: Oh. Thatâs⊠Oh.
JOHN: I think he overdoes it sometimes, though. I hate when he spits out hairballs.
MRS HUDSON: what
*****
MRS TURNER: So, how did this, er, Pussy Play Date go?
JOHN: We all had a great time! It was so lovely to see Sherlock and Minnie rolling on the rug and nibbling each other.
MRS TURNER: Holy cow.
JOHN: Anyway, I told Molly about Sherlockâs occasional weird behaviour.
MRS TURNER: Oh John, Iâm so glad you mention that because Mrs Hudson and myself are a bit worried andâ
Molly Hooper is where the intersecting social circles of Sherlock and John tighten dangerously. Like a noose.
Sherlock: SoâŠdoes John ever mention, umâŠme?
Molly: Oh dear, Iâm sorry, Sherlock, we usually just chat about work and our cats.
Sherlock: HisâŠcat. *confused that sheâs not confused* And what is his cat named?
Molly: Oh, I donât know actually. John was poking fun at me for calling Minnie all sorts of cute names and baby talking her, you know, and started calling his cat things like âmad bastardâ. Itâs a little inside joke of ours now.
Sherlock: *bangs head against microscope*
Molly: Donât be sad, Sherlock. Weâre just friends. Tell you what; Iâll ask John next time I see him, if heâs seeing anyone or if heâs got a girlfriend or boyfriend.
LaterâŠ
Sherlock: *bursts into morgue* Well?!
Molly: *jumps and screams and upturns Mr. Grimsby onto the floor*
Even laterâŠ
Sherlock: Yes yes Iâm very sorry and Iâll be more careful about startling you in the future now tell me what John said!
Molly: Oh Sherlock, Iâm so sorry. Johnâs definitely bi, but heâs already set his heart on someone. Went on and on about how sweet and gorgeous he was; I didnât really see a good opening to suggest he give you a chance.
SHERLOCK:  John. (He clears his throat.) John, I talked to Molly and⊠Thereâs something I should say. Iâve meant to say always and then never have. I might as well say it now. (He inhales deeply) Sherlock is actually a humanâs name.
JOHN: Sorry?
SHERLOCK: John, I am Sherlock.
JOHN: You mean, metaphorically? Like, youâre a gorgeous creature who enjoys lounging on the sofa and would love being petted?
SHERLOCK: No, not metaphorically at all, donât be ridiculous, Iâ
JOHN (softly): Because Iâd pet you, you know. I mean, if you wanted me to.
SHERLOCK: âŠ
JOHN (freaking out): Oh my God Iâm so sorry itâs a misunderstanding can we just forget what Iâ
SHERLOCK: YES I TOTALLY MEAN METAPHORICALLY.
***
Damn, Sherlock was so close. Will he ever manage to tell John the terrible truth? And will we ever know the catâs real name? To be continued in our next issue! :D
SHERLOCK: John, being the genius that I am I deduced that you might think Iâd enjoy being petted like a cat. The truth is, Iâd just like you to pet my hair.
JOHN (nervously): Donât worry, I got it, Iâll scratch you between the ears and Iâll rub your chin and everything, er, Kitty.
SHERLOCK (pointing at his head): I mean my locks! Iâd just like you to stroke my locks. I think that would, er, help me think.
JOHN (discreetly kicking the bagful of cat toys heâs just bought under the sofa): Thanks God.
*****
(Fifteen minutes later.)
JOHN (getting the bag back): Sherlock! Come here! Come and see all the treats I have for you!
SHERLOCK (bursting in): Did you buy ginger nuts?
JOHN: What? No, why?
SHERLOCK (realising his blunder): Never mind.
JOHN: Did you think I was talking to you?
SHERLOCK (making a strategic retreat): I have no idea what youâre talking about.
Sherlock (not aware that John is close): Sherlock, you idiot! How could you be so stupid. Just TALK! Itâs not that complicated! (Looking at the cat) If it was as easy to be honest with John as it is to you Henry, (petting the opportunist) yes yes I love you darling.
LaterâŠ
John: I think nothing can happen with your tenant, Ms Hudson.
Ms Hudson: oh no⊠Why?
John: He is a bit too crazy and really donât like cat. And⊠Heâs in love with another guy.
John: *petting the cat on the balcony* So umâŠHenry.
