sandcobangevent

[sandcobangevent]

there's nothing like doing nothing with you

By @ilovegayangels and @colonelmajorkepler

More often than not, John would walk into 221B and find Sherlock in an unusual position. Hanging upside down was the most common one, but sometimes he was found doing the occasional headstand against the wall too.

So all things considered, seeing Sherlock lying on the floor staring blankly up at the ceiling with a fat bulldog curled up on his stomach was fairly normal.

“Whatcha doing there, mate?” John asked anyway, because it was the polite thing to do, walking further into the flat to put down the grocery bags he was carrying.

“Just thinking.”

“With… Archie?” John nodded to the dog, who was looking quite pleased with himself. However that expression looked on a dog. “He’s a bit heavy.”

Sherlock shrugged. “The pressure is nice. What are you making for dinner?”

John paused in unpacking the bags and snorted. “What, you can’t deduce it for yourself?” Even without looking, he could feel Sherlock’s eye roll.

“I could, but I can’t see from my position on the floor, and it’s actually quite comfortable.”

“So comfortable you can’t even move your head?”

“Precisely.”

Now it was John’s turn to fondly roll his eyes. “Well, master detective, I have decided to make your favourite. Pasta with–”

“–Mascarpone sauce?” Sherlock finished, pushing himself up onto his elbows despite his previous protests over moving. Archie whined at being jostled, and Sherlock absentmindedly soothed him with a light pat to the head.

John raised said jar of sauce. “You know it.”

“And the pasta shape is–”

“–Penne,” John finished, raising said bag of pasta with his other hand. “Honestly, Sherlock, give me more credit! You’d think I’d remember how you like your pasta by now.” He chuckled, shaking his head.

Sherlock flushed slightly. “Forgive me. I suppose I’m still not entirely used to being… remembered. Or cared for.”

John huffed. “Well, you should be. Cared for more, that is. You deserve it, Sherls.” Then, because the topic was starting to get a bit too honest, John abruptly cleared his throat. “Well! I’ll get started on that dinner now. Go back to your floor time. I’ll call you up when it’s ready.”

Sherlock eyed John with an expression he couldn’t understand. He really hoped he wouldn’t call him out on his sudden topic change, but thankfully, he eventually shrugged. “Okie dokie,” was all he said before plopping back into his previous position, Archie settling back into his spot with a content huff.

John let his eyes linger over the scene a little longer, feeling a small smile creep onto his face. It really was an adorable sight – he would snap a quick photo, but he knew either Sherlock or Archie would immediately sense it and ruin the moment. He instead chose to commit the scene to his mind (and remind himself to tell Mariana about it later), before finally turning back around to get started on their dinner.

It was moments like these that truly left a warm fuzzy feeling in John’s chest. Seeing his dog be so comfortable around Sherlock, their playful banter, finishing each other’s sentences… It all made him feel fulfilled and satisfied in a way he had never really felt before.

The first time he noticed it was a few weeks into their living together: John had slept in late after a long night of editing, and he had dragged himself into the kitchen to find a fresh cup of tea right next to buttered toast. He had drank the tea, noting how it was exactly the way he liked it, and felt something warm spread across his chest that wasn’t related to the beverage. He didn’t understand it at that moment, but after over a year of experiencing such a feeling, it was time to confront the truth.

John loved Sherlock. That in itself wasn’t a startling new discovery, of course. He already knew he loved Sherlock, just as much as he knew Sherlock loved him back. But he knew, deep down, it was different now. That his love had grown stronger – dangerously stronger, even, given what he tended to do once his love for someone grew too large.

You see, Carrie – and most of his exes for that matter – often told John he did too much. Giant bouquets of flowers on the first date, taking them to expensive restaurants, or bringing them to meet his mother after only a few dates. John, at first, always struggled to understand their criticisms for this: gift-giving was his love language! He wanted to see his loved ones be fed only the highest quality meals! And he wanted the woman he really liked at the time to meet the woman who raised him! Was that so wrong?

John always had so much love to give, and he felt that was the only way he knew to express it to his girlfriends. But as he stirred the penne in with the sauce, he liked to think he understood now. That sometimes love wasn’t always about the grand gestures that swept you off your feet, or the dramatic declarations that made you swoon. Sometimes love just oozed out in all the little things – like the way you knew how he liked his pasta to be cooked, or the way he remembered how much milk you liked to take in your tea. Or how you understood his seemingly random tapping of fingers across his arm to be him mentally composing a new violin piece, or the way he would calculate the chances of your favourite football team winning despite having little to no interest in the sport.

John stopped stirring. Then ultimately resumed, lest Sherlock noticed the slightest difference in taste and badger him for not mixing it properly. He had a fleeting thought that the sauce nearly spilling out of the pot was all too similar to the love he felt for Sherlock: bubbling up inside him, threatening to overflow.

Fuck, he thought. I’m already too far gone for this man.

“Alright, dinner’s ready!” John called out, hoping the slight shake in his voice wasn’t obvious. If Sherlock did notice it, which he probably did, he at least had the tact of not pointing it out.

“I can’t move, Watson,” he said with a pout. “Archie’s sleeping.”

John turned around and resisted letting out an aw. Sherlock, at some point, had moved up into a seated position to lean against the wall, and Archie had adjusted himself accordingly onto his lap, with the soft snores emitting from the bulldog letting them know he was indeed fast asleep. Realistically, of course, they could just gently lift him from Sherlock’s lap to free the man, but everyone knew it was a universal rule not to move a sleeping pet from your person.

Also, Archie really was heavy.

John clicked his tongue. “Well, there’s only one option then.” After serving the pasta into two bowls, he brought them over to where Sherlock was sitting and handed him one of them.

“This is quite unhygienic, doctor,” Sherlock said, even as he started shovelling pasta into his mouth with the slightest upturn of his lips.

John snorted as he slid against the wall to join Sherlock on the floor, holding his own bowl to his chest. “Yeah, I’m gonna pretend the man who regularly takes walks through the sewers isn’t lecturing me on hygiene.” Sherlock elbowed him gently, careful to not wake Archie. John laughed, feeling that warmth erupt in his chest again. “Besides, many people have their meals on the floor.”

“I didn’t mean that – I meant the fact we’re eating with a dog in my lap. He could wake up and start slobbering over my face and bowl at any second,” Sherlock said, holding his bowl up right to his face to not let any pasta spill onto Archie.

“Well, you’ll just have to be extra careful then.” John laughed, before absentmindedly reaching over to wipe away a smidge of sauce left on Sherlock’s cheek. Then his actions suddenly caught up to him and he froze, thumb lingering on Sherlock’s face, who was also now looking at him with wide eyes. John’s heart caught up in his throat, and he swore he heard Sherlock’s breath hitch.

Fuck, John cursed. Why do I never think before doing anything?!

The sound of Archie’s snores interrupted their standstill and John – as well as Sherlock, for some reason – cleared his throat.

“There was, uh – sorry, there was just - a little bit of sauce–”

“Oh, yes, of course–” Sherlock let out a stilted sort of laugh, reaching up to wipe the remaining sauce off. John bit back another apology. What was he sorry for? Cleaning him up? Clearly making him uncomfortable? Was he uncomfortable? But it wasn’t even the first time one of them had cleaned up after the other: John was a naturally messy eater, and more than once Sherlock had clicked his tongue and wiped at his moustache with a napkin while chiding him. John had even brushed the occasional crumbs off Mariana’s face and neither thought anything of it. But he couldn’t deny that this time was a lot more intimate – seated on the floor with their backs against the wall, shoulders touching, knees bumping into each other, his hand practically cupping the other man’s face…

Should he say something else? He should definitely say something. What should he–

“We should watch a movie,” Sherlock cut into his thoughts. John blinked at him, trying to insert himself back into the real world.

“Huh?”

Sherlock nodded to the phone still in John’s pocket. “You had movies you wanted to show me, didn’t you? The… Habit, was it? Let’s watch one while we’re eating.”

John stared at him some more before the words finally registered and he snorted.

“You mean The Hobbit, mate?” He giggled. Sherlock frowned, but John knew Sherlock well enough to know he wasn't truly upset.

“Close enough. Just pull the phone up,” he grumbled, bumping into his shoulder. John bumped his shoulder back.

“Alright, alright,” John conceded, still chuckling. He suspected this was Sherlock’s way of distracting either him or himself from whatever unspoken thing had passed between them, but regardless, it worked – the odd tension was gone, and they were back to their comfortable dynamic. Comfortable, of course, only in how familiar and warm it was – it was an awkward position, with John having to hold the phone in one hand so both could see, while still having the bowl in his lap to eat the pasta, all while trying to avoid waking up Archie. It all, of course, left that warm feeling in John’s chest again.

And when Sherlock fell asleep on his shoulder, something John knew he would regret later with how much his neck had to stretch with their height difference – well. It was worth it.

Something changed after that night. Maybe it was John's acknowledgement of his true feelings or… yeah, definitely that, but from then on, John had been experiencing that warm feeling more frequently. It came mostly in the form of noticing Sherlock and all his little quirks, of which he had plenty.

Because – and maybe this was just John's bias coming into play here – he truly believed love oozed out of Sherlock himself. Everything he did or said, regardless of if it was even related to John, would spark that feeling all over again.

And it made John fall all the more deeper in love.

Like the one time that Mariana had somehow coaxed Sherlock into giving her an impromptu dance lesson after she and John found out he had taken them as a kid. Love had oozed all the way out from Sherlock's fingertips as they twirled Mariana around and around, her laughter accompanying the music in an even greater harmony. Or the truly simple moments where Sherlock was just lounging on the sofa, lightly cradling his violin to his chest as his long fingers plucked random notes in a vaguely familiar melody.

(Also, John might seriously have some sort of thing for Sherlock’s hands. Sue him.)

There were even moments where he thought that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock felt the same way. When he would walk into the Volunteer and immediately lock eyes with John, like he had an innate radar that let him spot the other man in any given place. When John would feel Sherlock’s intense gaze on his back when he was cooking, only to have him instantly snap his eyes away once he turned around to check. And of course, on the few occasions when John’s night terrors would get just a bit too much, and Sherlock would always wordlessly lift his covers to let John shuffle in beside him, his issues with sleeping with another person in the room be damned.

So yes, John had grown impossibly more in love. And with each day that passed, he became increasingly convinced that that love was just as reciprocated by Sherlock.

So then why on earth hadn’t the master detective, expert in observing everything in the blink of an eye and notorious for explaining said deductions out loud, bloody said anything?!

“Was it something I did?” John asked, feeling much like the object of his affections as he paced back and forth on the poor carpet of Mariana’s bedroom.

“Definitely not,” Mariana replied, idly flicking the Rubik's cube Sherlock had gotten her as a birthday present.

“And I’m not going crazy, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Like… something is definitely there? I’m not just convincing myself out of desperation?”

“Something is there, yes.”

“Then why hasn’t he said anything?!”

“Why haven’t you?”

John skidded to a stop, looking up to see his other best friend with an annoyingly knowing gotcha look on her face. “I–we’re…” he swallowed. “It’s different.”

“How?”

“Because he’s my best friend!“ John cried. “Our life is so comfortable – us and you and Archie and the podcast… I understand him so well. Too well. I’ve practically planned a future with him in my head, for fuck’s sake! I haven’t felt this way since Carrie! Or even…” he swallowed, leaving the words unspoken, but Mariana understood him just as well as Sherlock did by now based off the pity in her eyes. "I just... I can't risk it, Mari. I can't."

“You’re worried that actually acknowledging your feelings for one another will mess up the comfortable dynamic you have.” It wasn’t a question.

“Fuckin’ terrified,” John chuckled wetly. “My last longest and serious relationship got sick of me by the end of it. Were we too comfortable with each other, maybe? Is that why Carrie up and left me?”

“And you think Sherlock would… what, get bored of you too?”

“No.” A beat. “…Well, I mean–”

“John,” Mariana cut off, before John could fall into another downward spiral. ”Do you know what I see when I look at you two?”

“…Two blokes who you split the rent with-?”

“Love.” John’s mouth snapped shut. “In the way you care for each other, the way you talk to each other, hell, the way you look at each other. Love, it–it just oozes out the both of you. And actually addressing this love isn’t going to change anything. You’re still going to make his abomination of tea and marshmallows and boring tomato pasta, and he’s still going to listen to your incessant waffling about pop culture and football. Except now you’ll have both acknowledged this… thing between you two.

“Because you know Sherlock loves you already. Just like he knows you love him. And I know you–how did your mum put it? Think the world of your little gang? Well, Sherlock does the same. He wouldn’t still be here if that wasn’t the case. And he’ll never get bored of you, John; of the life we’ve created here. I promise you. Nothing will change.”

…Huh. As usual, Mariana was right.

