itsonlytext

[itsonlytext]

until we fall asleep by itsonlytext

(Words: 46,515, Chapters:7/10, M) Summary: "You're okay?" "No, of course I'm not okay. Malnourished, double kidney failure, and frankly I've been off my tits for weeks. What kind of a doctor are you?"

Set in the aftermath of TLD, this is an extraordinarily well-written story. Realistic medical fic that explores the psychological damage in Sherlock and John's relationship as wounds heal. I am totally addicted!

[itsonlytext]

Apparently it's 2014 and I'm sixteen again because I'm writing Sherlock fanfiction

[itsonlytext]

until we fall asleep • put it all behind

“Is it possible you’re addicted to John Watson?”

read chapter seven of until we fall asleep on ao3

little excerpt from the chapter (and a thank you) below:

ONLY A FEW HOURS AGO, they had been pulling at each other’s hair over a perfectly fluid blend of the summer heat and an intense kiss that lasted for the better half of a minute until Mrs Hudson innocently intervened. Now, they took turns fussing over Rosie’s (rather abstract) form of eating.

As they ate, John couldn’t help but note that Sherlock was fully dressed. His shirt fit rather comfortably, he thought, and it quickly dawned on John that it was because Sherlock wasn’t wearing a catheter port. He opened his mouth to ask about it, but Sherlock placed that conversation on hold by interrupting.

“I’m leaving,” he said.

Rosie smashed her eggs with an open palm.

“What?”

“My parents,” Sherlock clarified. “I’m staying at the cottage.”

John’s eyebrows raised. “What? Are they alright? What happened?”

He aimlessly pushed his eggs around with a fork. “They’re both fine.”

“You.. never go to your parents’ place if you can help it,” said John, stunned. “Christmas is a nightmare for you.”

“They won’t exactly be there, they’re holidaying again. Canberra, this time.”

I’m losing you John, he thought as he wiped Rosie’s mouth, all because I’m losing myself at a speed not even I can comprehend. 

“I need to get away from London,” he continued.

There was a pause.

John met his eyes. “From me,” he said bluntly.

Sherlock looked away. “London.”

🌝🌝🌝

finish the chapter here.

so.

only three more chapters to go! which is a milestone, because i’ve collected 3,777 (!!??) readers along the way.

and see what we’ve achieved!

this is the turning point; sherlock and john have knocked their heads together and realised that…. love…. like, actually exists(??). and that they might.. feel it(???).. for each other(????)

i know i’ve previously preached my (undying) love for angst but, for the most part, the final upcoming chapters of until we fall asleep will be overwhelming with comfort and growth and healing for sherlock and john as they will explore their profound relationship with each other (and rosie).

three-thousand is a massive number for me and i haven’t properly thanked anyone for recommending and commenting because it’s all happened so very quickly. so thank you, enjoy reading what will only be uphill from here, and always let me know what you think. fanks! <3

tags: @nathan-no@helloliriels@dragonnan@strawberrywinter4@with-a-ghost-mr-holmes@7-percent@totallysilvergirl@inevitably-johnlocked@meetinginsamarra @pressurepoint221 @gaylilsherlock @catlock-holmes @gaypiningshit @johnlocky @a-victorian-girl @astudyinlaura @discordantwords @calaisreno let me know if you'd like to be added to this list.

[itsonlytext]

sherlock’s face during tbb when sebastian wilkes says “we all hated him” right after john very aggressively refers to him as a colleague……….sherlock holmes get behind me

[itsonlytext]

i was supposed to be cool and mysterious like sherlock holmes but instead I can't stop yapping about anything and everything that interests me in the slightest. like sherlock holmes

[itsonlytext]

Hie!!

Do you have any johnlock fic recs :3

( or parentlock, it consumes me )

Ooh so you want to go down this rabbit hole with me, then!

These are in no particular order, just fics I've read recently or just a handful of the many authors this fandom has to offer whom I respect deeply.

Parentlock has been all I've been reading for the last several weeks, honestly, been on a real kick & need it like oxygen!

I can't reccomend anything by JenTheSweetie on ao3 highly enough - her Parentlock is just deliciously in-character, witty and tangible. instruction manual not included and Immune to Your Consultations (feat. teenage Rosie, which we don't have nearly enough of in my opinion) have been my most recently read and are just *chefs kiss*

@lurikko also has written Ten Years (feat. scheming matchmaker Rosie) and A Weird Place (which is tagged 'Just raising their kid and being confused' and...yeah, succinct, brilliant summary, have re-read this one several times)

@arwamachine has written Indefinite Lines, a gloriously long post-S4 casefic featuring lots of lovely family dynamics between Sherlock, John and Rosie in between (one of the parentlock fics of all time, in my opinion) and I also got done reading Winning the Goat, which is so amazingly witty and comical and just generally wonderfully written.

Swan Dive by @hitlikehammers is 5+1 featuring an emphasis on the relationship between Sherlock and Rosie and is once again, brilliantly characterized and wonderful to read

Keep on Changing by philalethia is a good, spooky post-S4 parentlock fic (read it for Halloween, did not disappoint!)

I know @missdaviswrites has also written heaps wonderful parentlock stories and there are plenty of stories that feature Rosie as a character and lovely domestic/parenthood fluff out there on ao3 that I haven't listed (these are mostly ones I've read recently or that come to mind)

As for general Johnlock fics...! (Most of these, again, are what I've been reading recently or first come to mind)

until we fall asleep by @itsonlytext is set post-TLD and is angsty, tense, realistic, soft, quiet, and in-character all at once and is such a little hidden gem that not nearly enough people are talking about right now!

A Thrill Failed to Deliver by @jbaillier who I know by her dozens of stunning medical realism and angst fics, in my opinion never disappoints. Have never been happier to see an author come back from a hiatus, lol!)

An Ounce of Cure by @bakertumblings is another great medical realism fic, this time with John as the one getting hit with all the angst and whump

What it Can Be by @naefelldaurk is a spin on the end of TLD and offers a much more satisfying end, brilliantly in character and wonderfully paced.

@calaisreno just finished When Harry Met Mary which follows the events of S3/4 through Harry Watson's POV (brilliant fic for those who are sick of Harry getting reduced to nothing more than John's alcoholic sister; her role in this is brilliant, developed and enjoyable). Also read Déjà Vu which is part of her genius Off-Axis series (frankly in love with all of her AUs)

The Fallen series by @engazed is one I've started just recently but has already hooked me!

Thirst by @holmesianpose is another one I've just started, so not too far in, yet, but still wonderfully written thus far!

@gaylilsherlock wrote Cutting Out the Middle Man recently (along with the several other Johnlock fics they've been putting out at admirable speeds), featuring getting-together between John and Sherlock and Greg Lestrade as a wingman and the delicious Watson & Lestrade pub scene!

Double or Nothing by @crowson75 is a study in John's bisexuality, gripping casefic, wonderfully smutty and realistically characterized, post-S4 and finally sees these two idiots figuring themselves out.

Not a Johnlock fic (there is background Johnlock, though!) but instead it’s a Mystrade one, is The Habits of a Lifetime by @out-there-tmblr and is definitely a Greg x Mycroft story but also a beautiful and realistic 54k words of a Mycroft character study and is just too much of a favorite of mine for me not to put on a rec list.

I also highly reccomend anything written by @totallysilvergirl, @the-reading-lemon, @weeesi, and @7-percent.

Realizing so many of these are post S4 or S4 compliant but I just love some good fix-its, I suppose. Hope some of these are to your liking, as they are all certainly to mine :)

[itsonlytext]

this is so incredibly done i can't stop staring at it

The Big Spoon - (2022)

In answer to the Twitter post, “when he’s tall but you wanna be the big spoon“. This one wasn’t on the WIP list I posted two days ago because…I drew it today. 😳

[itsonlytext]

Listen carefully to what Mary says: “people like Magnussen should be killed, that’s why there are people like me”.  She’s the type of person who kills people like Magnussen.  And what type of person is Magnussen?  According to Sherlock he is ‘the Napoleon of blackmail’ who runs the Western world from Appledore, using the “greatest respository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world”.  And as long as Magnussen has that information “the personal freedom of anyone you have ever met is a fantasy”.  He’s not a very nice person, in fact, he’s a pretty nasty guy who turns Sherlock’s stomach.  When Magnussen flicks John’s face at Appledore he tells him “I know who Mary hurt and killed.  I know where to find people who hate her.  I know where they live.  I know their phone numbers.  I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down.”  He could set these people on Mary, and they obviously wouldn’t call the authorities to have her arrested and properly tried in a court of law.  They would hunt her down and kill her.  Probably not very nicely, because they are not-very-nice people.  So Mary may be right, people like Magnussen should be killed; that’s why there are people like her.