Sherlock: *startles* Y-you know. ((Is he mad that I didnât say something earlier? No, heâs nervous. Why is he nervous? Oh God, did he overhear me? Oh God, how much of it did he overhear?!))
John: *blinks at how shocked William seems* ((Shit, he doesnât think Iâm some homophobic arsehole, does he?)) Hey, itâs fine. Itâs all fine. I was just curious, umâŠhow long?
Sherlock: ((âŠ? Oh! How long weâve had Henry at 221B.)) Iâm not certain, really. I suppose itâs been at least three years now. He just wandered into our lives one day and never left. ((Like you, JohnâŠwonderful John, walking out onto the balcony and right into my heart~))
John: ((Oh wow, thatâs a long whileâŠand look at that loving smile. Henry, if youâre not the best boyfriend in the world I will find you and beat your unworthy arse into the ground.)) *chuckle* Not certain? Not much for anniversaries, are you.
Sherlock: *panic!on the balcony* ((Does John think anniversaries are important to romance?!)) IâŠI could be! It will be two weeks exactly since we first met, tomorrow at 7:35pm!
John: Really? Damn, time got away from me. Dan and his husband will be back soon, and I havenât even sorted out where Iâll be living next. *looks down at the cat and rubs his ears*
Sherlock: âŠ
John: *quietly speaks to the cat, though the sentiment is in truth all for William* Iâll miss you SherlockâŠI donât think i realized until just now how muâ
Sherlock: *grabs balcony railing in a death grip* MOVE IN WITH ME!!
John: ?!??!! *accidentally squeeze-grabs the cat in surprise*
JOHN: Well, wonât he be, you know, a bit jealous?
SHERLOCK (laughing): Jealous of what? On the contrary, heâll be delighted to have two persons here instead of one to stroke his belly and scratch his back! Sometimes he comes and he wants to sit down on my lap and have a cuddle but Iâm too busy with a case or Iâm not in the mood and then he gets grumpy. Youâll do the cuddling!
JOHN (horrified): This is a bit too modern for me.
SHERLOCK: What, having a flatmate?
JOHN: Oh. A flatmate. Yes, of course, you want me as a flatmate. (He sighs and looks down at the cat to avoid âWilliamââs eyes.) Will you still let me pet you when I have changed flat, Sherlock?
SHERLOCK (cheerful): Of course I will! Iâd be lost without my petter.
JOHN: What? I was talking to Sherlock.
SHERLOCK: *realising that he is wrong, wrong, wrong! And that John, for some inexplicable reason, still thinks that Sherlock is the catâs name and in this case who does he think Henry is OMG OMG* Â I THINK I HEAR MRS HUDSON CALLING ME SORRY GOTTA DASH.
JOHN: But sheâs gone for the evenâ Â
SHERLOCK: *slams the door behind him*
JOHN: *narrows his eyes in a suspicious way for the second time of the day*
JOHN (picking up his phone thatâs ringing): Hello?
DANIEL (on the phone): Hi John, itâs Dan!
JOHN: Oh, Dan! Hi, howâs the honeymoon?
DANIEL (giggling): Well, you know, I canât complain. Howâs the house sitting? And howâs our darling boy?
JOHN: Itâs going very well and Sherlock is in great form. He was a picky eater at first but now he wolfs down everything I give him. He drinks enough water and I exercise him a bit. We play ball! Heâs sleeping near me on the balcony at the moment. Heâs beautiful, his hair is so shiny. And I think he really likes me!
DANIEL (a bit baffled): Well, good for you but I was talking about Henry.
JOHN (more than a bit baffled): But⊠You said âour darling boyâ so I thoughtâŠ
DANIEL: Henry is our darling boy! Everyoneâs darling boy in the building, actually. Theyâre always glad to see him pop in. And this Holmes guy, he can be so hoity-toity sometimes but heâs crazy about Henry. The way he looks at him and cuddles him is so cuâ
JOHN: SORRY I MUST HANG UP. (He hangs up and buries his face in his hands with a groan.)
SHERLOCK (popping up on his balcony): John, I was wondâ Oh my God whatâs wrong?
JOHN: WHY DONâT YOU GO AND HAVE A CUDDLE WITH YOUR PRECIOUS HENRY AND LEAVE ME ALONE! (He slams the window behind him.)