“Ideally, there’d be more snogging, though.”

Mariana sighed, but her exhausted smile was fond, because from that line alone she knew she had finally gotten through John’s thick head. “Sure.”

And that leads us to now, in a hotel room in Oxford for a murder case, where John knew he loved Sherlock and knew Sherlock loved him too but neither knew exactly how to cross the line from friendship into lovers.

What he did currently know, however, was that Sherlock was frustrated and off his game in a way John hadn’t quite seen him be before. Something was bothering him, and had been over the past few days, considering his increasing agitation at everything and everyone around him, but John hadn't quite found the right timing to bring it up with him. Part of loving someone, as John understood it, was about understanding the other’s habits. Including some of the more… poorer ones. Of which Sherlock had many.

Like right now as he watched Sherlock pad over to the balcony of their hotel room, ear defenders at the ready around his neck, and an unlit cigarette dangling between his fingers. He huffed in fond amusement as Sherlock proceeded to pat his pockets to search for his lighter. John eventually decided to take pity on him before Sherlock’s frustration increased any further than it already had that day.

“You know I pack your bags, right?” John said, stepping out onto the balcony and joining him in leaning against the railing. Sherlock undoubtedly heard his footsteps approaching before even hearing him speak, but didn’t so much much as turn around. “Of course I wasn’t going to chuck in your lighter too. Nevermind that you apparently carry cigarettes on your person anyway.”

“I asked the concierge for one earlier when you weren’t looking,” Sherlock said, still not turning around to face John. “But I admit, the lighter escaping my mind is… troublesome. Especially after I missed the bloody murder weapon,” he bit out. With no lighter for his cigarette, he took to flicking the cigarette with his thumb to release some frustration.

John resisted the urge to sigh – Sherlock didn’t like making mistakes, and this one, according to his rant in the cab from the crime scene to the hotel, had apparently cost them valuable time they could’ve spent looking for the murderer. “People forget things or miss things all the time, mate.”

“Do I, though?” Sherlock asked, bitterly. “It was right there!”

“You’re only human, Sherlock,” John said earnestly. “Nobody expects you to be perfect all the time.”

“You do,” he said, and before John could even retort, he continued, “And Mariana. And the listeners.” He made a pointed look to the mic still attached to John’s collar, which he belatedly realised was still recording. “The only people not expecting that are the random inspectors we work with because, let’s face it, most of them are just waiting for me to mess up,” he hissed.

“It was in a locked drawer, nobody saw it–”

“A locked drawer that had traces of blood all over the handle and the keyhole? One I would’ve easily seen on any other day?!”

John let the silence hang in the air between them, not ready to entertain Sherlock’s thoughts. He chose not to point out that the bloodstains were barely there, knowing it wasn’t what he would want to hear. Because yeah, perhaps on a better day, Sherlock may have spotted it almost instantly. But John didn’t have a problem with that. He had a problem with the way Sherlock was beating himself up over it.

“You’re wrong, you know,” he finally said, circling back before Sherlock could spiral again.

“Oh, am I? Again?” Sherlock spat. John shot him a stern look, silently asking him to let him continue. He sighed but waved his hand in a carry on gesture.

“I don’t expect you to be perfect. And neither does Mariana. Because we both already know you’re not. Sometimes you jump too loudly to the point she can hear you from downstairs. You play the violin at ungodly hours, and half of your science experiments have rendered the kitchen table basically unusable.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration–”

“–My point is,” John spoke over Sherlock, “It’s okay to make mistakes. You’re still a brilliant man who found that key piece of evidence, regardless of how ‘late’ you found it, which is more that can be said for those useless inspectors standing around waiting for you to solve it because they knew they could never do it.” Sherlock remained silent, but judging by the small smile threatening to break his lips, John knew he had gotten through to him.

“I… suppose you’re right. Yes.”

Spurred on by this, John decided to bite the bullet. “Look… I know I just went on about how you don’t need to be perfect, but I do have to acknowledge that you haven’t exactly been yourself lately either. And I don't just mean with this case.” Sherlock’s gaze averted to the side and John knew he got him pinned. “What’s going on, Sherlock?”

Sherlock swallowed. “I suppose I’ve been distracted by… something, lately. Something that I can’t quite block out and has been seriously clouding my judgement.” At this, his eyes flickered back to John’s. And there it was. John didn’t need to be a master of observations to deduce that.

He felt the corner of his lips upturn in a light teasing smile. “I have a name, you know.”

Sherlock let out some sort of sigh. “Finally acknowledging it then, are we?”

“You did first.”

“I suppose I did.” Spurred by John’s evident lack of discomfort to the topic, he let himself have a small smile of his own. Utterly smitten by his handsome smile, John’s hand naturally found its way to cradle Sherlock's face, fingers tangling in his hair. Sherlock leaned into the touch (like a cat, John thought vaguely), his smile widening, and John just about swooned.

“I apologise for being so distracted by it,” Sherlock was saying, which was ironic, because John currently found himself distracted by the way the warm streetlight danced across his face. “I told myself I wouldn’t be.”

“Why are you apologising?” John murmured, rubbing his thumb against his cheek like he did all those months ago on the floor of their flat. “It’s great. You’re great.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a hint of fondness and amusement. “Wow. I fell for a man of many words.”

“Oh, hush, you,” John chided, dropping his hand to lightly bump his shoulder against Sherlock’s, his wide smile overpowering any real feelings of annoyance. Sherlock giggled – and wow, wasn’t that a sound John wanted to keep hearing for the rest of his life – and dropped his forehead onto John’s shoulder. He, again, knew this couldn’t possibly be a comfortable position for the taller man, but he just hoped Sherlock wouldn’t be able to hear just how loud his heart was beating.

“Just to be clear, John,” Sherlock began. “I don’t want anything to change between us. That’s why I was distracted by it, in all honesty. I was… figuring out how best to tell you without disrupting the comfortable routine we had built together.”

John blinked down at him in surprise. “Huh,” he said simply. “We really are more in sync than I thought.”

“What–”

“I’d been thinking the same thing,” John explained. “The, uh… worry about us changing and disturbing our dynamic and all that. Mariana was the one to snap me out of it, though. Gave me a real talking to.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I should thank Mariana, then.”

“Yes, you should.”

Sherlock straightened up to his full height, and John immediately missed the contact. “...You know, you still technically haven’t said it yet.”

John cleared his throat. “Said what?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You know what.”

“You say it first, then!”

“I love you.”

John blinked in shock. Then blinked to fight back tears, because he couldn’t recall the last time someone had said that to him so easily. Most of his ex-partners, John felt, had said it out of obligation, because it was expected to be said at one point in a relationship. But the words came out of Sherlock like it was as natural as breathing. A simple, non-negotiable fact: the sky was blue. Sherlock loved John. And John loved him back.

Sherlock must’ve interpreted John’s extended silence and teary eyes as something else, because a frown formed on his face as he rushed to say, “You don’t have to say it back right now. My apologies, I shouldn’t have tried to force you–”

“I love you too,” John breathed. “God– so much, Sherls. Sorry if this is too much, but– if the rest of my life was just spent in that tiny flat doing nothing with you, I’d be the happiest man alive.”

Sherlock smiled, now his turn to cradle John’s face to catch any stray tears. “The sentiment is very much returned. But never apologise for being you. You’re never too much, John.”

John could’ve proposed to him right then and there. In a way, he essentially already had. But Sherlock deserved the best, so he would save that for another day.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered down and John’s breath hitched. And then Sherlock began shifting closer, the hand cupping his cheek dropping to rest on John’s chest. John felt himself leaning in too, eyes slipping shut as he prepared for…

Nothing?

John’s eyes flew open, jaw dropping in disbelief as Sherlock smirked, holding the microphone that was previously attached to John’s collar between his fingers.

“Wh– Sherlock!” John spluttered with a laugh, not finding it in himself to be truly annoyed by the misdirect. And also because Sherlock’s proud smirk was annoyingly attractive.

“What?” Sherlock said innocently. “You didn’t think I’d let the poor listeners get a snippet of that, would you? This is a family friendly podcast, my dear Watson!”

“Oh, shut up–!” John was still laughing even as Sherlock finally closed the gap between them, his long fingers curling around his waist. He faintly heard the microphone drop to the floor, but for once didn’t give a damn about it as he threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck. The kiss was far from perfect, with both of them barely fighting back wide smiles the whole time – but to be fair, neither were they.

[sandcobangevent]

Lechuza, not Owl

By @quetzadrawshere​ and @tsukihasnolife​

Cold evening in November, I thought while looking outside the window. It’s starting to get increasingly cloudy and colder; snow once again takes over the streets, giving them that froze, wet carpet that can be beautiful to look at… but not so much if you have to clean it.

I was minding my own business, watching that show my mom recommended called “Yellowstone,” something about cowboys and their lives. Mariana keeps calling it a “telenovela for men.” Huh, I don’t watch those; I have better taste than that. Thanks, Mariana. Although I will admit the drama is quite entertaining.

 Anyway, it was barely two in the afternoon, and the day was proceeding normally; I’d even go so far as to call it quiet. Too quiet… wait a minute! I straightened up, sitting on the sofa as I looked from one side to the other. The armchairs, the kitchen, the TV, the fireplace. Archie is sleeping on the floor. Everything was fine. Gosh, John, you’re so paranoid sometim– Sherlock.

 Now, where could that man have gone? Did he even leave his room at all today? I don’t remember hearing him leave, nor do I recall planning to. Anyway, guessing what Sherlock is doing is about as productive as pinching glass, so just in case, I should go find him. A forewarned man is worth two or something. I got up from the couch with a groan. I’m too young for my back to hurt like this. I guess it has something to do with last week’s chase… or all the time I spend editing. Anyway, I started walking to his room, which always had the door closed, and knocked once, then twice. But there was no answer.

 — Sherlock, it’s me. Uh, John. Is everything all right? I haven’t heard you go out today…— Silence. — I was wondering, uh, if you needed anything, or if… I don’t know, uh, you were hungry. Or… you’re probably asleep. Don’t worry, I don’t need anything, just to know that you’re okay… Ah, I’m probably bothering you. I’m going to stop–

I heard the door suddenly open, roughly kicked open; my heart nearly sank to the floor. Are they robbing us?! Bloody hell, I can’t let them take our stuff, our evidence, or whatever they were after. I had to come up with a plan, fast, anything.

— Watson! — The detective called urgently. I started to breathe again at that moment. Damn it, that man is going to give me a heart attack one day. — Watson! Are you home?

— Oh. Yes! Just a sec. — I headed into the kitchen, almost laughing at my absurdity. But there’s no time for such things with Sherlock. There’s always something even more absurd. What is my life…

He was carrying an owl in a cage. Hogwarts style. A damn white and light brown owl, it was beautiful, that’s true. Its round face and big eyes inspired tenderness, its plumage seemed as soft as silk, and it even looked friendly and polite… but again:

—What the hell are you doing with an owl? — I asked as Sherlock placed the cage at the table with decorum and care. — Where did you get an owl? How… how did you even find the cage? Sherlock? We don’t have the space to raise an owl. I don’t even know how to do it!

The detective ignored my protests, as he usually does, until he was able to get it out of the cage and place it on his arm, just like that. As if it were the thousandth time he’s done it.

— Watson, I recommend you moderate your tone. — Sherlock suggested, his voice filled with involuntary disdain. — Owls tend to get upset if they see upset humans; I don’t think you want scars all over your face.

— I already have scars on my face. — I grumbled at him in annoyance, raising an eyebrow. — And you’re not answering a single one of my questions. Where did you get the owl?

— It’s for a case — He stated simply, scanning the room as if searching for something. — Do we have mice? I need to prove something.

— That doesn’t answer anything. — I tried to insist. But it was a lost cause. I just sighed and thought. At least this is podcast content.

I heard the front door close and turned around again, somewhat skeptical. I found Mariana approaching, confused. Then her face changed to shock, to later morph into a pleasant smile and a pair of excited eyes, like a child who’d been told he’d be going to Disneyland tomorrow.

— Hedwig! — She exclaimed in astonishment, quickly shortening her distance until she was standing in front of Sherlock, who was holding the owl. I could have sworn I saw the hint of a smile form at the corner of his mouth. — ¡Madre mía, qué cosa más chula! Sherlock, where do you get it?

— A friend lent it to me. — He explained vaguely, lowering his arm so Mariana could see it better. — It’s trained. You can pet her if you want.

They didn’t have to ask her twice. In a moment, Mariana had the owl in her arm already, cuddling it like it was the cutest thing she’d ever seen. If Archie were awake, he’d feel completely betrayed; I’ll be sure to tell him later.