Who else has killed someone?

and then justified it as the killing of a not-very-nice person who deserved to die?

Remember that when John shot the cabbie Sherlock was voluntarily taking the pill - he wasn’t being coerced.  This means that John cannot avail himself of the “defense of other” defense to murder (akin to self-defense except that the homicide is committed to defend the life of another person, not yourself).  Sherlock confirms this when he tells John that he wasn’t really going to take the pill (true, John doesn’t believe this, but he does acknowledge that Sherlock was voluntarily risking his life to prove he was clever, because that’s how he gets his ‘kicks’).  John actually committed murder that night and then threw the murder weapon in the Thames.  Nevertheless, we love it when they giggle at the crime scene and then go off to dinner together. 

Also remember that after John shoots the cabbie Sherlock tortures him to force him to reveal Moriarty’s name telling him “you’re dying, but there’s still time to hurt you”.

Finally, remember who actually does kill Magnussen:

So don’t be too judgmental of Mary.  Both John and Sherlock have committed murder to save each other.  I don’t hear anybody criticizing them for doing this - in fact they are praised for doing so.  So why the double-standard when it comes to Mary?  Is it because we don’t know her back-story?  Sherlock has deduced that Mary was an intelligence agent, but he does not know what country she was serving. By her blonde hair I suppose we are to assume she is Russian, but that could be a red herring.  Sherlock trusts her, maybe, because, like him, she is on the ‘side of the angels’, even if she isn’t one herself. 

The fandom shouldn’t complain when John Watson’s wife turns out to be an assassin, because if the fandom likes Sherlock Holmes, and the fandom likes John Watson, then it is, indeed, what the fandom likes.

[itsonlytext]

opening up my own fanfiction document on my personal laptop to see if the author has updated it yet

[itsonlytext]

Can we stop attributing Sherlock’s kindness and gentleness to ships please???

Sherlock’s empathetic NOT because John taught him. Sherlock has always been empathetic on the inside. That’s why he helped Mrs Hudson from her husband, that’s why he helped Angelo off a murder charge. He had ALWAYS been kind inside. His kindness isn’t triggered or caused by John. Sherlock’s kindness is because Sherlock IS kind.

Similarly, can we stop crediting Sherlock’s gentleness due to Molly’s influence? Sherlock HAD ALWAYS been gentle, to people he deems worthy to be treated accordingly. Look at ASIP, the way he shook hands with Mrs Hudson and in ASIB and the way he was very protective and endearing to hudders again. Look at TRF, the way Sherlock spoke softly when he said “I know I just needed you to say it quickly” to that dorm keeper lady.

Sherlock walked all night through every street in London because he thought Faith was suicidal. That’s Sherlock. He IS gentle. He IS kind. He IS empathetic.

So when he consoles his client because their mom is posing as a fake online boyfriend, Sherlock is doing it because he WANTS to comfort the client. And it isn’t because Molly is watching.

Ships are fun and all, but don’t diminish or trivialize Sherlock as a character just to make a ship “feel more important”

I mean, how pissed off would YOU be if every good trait you have ends up getting credited to your partner or someone else all the time?

[itsonlytext]

Sherlock: Now that I've explained this case for the third time, do you understand it?

John, voice cracking: Y-yes

Sherlock: Are you lying to me?

John, on the verge of tears: Yes

[itsonlytext]

i really wish i could reblog this seventeen more times NO ONEE talks about this conversation enough. hence .. why i decided to write a fic eight years later to reaally drag out the details and consequences of their relationship after this ⭐

#John yelling at himself to open up to Sherlock

[itsonlytext]

Until We Fall Asleep · you both let go (one)

Sherlock wasn't letting go, he had been pushed away. The man John was looking at was nothing more than a shadow.

this story is set right after 'the lying detective'. sherlock recovers. he and john finally sort themselves out. so here's a deal for you in which i hope you find fair:

i give you: angst, fluff (mainly rosie fluff i love rosie), characters steering through the currents of grief and guilt, a whole load of complicated feelings, and then a happy ending (woo!) in about ten chapters.

in return for: a kitkat maybe

sounds like a bargain but i never have been good at haggling so i wouldn't know. read a bit of the first chapter down below if you're miraculously still interested.

HISTORY OF BIPOLAR & obsessive compulsive disorder, schizophrenia and progressive aphasia; that’s what Mycroft told him.

It was a horrific lot and yet wasn’t all that much of a surprise, he could have said that his wretched and mangled family line consisted of brutal mental illnesses from the ripe age of seven, for he’d seen it, experienced it - Uncle Rudy was a prime example of it all (a Christmas visit never was anything but a blur of bitter beer and sloppy arguments).

But it was in a living room, Mycroft’s living room, where he was being warned about the risks of their ancestors’ genes - of all the damage that their lineage of traits could potentially inflict upon Mummy and Daddy and how they meticulously planned on avoiding any undignified deaths in the family.

He never lingered in Mycroft’s house, let alone his living room if he could help it.

The closeness of it all made it seem much more personal, he thought unnervingly. Felt more like confrontation. Therapy. He barely made an effort to listen because he knew that Mycroft wasn’t really telling him about their parents at all (if he was, they’d have been in the cold confines of Diogenes instead, pouring over classified files and cold-hearted assessments). No, this was a more gentle approach, much more gentle than Mycroft was usually inclined to offer; he was being warned .

This is what will happen to you, too, Sherlock. You’re getting older. It’s inevitable.

Get out of my head, Mycroft. It’s bad enough that I currently have to deal with you in person, too.

Then start listening to me in the present. Besides, in here, I am you. You are arguing with yourself . I see one of our family illnesses has already passed unto you.

“Shut up,” he snapped.

Mycroft leaned back into his armchair and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

Sherlock pursed his lips diffidently, careful not to strain his chest as he turned to face the fire in an attempt to numb his skin with the roaring heat. There was a residual tingling of pain that sparked through his aching limbs. He wasn’t supposed to unnecessarily be out of 221B yet, the doctor had told him that just yesterday with a brow so stern that Sherlock actually considered heeding it for a moment.

Apparently Mycroft’s living room was an exception to this.

“I know what you’re doing,” he muttered with a groan. He shifted uncomfortably in the armchair. Why must Mycroft insist on having such awful furniture? To shoo away visitors? Ensure that they don’t stay for too long? It was most definitely working, Sherlock thought, as a dull, aching pain radiated down his spine. (Though perhaps he may be biased.) Regardless, he thought, Mycroft needed to renovate immediately and if he wasn’t the one to do it, it was imminent that he needed to fire whoever it was that flicked through a dated catalogue and picked out the ugliest and nauseating brown furniture set.

“Doing what?” his brother tilted his head, running a hand along his textured armrest with a smile. A smile that Sherlock had over the years deduced meant, I am silently patronising you but, if you continue with this foolishness, I will have you hanged. Unfortunately, Sherlock had never actively witnessed Mycroft reach that state with anyone yet, and he wasn’t quite in the mood to today.

“You’re not really telling me about our parents at all,” he said plainly. “Are you.”

“Aren’t I?”

He inhaled. “Three weeks ago, I overdosed and was beaten within an inch of my life which then resulted in double renal failure, malnourishment, a fractured rib, and being forced into a geriatric prison three times a week. Do not test me, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.. It is–”

“Besides, I already know all of this. Why are you telling me now?”