SHERLOCK: *stares at Henry, dumbfounded*
HENRY (staring back): Miaow miaow miaow. (Translation: I love you but youâre a bloody idiot.)
This is what John sees after he fails to will himself out of existenceâŠ
John sighs and opens the sliding glass door, anger and mortification both ebbing away under the double-punch of William (Sherlock?) looking so lost and forlorn, and Sherlock (Henry?) scorning every last molecule in his body with the haughtiness that only a cat could pull off.
Sherlock Henry the cat slipped in with a sneering miaw, but his neighbor remained kneeling on the balcony.
âGet up, whatever your name is,â John said wearily, and to his surprise the man blushed and wrinkled up his nose.
âUm. I canât. I lost feeling in my legs eight minutes ago.â
John snorted despite himself and crouched down, and with minimal flailing and cursing, managed to eventually dump the gangly git onto Danâs loveseat.
âRight,â he said sternly, gathering up a bit of righteous upset and crossing his arms. âWhy, exactly, did you tell me the catâs name was Sherlock?â
Nearly a full minute ticked by, and after a slideshow of uncomfortable expressions flickered over the brunetâs face, the man finally mumbled,
âIâd assumed you were talking to me.â
John frowned and tried to think back to what heâd said that first day. He hadnât known anyone else was out on the balconies, so he hadnât actually asked anyone the question. Heâd just spotted the lovely creature sunning itself andâŠ
Hello beautiful boy, whatâs your name?
John tried, he really did, but after only three seconds he gave it up as a bad job and burst into laughter. The man on the couch - Sherlock, apparently - flushed darker and made a sudden dash for the door. Thanks to military-honed reflexes and Sherlockâs still-compromised circulation, however, John managed to stop him with a hand on his arm and a mischievous grin.
âHello gorgeous,â he quipped, âIâm John Hamish Watson. Why donât you tell me your full name? Flatmates ought to know these things about each other, after all.â
===== omake =====
âOh God I told that D.I. that I worried about Sherlock being on cocaine sometimes, the way he dashes around!â
This is the best Johnlock post on Tumblr. The collaboration = perfect.
Dan: We can take Henry for the night so you guys can relax. I know how he loves the cuddles. It will give you a chance to pet Sherlock like you told me he likes.
John: *mortified on the balcony* Iâm glad youâre back heh. Yeah, Iâll umm⊠Yeah take him. *hands over the cat*
Sherlock: *yells from inside the flat* John!! I need you! Thereâs been an accident with the robe.
Dan: Well John, I see you and Sherlock are getting along splendidly. Have fun *winks*
John: If I pet you that wouldnât be talking, would it?
*Sherlock flushes red and makes room for John on the couch*
John: Good lad *begins scratching*
*Sherlock purrs, unaware*
John, to himself: HEY, so, John, ARE YOU SURE SHERLOCK IS A HUMAN NAME? ARE YOU COMPLETELY SURE? I Am Going To DIE Of A Cuteness Overdose And Nothing On This Earth Can Stop That From Happening
@sherlockedcarmilla Sherlock gets stroppy because John âkissedâ Lestrade. XD
Mrs. Hudson: Oh, John! Just got back from doing the shopping?
John: Yeah, had to run by the butcherâs and a few other places. Here, these are for you. Sorry for the ruckus last night.
Mrs. Hudson: How lovely! Donât you want to keep these for yourself?
John: Nah, theyâd just get torn apart. Iâve bought a little mint plant for Himself; maybe Iâll manage to nip a few leaves for my tea if Iâm lucky. Truth is these are all gifts. Heâs having a sulk because I wasnât paying him enough attention. *chuckle*
Mrs. Hudson: Oh dear. Not too bad I hope?
John: Nah, Iâm just getting the evil eye and a warning hiss if I get too close. Iâm hoping this box of white mice and a nice treat for dinner will put me back in his good graces. I should go get started on the beef.
Mrs. Hudson: Good luck dear!
Mrs. Turner: *pokes head in* Who is John rowing with; Sherlock or Henry?
Thank God it came back! I remembered this last week and was looking for it on kitten-kinÂŽs AO3 (LOL). Of course, I could not find it as itÂŽs obviously a tumblr post.