— ¿Haz venido a traerme mi carta de Hogwarts? ¿A que si? — She sounded ridículous, like the voices you make when you’re pampering babies or little dogs. It made me chuckle underneath my breath — Haz llegado algo tarde, pero te lo perdono por ser tan mona. ¡Ah! Que si eres mona, preciosa. Nunca había visto una lechuza tan chula como tu. Madre mía que hermosura. 

— ¿Lechuza? — I finally enquired. — That’s how you say Owl in Spanish?

— No, no. Owl is a búho. — She explained. — Lechuza is…. uh…. 

— Owl? — I playfully asked. 

— No, no. It’s….

— It is an owl. — Sherlock added, grabbing the owl again on his arm.

— But a búho isn’t the same thing as a lechuza! — Mariana groaned while trying to find the right word; she knew there was one for what it seemed. — You know? Búho is like… the ones with the angry faces. — She put her fingers on her eyebrows downwards, imitating an annoyed frown, which made me laugh mockingly. — And Lechuzas are the ones that look round and white.

— But they’re both called owls. — I added, just to tease her. I knew what she meant. 

— ¡Qué no, Joder! John, you don’t know anything. — She grabbed her phone, then quickly typed something. — Yes! See? There is a difference. Lechuzas are barn Owls. Búhos are Horned Owls. — No le hagas caso preciosa, es que es cortito. — She scoffed at my direction, then proceeded to turn back to the owl.

— So the barn owl speaks Spanish? — I teased again, just to get the reaction.

— Yes. — Mariana thundered with annoyance. — She, unlike you, is smart and can understand multiple languages. 

—Indeed. There is a difference. — Sherlock explained with an aloof tone, unfazed by our childish discussion, while redacting a note on paper. — Great horned owls are larger, have prominent ear tufts, and hunt by perching and ambushing prey, while barn owls are smaller, lack ear tufts, and have a distinctive heart-shaped face, hunting by flying and using their excellent hearing to pinpoint prey. — He then attached the envelope to its little claw. — However, this one is merely an exhibition owl. And I need it to deliver a message.

— Why do you need to deliver a message with a bird? — I questioned with confusion. — What, the post office is closed for the day? 

— Very funny, Watson. — Sherlock said with the least amused tone I’ve ever heard in my entire life. — Yet, incorrect. The postal office is not closed yet, thus. My message can only be delivered via avian. It mustn’t be intercepted or read; furthermore, it lacks a physical address to be sent in the first place. So, utilizing any courier service would be futile. 

— M’right, mate. I guess… — I asked with confusion, likely knowing I wasn’t going to get an answer. 

— Say goodbye to… what did you call it, Mariana? Hedwig? — Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

— Harry Potter. — I explained.

— What?

— Never mind… 

— Aw, goodbye, Hedwig. — Mariana smiled as she scratched the owl, I mean barn owl’s head. — Ten mucho cuidado a dónde vayas. Ojalá verte otra vez.

Sherlock nodded and left after putting the barn owl back in its cage. After a few seconds of silence, Mariana turned to the tv and smiled widely again. — So…. Yellowstone?

 — Oh, shut up.

[sandcobangevent]

(There will be a small break in posting until tomorrow morning my time! I had two fics break tumblr [trying to resolve] and I'm waiting on a couple pinch hits to come through. There's still a few works left so if you don't see yours posted yet, don't worry! It's probably currently stuck in my queue hell, but I will save it and it will be posted!)

[sandcobangevent]

This Story Oozes Love

By @frenchfriedgiraffe and @iwantthatbelstaffanditsoccupant

J: Today, listeners, the podcast guy and the detective are shopping. And you will never guess what we are shopping for. Not that you could guess in a way that we could let you know if you actually got it right. I mean, yeah, you could, like, write in or something, and I could tell you if anyone got it right on the podcast, but you’d know by the end of this mailbag anyway, so that wouldn’t work. Plus, that means me sorting through a tonne of emails, and I just don’t think I have the time for that, with the editing and all. But, if I did, and it could somehow work, you’d still be wrong.

S: This one!

J: Sherls, don’t you think that’s a bit…much?

S: Despite your attempt to turn me against it through the use of a question you clearly never intended for me to answer— no.

J: “A bit much” as in ornate, not “a bit much” as in pricey. But, if you like it… Well, how much does that thing cost ‘cause oh my god it’s 55 quid. Taking the piss.

S: You do not need to look at the chop to see that this pot is imported from Tokoname, Japan. Here are the distinctive markings of Youzan Namako’s glaze, a tradition carried on by his son, Eimei. There are proper drainage holes of course, and wiring holes so that the tree can be fixed to the pot. The stoneware burned ceramic ensures there are no metals which may release toxins and it holds no water in the material—important for the health of the tree. And I enjoy the motif.

J: Well, it certainly… It oozes love.

S: Yes. It rather does, doesn’t it?

J: The bright red and the—the heart shape. And you think this plant—

S: Buckaroo. You chose the name, so why not use it? Or did one of your listeners—

J: Our listeners.

S: Did one of our listeners come up with it?

J: Yeah one did, actually. And now might be a good time to tell anyone who offered a suggestion that the bonsai we purchased in Mailbag 23 has been christened ‘Buckaroo’. Which happens to be a reference to a film my favourite babysitter—who eight-year-old me just might have had a tiny bit of a crush on— and I enjoyed watching together back in the day.

S: After your father died?

J: Yeah. A few weeks after. Carol had to work and she, her name was Cheryl Gansecki, offered to help us out. Funny how when you remember names from your childhood you always remember the last name along with the first name. Dirt pay, a teenager babysitting in the 90s. Labour Board should look into it. Anyway, we would get a tremendous bowl of popcorn, put in half a brick of butter and god knows how much salt, and watch old films on VHS on the cheap. I think “The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension” originally came out the same year as “Ghostbusters” and “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom”. But it was our favourite. And we’d quote it to each other all the time.

[Audio of typing something into a phone.]

S: “The… Adventures… of Buckaroo Banzai… Across the 8th Dimension.” So, Buckaroo, he’s the one in the cowboy outfit, then?

J: No. No, that’s a guy called New Jersey. Buckaroo fought inter-dimensional aliens. Silly sci-fi stuff, but fun. And very distracting. Both were things I definitely needed. If you want a more serious name for your plant, then by all means go right ahead and change it.

S: It doesn’t matter to me what name it has, just so long as it has a name. It has been proven that giving something a name creates a stronger bond and therefore ensures a higher level of care. One would be far less inclined to regularly water or to fertilise a plant that had no name.

J: And you think the plant will appreciate a ridiculous heart-shaped decorative pot, do you?

S: Not really. Dogs have dichromatic vision, meaning they can see blue and yellow well, but red and green appear as shades of gray or brown—similar to a human with red-green colour blindness. Therefore, when you buy Archie a bright red ball, it is not designed for him. It is designed for you. For you to want to interact with it and to play fetch with him. I am applying the same technique to the plant.

J: To remind you…that you love the plant?

S: Exactly, Watson! It reminds me that I love the plant, and therefore reminds the plant that it is loved. To the degree to which a plant is capable of sensing emotional changes in its environment, at any rate. They don’t have feelings in the way we have feelings, but that doesn’t mean they don’t feel. We cannot extrapolate our neurological system into the form of a plant. But we need occasional reminding that not everyone expresses feelings, or love, in the same way, or in the way we most frequently come to expect or easily comprehend. So, the pot serves as a reminder that even the plant might feel its own version of love. And, as I have said before, we owe it the best life we are capable of providing.

J: Yeah. Okay. Okay. That makes sense. And are we, uh… talking about something besides the plant, here. Like, symbolically…Sherlock?

S: Oh. I suppose we are. I share traits with the plant in the same way you share traits with that movie character. It says here he is Doctor Buckaroo Banzai: scientist, neurosurgeon, test pilot, and rock star, who fights to save the world. I think it overambitious for eight-year-old you to have wished to accomplish all of those things upon reaching adulthood, but, to your credit, you did manage more than your fair share.

J: Oh. [Pause]

Thank you.

S: You’re welcome.

J: I don’t think we can take the analogy too far though, because all the bad guys in the film are named John. There are, like, 50 of them, if I remember right.

S: Really?

J: Yes. Really. They have different last names though.

S: Do you remember their full names as well as you remember your babysitter’s?

J: I remember one was named John uh…Bigbooté. Oh and there was a John Take Cover. That’s somewhat appropriate. And the Big Bad was John Whorfin, which sounded enough like John Watson to be my nickname for a few months.

S: Mmmhmm. It also says on Wikipedia it had Jeff Goldblum in it. He was in “Jurassic Park”, yes?

J: Yeah! Did you see “Jurassic Park”? I thought you had the train autism, not the dinosaur autism.

S: I have the train autism and the dinosaur autism. They are not mutually exclusive. I tend not to like fictionalised dinosaurs, but I saw the film anyway, because My—

[Announcement: Attention all shoppers, the store will be closing in fifteen minutes. I repeat, the store will be closing in fifteen minutes.]

J: Better get a move on, then! And, the point of this is that I, and whoever made the suggestion, thought naming a bonsai “Buckaroo” was funny. Ummm…sorry listener, I don't remember who you are. I’ll find out later and edit it in. OK, let’s go get the love pot.

S: Yes. Let’s.

J: Signing off… And remember, everyone…. No matter where you go… There you are…

S: I take it that’s a quote from the movie.

J: It certainly is.

[sandcobangevent]

A Late Night Realization

By @whispering-strays and @theomm-h0lmes

Maybe I always loved him and just never realized it, or perhaps it was only recently that Sherlock reached into my heart and made me hold onto him. Bloody hell, why is this even on my mind? I never considered myself gay? Is this an identity crisis?

John’s mind raced. 

John needed to verbalize his thoughts; they were too jumbled up and messy to untangle within his mind alone. He knew Sherlock would be awake at this hour since it was a habit of his to stay up late, but he was probably just in his room trying to calm himself down from the long case. So John figured it would be safe to rant on the stairs.  

“Should I tell him? Nono, I can’t do that. I mean, what if he’s weirded out by it? Good lord, I’m weirded out by it; no, I can’t tell him.” 

Mariana walked into the room while John was talking. She stood quietly as he spoke; he looked to be having a near panic attack. 

“John, are you doing okay?” Mariana’s voice was filled with genuine concern as she entered the room.

John jumped up at the sudden new voice and then quickly sat back down on the stairs. Making an attempt to not to look too shaken.

“Christ, uhm yes... I’m alright. Wait, just how much of that did you hear?”

Mariana swiftly replied, “Ohh, not much. It’s just that you can’t do something, and it’s weird?” 

“I just… thinkIlikeSherlocklikereallylikehimandohgodIdon’tknowwhattodo.” 

The words spilled out of John’s mouth so hurriedly that they were nearly unintelligible, but Mariana still understood. 

She took a seat beside John on the stairs and wrapped her arm around him. She spoke to him softly, taking care to not be overbearing.

 “John, it won’t hurt to tell him. He may not reciprocate, which in no sense do I believe is true, but he will still be your friend regardless. And I can’t imagine it gets much more awkward with him. I mean, for god’s sake, it’s Sherlock.” 

John sighed, torn on what to do. He didn’t even know he was some sort of gay until now.

“But what if-”

“No what ifs.” She said, shushing him. “John, if you like him, just tell him.”

“B-b but what if I don’t like him? I didn’t even know I was gay until now.”

“What did I just sa— Wait, back up! You didn’t know you were at least a little gay? I mean, look at how you gaze at Sherlock. It screams ‘I'm totally in love with my best friend in a homo way.’ ” 

She laughed, trying to lighten the mood. John looked down, seemingly frustrated with Mariana’s response. 

“How did you know before me?”

 At this point, John was a bit upset that someone had come to the realization before him. 

“Well, I didn’t *know* for sure buttt… I definitely thought so.”

“Hell… I’ll tell him later, not now…now is too soon.”

“Well, how late is later? I think you should tell him tonight.” 

“Sure,” He said with an eye roll. “How about I tell him NOW?”

“Great idea! Let’s go tell him.” Mariana said, ignoring his blatant sarcasm. 

“What? No! I was being sarcastic. What are you, Sherlock?” 

“No, because you’re not in love with me. But you should tell him tonight.” 

“Fine, I’ll tell the lovely arse.” 

“Great, I’ll leave you to it! Good luck.” Mariana walked off, leaving John alone.

Fuck what did I just agree to? I can’t just waltz on in there and tell Sherlock I’m in love with him! No way. I can’t just back out now, but I really don’t want to tell him. I’m not ready. What if he’s mad? Or this ruins our friendship. Bloody hell, I should just tell him and stop overthinking.

John hurried up the stairs and knocked at Sherlock’s door hesitantly, hands trembling, perhaps foolishly hoping he wouldn’t answer. 