There was a pause. Mycroft shifted again - he clearly despised the armchair. So why did he keep it then? Ah, Sherlock realised. Must have been inherited from some great, ugly aunt who had participated in the French colonisation somehow. Familial consequences. Fitting deduction for the topic at hand, he thought. Mycroft  crossed one leg over the other with a strange, uneasy twist in his face. He seemed to be putting in a great deal of effort to conceal his.. anger? Concern? (Mycroft’s full of that.) Hurt? Sherlock couldn’t tell.

“Oh, God,” he muttered, looking away into the fire. “Don’t tell me you’re sick. Are you?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Pulled his lips into a thin smile. “No.”

“Shame.”

His older brother sighed annoyedly, his face twisting back into the {anger/concern/hurt} within seconds. He hesitated, bringing his hands together in some sort of protective shield. “We would like you to get tested.”

It was silent.

read the rest of and get more details about 'until we fall asleep - chapter one' on ao3 here.

ouuuuuu suspense i am so evil

in my evil and destructive era wya

tags: @nathan-no@helloliriels@dragonnan@strawberrywinter4@with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @7-percent @totallysilvergirl @inevitably-johnlocked@meetinginsamarra @pressurepoint221 @gaylilsherlock @catlock-holmes @gaypiningshit @johnlocky @a-victorian-girl @astudyinlaura @discordantwords @calaisreno let me know if you'd like to be added to this list.

[itsonlytext]

sea salt & cologne · scene ii

He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. He picked up the phone and read the texts.

john attempts to make amends with sherlock but, for some reason, the detective insists on being distant.

≈ 3000 words.

(read this story on ao3.)

see part one of 'sea salt & cologne' here. enjoy!

He kept fiddling with the microphone. He couldn’t help it, the silence was killing him. It had been his intention to heed Mariana’s advice and try to talk to Sherlock but, between the cab ride to NSY and the new case presented to them by DI Lestrade, John hadn’t managed to build the confidence to do so. (He was also still a bit annoyed.)

In the cab back to Baker Street, Sherlock had taken the manilla file of information with him from the station and kept it tucked under his arm the entire ride. 

John didn’t say anything whilst clipping on his seatbelt; instead, he subtly gazed at the muscles in Sherlock’s neck as he craned his head to stare out the window, the tanned skin that pulled taut over a layer of muscle that John never expected him to have. His dark curls were just about matted on one side because of all the time he spent still on the sofa in the morning. His eyes (oh God, his eyes) reflected the murky-green from the park that they drove by, but John knew that Sherlock’s eyes were naturally grey. He knew that from all the times he snuck a glance.

Sherlock’s muscles were naturally sleeping beneath slender limbs, his hair was naturally difficult to tame and his eyes were naturally grey. (He was naturally beautiful.)

Despite the detective’s indifference and now with a profound sense of hope, John bravely clicked on his microphone and swallowed the horrid tang in his mouth (which he decided to blame on the cabbie’s driving). “So,” he began awkwardly. “Do you think Sadelyn Sawyer was right? That her brother hired someone to kill her boyfriend?”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“I mean, the bloke was totally sideways,” he carried on, ignoring the pang in his stomach. “Er, to the listeners, Sadelyn had shown us a few pictures of her half-brother, Frank Sawyer, at the station, and.. Well, just off-vibes straight away. Isn’t it, Sherlock?”

The consulting detective hadn’t pulled his eyes away from the window for even a second.

John cleared his throat annoyedly. “Sorry, guys, Sherlock seems to be in a strange mood today.”

“Stop the cab,” the detective said suddenly, only focused on catching the cabbie’s attention. “Would you stop the cab, please. ”

“Wha-” he watched as they rolled up to the curb of St Barts Hospital. “Sherlock.”

“It’s for the case. Will your fans want to listen?”

John’s eyes darkened. He pressed his tongue into his cheek. “No, they won’t, actually. I’m going back to the flat.” Bubbling with a fresh mixture of anger and hurt, John heard the words leave his mouth before he could properly register them as Sherlock stepped out of the cab. “Yeah. Maybe you’ll find another John, in the hospital, that’ll be a better replacement for you, mate.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. Instead, he calmly handed the cabbie a few folds of cash before walking away into the hospital.

John turned off his microphone soon after.

The faint, lingering scent of a fresh, musky cologne suffocated him and made his heart beat faster until he couldn't breathe. He leaned forward.

"Could you, er-" his voice cracked. "Can you roll down the windows, please?"

"Too cold, mate."

"I need to breathe a bit. Can you open mine a little? Please."

The cabbie glanced up at him through the rearview mirror and sighed. He opened the window.

The rest of the ride was silent.

*

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, your bloke accidentally gave me too much for the hospital. He’s paid for your ride.”

Your bloke.

He took a deep breath and closed his wallet. “Thanks, then,” he said awkwardly.

“No worries.”

Carefully avoiding the ice creeping up on the curb, he watched the cab drive off Baker Street, let the crisp air fill his lungs and bitter wind nip at his cheeks before entering 221B.

The flat was empty. On the kitchen table, Mariana had left a single mini can of diet Coke at Sherlock’s chair, and a small USB at his. John tread to his chair at the table and picked up the USB. He flipped it around in his fingers until he realised what it was.

The essay.

He wondered how Mariana got it. He thought about reading it but, at the very pit of his stomach, he could still feel the anger and hurt bubbling. So he pushed the USB into his pocket and sat on the sofa. Sank in the silence. (Stuck with the sour tang of guilt in his mouth.)

He unclipped his microphone and placed it on the coffee table before settling back into the sofa. There was a single pillow at the end from where Sherlock had been laying. John ran his hand over it, knowing the texture was something that Sherlock despised. He wished he hadn’t been so stubborn so that he could have helped and replaced the pillow with his own. Replace the sofa with his own bed. (Replace the silence with his own presence.) John pressed a firm fist into the pillow before slowly lowering his head on it. He inhaled the faint scent of sea salt and cologne that had clung onto the pillow after all those hours. He closed his eyes and released a breath that had been holding him hostage.

This silence was a little more bearable.

A few beats could have passed. It might have even been over an hour since he closed his eyes, he couldn’t tell. But a harsh vibration jolted John awake.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, his fingers narrowly missing the USB. The notification was a message from Sherlock. The last week had made it instinct for him to swipe away at the message before even reading it.

So he did.

He blew out a breath and let his head fall back on the pillow. Closed his eyes.

His phone vibrated again.

This time, he didn’t need to look to know who it was. The bitter tang in his mouth worsened. Sherlock never texted twice, not if he could help it, he never cared for it.

Tried to ignore it.

Couldn’t.

(Always subconsciously craving the thrill of possibility.)

He unfolded his limbs, pulled his head away from the pillow with a shiver and sat up. With all his might, he wanted to be angry - to swipe away Sherlock’s texts without reading them and curl back into the sofa. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. He picked up the phone and read the texts.

On my way back to the flat

We will clear the air.

He couldn’t exactly decipher what the last message meant but, by the wording, Sherlock seemed overly confident (as always) that their issue would be resolved when he returned.

As he thought about a reply, his eyes travelled to the laptop sitting on the coffee table. His fingers reached for his pocket. Mariana somehow secretly getting ahold of the essay had once again instilled a fear in John that reminded him she was much more cunning than she let on.

He wondered if she had read it or if she didn’t think it was her place to, only exporting it with nothing but good intentions. He wondered if he wanted to read it. “You’re gonna regret it,” he muttered.

Regardless, he shoved the USB into the laptop and began reading before he could change his mind.

Since it was brought up, John could only assume that the sixty-one pages would consist of his common behaviours and uninteresting traits that had been meticulously studied over the last year.

And it was that. It was exactly that.

Except it was also the complete opposite; with every painfully common fact about John, Sherlock had countered it with a carefully-constructed, intricate antipode of his genericism. (Compliments.) There wasn’t a single sentence in the essay that made John feel common at all - not even the paragraphs that described why he placed his toothbrush on the left side of the sink and not the right, or how he stashed food in his wardrobe despite his flatmates having boundaries. In fact, above all the confusion, he felt like the most unique person in the world. Sherlock was right - he did know more about John than he did himself. (He could even make John’s tea better.)

Suddenly he felt awful for saying the things he did.