@kitten-kin I love this story soooooo much and all the lovely funny endearing drawings!!! *makes enchanted gushing noises*
of course right after I post a fluff fic, I just have to ruin my own mood by writing something angsty asf-
I don't control what I write, it just kinda comes out on the page-
it's under the cut if anyone wants to read it đ fair warning, it's nice until you realise what's actually going on-
I didn't even realise what was going on until I wrote it-
  âHappy birthday, John,âHe stood before his doctor,âWeâve known each other for years, going on two decades this coming year. I thought I should do something special for you, I got you a present. Itâs something I should have given to you years ago, but now it seems to be rather redundant considering you canât accept it-
  âSentiment, I believe, is the reason I feel as if I need to give this to you. Not only because we have been friends, best friends, but because my heart has been yours since that very first day. Every moment we have spent together has been my own personal heaven and hell. My heart has ached to be with yours, my mind has gone over every moment, every small, aborted confession. Even that time at the tarmac when I thought I was being shipped off to be murdered. I wanted to tell you so badly.
  âIâve put myself in a precarious position, because you married someone else. You married her and made your choice. I could have had you from the beginning, in the landing, when we were laughing together, breathless. But, I let my paranoia claim the moment and I decided against it. I wanted to tell you when The Woman came into the picture because you thought I was in love with her, but itâs always been you.
  âSo⊠happy birthday, John, I love you.â
  He turned the ring over in his palm, he knew it would fit Johnâs finger. The gold band reflected the gray clouds that hung in the sky, the medal cold in the chilly August weather. Sherlock gently placed it on the headstone, walking away with more guilt on his shoulders than ever.Â
(A/N I'm sorry and I promise i love sherlock and john but I apparently like to write them in very angsty ways-)
[ @egmon73 and @redgreyandpurple - this is your fault. Ends very happily for them. (Nobody gets shot.) NSFW Latvian hostel shower sex. Bad language and bad-assery. Implied historic Sherstrade. Trigger warning for horrendous moustache. Please everyone remember that smoking is neither clever nor cool. ]
Greg held Mycroftâs eyes. The gun was steady as a rock against his forehead - not a shake, not a flicker of doubt - and the safety catch was off. The thing was loaded. Mycroftâs finger was curled comfortably around the trigger, and with the gentlest squeeze it would be over.
There was an awful pause - a pause that seemed longer than their whole bloody marriage had been.
Greg set his jaw. âYouâre meant to be dead.â
"sherlock, will you hold still now?!", john told him for what was the fifth time now.
"i can't work if you keep fidgeting like that!"
and it was true. he was fidgeting. because he had a cut at his throat and now john needed to take care of it. he was very close...
but let's get to the start of this: they were, as they do, chasing after a suspect. this suspect was apparently very skilled because even though sherlock does know some martial arts this person had him under their control in less than ten seconds. one moment sherlock had punched them in the face and before he knew what was happening they held a knife against his throat. sherlock remembered the surprise he felt. not shock or fear (come on! this is sherlock holmes we are talking about!) just genuine surprise.
and john was standing opposite of them, his gun pointing at the suspect, but they just smirked. sherlock had FELT them smirk - their whole body language was telling tales. "you shoot, i cut." they had simply said. and sherlock had seen john clench his jaw. his sweet, good john. there he was completely in a quandary. could he risk it? shooting them? getting sherlock cut? but then he saw john smile. oh, and at the sight of it sherlock felt his heart beating hard. maybe it was the adrenaline running through his veins, as someone was literally holding a knife against his throat, maybe it was the excitement over a oh!-it's-christmas! case, but if he was honest it was probably neither this nor that. it was simply john. because that smile on that ex-army-doctor's face right there? it was the most dangerous thing to see. when captain john watson looks at you like that you better run. and that idiot of a suspect of course didn't know...
there - the slightest nod towards sherlock and the detective stomped at the suspect's foot. at the same time john shot - the bullet missing the suspect's head only by millimeters. they were so shocked they stumbled back. still they cut sherlock's throat slightly.
then they heard the police sirens. and the panicked suspect jumped at john. "woah, where do you think you're goi-"
a quick movement - sherlock hated he hadn't foreseen it - and they had stabbed at john. the doctor gasped and grunted at the pain.
"john! are you alright?"