“Sherlock? I need a word…”

Sherlock answered the door, confused as Watson did not often bother him during the night. Maybe he had another panic attack and needed someone with him? 

 “Hmm? You are shaking. Why?” 

Before John could answer, Sherlock walked over to the sitting room and took a seat on the sofa. 

“Because I’m scared, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock tilted his head. He had done so in his usual bird-like manner that might’ve made John chuckle a bit, if not for the current situation he was in. 

“Scared of what?”

“God damn it, I’ll just tell you. It wouldn’t do me any good to drag it out anyway,

“I’m in love with you, Sherlock.” 

“Ohh.” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, I said it. Why did I say it??? I just ruined everything. Help me.

“I love you too. I just didn’t think you liked men, so I never told you how I felt, so as to not make things awkward.” 

Sherlock sighed, patting the sofa.

“Sit down, stop standing so uncomfortably.” 

“I—uhm, yes.” 

John sat next to him on the cushiony seat, he had attempted to look Sherlock in the eyes, but failed to do so, he stared down at his own lap instead.

“So, what course of action would you see as fit?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock, I didn’t think this far.” He said, still shaking but now less out of fear and more out of surprise.

Maybe everything is okay, and we can continue without strain on our friendship.

“Well, you should have. We could always go the traditional route and begin a romantic relationship.”

“I- I don’t know. I mean, yes, but just wow.” 

“Watson, may I kiss you?” 

“Yes, you may. You don’t have to ask.” 

Sherlock leaned in close, millimetres away from John’s lips. John was still in pure shock at what was unfolding. Sherlock’s lips eventually met his own. They could‘ve probably stayed there for all of eternity. At that moment, they both felt so calm, but at the same time, their hearts raced rapidly. John pulled away and reached up to play with Sherlock's hair. 

“So does this mean we are dating?” John said, still playing with Sherlock’s hair. He really enjoyed fiddling with his locks; they were springy and chocolate brown. His hair was softer than John had expected, much smoother. 

“It can mean that and I would like that, although it does not have to mean that.” 

“Yes, I want us to be together, to have a relationship, to grow together.”

“Then it does mean we are dating.” 

John abruptly hugged Sherlock and started crying. Sherlock was confused as to why John was crying but still hugged him back. It was alright after all and it always would be. They had each other and even before that they did too. Sherlock held John’s face and told him he had no reason to cry that he was right there to protect him. John calmed a bit more and just looked Sherlock in the eyes. 

“I love you Watson. Please remember that.”  

“I love you too Sherlock.” 

___

The end

[sandcobangevent]

Oops, it's under baked!

By jahames102 and @notcookiecrumbs

It was one of the most important days Sherlock had stored in his mind palace of sorts.

And of course he was stuck figuring out how to bake a cake the day before John’s birthday. He had searched up a recipe for a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, and strawberries on the top. Not too complicated but also not too simple. He tried his best to make sure to follow the recipe exactly. Mariana approached him wanting to at least try and help him but he was very adamant on making this cake with no help. “1 and a ⅓ cup flour..¾ cup cocoa powder..”

He mixed each dry ingredient together, making sure they were measured exactly as told in the recipe. He heard the flat door open and got tense. “Guess who’s back? That’s right, J-ohnny boy is back from the shop with dinner- Sherlock where are you I bought you something-” Sherlock got nervous as he was mixing the chocolate cake batter. “I’m not very hungry at the moment, I’m working on an experiment in the kitchen. The chemicals could be dangerous and to take precautions I suggest you stay out of the kitchen for now.”

John peaked his head into the kitchen. “Are you baking something?-” Sherlock turned around and tried to hide what he was doing. “Stay out John please!”

Sherlock watched as his roommate and best friend gave him a confused look before leaving. He let out a sigh of relief before going back to the cake. He made sure the cake pans were lined and sprayed with pan spray before pouring the cake batter into them. The batter was the perfect amount of runny without being way too thick. Everything seemed to be going as planned and Sherlock was hopeful that he had pulled it off. There was one curveball however, the baking instructions weren’t as clear. The recipe said to bake it at 176 degrees celsius (350 F) but the time to bake it wasn’t listed. He thought about it deeply, trying to calculate how long it would take. In the end he decided to put them in for 25 minutes. While that was baked he went to grab the ingredients for the frosting.

“Sherlock?” John had popped his head in again. “If I can’t come in can you hand me a fork please?” Sherlock looked at him before sighing. He felt himself getting a bit fidgety as he got him a clean fork from the drawer and handed it to him. “Thanks mate.”

He nodded and went back to making the chocolate frosting for the cake. Powdered sugar, chocolate chips, butter.. He made sure he had them all before getting out a hand mixer. He started mixing each ingredient, being very careful to make sure he didn’t make it too runny. In the end he ended up with fluffy and delicious chocolate frosting. He waited for the cake to finish baking as he sighed. Everything was going as planned and Sherlock was needless to say ecstatic to see John’s reaction to his home baked goods. He started to rinse the strawberries, putting them into a rinsing basket and running cold water over them. He made sure there were no bugs or dirt left on them, checking them thoroughly. He heard the timer go off on the oven so he got his oven mitts and carefully brought the cakes out to cool. He knew that putting icing on a hot cake would melt it very quickly. John peeked into the kitchen again,

“Sherly, why does it smell like chocolate cake?” Sherlock turned around in a panic, “It’s just my experiment! Nothing more John.” John sighed but nodded and went back to the couch. Sherlock shook his head before going back to the cakes, he made sure they were cool before taking the first one out. He placed it onto a nice plate, making sure to spread some frosting on the plate before putting it on so it wouldn’t slide off. He put the frosting into a makeshift piping bag before he piped a layer of frosting on the cake, he got a spatula from a drawer and did his best to make it work. Sherlock placed some strawberries he cut in half in there before putting the next cake layer on top of it. He piped some of the frosting on the top.

Sherlock started smoothing it out before piping a nice design on top, finishing off the cake with some more strawberries. He smiled slightly as he looked at his new creation, it was perfect and Sherlock was very proud of it. He carefully transferred it into a makeshift box he made out of cardboard and tape and slid it into the fridge to chill. The rest of the day Sherlock enjoyed dinner with Mariana, John and Archie. It was also movie night so they watched a movie or two. They watched John’s favorite movie and Sherlock’s favorite movie. Of course they had snacks and popcorn while they watched.

Eventually they all went to bed. Sherlock curled up in his soft sheets and in his sleeping clothes which were made of fabric that didn’t overwhelm him at all. He sighed as he tried to get to sleep. His nerves about the birthday cake made it hard for him to doze off. He couldn’t stop thinking about everything that could go wrong with the cake. In the end he somehow managed to doze off. Before he knew it, it was the morning of John’s birthday. He groggily got up with a groan. His hair was in a bit of a frizz, he sighed and did his best to tie it up. He checked his phone before going to see if John or Mariana were awake. He hadn’t taken on any cases so far because he wanted to spend his day with John for his birthday. He walked out and heard John in the bog. He felt something brush against his pants and saw Archie by his feet. He sighed but smiled.

“Good morning Archie.” He gave him some pets before he was startled by John walking out of the bog. “Morning Sherls,” Sherlock smiled and nodded. “Morning Watson, sleep well?” John grinned. “Slept like a baby, now I’m aching for breakfast. We should go out.” Sherlock nodded, and once Mariana had woken up they all changed into outdoor clothes before leaving to grab brunch. The entire time Sherlock was a nervous wreck. He tried to hide it the best he could from John. They all enjoyed their meals and had a good time. Though Sherlock had to use his ear defenders eventually since it got overstimulating.

They eventually left and got back to the flat after they paid. “I..actually have something for you John.”

John looked curious as Sherlock left to the kitchen, eventually he came back with the cake. John saw it and gasped. “Sherlock you shouldn’t have..”

Sherlock had a proud smile on his face. “I made it myself, my “experiment” from yesterday.”

John let out a chuckle and shook his head. “mate..this is amazing.” Sherlock got some small plates and a knife. John took a picture of the cake. “The pod pals will love this.” Sherlock eagerly cut into the cake. His smile soon turned into a frown as brown batter oozed from the center of the cake, it was underbaked. “John I..I’m so sorry the instructions were unclear I-I’ll buy us a new cake I’m so sorry-”

John frowned and stopped him. “Sherlock it’s okay, I love it. I appreciate it, you personally made this cake for my birthday, oozy or not, it’s oozing with love, Sherlock and a cake from a store or bakery won’t be the same, mate.”

Sherlock stood there for a moment before he smiled, some words slipping from his lips before he could stop them. “Happy birthday John. I love you.” He realized what he said and scratched the back of his neck. John’s eyes widened before he pulled him into a tight hug. “I love you too mate…thank you.”

[sandcobangevent]

who let the dogs out?!

by @lxvenderjewel and atispeach

1

If John comes downstairs just to complain about his missing mic one more time, Mariana will give Sherlock the case he’s been whining about not having all week.

None of them know where the bloody mic went, but Mariana’s considering the possibility that John has genuinely fallen in love with the damn thing, the way he keeps waxing poetic about it as if it’s his husband gone off to war. He’s been freaking out about losing it, and when Mariana suggests he just replace it, he looks at her as if she’s asked him to kill someone.

“I can’t just replace my mic, Mari,” he says, eyes wide with betrayal. “We’ve been through everything together.”

Dramatic ass man.

Anyhow, every day that the damn thing has been gone, John has been steadily getting more and more stir-crazy, pacing the flat, muttering to himself, drinking unhealthy amounts of coffee, and on one notable occasion taking his phone case off to throw it at the wall before sinking down into a crouch and screaming into his hands.

Really, it wouldn’t be that serious if he’d just replace it. But she won’t tell him that. That’s what Sherlock’s for.

“Do you have any audio left on it?”

“No, I uploaded everything as soon as we came back home last week, but–”

“Then there’s no need for you to find that mic, Watson. You can just replace it.”

“Right, yeah, until we find it somewhere a month from now and realize we’ve wasted our money when we could’ve just looked harder, right.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“You don’t know that!”

Yeah. Thank god for him.

Mariana’s finally getting some work done, because John isn’t talking her ear off in panic. There’s always work to be done, especially filing with the police, which irritates her to no end but irritates her more right this very moment.

Of course, this is when she hears something at the door.

“I’m going to kill that man,” Mariana mutters to herself as she gets up and stalks to the door, but when she opens it, there’s no man to kill.

She looks down.

It’s Archie.

“Hello, Archie,” she sighs, as the bulldog trots past her and into his bed in her flat. “What do you want from me.”

He barks twice in response, and scratches the floor next to his bed. Mariana whips around, slamming the door.

“My floor! Puta madré, my floor-” she says, running up next to him. “Stop that!”

He’s scratching underneath his bed, and Mariana frantically lifts it up to see the damage he’s done to her precious floor, and then-

Ah.

There’s a mic on the floor.

“Ay, dios mio,” she mutters, and with one hand pulls her phone out and dials John.

2

Sometimes, they like to let Archie run about for a bit by himself. It used to stress John out to no end, but Sherlock insisted that the poor dog learn how to live on its own, especially considering that they were taking a lot more out-of-country cases. (Which, by the way, Mariana doesn’t especially like, considering plane tickets are bloody expensive.) They’d argued a lot about it--- Archie hadn’t exactly been raised as an outdoor dog, and he was mildly energetic at best, and what would he do if he got in the path of a car? or a bike? Or, or, or---

But Sherlock insisted, and John is helpless to Sherlock on the best of days.

Anyways, the point is this--- sometimes they’ll go hours without hearing Archie’s paws on the floor or his snuffles as he sleeps, and John’s learned not to fret so much over it, and that’s why none of them notice at first– none of them realize that Archie’s been gone too long until it’s 7 in the evening and John’s on the verge of sobbing because “he’s my bloody dog, Sherlock, you idiot bastard!”

The two of them are on the verge of devolving into a full blown fight– Archie is John’s little boy, damn near his own son, and he’ll probably blow a gasket if the old fucker doesn’t turn up by the end of the evening. And Sherlock is still adamant that Archie will be fine, that he can tough it out on his own, which, to his apparent surprise, isn’t really helping at all.

Mariana is fast developing a throbbing headache at all the shouting in the flat. She’s already tired of playing peacemaker and it’s probably been about five minutes. It’s not that she doesn’t love her flatmates– God help her, she does– but she really despises them when they yell, which, contrary to popular belief, happens a lot.

The two of them ought to take a walk, really, but they won’t, so Mariana will do it for them (and for herself, mostly, she has to take her glasses off because they’re really not helping with the headache). 

They don’t notice her quietly slipping out the door as they’re playing their fifth round of the blame game, and when the door closes she inhales in relief. She quickly half-runs down the stairs, unlocking the door to 221A and slipping on a jacket before running back out the door and down the hall.