Sherlock was (undoubtedly) the most luminous soul he had ever met - his confidence unwavering and thoughtfulness so subtly imbedded. The observations he made about the people he cared for were endlessly detailed and never burdening. He did it because he cared. Because he wanted them to know that he had noticed what no else could. John had spent almost a year shamelessly praising his detective’s brilliant mind whenever he overcame an obstacle that everyone else deemed too high - rescuing people, saving innocent lives, preventing overtime bills at Scotland Yard. John never stopped to realise how much he meant to Sherlock.

His mind travelled back to the conversation he had with Mariana.

And yet .. I still believe him anyway. Always. Why do I do that, Mariana?

Now he knew why.

“I woke you up.”

John turned to find the deep voice belonging to Sherlock hovering at the doorway, his eyes glancing at the pillow on the sofa.

“No, it’s, erm-” he turned off the laptop quickly and cleared his throat. “I wasn’t really planning on sleeping, anyway- It’s fine, you.. You didn’t wake me up, Sherlock.”

His eyes were still fixed on the sofa. “It is an awful pillow,” he said plainly.

John glanced at it. “Yeah- erm. Yeah, I don’t know how you did it for so long. It’s terrible to sleep on.” (He’d do it a thousand times again if it meant he’d be wrapped in that scent of sea salt and cologne.)

It was quiet.

“Did you, er, find what you needed? At the hospital.”

Sherlock stepped forward, ignoring him completely and struggling to find his words. “I fear that I may be…” His face was gently scrunched up and facing the floor. He hadn’t bothered to take off his coat since he came in and so, with every pace, the bitter cold wind from outside surrounded him like an armour. John could feel it every time he neared. “John, I am lost.”

“Sherlock–”

“Let me talk,” he met John’s gaze. The harsh, irritated red of his waterline clashed with the tint of blue in his eyes. “Would you give me a moment. Please.”

But the doctor couldn’t watch Sherlock struggle with himself for any longer, the anxiety that emanated from his icy coat getting stronger with every step. “Sherlock, can you- Mate, stop it. It’s okay, I- I…” John pulled the USB out of the laptop and held it up. “I know,” he said softly.

He stopped pacing.

“Mariana gave it to me.”

The detective didn’t move. He didn’t respond. His eyes were fixated on the USB.

John realised.

“Christ, no, Sherlock, I-I’m not angry- I’m not upset. The essay is.. It’s really incredible. Seriously, I don’t know how you do it. And it’s incomplete. How is it possibly incomplete, I mean, you’ve pretty much got all that there is about me on there, mate. I think I’ve learnt something about myself after reading that.”

“It’ll remain incomplete for as long as we’re together,” he finally replied, the irritation in his eyes subduing into a calmer gaze. “Of course, except…”

“It’s.. This is my fault. I- I took what you said and blew it out of proportion, and I’m sorry. Really.”

“I apologise, too.”

It was quiet again.

John could hear Mariana in the back of his mind, shouting at him to confess his feelings, telling him that this was the perfect moment to do so. But his stomach still ached and he still couldn’t get rid of the guilt sitting on his tongue. He wanted to speak, desperately. He just didn’t know how to start.

But it seemed that Sherlock had decidedly done that for him.

“The website said that couples may require some space before talking again,” he continued.

“Yeah,” John nodded.

Then he paused.

“Hang on, what? What do you mean, couples? ”

Sherlock eyed him curiously. “I wouldn’t have done this otherwise.” He stood up straight. “That is also why I said you were perfect for me–”

“-You quite literally said the opposite–”

“And we balanced each other out. Like yang and yin.”

“Yin and yang.”

“That’s what I said.”

”You said it yourself; we’ve been together for almost a year,” he recited plainly.

John’s heart was failing. (It must have been.) He couldn’t properly compute what Sherlock was casually insinuating as he stood towering over him. But the detective didn’t seem to realise the weight of his words and so, after shrugging off his coat, he carried on.

“And I make you tea,” he said matter-of-factly.

John blinked. “You-” he gently cleared his throat. “You make them for Mariana as well.”

“No, I don’t. I make them for you.” He paused. “Who’s Mariana?”

“Sherlock!”

It was silent again. But this time, the air wasn’t filled with anger or hurt or guilt.

John pursed his lips and lowered his voice. “Did you really search up what to do?”

“Well. I do admit that this area of sentimentality is a plane I am foreign to and, in an attempt to correct that, I did some research.”

There was a pause. John narrowed his eyes.

“Is that why you made my bed the other day?”

“Yes.” He brought his hands together. “But also because you kept tucking the ends in at the wrong angle and it was annoying me.”

There it was again, thought John. He was a fool for regarding Sherlock’s hypervigilance as a brag. There was nothing he could do but smile. He dipped his head knowingly. “You didn’t accidentally give the cabbie extra money today, did you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I had calculated the precise amount beforehand. Cared for and simultaneously granted you space. That’s what couples do.”

“Yes, but,” he tried to word his thoughts politely. “You can’t just assume you’re in a relationship with someone just because you balance each other out. I mean I agree, thank you. Really, I’m flattered, mate, but.. I think we could have avoided a lot of.. Bad feelings if we just spoke about it, don’t you think? Like I thought you calling me painfully common was because you didn’t hold me any differently than you would a stranger. That leaving me in the cab was because you didn’t care. That- That upset me, I suppose, because I wanted you to care the same way I do. And you do,” he waved the USB. “You really do. Just.. differently than what I’m used to. Which is also my fault and I’m sorry. Mariana sort of put me in my place today.”

Sherlock watched him for a moment. He lowered his voice and softened his brow. “I am lost in you.”

John stood up. He stepped up to Sherlock and held out the USB. “I’d really like for you to finish writing it,” he said gently.

“Finish writing it,” Sherlock repeated, staring deep into his eyes with caution. Then, when he realised what John was trying to say, his eyebrows relaxed. “I’ll get to finish it.”

He nodded. “Yeah. For as long as we’re together. And maybe tonight, you can switch out that awful pillow for mine.”

Sherlock tilted his head.

“It’s a ‘couples’ thing.”

For the first time in a week, the corner of his lips lifted.

“It is a rather awful pillow, isn’t it.”

“Yeah, I think Mariana bought it.”

“Is that the person who lived here before us?”

“Wh.. No. Mariana.”

“Yeah?” A soft voice entered the living room, soon followed by a dog’s tired huffs of air. She walked in wearing a thick, yellow woollen scarf and a leather jacket. She lowered her shopping bags down to the floor and carefully unclipped Archie from his leash. “Are you guys okay?”

John glanced up at Sherlock.

He gave a small, affirmative nod.

“Yeah, we are, Mariana.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unconsciously leaning into the detective.

“So.. You’re talking to each other again?” she asked excitedly as she unwrapped her scarf.

“Yes, we…” he scratched his head in embarrassment, her wording making him feel as if he were a teenager with silly school drama. “Actually, we.. We have some news. Good news, obviously.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah…” he glanced up at the detective. “Yeah. Sherlock and I.. We- We’re, erm—“

“We have cleared the air and are continuing our healthy relationship,” he interrupted casually, throwing them both off guard. He turned his head to John. “Did I say that right?”

“I- You said it perfectly, mate.”

The same glint that John had seen earlier in Mariana’s eyes was back again. (She had always known.) “I’m so happy for the two of you! Congratulations,” she grinned.

“You knew,” he said.

“Only a little bit.” She tilted her head. “Okay, yes. But it was so obvious!”

Sherlock raised his brows at him. “See. Even Mrs Hudson knew it.”

For once, John wasn’t in the slightest bit upset. He let a smile adorn his face and lovingly pressed his arms into the detective’s. The scent of his cologne rubbing against his clothes satiated the bubbling in his stomach and made the (god-awful) tang of guilt in his mouth subside. “Guess I was just too painfully common to see it.”

It went silent.

Mariana hesitated. Sherlock stiffened.

John alarmingly stood up straight. “That- God, that was a joke. Don’t worry.”

He could feel Sherlock’s muscles relaxing and hear Mariana’s sigh of relief. Her smile had come back. “Oh, we should totally go for drinks. To celebrate.”