"yeah, yeah i'm all good", john said clutching his side. when he looked up though, his eyes went big and sherlock could see the worry in them. "jesus, sherlock. your- you are bleeding!"
and now this man, who most likely just casually saved his life yet again today, was standing incredibly close. in fact, he was too close. the detective could feel the warmth that john's body radiated, he could smell the sweat, rain and aftershave that was so much just john. he could see john's neck, chest, the stubbles on his chin. he would give so much to taste him too... he cringed , what a stupid thought. john was straight. and yet... john's right hand was placed on his shoulder and sherlock was painfully aware of john's thumb touching his bare skin. earlier john had unbuttoned sherlock's shirt just a tad and sherlock had wished he could just send all his blood into his feet, but it fought its way where it definitely shouldn't have been. after all john was just being his personal doctor. nothing more. but john's breath on his bare neck, his cold fingers gently touching his chin, to grand him better access... sherlock couldn't HELP but fidgeting. he tried his very best to not look at john, to breathe in flatly through his mouth so he couldn't smell him, to ignore his body's whishes. to hide this horrific, painful, but somewhat way too fascinating attraction towards his flat mate. but it was really hard. so he tapped his leg, knead his hands, tried to pull out of john's grasp when he held his chin. IT WAS TOO MU-
"there." john interrupted sherlock's infinite spiraling thoughts. "all done. wasn't that bad now, was it?", john said - all doctor. and he finally stepped back. sherlock was floated with relief - finally some space to breathe - and the urge to pull john back in and down. to make their lips- no. he needed to stop. things are getting out of hand here.
the detective was just about to get up and escape into the living room - or even better his bedroom - when he saw john taking off his jumper and started unbuttoning his shirt. sherlock was suddenly incapable of moving. and then john was naked from the waist up. just like that. sherlock swallowed. stop, staring! he told himself. he quickly reversed his gaze at the floor. had it always been there? was he flying? he wasn't even on drugs... but he sure as hell didn't feel sober.
"right, i'll leave you at your..."
"actually", john interrupted him. "could you..." the doctor held out sanitizer and cotton rounds. he smiled at him. it was a sweet smile, maybe even a bit shy..?
"you- you want me to..."
john chuckled and scratched the back of his head with the sanitizer. "if you don't mind... you know i just can't really see the wound..."
"oh. right. yes." sherlock said but didn't move. oh, this foolish sentiment!
"well?", john asked again and held out the utensils for sherlock.
sherlock swallowed and stepped closer to john. he took the sanitizer and cotton rounds, knelt down to john's side and started carefully sterilizing john's shallow but long wound. it was in the middle of john's torso, on the side, just high enough for him to not see all of it. to distract himself, sherlock started analyzing everything about the wound. "the wound isn't deep, about 2 millimeters. 12cm long. you've lost some blood, but not to a concerning level. the risk of fatigue is here but improbable, since you're doing pretty well up until..."
he kept talking like this with john humming and nodding every once in a while. when he was finally done and had patched john up, he sat there a bit too long facing john's side. he let out a shaky breath. and could watch goosebumps wander inch by inch up john's body. ïżŒfascinating.
"done now?", john asked. his voice sounded kind, almost soft. sherlock hated loving every little detail about this man. quickly he stood. "yeah all done now. looking as good as ever."
looking hot. damnit, john. put a shirt on now!
john raised his eyebrows and grabbed his shirt. he slowly buttoned it up and looked straight at sherlock while doing so. sherlock followed john's hand movements with his eyes. then saw john staring at him and stared right back.
the taller man cleared his throat. "right, uh... dinner?"
john looked him up and down, locked eyes with him once again and said: "starving".
john fastened his last button, winked, and finally walked out of the bathroom.
and sherlock weakly sat down on the edge of the bathtub. he exhaled deeply and tried to get his shaking body under control before he went back out to face this force of a man once again. john would be the death of him.
---
is it 3:30 am? yes it is. am i slowly realizing doing this challenge with the horrible time management of mine is probably a bit not good? yes i am. am i gonna stop? definitely not! (am i hungry? yes i am. are 3:33 am questions kind of unnecessary? yes they absolutely are. turtely will you shut up now? fine i will.)
tagging!!! (please tell me if you wanna be added/removed): @catlock-holmes @helloliriels @justanobsessedpan @boredsushi @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @7arantellgrrl @ssmeowl123 @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 thank you for reading y'all! đđđ
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