There's a stinging cold outside, but she finds she doesn’t really mind. It’s that odd transition period between winter and spring where the snow has stopped but the chill still lingers in the air and there’s always a threat of rain but never a guarantee. The ground in front of her is wet, which isn’t a surprise, considering she’d heard the pounding rain inside the flat only half an hour ago, but there’s a very familiar scent of wet dog, which is surprising, because she isn’t aware of any other dogs that live around the Baker Street area.

And then her heart leaps, and–

Dios mio, there’s Archie, in the sodden, muddy flesh, and it’s a good thing Mariana thought to put on a raincoat because she immediately scoops the dirty dog into her arms as he licks at her face.

“My god, you little rascal, the trouble you brought,” she admonishes, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he nuzzles into the crook of her neck. She might never have been so happy to see the dog, she smiles to herself.

She’ll call John in a moment, but it’s probably healthy to yell, and she wants to cuddle her gross and disgusting dog for just a moment more.

3

“Come on, just one picture, please,” Mariana begs, crouching over Archie’s dog bed. “I just want one.”

Archie isn’t one for cameras, something Mariana learned quickly, being an avid picture-taker. And for the most part, it doesn’t bother her, except for right now, because they’re doing some merch collab, and they want a picture of the dog, and the dog won’t sit still.

“Do you want food? I’ll get you food. I’ll get you the most premium beef if you just sit for this picture.”

Still, nothing. John and Sherlock, of course, are out on a case, which means she’s left at home with no help to wrangle this dog who has not an ounce of mercy in his tiny little body.

Mariana wails in frustration.

“Please, Archie, I’ll do anything,” she begs. The dog stops and looks at her as if to say, oh, anything?

He darts into her bedroom and she sighs, tears springing to her eyes. She runs after him.

“What do you want,” she asks him. He nudges one of her drawers. Her sock drawer.

“One day I’ll kill you,” she mutters, but she opens it and throws him a pair to chew on. He catches them in his mouth and his tail starts wagging as he sits down, the socks in a slobbery wet pile on her bedroom floor as he pants happily.

The plushie company loves the photo.

4

It falls on Mariana to take Archie to go get his annual vet check up, since John’s out visiting family and Sherlock’s out… doing… something. She hates using the cage, and he falls asleep in the car anyways, so she just doesn’t use it.

Instead, he’s sitting in her lap while she scrolls Twitter on her phone and waits for the vet to call them inside. She strokes him absentmindedly and looks up every so often to watch the clock tick, tick, tick.

The vet’s office is cute. The walls are white, of course, but there’re paintings of puppies and kittens and flowers all over the walls. It’s almost sickening. To Sherlock, it probably would be.

She taps her foot against the floor and looks back down at her phone. It’s no inconvenience to her (as she’d told John about a million times before he’d left) but god is it boring.

That is, until Archie, with newfound energy, crawls off of her lap to go harass some poor girl’s puppy.

“Shit–!” Mariana curses, getting up quickly. “Archie! You idiot, ” she calls after the stupid dog.

The dog’s owner looks up at that, and she scoops her puppy up off the floor. Archie barks up at her, and that’s when Mariana kneels down next to him and shoves a treat haphazardly grabbed from the recesses of her bag into his mouth.

“I am so sorry,” she says.

“No, it’s… fine,” the woman says. Her blond, curly hair is pulled into a bun, and she’s wearing a black hoodie with… is that Sindarin?

“I like your hoodie,” Mariana mumbles, petting Archie’s head in an effort to get him to calm down.

“Yeah?” the woman asks. “Well, I like your bag.”

Mariana looks down at her bag, spots the fanmade pin she’d bought a couple months ago on the strap. She looks back up and the woman’s smiling at her, and her heart flutters a bit.

“D’you like Lord of the Rings too?”

Mariana deliberates for a moment– yes, she does, but does this girl like it as much as her? Does she really want to talk about it until her appointment is called? But then again, no one who has a hoodie with that design on it is a casual enjoyer of Lord of the Rings.

So, “yeah, I do. Have you watched that new Amazon Prime series?”

“Oh, I did, but I dropped it like halfway through.”

“What? Why?”

“Well–”

Suddenly, the thought of sitting here for 30 more minutes doesn’t seem so agonizing.

5

It’s a nice day for a walk, which is why Mariana’s mourning the fact that John’s not on it.

He’s having one of his bad leg days, which seem to be increasing ever since their last case, and he’d felt ever so awful about not being able to walk Archie, so of course, she’d volunteered.

“I’m so sorry,” he’d frowned, and she’d waved him off. It’s what you do for a friend, after all.

The sun isn’t beating down too hard on her, and the air is in Goldilocks condition. Archie’s happily trotting down the sidewalk and she has her headphones on, bobbing her head along to the beat of various Yves songs. There’s the bakery that she and Sherlock had visited yesterday, and coming up, she knows, is the flower shop that the girl she’d met at the vet works at. She smiles to herself. She’d gotten her number after she’d been called up for the appointment, and they’d been texting almost every day after her shift. She’s funny, creative too, draws in her free time. They’re good drawings, and Mariana has told her as much. Maybe she’ll pop in for a visit, invite her to dinner later that week–

There’s a tug at the leash, and Archie’s running off in the other direction.

Mariana barely has time to let out a shout of surprise before she’s being pulled along with the dog, desperately trying to keep up. She’d never been the most athletic, and the bulldog is setting a deceptively fast pace for her, not to mention she doesn’t have her insoles in. It doesn’t even take two minutes before she’s wheezing, two minutes more and her chest is burning so badly there are tears in her eyes.

By the time he stops running, which feels like hours , she’s panting heavily, chest heaving and coughing.

“ Dios mio, you demon dog,” she hacks out, pounding a fist against her chest as he slows down. “What the hell made you do that?”

Archie barks and sniffs the air, leading her into an alleyway.

Holy shit, he’s going to kill me, she thinks. I’m going to die in this dusty, grimy alleyway.

He barks again, and suddenly a stench hits her. She looks down at him, and then she notices something next to him.

“Holy shit,” she says.

There’s a fucking dead body on the floor.

She gags. “Is this what you want to show me? Dios mio,” she mutters, but she’s already dialing Sherlock’s number and visualizing the grin on his face when she tells him.

Damn it.

+1

“Come on, we have to get Archie something!” Mariana protests as John tries to drag her out of the shop.

“These souvenirs are all so bloody expensive, you insane woman,” John hisses. “We’re not getting him anything.”

“But–! Look at this little shirt!” she whines. “Look at that color! And that design! It just oozes love!”

“It what.”

John’s tone is flat, with just a touch of disbelief behind it.

“You know who else oozes love? Archie.”

“He certainly oozes,” Sherlock mumbles from beside the two of them, at which they both whip around and level him with twin glares. “I’m kidding!”

“Please, just the one shirt, John,” Mariana begs. “It’s only–” she turns around. “Ten dollars.”

“Ten– normal shirts are supposed to cost ten dollars! Not shirts for dogs!”

“But just think of how cute he’ll look in it, John, please,” she says. “Think of the bigger picture.”

“I’m thinking, and all I can see is my wallet, woefully empty because I keep letting you buy things.”

“ Your wallet?!” she laughs, affronted. “Why am I even asking you, actually? It’s my money.”

“Fine, go broke, what do I care,” John sighs dramatically as she picks the shirt off its tiny little hanger and fawns over it.

“Me and Archie are going to have matching shirts when we get home, John. It’s okay if you’re jealous.”

[sandcobangevent]

The Maimed Doctor

By @annoyingcat413 and @gregorovitch-adler

“No, Watson, concentrate. Think,” Sherlock said, shaking his hands as he paced up and down the sitting room in front of his wall full of pictures and papers with his black eyeglasses on.

The natural sunlight coming through the window was too bright for him. 

“I thought, Sherlock! I concentrated! My answer won’t change.” John clenched his fist, sitting on his armchair as he let Archie rest on his chest. “It was the butcher who did it. The victim had a combination of an incision and a stab wound on his lower back. Inaccessible area for anyone, and besides, that’s the last way anyone would commit suicide!”

“Who said anything about suicide?” Sherlock stomped and stopped pacing. “The third possibility is this guy,” he said, pointing at a guy with a ginger beard’s face. Sherlock breathed deeply.

“But that’s his best friend, mate!” John’s tone was desperate. Archie barked in his lap loudly and leapt out of the chair to go to the kitchen. He had never been that active before! John furrowed his brow in guilt as his eyes followed Archie.

“And?” Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest. 

“And…” John trailed off and scoffed. “Friends don’t do that to each other.” He felt his voice come out softer this time. He knew how silly it sounded once he voiced that thought, but he couldn’t shake off that dread in his heart for some reason. 

Deep down, John knew in his heart that the victim’s so-called best friend seemed to be the only possible suspect here, after a week or two of working on this case with Sherlock. He shifted in his chair a little. 

Sherlock exhaled. “They’re not supposed to. But oftentimes, they do it anyway. Backstabbing, quite literally so, in this case.” He pointed at the photo again and placed his hands on his hips. 

As much as John didn’t want to admit it, Sherlock was right, as always. The prime suspect, Lenny, even had a solid motive: money. 

But, was money everything? Apparently, yes, in this guy’s case. John sighed. “Alright, what the hell. Let’s hunt him down, then, shall we?”

Sherlock smiled briefly and clasped his hands together. “But where do we start,” he thought out loud. 

John sat back and began to think too. Lenny and the victim, Harry, had been friends since uni, both with a gambling addiction. Both were IT sector employees on weekdays and would spend their weekends drinking and placing bets. 

This meant that John and Sherlock could find Lenny at a local pub. Except Lenny would not just be roaming about after the murder.

Through some background check Sherlock had done on him a few days ago, he and John had discovered that Lenny was actually from Sussex. 

That didn’t seem to be a bad place to start…

“Sussex!” John blurted out. “We should start our search there.”

“Excellent, Watson!” Sherlock clapped his hands together. “Let’s head out tomorrow, shall we? It’s Saturday.”

“Perfect,” John replied and got up from his chair. He and Sherlock nodded and went to their rooms after that.

***

That night, John lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling for quite some time. What gnawed at him the most about this case was how financially driven the world had become. 

It always was like this, perhaps.

There were some things for which people would do anything. Stoop to any level. Money was one of them. 

All friendships, interpersonal connections, etc could be forgotten once money came into the picture. 

John also thought about how people were only polite to you if you came from the upper middle class or above. 

He let out a mirthless chuckle at the irony of the situation. John himself used to be strapped for cash when he first came back to London after the war. The time before he met Sherlock and Mariana. 

John may have contemplated sinful stuff, then… 

John wasn’t very rich now, but his situation was definitely manageable, given the ever-increasing popularity of their podcast nowadays. 

John turned to lie on his side for a bit. He was facing his bedroom door now. 

The fact of the matter was that having lived with Sherlock and solved so many cases with him, John had fallen in love. It was hard not to, he thought defensively. 

Sherlock’s brilliance in every case, his sense of humour (in its own, weird way), his kindness, the way he provided justice for real, instead of mindlessly making arrests like policemen, his charm, and, yes, his looks.

Those gorgeous, big, brown eyes, the brown skin, and the dark, curled hair. The everlasting curiosity in those eyes. 

Yeah, all those things were enough to make John gradually fall for his flatmate/friend. 

Even today, when they intensely discussed the case in the afternoon, John had instances of trailing off and gazing at Sherlock instead. 

John even wondered sometimes if his feelings were mutual, but he would shake his head and brush all that off as his imagination. 

John swallowed. He was too afraid to voice his feelings in front of Sherlock.

What if it came with the price of losing the close friendship he had already formed with him?

John had learned to feel satisfied with the friendship they had together. 

This case about two friends betraying each other didn’t hit close to home, per se, but it did unlock a new fear in John’s mind that he previously never had: fear of losing his only two close friends, especially Sherlock, somehow.

Through death, betrayal, or maybe if Sherlock decided John simply wasn’t good enough for him as a crime-solving companion.

Not helpful enough.

John had not asked much from the universe, just a long-lasting friendship with Sherlock and Mariana. 

John had found it a bit relieving that Sherlock had looked almost as uncomfortable as himself when he’d concluded Lenny to be the murderer for the first time. 

Still, though, humans really never hesitated to do anything they could over financial matters, among others, John thought. 

And how was he any different from other human beings? What if desperate times brought cracks in the close friendship he had with Mariana and Sherlock?

What if Sherlock decided to move out of Baker Street and leave John one day?

John internally shouted at his brain to shut up as he closed his eyes to catch some sleep with his brow furrowed. 

He wished Mariana were here in London too right now, instead of in Japan to meet with her university friend.

The next day was going to be long for both of them.