“Aw, that’s a great idea, Mariana. Yeah, we’ll do that. Sherlock, you okay with that?”

They both glanced at the consulting detective, whose brows were furrowed deep. “But we already did that,” he began plainly.

He turned. “What? When?”

“Last week. When Mrs Hudson took us to the pub to remind us why we were still together.”

“Oh, for God’s—“

*

ta-daa! hope you enjoyed. i did. (the writing, not the reading my own work. well, actually, i do enjoy reading my own work. i'm just that good i suppose..)

give it up for the brilliant and incredibly talented @raveboy34 for being my other half in this project; his artwork was perfect down to the T and i couldn’t have asked for a better and funnier partner. also, try finding the sh&co logo in the picture! it's such a good detail.

see samuel's artwork in part one of 'sea salt & cologne' here.

thank you to eardefenders for creating this flashbang event! it was lots of fun.

tags (feel free to let me know if you'd like to be specifically added to/removed from the sh&co tags list): @helloliriels@dragonnan @strawberrywinter4@with-a-ghost-mr-holmes@7-percent @totallysilvergirl @inevitably-johnlocked @johnlocky @chinike @rhasima @raina-at @lisbeth-kk @gaylilsherlock @a-victorian-girl @peanitbear @meetinginsamarra @bs2sjh @gomielka @thetimemoves @thegildedbee @iwlyanmw @jobooksncoffee @amyreadsandstresses @jolieblack @notjustamumj @jawnn-watson @thalialunacy

[itsonlytext]

sea salt & cologne · scene i

“And yet.. I still believe him anyway. Always. Why do I do that, Mariana?”

a miscommunication and some rather bad wording leads to the obvious. (according to sherlock, at least.)

a/n: heyy first sh&co fic (woop woop!). this was my submission to the sh&co flashbang event that took place in around april. writing sherlock and john's pod dynamic is (obviously) much different from what i know, so it felt a little daunting to enter. but i did! and i was paired with the lovely lovely sweet and jubbly @raveboy34 who did the most scrumptious artwork you'll ever see as you keep reading.

≈ 3000 words.

(read this story on ao3.)

"To fifteen-year-old Nadine from Manchester, thank you for your email. I will make sure to give Archie a treat on your behalf. Erm... Oh! To John! Ha! Jonkster, Johnny boy.. No, sorry," he cleared his throat. "To the listeners, I'm not shouting myself out, obviously, this is another fellow John that listens to the podcast! Isn't that cool? Well, John-that’s-not-me, thank you very much, and I hope you enjoy your holiday in Brum! It's.. an interesting place. Ah- no, that’s.. Let’s not say that," he muttered, pausing the recording with a huff and unconsciously reaching for the mug of tea that was made for him.

He didn’t know how, but on the rare occasions that he decided to, Sherlock consistently made the most impeccable cups of tea. Without fail. John couldn’t even get his own cups of tea right let alone someone else’s.

After taking a large gulp, he leaned back in his swivel chair and gazed at the laptop screen in front of him.

The past forty minutes had consisted of scrolling through fan mail in his bedroom and attempting to complete this week’s shoutouts. There was an overwhelming list of unread emails and he felt awful having to blindly pick out who to respond to. He played the recording back.

“Oh! To John! Ha! Jonkster, Johnny boy.. No, sorry-”

“Ugh,” he scrunched up his face. “Why do I-”

He played it again.

“-John! Ha! Jonkster, Johnny b-”

And again.

“Ha! Jonkster, Johnny boy.. No, sorry–”

“How’s it going?”

He hastily paused the recording and glanced back at the head that had popped in through the gap in the door. “Hey, Mariana,” he dragged, lamely attempting to exit the tab as she peered in.

Having heard the recording, she frowned quizzically.

“Are you.. giving yourself a shoutout?”

“Yeah, that- No, no, I’m..” he shook his head excitedly. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“There’s another John listening to the podcast! Isn’t that awesome? He sent an email. Said he was going to Brum for the summer.”

“Oh, wow,” she stepped into the room, running a hand through her slicked-back curls. She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes at the screen. “I wonder if there’s another Mariana listening somewhere in the world.”

“Yeah, I guess there is! Isn’t that cool?”

Another head of dark curls popped in through the door. “Doubt it.”

“Oi!” he turned to Mariana with an apologetic gaze. “Don’t listen to him, I’m sure there’s loads of Marianas out there.”

“Doubt it.”

He huffed, leaning further back into his chair to see. “And why’s that?”

Sherlock stepped in calmly, bringing his fingers together. His hair was damp against his head, and he carried in a fresh scent of shower gel along with him. “Because no one here is named Mariana, so no one listening to the podcast would feel the need to highlight it should that be their name.”

They rolled their eyes in unison.

He carried on with a sharp intake of air through his teeth, his eyes occasionally glancing at the agonisingly bright laptop screen. “But, taking yourself as an example, I’m almost certain there are at least six other Johns in the vicinity of Baker Street. You’ve a painfully common name,” he finished matter-of-factly.

“Oh thanks, mate,” John ignored the sly smile that tugged at Mariana’s lips. “Well, I apologise for not having a- a rich and pompous name like Sherlock. Yeah, how ridiculous of me. Anything else about me that’s painfully common?”

“Actually, yes. In my free time, I’ve written an essay on both your idiosyncratic and conformate behaviours. Would you like to read it?”

“Well–”

“Hang on, Sherlock, you’ve.. Written an essay about John?” Mariana asked, resting a fist on the back of John’s chair.

“Of course I have,” the detective frowned, absently brushing away a stray curl that fell into and obscured his line of view (John). “In the past year that he and I have been flat-sharing, I’ve come to.. Collect data, if you will.”

“That’s really sweet,” she raised her brows amusedly, fluffy curls bouncing on her shoulder as she tilted her head. “So.. Have you written one about me?”

“Actually, it’s totally reliant on observation and the facts,” he responded sharply, diverting his gaze. “I wouldn’t consider it sweet at all. And no. I have not written one about you.”

“Aw, that’s a shame.”

John pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well, considering he just called me painfully common, I wouldn’t call that a shame.”

“It wasn’t an insult, Watson, it was a fact - yet another inherent trait of yours.”

“What?”

“Taking everything personally.”

“Oi-!”

“See?”

“Mate, we’ve been together for almost a year and all you can say about me is that I’m painfully common?!”

Sherlock shrugged. “We balance each other out. Like..” he scrunched up his face in thought. “Ying a-and..”

“Yin and Yang.”

“Yes.”

“Thanks, mate. So I’m the brawn to your brain.”

“Yes, exactly.” He paused. “What?”

“Oh, because you’re- you’re so uncommon, aren’t y- Well, you know what, you are.”

“Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, yeah, of course you do. How’s this for a compliment? You can’t even–”

“Hey!” Mariana put her hands between them in a feeble attempt to soften the tension. “I think we’re all getting a bit worked up. John, why don’t you finish.. Whatever you’re doing–”

“Shoutouts,” he sighed, rubbing his face annoyedly. “I was just trying to do the bloody shoutouts.”

“Right,” then she glanced sternly at Sherlock. “And why don’t you get back to your experiment?”

The detective straightened himself, pulling his gaze away from John with a frown. “Which one? I currently have four ongoing experiments.”

“I don’t know, how about the one that required you to use all my conditioner? You owe me, by the way. My hair feels like straw now, feel it,” she tilted her hair forward.

“No.”

"But I see you’ve managed to condition your lovely, lovely locks,” she carried on sarcastically, gesturing to his wet hair and damp skin.

"Thank you,” he replied. “It’s a new one.”

"Yeah, I- I noticed. It’s nice,” said John. His eyes widened. “It smells nice. Obviously. I don’t.. Feel your hair during the night, that’d be weird.”

Sherlock eyes narrowed amusedly. “Is that a fact.”

For God’s sake, John thought to himself. He just called you painfully common and you’re still acting like some fan. He rolled his lips with a stony resolve, forcing himself to keep eye contact.

Sherlock faltered slightly.

Mariana watched. “Hello.”

The detective calmly tore his eyes away at the sound of her voice. “Besides. That.. That experiment was boring. I finished it. Would you like to know the results?”