***

Sherlock grabbed John from behind by the collar of his jacket and pulled John beside him in the alley. 

John bent over, rested his hands on his knees, and panted for a moment. Sherlock took a peek from the corner of the road where they were hiding. 

Lenny was surprisingly fast, despite being a chronic smoker and drinker. Maybe it was being in the twenties that was going easy on him. 

Sherlock and John had got to Sussex by train in the morning itself. It had taken them some time, but Lenny had not been so hard to trace in a pub in East Sussex. 

Sherlock’s excellent compartmentalising skills had helped the two of them a lot even when their phones’ GPS hadn’t.

Lenny was way too quick to flee from there, though, so here they were, running around the streets of East Sussex, trying to catch their criminal the old-fashioned way. 

Thankfully, the mid-morning sun was not too bright for Sherlock, or else he really would have needed his eyeglasses right now.

“Damn you for having become so famous lately that he began to run the moment he saw you!” John blurted out as he straightened up and caught his breath.

Sherlock turned to look at him sharply with his brow furrowed. “Oh, so it’s my fault, now?”

“Of course it is, you-”

Sherlock cut him off by shushing him because they could hear some footsteps becoming louder from the other side of the road. 

John stepped forward to take a peek. It was Lenny. Running down the road and flailing his skinny arms. 

Sherlock and John exchanged a look.

What to do now?

John frowned and looked around, trying to take a quick action. 

That was when he saw a medium-sized stone lying in the alley. John also heard the footsteps becoming louder.

Before he could overthink, he picked up that stone and blindly threw it in Lenny’s direction, hoping it would at least slow down the bastard. 

Soon enough, Sherlock and John heard Lenny swear and groan in pain in the middle of that road.

Sherlock and John sprinted out of the alley and went to the spot where Lenny was lying on the road.

Lenny was lying on his stomach and grunting a bit. The stone had hit him on the back, right on his trapezius muscle. “Ugh… fucking pieces of shit. Mother-”

“I would shut up at this instant if I were you, Lenny,” said Sherlock and stepped on the back of his hand to make him scream some more. “You’re under arrest, anyway. That’s what betraying your own friends does to you.”

It was silly, and maybe even a bit inappropriate, but John felt a small smile form on his face.

He couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock, especially when he was being like this. Beautiful and authoritative, with his brown eyes shining against the mid-morning sun. It was hot.

“Under arrest?” Lenny shouted through his pain, trying to retract his hand from under Sherlock’s foot. “You gotta be kidding me. I know who you are, and I know damn well you’re not the fucking police.” He spat on Sherlock’s shoe, which made him step off Lenny’s hand. 

Sherlock frowned in disgust as he looked around for a piece of cloth in his pockets to clean his shoe.

“Erm, he’s better than that, you know,” said John, taking a step forward. “A consulting detective, the only one in this world. Possibly the best one, even if there were many.” John cleared his throat and was now looking everywhere but at Sherlock, blinking a lot. 

John may have said a little too much. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him now. 

“Wouldn’t you know that, his arse-kissing sidekick?” Lenny reached for his pocket for something, and before John could react, Lenny took out a gun, cocked it, and fired it at John’s thigh. 

John gasped from deep within, grabbing his left thigh as he fell. He heard Sherlock shout his name faintly from far away. 

– – 

“Watson! Watson, run! Don’t slow down just yet!”

That was what John heard his Major yell as he frantically ran across the battlefield but got struck by a bullet in his right leg, anyway. 

– –

That day from his army life was all John could think of as he lay in the middle of the road, taking in shallow breaths. He could feel his trousers soaking in blood.

Soon enough, the world blurred and faded to black.

***

John opened his eyes and winced at the bright lights shining directly into his eyes for a second. 

He grabbed a fistful of linen sheet draped on him. John then realised he was in a hospital ward close to an OR somewhere. 

John exhaled in pain and felt a line of sweat form on his forehead as the effects of general anaesthesia were gradually wearing off. 

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed and walked briskly over to his bedside. He leaned in, and now his face was quite close to John’s. He looked wonderfully worn out. 

Truly a sight for sore eyes. 

John smiled despite the burning pain in his left thigh. It was as though he had been run over by a truck, and the same truck had also cruelly pierced through his skin. 

John grunted as he tried to get up, but he was tied down on the bed by his pain and the ECG wires that were holding him in his place.

“You can’t possibly be smiling,” Sherlock said in a voice just above a whisper. He placed a hand on John’s shoulder.

“I can’t control my face,” said John, still smiling. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes which looked a lot redder now. “Actually, you can. Facial muscles are voluntary, remember?”

John just shook his head. He didn’t even have the energy to move his leg, much less debate about something like this with Sherlock. “What happened to Lenny?” John asked in a small, raspy voice. “Tell me you had him arrested.”

His one line seemed to flip a switch in Sherlock. Sherlock’s brown eyes darkened, and he clenched his hand in a fist by his side. “Not before I demonstrated some of my Bartitsu moves on him first.”

John furrowed his brow in confusion. “Why?”

Sherlock let out a deep breath. “He was being too difficult when you passed out. Tried to get up to run away once again! What was I to do then?”

John eyed him dubiously, wincing because of his leg once again. “You beat the absolute shit out of him because he was trying to escape? Because I really don’t think he could’ve gone too far – the stone had hit him hard.”

Sherlock bit his lip and looked down at John’s bed for a moment. He looked John in the eye again. “Yeah, well… nobody who brings you even an inch of harm can ever get away with it. Not on my watch,” he said in a small but intensely deep voice. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head slowly. 

John’s eyebrows must have gone up to his hairline as he parted his lips. “Really?”

Sherlock nodded, opening his eyes again. “I even told him that. Then I called the local police to get him because I knew an inspector around here.”

“Let me guess, we ended up here in this OR afterwards?” John asked, trying to piece everything together even through his foggy brain. 

“Brilliant deduction!” Sherlock’s sarcasm was thick in his tone.

John chuckled, and his laugh turned into a groan. “Shut up!”

John licked his chapped lips and tried to swallow even through his dry throat. “Does Mariana know about, well… this?”

Sherlock nodded. “I texted her everything. She’s cut her trip short. She said that she’ll be back here by tomorrow.” 

Sherlock gazed at John for a few seconds and sighed. “Good that he shot you in the leg. Because if he had actually shot to kill you, then there would’ve been two murders on that street instead of just one.”

John opened his mouth to form a reply but closed it again. His mind went blank for a moment. John even looked Sherlock in the eye closely to check if he was joking or something. He wasn’t.

The fact that Sherlock looked so serious about actually murdering someone for John… John shivered at the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze and tone with the way he said it. 

“Didn’t mean to break you -”

“Do you mean it?” asked John, cutting him off, “what you just said?” John swallowed in anticipation. He needed to know.

Sherlock knitted his brow with confusion. “What? Of course, I meant it!” He was whispering too, and he leaned in so close, that their noses were almost touching. 

So, Sherlock was willing to kill for John if needed, and he looked and sounded like he meant it. 

There, it was out in the open. 

The realisation hit John like beautiful sun rays on a cruel winter morning.

If that wasn’t the most obvious expression of Sherlock’s love for John, what was?

And if that realisation came to John at the cost of his other leg getting shot too, then it was worth a wound.

John gave Sherlock a knowing smile. Sherlock was looking at him curiously now. 

John tilted his head and tried to lean impossibly close to Sherlock. 

Sherlock caught on, and his jaw dropped a bit. He nodded and closed the distance between the two of them. 

Sherlock’s lips felt soft and firm against John’s. They felt just right, and the kiss made sense after everything they had been through for a whole year of being together as flatmates by now. It brought meaning to everything.

Sherlock placed a hand on John’s face as he deepened the kiss. The ECG was making loud and frequent sounds now, which had nothing to do with the major surgery John had just been through. 

John wanted to do the same – touch Sherlock somehow, but he was tied to the bed in more ways than one. 

A sudden jolt of pain arose in John’s left leg, making him break off the kiss and groan. 

Sherlock visibly swallowed and ran his hand through John’s hair for a while. “You’ll be alright. Don’t worry. Should I call the consultant around here?” Sherlock looked around himself in the ward. “Aren’t they supposed to check on you when you come back to consciousness?” His tone became impatient.

John’s pain subsided in a few seconds, so he let out a sigh of relief. He could see a surgeon walking around the ward, talking to several patients, one at a time. 

John chuckled, and his heart filled up to the brim with affection for Sherlock and his concern for him.

“He must be on his way,” said John, meaning the surgeon.

Sherlock turned around to have a look, and he nodded when he spotted the surgeon himself. He looked around at John again. “D’you feel better now?” 

“Yeah, for now. I think this will come and go for a while.” John grunted again because of another jolt of sharp pain. He took a couple of deep breaths and looked up at Sherlock. “Told you.”

Sherlock’s eyes were red and brimming with tears as he watched John, looking helpless. He blinked furiously, but his eyebrows were still furrowed. 

John held up a hand that wasn’t hooked up to the IV stand. Sherlock took it in his own immediately and squeezed it. 

“Real cockblocker, this. My condition,” said John and let out a tired laugh. “Arsehole got my other leg too. Can’t say I missed being shot ever since I got out of the army.” John shrugged. 

Sherlock slammed the bed railings, making John flinch instinctively. “I know where he is right now. Just say the word, and I’ll -”

“Shh.” John squeezed his hand. “Him being arrested is going to be enough for now.” He swallowed. 

“On multiple charges,” said Sherlock and nodded. “Murder, possession of an illegal weapon, and others. I spent my time explaining the whole case to the police as I waited by your side.”

John smiled at him gratefully. 

Sherlock pressed another kiss on John���s mouth. “Are you sure, though? In what world was it fair for him to do that to you?”

“It - it wasn’t fair. I never said that. But yes, what he’s facing right now is going to have to be enough,” said John, gazing deeply into Sherlock’s beautiful eyes. 

Sherlock blinked again a few times and nodded. 

“Since when, though?” asked John, freeing his hand from Sherlock’s grip to gesture between the two of them. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow for a second, but then he seemed to get what John was asking. “Oh, that. For a while now. Don’t remember the exact moment. You?” Sherlock bent over to kiss John on his forehead. 

John smiled as he melted beneath his touch. “Within the first two months of knowing you, I think.”

Sherlock smiled brightly for the first time since morning. The kind of smile that reached his eyes too. 

But then he frowned immediately, staring into the distance. “It scared me to death when you passed out. Your leg was oozing blood everywhere…” he trailed off as his voice broke.

It oozed love, John corrected him internally. My love for you.

John leaned forward, trying to kiss him again. Sherlock was going to close the distance, but they had to stop themselves right there because the surgeon was approaching John’s bed now. 

John was ready to face whatever life had in store for him, now that he had Sherlock by his side, hopefully forever.

[sandcobangevent]

Kintsugi Honey

By @ghostofnuggetspast and @iwantthatbelstaffanditsoccupant

“And you’re sure you’re okay? For a minute there, I was kinda worried.”

“Fine, John. Perfectly fine. Just… well, I wouldn’t even call it a bad dream, because, overall, it was quite pleasant, but…it had its moments of distress.”

“Oh. Well, ummm. Wanna talk about it?” . “I suppose that may help in preserving the more pleasant aspects.”

John slid up against Sherlock, who closed his eyes to better recall the moment. A few minutes ago he had seemed so agitated, but now he seemed relaxed, and even…was it content? Maybe so. Sherlock had been sleeping much better since they began sharing a bed. Platonically. For now, at least. John occasionally wondered if it would stay that way. Time would tell though, wouldn’t it? And on nights like this, when he could soak in the calm before the adventure the new day would bring, he felt it was all he really needed out of life. Just...this. Whatever it was. And sharing this kind of intimate moment, well…that was part of whatever it was they had. And he loved every second of it.

“Well, it began simply enough,” said Sherlock. “It began with my getting shot.”

John bolted upright. “And this…this was a good dream?”

“Well, I should explain. I knew I would be perfectly fine as the bullet ripped through my chest, because I knew about the bees. That they were already there.”

“About… the bees?”

“Yes. Do you remeber that absurd post you read me right before bed? The one about freezing bees?”

“The— Oh! This one?”

John scrolled through his phone and pulled up a Twitter post which seemed to have found its way over from Reddit. John had to keep up with Discord and Twitter to see what the fans were up to, those crazy kids. Reddit, not so much. Social media tended to annoy Sherlock, but the more amusing posts were always worth sharing.

“The one from heckacute,” John said. “‘If you put a bee in the freezer it will get cold and fall asleep. After it’s asleep, put it in your mouth, but don’t eat it.’”

“As if I would eat the poor bee,” interupted Sherlock.

“‘Just let it sit there. It will get warm and wake up. Now you have a bee in your mouth.’ And then oboebandgeek99 says, ‘Why the fuck would I do that.’”

“Yes. Why indeed? And I fell asleep precisely as you read that aloud, and it latched on to my subconscious mind, creating a bridge between the waking world and the sleeping one to the extent that I was aware of this concept—of putting a bee in one’s mouth—just as I began to dream. Which was fortunate indeed.”

“Because—or should I say bee-cause—why?”

“You should not.”

“Sorry, already did.” John grinned. Deep down, he knew Sherlock liked the puns. It was, after all, part of what made John…John.

“Because I had, upon the point of reaching my dream state, already placed a bee in my mouth, and, it being—”

“Bee-ing.”

“— And it being disconnected from anatomical reality, the bee had somehow procured other bees and settled within my right ventricle.”

“As opposed to taking the only available route in reality and flying directly into your lungs or stomach.”

“Yes. They created a small hive there.”

“In your heart.”

“Yes.”

“Like a birdhouse in your soul.”

“They were bees, not birds. And the soul does not have a physical location.”

“My English teacher, Mr Nieburgher, always insisted the soul was in your left armpit. But I digress… So, there were bees… buzzing around your heart. And again, this was the good part?”

“Well, they would occasionally fly out of my ears and harvest honey. But their home was in my heart, yes.”

“No flower gardens in your spleen?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Is this conversation disturbing you? You are trying to divert it more than your usual proclivity for random interjections.”

“No, I’m okay. I just, don’t like to hear about you getting shot. It is upsetting.”

“I see. Well, you need to keep in mind that I knew all would be well. You see, the bees gathered nectar and created a lovely comb that was integrated into my circulatory system. This was fortunate, because, as I have mentioned, when the dream began I had been shot. By M, I believe. But the identity of the perpetrator was not entirely clear.”

John leaned in a bit closer and resisted the urge to crack another joke. He was not one to buy into prophecy, but then again, it felt like either one of them could be harmed, even fatally, at any given moment. And things were reaching some critical point, he could feel it.

“And the thing is, there was damage to the heart, where the bullet pierced it. But the bees…the bees filled the missing pieces, John. Filled it with their honey.”

“Like Kintsugi?”

“John! You really were paying attention when you researched all that oriental pottery!”

“Well, I mean, there was a section on Japanese pottery, and I read it without intending to, but the concept of the thing was kind of nice, so…it stuck with me.”

“Yes. The honey flowed into the broken pieces and filled them in the same way that precious metal binds together broken pottery to make it whole again. Quite beautiful, really. Poetic.”

“And the honey…it…oozes—”

“Love. It oozed love, John. The hive was connected directly with my heart. It was, quite lovely. So. That’s why I cannot say being severely, even potentially fatally, wounded was a bad thing. It was…quite euphoric, actually.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

“Well, I am grateful the bees were there to save you.” John paused a moment. “Was…was I in the dream?”

“Yes, of course. Do you think, upon my having been shot, that you were not by my side? You and Mariana. Not Archie though. I don’t think my subconscious holds him in quite the same level of esteem.”

“They wouldn’t let a dog into the dream-hospital, I bet.”

“As the honey stuck together all the broken pieces, it also healed them with flavonoids, catalase, glucose oxidase, polyphenols and phenolic acid. Bees are truly fascinating creatures. I should like to study them. Perhaps with a hive of our own? Nothing quite like being a hive, but, we can’t expect that now, can we?”

“I suppose not.”

“I wonder if my corpse might become a hive someday?”

“Sherlock!”

“No, it would be a very good thing. I’d have no use for a body at that point. The bees can have it then.”

“Can we not talk about your…future corpse?”

“Fine.”

“So, there were bees flying out of your ears.”

“Yes. Good thing Archie wasn’t there, actually. He might have tried to catch them and eat them. Then he’d look like that dog in the post you showed me last week.”

“And then they wouldn’t have been able to heal you.”

“It’s a dream, John. In dreams, I would have found some other means of healing, I’m sure. A dream is simply a story our subconscious tells ourselves because the brain is never fully at rest. Or mine isn’t, at least. If things get too difficult in the story we can avoid the unhappy ending simply by waking up.”

“You can’t always do that. Sometimes it’s bad all the way through. Just like in real life.”

“True. But I do think that you could have fixed my heart as well, John.”

“In a dream, I suppose I could have.”

“I don’t see why not. You did it in real life. You came in to my world and saw something in me no one else had. Not for a very long time, at least—and I was fairly convinced I didn’t have whatever that spark was anymore. And I think Mariana saw it only because you did first.”

“I didn’t. I was ready to leave. Remember?”

“But you did not.”

“No. No, I didn’t. But you fixed me as well. Gave me purpose.”

“I suppose so. You are…my honey.”

And John laughed. And then he stopped, and placed his head on Sherlock’s chest. Because, for a moment, it didn’t seem all that funny. Not really.

“No, you’re right. I…I sort of…am.”

“Thank you. I think I’ll remember it now.” And Sherlock closed his eyes again and went back to sleep.

[sandcobangevent]

Be My-

By @itsnobodysproblem and @tiredmilkshake

She saw it after one of their movie nights, sometime in early February. John had asked if they wanted to eat together, more to hear himself talk than any actual curiosity. They always ate together on movie nights. She could think of one, maybe two exceptions.

She said yes. Sherlock didn’t bother to give him an answer. Not until John opened the fridge, looked at the options, and asked,

“You, mate? Chicken and veggies or third day of penne pasta?”

“Pasta.”

“Yeah, thought so,” John answered, his voice a mix of exasperation and fondness.

She scrolled on her phone while he heated up Sherlock’s pasta and their veggies. He had a song stuck in his head, and sang it to himself even though the only lyrics he remembered were,

“Don’t you… forget about me…” and “rain keeps falling, rain keeps falling, down, down, down…”

She rolled her eyes and turned her head towards Sherlock, expecting him to return an annoyed, if amused look.

But Sherlock… He was just… Staring. At John.

His eyes followed his every move, his lips were curved in a soft, sad smile. His head was tilted ever so slightly, as if he were lost in thought. As if admiring something beautiful and rare.

Something he loved.

It wasn’t just love.

If she didn't know better, she'd say it looked like longing.

She did know better. Didn’t she?

She thought about it, that night. 

Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she'd been blind. 

She should've seen it.

She should've seen it when John was shot. When he told her, not quite believing his own words, how Sherlock had reacted. When Sherlock went with him to the hospital, just to keep him company. Even though John insisted it wasn’t necessary. When he kept himself as close as possible to John for the following week or so. Kept searching for his hand.

A few weeks ago, John had let it slip that him and Sherlock had shared a bed, once. She didn't have time to react before he noticed what he'd said and clarified that no, “It was right after I was shot, you know, with Abe. We were both… Shaken.” She’d thought nothing of it. It had been horrible and traumatic, for both of them. Getting shot. Seeing your best friend get shot, and not knowing that he was wearing a vest. Of course they wouldn't wanna be alone. Why would she think anything of it?

But it wasn't just that. It was jealousy, when John seemed interested in someone else. It was devotion. Putting John's well-being above his own. It was casual touches, leaning on him for no reason, holding his hand on cases and when they went out. Cuddling. 

She only saw it once. A couple weeks ago. Also on movie night. Sherlock had sat his head on John's chest, draped an arm over him, and John didn't even bat an eye. Just put his own arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Like they had done that many times before.

She didn’t know why she needed to see Sherlock staring longingly at John to realise it. 

They were in love. Weren’t they?

Sherlock certainly was.

She didn’t want to mention it. They would’ve told her if they were together. She didn’t think they would keep that from her. No. They were still figuring things out. 

She didn't plan on mentioning it. But just the next day, Sherlock came down to 221a, looking for a hoodie he’d misplaced. Alone. She couldn't help it.

“Sherlock,” she called just before he left. “We're… You and me, we're good friends, right?”

He seemed taken aback.

“Of course. Did I do something-”

“No! No no no! It's just… You know you can… Tell me. Stuff. Right?”

“What kind of ‘stuff’?”

He seemed genuinely confused. So she just… Said it.

“I saw you yesterday. After the movie? You were… Looking at John.” 

She didn’t get to elaborate before his face changed from confusion to embarrassment.

She smiled.

“Does he know?”

“That I was looking?”

“That you’re…” 

She hesitated. 

Did he not know? Had he not realised?

“I- I don’t know how I didn’t notice until last night. But. You’re in love. You’re in love with him.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes,” she almost laughed, “You are! You’re so protective of him, almost territorial, you’re jealous when he seems interested in a pretty girl, you value his opinion above the rest, you trust him more than anyone, you talk about him when he’s not there, you always stand so close to him and hold his hand and- and cuddle. You’re practically oozing with love! And somehow I only got it when I saw you stare at him as if he was the only thing that mattered in the world.” 

“...not the only thing. I was simply... Admiring him.”

“While he was heating up food.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Alright. Admiring him. But… Everything else I said. Am I wrong?”

He thought about it. Arrived at a conclusion. Seemed concerned.

“Are those indicators of romantic attraction?”

“I mean. Kind of? Maybe not by themselves, necessarily, but together…” 

She tilted her head.

“But I don’t wish to kiss him. People who are in love want to kiss.”

“I- I mean, not always.” 

His face fell a little. 

“It’s true, though,” she continued, “usually it’s… It’s a very good indicator.”

“Right…”

“But, you know, it’s different for everyone! It might look a bit different for you.”

That didn’t seem to help. He seemed even more confused than before.

She tried to think of another way to figure it out.

“Oh! Ok, I know. Let’s… Put it like this. Imagine he’s dating someone, yeah?”

“A woman.”

“Sure. And one day he comes to you and tells you he’s gonna marry her. She’s… The One. For him. He wants to spend the rest of his life with her.”

Sherlock listened intently.

“You’d be at the wedding, of course. He’ll probably ask you to be his best man.”

“Would I have to give a speech?”

“It’s- Ok, no, that’s not the point, sorry. You’re a guest, at their wedding, and you’re watching them profess their love to each other, you know, say their vows, promise they’ll be there for each other through thick and thin, that they’ll be each other’s priority. Stuff like that. How would you feel?”

She waited for his answer. She saw his eyebrows draw together, his eyes seeming a bit more shiny than before. But she waited for him to speak.

“I… Should say I’m happy for him,” Sherlock said, voice full of uncertainty.

“But are you?”

He shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

“Then how do you feel?”

Silence for a few seconds.

“Betrayed. Left behind. Angry,” he said, and as the last word left his mouth he looked at her, and he seemed scared. “Not… Angry,” he corrected. “Frustrated.”

“Why?”

“Because I want-”

He stopped himself, and looked away. 

“Aw, Sherlock…” She put a hand on his shoulder. “You should tell him.”

He didn’t answer. The fear in his face morphed into something closer to dread.

“Sherlock?”

“Don’t tell him.”

“Of course I won’t.” He still wasn’t looking at her. “But you should.”

“No...”

“Honesty, Sherlock, I don’t- I think it’s worth a try. Honestly.”

He shook his head, looking rather distressed.

“Listen. He loves you. However it goes… He won’t take it badly. I promise you that.”

“No…” he muttered. “It’s too much.”

She wasn’t sure if he meant too much for him, or too much to ask of John. But whatever the case,

“Would you rather wait until it comes true? Until you’re at his wedding and you watch him promise to spend his life with someone else?”

He thought about it. And finally looked at her.

***

A few days later he was baking heart-shaped cookies. Mariana’s idea. He’d thought about it, and it made sense. If wanting to kiss wasn’t a prerequisite for being in love, if all those things she’d listed were indicators of romantic feelings, then she was right.

He asked her how he should tell him, and she suggested… This. Heart-shaped cookies, today, on the 14th. Valentine’s Day.

His hand shook as he decorated one of the cookies, tracing the edges with icing, to define the shape.

He’d been sure when he’d started. Now he was doubting himself.

He did know - he’d known for a long time that he loved John. But people always acted like when you’re in love, the object of your affection distracts you from other things. The world pales in comparison when they’re in the room. You only have eyes for them. Your logic is impaired.

What he felt for John… It wasn’t that.

Then again. Look at him, decorating heart-shaped cookies, planning to confess only a few days after he himself had had the revelation, emboldened mostly by the fear of someday being left behind by John. Maybe his logic was impaired. 

He tried to remember what it felt like with Victor. They dated. That was romantic. They kissed. It was… Nice. Victor liked it. Though now that he was thinking about it, before they ever kissed, he didn’t… Desire it. Did he? He didn’t remember. He must have, right? He must have, otherwise why had he been so sure you needed to wish to kiss someone for that relationship to be romantic? No, yes, he must have.

Would he kiss John, if he wanted? He didn’t know. It felt different, with Victor. But John was different than anyone he’d ever cared about. 