She glared at him. “Does it have anything to do with human remains?”

“Well. Yes.”

“Then no.” She turned to John. “I thought we could go for a drink. You know, to remind you two why you’re still living together.”

He sat up straight, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he thrummed his fingers against the desk. “Er, yeah, sure, once I finish these shoutouts.”

“Okay, great. We’ll leave in ten minutes. Sherlock, are you coming?”

The detective seemed to debate this offer intensely - his thick brows furrowing, tanned cheeks hollowing and grey eyes slightly narrowing until he finally said, “Of course I would.”

“Perfect,” she replied light-heartedly. “Let’s go.”

As Mariana began to leave the room, Sherlock followed cautiously, still deep in thought. “I can’t strongly recommend this line of work to you if you are unable to converse about human remains, Mrs Hudson.”

“Hey!” she held open the door with her foot and gestured for him to leave first. “My job is to answer emails, help pay the rent and send out the merch. Not to look at, or talk about, human remains..”

Her voice faded as they left the room and the door creaked shut.

John let out a gentle sigh and swivelled back to face his laptop. “Right, let’s see…” he opened up the tab that he had previously tried to hide from Mariana. He frowned. “Hang on. Why’s the footage so long– Oh, shit, I’ve been recording this entire time!”

*

The pub was relatively busy with a constant metronome of the door languidly swaying open and shut and the gentle hum of others’ conversations - cushioned only by the soothing tang of refills that glided down their throats in an attempt to ground.

In the search for a small table, Mariana had left the men upfront to order the drinks.

“Two pints of bitter and a gin and tonic, please,” called John as he leaned over the bar with a squint to tune out the overly repetitive pop music.

“Yeah alright, mate. Be a bit because it’s just me today.”

“No worries. Ta,” he scratched the top of his head and settled back into the stool.

Sherlock wasn’t sitting. In fact, he rather awkwardly stood beside John as they waited for their drinks - his posture perfect, his stance unnervingly still. There was a grim (and awfully heavy) twist in the pit of his stomach. He knew that he had somehow, in some way, upset John, but he couldn’t put a finger on why. He gazed at the doctor as he thrummed his fingers against the countertop, the reflective surface and soft lights casting a warm glow against his skin.

“Well..” he began, his deep voice cutting through the obnoxious music.

John glanced at him. “What?”

Ah, thought Sherlock. He’s still upset. (Angry? Flattered?) “It’s incomplete, but would you like to read it?”

“Do I want to read an essay about how I’m painfully common? Erm, let me think,” he tilted his head sarcastically. “No, I’m alright mate. Besides, if it’s about me, what more could I possibly want to know?”

“Actually, I’m positive that I know more about you than you do.”

“Yeah, you probably do- What? No,” he shook his head annoyedly. “Forget it. I don’t want to read your bloody essay that’s about how I’m- I’m so painfully common.”

Sherlock’s face scrunched up. “Why are you so obsessed over that phrasing?”

“Because-!” John stopped himself. His lips pursed into a thin line and his eyes softened.

He frowned. The detective tried to use all his innate and learned deductive reasoning to try to understand - he even attempted to reflect on the ‘social etiquette' intervention he had been forced to have with Mrs Hudson last week. But it was all too much: the torturous music (to which he regretted not having brought his ear defenders), John’s uncharacteristic indifference, his lack of knowledge.

Their intense gaze seemed to make John freeze up, his navy eyes unable to pull away, unable to portray the anger his voice lamely attempted to convey. The warm, soft lights reflected into his eyes, illuminating them into a brighter, saturated tone that made Sherlock forget about the (god-awful) twist in his stomach. They were beautiful, Sherlock thought simply. (He was beautiful.)

“It’s-” he leaned his elbows on the countertop and ran his hands over his flushed face. “It’s fine. Seriously, just forget it, it’s fine.”

Sherlock cautiously opened his mouth to speak. “You don’t–”

“Here you guys go,” the bartender slid forward the three drinks.

“Thanks,” said John politely, juggling the three glasses into his hands without asking for help from the detective, who was watching him with a concerned brow etched deep into his skin. “Sherlock. It’s fine, mate.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he watched John carefully walk through the maze of tables until he found Mariana sitting at the back on her phone. After four seconds of debating with himself, Sherlock turned slightly, pulled out his wallet, silently paid for the drinks and sauntered to the table. (Ignored the churning in his stomach.)

*

An icy wind had been the final push out of Autumn - it had blown away the rusty coloured leaves until the pavements on Baker Street bore nothing but a thin layer of frost.

It had been five days since Sherlock had (mistakenly) revealed the existence of his essay about John and, according to his knowledge, not much had improved in 221B. The doctor was often tucked away in his room, with the excuse of ‘editing the podcast’ slowly fraying and eventually dissolving into just ‘being tired’. Mariana had taken it upon herself to become an intermediary; she waded through the flood of emotions that had drowned both of the men by attempting to speak to them both privately and also sweetening some (rather bitter) messages that they had for one another before delivering them. Sherlock had, of course, seen right through her considerate attempts at cushioning John’s colourful insults, but he didn’t say anything no matter how uncharacteristic her edits were. (He sometimes wanted to tell her to read the essay he wrote about John so that she could learn how to properly speak on his behalf but, in case he accidentally offended her, he kept those thoughts to himself.)

However, when the orders for the podcast’s merchandise started piling up, Mariana had no choice but to plant her focus on packaging and sending them away. And when that happened, his (dreadful) stomachache had gotten worse.

The silence was killing him. (John was killing him.)

By midday, Sherlock had curled up into the sofa, his legs tucked close and arms wrapped around his chest with his fingertips pressing against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His eyes were shut and his face was uncomfortably pressed against a pillow, but he didn’t move. (If he did, the texture of the pillow would send a cold shower of shivers through his body.) Instead he resorted to taking deep, levelled breaths - unconsciously counting his heart’s BPM. (Always calculating, moving. Even when he didn’t want to.)

He had successfully managed to tune everyone and everything that made even the slightest of noise. He had been idle like that since 9.17am, so disturbingly still that, after the first hour, Mariana had to check if he was still breathing. He was.

During the forty-second round of unconsciously monitoring his heart’s BPM, an aggressive vibration had interrupted his counting. Sherlock opened his eyes and, for a moment, he stopped breathing.

Tried to ignore it.

Couldn’t.

(Always subconsciously craving the thrill of possibility.)

He unfolded his limbs, pulled his head away from the pillow with a shiver and sat up. His phone vibrated again.

Sherlock leaned over to the coffee table and picked it up.

Lestrade Says You Weren’t Answering Your Phone. Apparently There’s Something You’d Want To See At NSY

Interested?

It was John. (Oh God, John.)

His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Are you?

There was a pause. (Suddenly his BPM was significantly higher than it was 16 seconds ago.)

Maybe

Sherlock was used to the quiet. Most of the time he craved it. A flattened wavelength was his ideal; it opened doors to his thoughts, germinated possibilities and carefully constructed intricate experiments. But this was entirely different:

John never said ‘maybe’ to the possibility of getting to play audience and watch his consulting detective work, to record the perfect material for his podcast and prepare for a rush of adrenaline at any given moment. He never (never) said ‘maybe’ to the idea of working with Sherlock.

The detective switched off his phone, stood up and straightened his jumper.

A gentle string of footsteps told Sherlock that Mariana had walked in. The familiar, .2-second high-pitched creak of a door also told him that she had just left John’s room.

“I assume you were talking about me,” he began plainly, entirely avoiding eye-contact as he strode over to the desk by the window and picked up his ear defenders.

“Why do you assume that?” she lightly asked, setting down a pack of diet Cokes on the kitchen table before beginning to gather her fluffy curls up into a high ponytail.

“What else would you talk about?”

“I..” Mariana hummed unconvincingly, shifting her weight from one foot to the next. “We talk about lots of things.”

He grabbed his coat from his armchair and shrugged it on. “Like?”

“Hm?”

“What sort of things do you talk about?”

She glanced down and wrapped her cardigan around herself comfortingly. “Like.. Beer. And Archie. Oh! And lots of podcast stuff, which we know you don’t really enjoy, so–”

“Scotland Yard has called. There’s something that they’d like me to see.”

“Okay,” she smiled. “Yeah, that’s great! You’ve been wanting a case for a while.”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes wandered anywhere but in the direction of Mariana. “Will John be accompanying me? For the podcast stuff. ”

“Er, yeah.”

The voice came from behind Mariana. She took a step to the side to reveal John stepping into the living room with one shoe on his (left) foot and the other in his (right) hand. He bent down and slipped the other one on calmly, his face void of any indifference he had been holding against the detective for the last few days. “Got my mic all charged up,” he patted the small clip-on attached to his shirt. “Just in case.”

Sherlock eyed him carefully. “That’s good.”

It was silent. (His stomach churned.)

“Let us leave,” he said plainly, brushing straight past Mariana and John and ignoring the way their eyes met.

After he left, John sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “See?” he whispered.

Mariana shook her head. “Remember what I said, just–”

“Try again, yeah, I know,” he paused. “Sorry, Mariana- No, yeah, you’re right.”

“I hope so,” she placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him out the living room. “Now go, before he thinks we’re talking about him.”

“Again.”

***

There was a gentle knock on the door.

“Mariana?”

“Yep, it’s me,” she poked her head through with a smile. “Sherlock’s still sleeping on the couch. How are you feeling?”

“Yeah, I’m alright,” John sat up on his bed as she walked in. He politely turned off his phone and focused on her. “What’s up?”

“Three things. One, we’re out of diet Coke.”

“Ah,” John clambered off his bed and pulled open his wardrobe doors. He reached to the bottom, pulled out a pack and handed it to Mariana.

“You keep packs of mini diet Cokes in your wardrobe?” she asked quizzically.

“Don’t tell Sherlock.”

Intrigued, she peered into his wardrobe. “What else do you keep in there?”

“Pop tarts. Only the good ones, though.”

“Huh, I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m locked in the flat by myself,” she joked.

“What was the second thing?”

“Oh, yeah, you know the ‘thank you’ cards for the merch that spelled your name wrong?”

“How could I. Jonk is a pretty big mistake to make,” he deadpanned. “I mean, whose name could possibly be Jonk?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, well, I have finally used them all up in our orders!”

“Finally. But now that means that fifty of our fans have a card that says, ‘Thanks again! From Sherlock, Mariana, Archie and Jonk’.”

“Well, I’ve just ordered another one-hundred cards with the correct spelling of your name.”

“Thanks, Mariana. Honestly though, the guy on the phone was ridiculous, I even spelled my name out for him! Y’know, the same, painfully common name that everyone knows. ”

She glared at him. “John.”

He sighed, running his hands over his face. “I know,” he mumbled. He looked up. “I know.”

“Seriously,” she lowered her voice to a gentle tone. “Why is this bothering you so much?”

“I-” he sighed, closing his wardrobe and trying to change the subject. “What.. Was the third thing you wanted to talk to me about?”

“It was about you still not talking to Sherlock!”

“Ah.”

“So?” she asked firmly.

There was a certainty, an air to Mariana that John had admired since they first crossed paths - always headstrong in her resolutions and cautious enough to ground the men’s often impulsive and derelict decisions. She also always saw right through him. (Both of them.)

John sat down on the edge of his bed. Mariana leaned her back flat against the wall as a nod for him to talk.

“I don’t know, okay? Yes. What he said upset me.”

“He always makes those kinds of comments, though. I mean, to me, as well. You’ve never really reacted this way before,” she commented, hugging the pack of drinks close. “Did he.. Perhaps say something else to you? At the pub?”

“No,” he shook his head. “That’s just the worst bit, isn’t it. That is all he said - painfully common and I just.. Lost it. Like some- Some bloody, stupid.. Stupid child. I don’t know why I did, he’s right, but. What he says means something to me, Mariana. What he thinks. I mean, what makes me different from the other six Johns in the vicinity?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t actually think there are six Johns in Baker Street. We’d definitely know.”

“Yeah, but that’s the thing, isn’t it,” he replied gently. “He’s such a cocky git that you can’t tell if he means half the stuff he says.”

“And yet…”

“And yet.. I still believe him anyway. Always. Why do I do that, Mariana?”

There was a glint in her eyes as she watched the doctor debate with himself. “Are you still ghosting him online?”

“No. Well, yes, I have been. But I texted him today. Lestrade says there’s something she wants us to see, and I haven’t had much content for the podcast in a while, so…”

“You’re going to go with him.”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause.

Mariana stood up straight. “You need to talk to him, John. He needs you, no matter what he says. Your silence won’t help him understand. Give him another chance.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Mariana.”

They shared a soft, genuine smile and she began to leave the room, only pausing for a moment. “Oh, John.”

He glanced back. “Yeah?”

She seemed to construct her next words carefully. “Try telling him how you feel. I think that’s what he needs. What both of you need.”

John gazed at her, contemplating what she said with a soft frown. He eventually nodded.

*

read part two of 'sea salt & cologne' here.

tags (feel free to let me know if you'd like to be specifically added to/removed from the sh&co tags list): @helloliriels@dragonnan @strawberrywinter4@with-a-ghost-mr-holmes@7-percent @totallysilvergirl @inevitably-johnlocked @johnlocky @chinike @rhasima @raina-at @lisbeth-kk @gaylilsherlock @a-victorian-girl @peanitbear @meetinginsamarra @bs2sjh @gomielka @thetimemoves @thegildedbee @iwlyanmw @jobooksncoffee @amyreadsandstresses @jolieblack @notjustamumj @jawnn-watson @thalialunacy

[itsonlytext]

you are all witnessing my gradual morph into this observant, mystical, omnipresent.. thing.

(i’ve created an ao3 account.)

i’ve had a few people tell me now that it’s generally easier to find works/read on that site and so, like any kind and loving parent, i’m feeding my children (you) with better food (ao3).

unless i happen to write a ridiculously long short story (which i suppose would no longer make it a ‘short’ story, but whatever), anything i write will be posted on both tumblr & ao3.

so go! tell the village! let them know that an observant, mystical, omnipresent thing has come to life.

fanks!

tags: @helloliriels@dragonnan@strawberrywinter4@with-a-ghost-mr-holmes@7-percent@totallysilvergirl@inevitably-johnlocked@meetinginsamarra@pressurepoint221@gaylilsherlock@catlock-holmes@johnlocky@a-victorian-girl@astudyinlaura@nathan-no@peanitbear @jolieblack

[itsonlytext]

Restoring Balance · scene ii

"It was never black and white. It doesn't have to be."

as sherlock learns to leave the past where it belongs, his stomach settles and he comes to look forward to the new 'balance' that lies ahead in 221B ≈ 1800 words.

(read this chapter on ao3.)

see part one of 'restoring balance' here. love ya!

He didn't know how he felt about Rosie. He never really had the time to think about it; Magnussen, AGRA, Norbury, Culverton Smith and Eurus all fell on top of each other without a second's break. Rosie sort of just appeared in between all that. Without warning. (Well he had nine months, but that didn't count.)

Regardless of how he felt, it didn’t stop him from giving up the comfort of his leather armchair to her or playing his violin to lull her quiet or from feeding her when John was too tired.

“Apple.”

Sherlock glanced at the small sticky jar. He read the label. “Yes. Apple.”

She clumsily grabbed the spoon from his hands and shoved it into the jar. Sherlock helped her.

It wasn’t that he hated her, but it wasn’t that he necessarily loved her, either. He would die protecting her, of course he would, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to having her around. To being the Godfather. (The parent.)

He leaned his palms flat against the wooden table and glanced back at John, whose silver hair popped up from behind his armchair. Sherlock couldn’t see his face but he knew that John was falling asleep.

He turned back to Rosie. She grinned up at him. His stomach twinged.

"G'na up," she moaned, raising her hands high above her head expectantly.

Sherlock picked her up without hesitation.

"What do we do now?" he whispered.

She yanked on his hair.

"No, that's not going to work," he replied gently.

It had been a few hours since he woke up, since they came, since Mrs Hudson left tea at the table. Sherlock glanced at the half-eaten Danish pastry on the counter. Then he glanced down at Rosie in his arms.

"You alright?"

His head snapped up.

John had hovered into the kitchen, out of his armchair, out of sleep. (When?)

"What?" he asked.

"D'you need me to take her?" John clarified, clearing any evidence of sleep with a harsh rub.

He didn't respond. Did he look like he needed Rosie out of his arms? Did he seem uncomfortable? (Was he?)

"Dada."

"Yeah, here," he reached forward and took her from Sherlock's arms with a gentle smile.

Sherlock, more often now than before Norbury, wondered if John sincerely even wanted him to be the Godfather to his daughter or if he only did it to be kind, to make him feel included, because (at the time) it wasn't like anyone was suddenly going to drop dead. It wasn't like anyone was actually expecting him to have to do it. (He wasn't expecting it either.)

"We were fine, actually," the detective said suddenly. "I was fine. She was fine."

John tilted his head. "You.."

-seemed incapable?

-looked out of place?

-were so inadequate that I couldn't even fall asleep comfortably?

He didn't know what was more fitting. He never would. (John never did finish that sentence.) Suddenly, the pit in his stomach came back. (Didn't realise it had even left.)

"Erm, thinking of going to the park later," John said as he absently stroked the top of Rosie's head, such a subtle action, as if it came naturally to him. But it didn't. (Sherlock knew it didn't.) What did come naturally to John was something that couldn't be brought back, not without the idea of a child in the back of their minds to cushion the adrenaline and control the danger.

Planned trips to the park instead of spontaneously chasing cold cases - this is life now, Sherlock told himself as he tried to squeeze out the knot of awkwardness in his gut, to flatten the silence and accept that what he and John used to have wasn't coming back anymore. This is your doing. (It was never really Eurus' fault. Or Culverton Smith's. Or even Magnussen's. John just never stopped being angry.)

"Thought she could use the fresh air. I think we all do, actually."

All. John was inviting him to come with them. To join them. He was eyeing Sherlock intensely. The detective straightened himself.

Reply.

"Don't see why not."

John glanced up with a sudden change in his brows, his face relaxed, as if he hadn't expected Sherlock to agree to come along. He cleared his throat. "Good."

Sherlock nodded stiffly, pivoting on his heels, shrugging off his dressing gown and heading into his room.

This is life now, he reminded himself. No use trying to avoid it.

•°·•․°•·•°·•․°•·•°·•․°•·•°·•․°•·•°·•․°•·•°·•․°•·•°·•․°•·•°·•․°•·•°·•․°•·•°·•․

The park was opposite of everything Sherlock had originally predicted for his day - full of people (specifically children), loud, and entirely overwhelming. But he didn't say anything that would annoy John. In fact, he sat quietly on a bench by the gates and watched Rosie play as he ignored the awful twist in his stomach.

"How do you stop them from licking stuff?" John huffed as he walked towards Sherlock and sat down next to him.

The detective hummed, his eyes still fixed on Rosie as she toddled around her friends. "I don't think you'd like my solution."

"What, put a muzzle on her?"

He glanced sideways at John. "Actually I was going to say to follow her every step, but I suppose that works, too."

John didn't respond. He kept staring at Sherlock.

It seemed to irk the doctor, that Sherlock remained so well-behaved at the park. That he kept his tongue instead of complaining about an itch for another hit of adrenaline or something to satiate his hunger for a case.

Sherlock didn't move. "What?" He knew what.

"You're being.." he shook his head and laughed. "I mean, come on. Seriously?"

"What?"

He knew what. John's plan had failed.

"What.. What has got into you?"

Sherlock turned to look at him.

He knew that John had never actually intended for them to have the 'perfect family outing' at the park - to grab dinner on the way home and watch a movie afterwards. In fact, John had firmly expected him, when asked if he wanted to come, to refuse - to say that there were more thrilling things for them to do in the labs of St Barts' hospital or the halls of Scotland Yard.

But Sherlock didn't say that.

And so John had hoped that, in going to the park, Sherlock would have gotten distracted by something more thrilling and dangerous, trying to find himself an excuse for getting high so that John could tell him off (and follow along anyway).

But that didn't happen.

None of it did.

"No idea what you're talking about."

"Sherlock, this is ri- You know it's ridiculous."

John knew that after Eurus, Norbury, Magnussen and the wedding, things had (obviously) been different. He knew that Sherlock had changed miles out of the person he had once been on that fateful night in Lauriston Gardens. But John was beginning to see something in Sherlock that stopped fighting back for a hint of the men that they were all those years ago. Of course, it was always bound to happen, the separate courses of their lives creating currents of change - it was inevitable. He just wasn't expecting Sherlock, out of the both of them, to be the first one to let go.

"You have a daughter, John," he said suddenly, quietly, plainly. "Is it not in your better interest to stop being selfish?"

"It doesn't have to be selfish, Sherlock. I'm not saying we leg it all the time and tackle murderers, but.. There are other things." He swallowed. "Even with Mary, there was balance, we had it, didn't we? I think we did. I still joined you, every now and then. It was never black and white. It doesn't have to be."

Thank God, thought Sherlock. Because anymore of that god awful silence and his stomach surely would have imploded. But he didn't say that out loud. He should have said something, anything, because John was still staring at him, but he didn't.

Rosie suddenly came running on wobbly legs to the bench, her hairstyle undone, her cheeks flushed and pink. She was gripping onto a stick. "Look," she shoved it into John's face.

He tore his gaze from Sherlock and lifted her into his arms. "Lovely stick," he cleared his throat and stood up. "It’s getting a bit cold now, should we go home?"

She nodded, clinging onto his collar and smiling at Sherlock, who stood up and slung the baby bag over his shoulder after having come to a resolution on his own:

Tonight, they would go home and order some awful Italian food, whisper after Rosie falls asleep in John's old bed and perhaps dare to talk about Mycroft’s ‘political domestic’ until midnight. Tonight, it will be quiet. But tomorrow, they may find themselves interrogating drug lords or chasing rogue government officials. The edge of adrenaline would be softened, for they would spend fifteen minutes beforehand phoning Rosie's 'on-call' babysitter, but Sherlock will use that time to conclude an experiment or to look for his mini magnifying glass. (Lack of spontaneity doesn’t have to mean ‘no fun’.) They would find their balance and suddenly, they would be perfectly content - there would be no more silence and (definitely) no more stomach pains.

Suddenly, there was a shrill ring that caught them all off guard.

“Nope. That’s not me,” said John, patting himself down with one hand.

Sherlock frowned and glanced back. His phone was buzzing on the bench. No one ever called Sherlock. (Not unless.)

He picked up his phone and held it up to his ear. “Sherlock Holmes.” There was a pause. “Where?”

John perked up.

There was another beat.

Sherlock glanced at his friend.

He nodded.

“Ten minutes. We'll drop Rosie off at Baker Street first.” The detective ended the call and released a deep breath. “Ask Mrs Hudson to babysit?”

John inhaled with narrow eyes. “Drop her off without asking?”

Sherlock grinned as they began to leave the park, calling out for a taxi and waiting (rather excitedly) on the sidewalk.

Rosie, blissfully unaware of what was happening, gave her long stick to her dad once they settled into the cab. He twisted it around. "Are we taking this home with us?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock leaned back into the seat and nodded. "I think we can make some space on the mantle. Right between the skull and the Cluedo gun."

She giggled.

They would come to adapt to this new balance - the perfect blend of comfort and responsibility, to accept their life’s new definition. But there were some things, John knew, that would never change. (Calling Baker Street ‘home’.)

p.s. thank you for being patient enough to wait for this second part! let me know what you thought of it and feel free to make suggestions/ requests for my future works. love you lots.

let me know if you’d like to be (or no longer be) tagged.

tags: @helloliriels @dragonnan @strawberrywinter4 @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @7-percent @totallysilvergirl @inevitably-johnlocked @meetinginsamarra @pressurepoint221 @gaylilsherlock @catlock-holmes @johnlocky @a-victorian-girl @astudyinlaura @nathan-no @peanitbear