He chose one of the bigger cookies and started writing on it. Be… My…

Was he doing the right thing?

The lock turned.

Sherlock froze.

“Heyaa!” John called.

His heart felt heavy in his chest.

No. No, he shouldn’t have done this.

John’s keys clinked as he hung them up.

He’ll scare him away, and he wasn’t even sure what he was feeling. No.

He ran out of the kitchen and slammed the door behind him. He needed to get him to go away, to the shop, to buy… To buy…

“Eh. Glue!” 

He frowned to himself. Glue?? 

“Glue?” John questioned.

“Yes. Glue. I need you to go and buy glue.”

“But I just-”

“Now, please.”

He motioned for him to go, but he didn’t.

“We have glue,” John said and headed for the drawer where they usually kept it.

Sherlock blocked his way.

“It’s. Done. I need more. Go.”

“Yeah, let me see.”

He tried to get past him, but he didn’t let him. 

“I need more glue for a project-” No, what would he show him as proof afterwards? He’ll ask him what he used all the glue for, and they had plenty of glue, why the hell did he say glue?? 

John stopped trying to get past him.

“Ok, why do you want me to leave?”

“Uh.”

John looked at him with well-deserved suspicion.

He knew. Of course he knew, John wasn’t stupid, and most importantly, John knew him.

He crossed his arms whan he didn’t get an answer. “Well?”

He wasn’t gonna go. He knew something was wrong, so now he wasn’t gonna go. And the kitchen was full of those cookies, heart-shaped and decorated with smaller hearts and he’d written ‘ love u ’ on some of them, which wasn’t even grammatically correct but he had no space, and on the big one he’d written ‘ Be my Val- ’ well he didnt get to write ‘ Valentine ’ but it wasn’t that hard to deduce. He couldn’t let him see the kitchen. But he won’t go. And he will, he’ll see them. And he’ll know. He shouldn’t have done this. Not this way. Not this quickly. No, not at all. How had he thought for one moment that it would go well? That John would feel the same? How could he tell him “I’m in love with you but I don’t really wanna kiss you and I definitely don’t want more.” Too much if John didn’t like him romantically, too little if he did. But of course he didn’t. This was a stupid idea, stupid, stupid, and now he couldn’t take it back, there was no solution, no escape, and now John was asking him if he’s ok, and he wasn’t, and he didn’t even know what he was feeling, not for sure, he just knew he wanted John to stay, he wanted John to hold him, he wanted John, but it was too much, too much, and now he’ll know, and it’ll be awkward and he’ll take a step back and they won’t hold hands or cuddle anymore, and he’ll be lucky if he’ll still want to hug and the friendship will grow cold and he’ll drift away quicker than if he’d just done nothing, he shouldn’t have done this, he shouldn’t have, he’ll lose John, he’ll lose him.

He took a deep breath after what seemed like an eternity and to his horror, he felt two hot tears slide down his cheeks.

And in a moment of lucidity that could only come after the defeat, he realised that if only he’d stayed calm, he could’ve told John that he thought friends bake each other Valentine’s Day cookies too.

Too late now.

He closed his eyes, bent his head, and just let himself cry.

***

John was confused. He’d been out with Archie on one of their longer walks, stopped for a beer, and got home to find a panicked Sherlock asking for glue.

Well, not really. He did think it was odd that Sherlock had seemed surprised by his own words when he asked for that. His unwillingness to let him see the drawer was only a confirmation. That, and him stopping mid-sentence because he’d realised it wasn’t a good enough lie.

For whatever reason, Sherlock didn’t want him around. He thought he had a right to ask.  

“Ok, why do you want me to leave?”

“Uh.”

Sherlock stared at him. 

“Well?”

He didn’t answer. He glanced at the kitchen. Then back at him. 

He seemed… Frozen. Scared. 

“Sherlock?”

He’d thought maybe he just didn’t want him to see something embarrassing, or something that wasn’t done yet, or something he’d destroyed by accident (as if he’d bother to hide that from him). But now the fun ‘what are you up to’ type of suspicion was morphing into actual worry.

“Are you ok?”

He was breathing faster. Shallow breaths. Panicking.

Not ok.

“What’s wrong? Why did you want me to go?”

He stepped a little closer.

“Sherls?”

Sherlock took a big breath and blinked, and two tears rolled down his cheeks at the same time. Then, in a moment, all the panic turned into defeat. He hung his head and hugged his arms. And started crying.

John hurried to close the distance between them and took him by the shoulders.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Sherlock…”

He waited for Sherlock to unclench his arms so he could hug him, but he didn’t. So he just stayed close and stroked Sherlock’s shoulders with his thumbs.

“It’s ok,” he said, painfully aware that he had no idea what he was talking about. “It’s alright, mate. It’s gonna be ok.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Yes it will. Course it will. Whatever it is, we’ll… We’ll figure it out together, yeah?” 

But that just made him cry even more.

“Alright… Alright, let’s, uh…” He guided him to the couch. “...sit down.”

They did. John put a hand on Sherlock’s back and just held it there, feeling completely useless.

He couldn’t stand it. Not doing anything.

So he got up-

“I’ll go get you some water.”

-and headed for the kitchen. His hand was already on the doorknob when Sherlock almost shouted,

“Don’t!”

He looked back at him. He was gasping, quietly. His face was slick with tears.

“Please.”

John hesitated as he connected the dots.

He could find out. He just needed to open the door, and he’d know what was wrong.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the doorknob.

John released it.

He returned to the hallway and grabbed a small water bottle from his backpack.

He sat down next to Sherlock and pushed it into his hands.

“I don’t want water.”

“It’ll help you stop crying.”

Sherlock huffed, frustrated, took two sips, just for show, then put it on the table. He did try to get his breathing under control. John waited.

“I can’t…” he started after a minute. “I can’t persuade you to go for a bit and then- And then never speak of this again. Can I?”

John considered it. If he were sure it was just… Something personal, embarrassing but not harmful… He wouldn’t push. Clearly, Sherlock didn’t want him to know. But…

“I’d really rather you told me. If- If it’s really- I won’t make you tell me. But I’m asking you. Because. I’m worried. And I won’t just forget this and I’ll keep being worried because I don’t know what’s wrong, I don’t know what’s making you so scared and why you can’t talk about it because we talk , about… everything, and I don’t know what could be so bad that you can’t tell me and- I don't know if you're safe or-”

“I am! I am,” Sherlock interrupted. He pressed a palm to his forehead, and looked at him for a few seconds. “It’s nothin- It’s just-” He paused, gritted his teeth in annoyance, then took a breath, for courage. “I realised that I can’t actually tell if- If I’m in love with someone or-”

John felt the tension leave his body in an instant. He sighed so aggressively it was almost a groan, and buried his face in his hands.

“Oh my god… You. Are such. An idiot. I thought you were in danger!”

Sherlock had the audacity to chuckle.

“Don’t laugh, you bastard…” He straightened up and looked at him. “I thought something happened to you!”

“Sorry…” Sherlock said, still a bit amused. “I, uh.” His expression turned serious. “Um. I was-” Then, worried. Again. “I- I don’t even know what I’m feeling.”

Right. He’d been so relieved, he hadn’t even processed what Sherlock had said.

“You think you’re in love with someone.”

“I don’t know. I thought I did, but…” 

It all clicked at the same time. Valentine’s day, today. The kitchen, something in the kitchen. Did he plan to tell him? Did he change his mind? Yes. He wanted him gone to get rid of whatever he’d prepared. He’d changed his mind, he wasn’t sure. He was scared of John’s reaction.

Was it arrogant of him? To assume…

But what else- who else could it be? If it were anyone else, he’d have no trouble to tell him.

“Can I know who?”

He waited for a few seconds, but Sherlock didn’t answer.

He opened his mouth, tried to ask, ‘Is it me?’ but he couldn’t get the words out.

If he said no, John would feel like the biggest, most self-obsessed asshole.

If he said yes…

He wouldn’t know what to do. He couldn’t hurt him. He couldn’t. But… He couldn’t lie, either. 

He loved Sherlock, he loved him so much, and he was only half-kidding in that mailbag when he’d said they were soulmates. But he wasn’t in love with him. 

He didn’t want things to change. Everything was perfect just as it was.

Maybe they won’t. He did say he wasn’t sure.

“Ok… Um. Well, I dunno, do you- This- Whoever it is. Do you… Wanna… Kiss them?”

“Not really.”

Oh thank god.

“Then?”

“I was recently informed that kissing is not a prerequisite for being in love.”

“I mean… I guess? Yeah, I see how that could… Yeah.”

“Then how do I know? How do I make the difference? I thought I knew, but… I… Tell me. How do I know?”

“Um. Alright. Well, I mean, it’s differe-”

“Different for everyone, yes, I know. Tell me how it is for you. Please.”

“Ok...” 

He thought about Carrie, how it had felt in the beginning. He thought about his high school girlfriend, the first time he’d felt like that. He tried not to think about Mary. 

“Um. I do want to kiss if I uh… If I like them… That way. Um. I think about them a lot. I mean really… A Lot. Like- Almost everything reminds me of them. Uh. I get… Nervous? Towards the beginning, at least. And it’s… Exciting. Just to be next to them. Or. Touch them. It feels a bit… A bit like it burns. And, um. Sometimes my stomach twists. In- In a good way. It literally feels like it's-” he put his hand over his stomach, then turned it “-twisting. Or. Falling a little. So… Yeah.”

He looked at Sherlock, and almost laughed at the expression on his face.

“That is… A lot.”

“Yeah.” He smiled. He thought he knew the answer already, but he still asked, “Is that what you feel?”

“No,” Sherlock replied without missing a beat. “No, that's… No. The only thing that even comes close is that I do think about yo-” He stopped abruptly, then looked at him as if caught red-handed.

“It’s ok,” John said. “I figured.”

“Yes… I suppose there weren't many suspects.”

John didn’t add that he wouldn’t have reacted like that if it were anyone else.

“I... do think about you a lot more than other people, but not… An exaggerated amount.”

“Yeah, mate, I’m your best friend. We see each other every day. Of course I’m gonna be in your head a lot.” He tapped Sherlock’s forehead with one finger. “You’re in mine, too.”

Sherlock smiled, then took a big breath and leaned back on the couch, as if exhausted. He did still seem a bit… Melancholic. As if a big danger had been averted but there were still losses.

“What is it?”

“Hm?”

“Something’s still bothering you.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is! You’re… Sad.” 

Sherlock didn’t deny it. He shrugged.

“Why?”

“It’s...” He trailed off. “No, it’s nothing.”

John waited a bit to see if Sherlock would elaborate after all. He didn’t. So, he tried guessing.

“I, uh. You know, I’m not, like… I’m not judging you for not- For thinking- For not knowing exactly what you’re feeling. I mean, it’s-”

“It’s not that.” 

Alright… Getting somewhere.

“Then what is it?” He reached out and took his hand. “Why are you sad?”

Sherlock looked at him. The sadness turned into fondness as he studied his face. He opened his mouth, but the only sound that came out was a strangled “I”. He looked down, at their hands. He took a few shallow breaths. Then, in a forced whisper, as if fighting to get the words out:

“I wish we could be friends forever.”

Sherlock’s eyes welled up as quickly as if he’d pushed a button, and he turned his head away.

“Oh… Sherlock…” John pulled him closer, by the hand, then hugged him. Was that it? Seriously? “Of course we will. God.” He stroked his back a few times. “I’ll always be your friend. Always.” He pulled back to look at him. “Alright?”

Sherlock nodded, but the expression on his face remained the same.

“...you don’t believe me.”

His friend smiled for a moment.

“I don’t think you’re lying. But… One day you will move out. To have an actual family. And we will see each other often enough, at first. Then less. And less. Until one day I’ll become your old friend Sherlock. Whom you haven’t seen in two years. And I will still be, officially, your friend. I will still have that title. But… I won’t be, really. I’ll-” Sherlock’s voice broke for a second. “I’ll just be a thing of the past.”

John thought he could feel his heart break. His vision blurred, and before the tears had time to fall he pulled Sherlock back into a hug, this time leaning his weight on him, burying his face in his shirt, holding him as close as he could, as if just that could prevent them from ever growing apart.

“I don’t want that,” he managed to say, muffled and barely understandable. “Never.”

It wasn’t… Right.

It felt like… This. Baker street. Them, solving crimes. Living together and bickering and cuddling and annoying and impressing and… completing each other. This was it. 

He never really… Officially, consciously decided that he wanted this, forever. It wasn’t a secret he kept. But… Every time he did think about the future… It was him and Sherlock. It just… Made sense.

He turned his head so his voice could be heard better.

“I mean, uh. How do I know you won't get bored of me , eh? Thought about that?”

Sherlock sighed, and it only sounded a little annoyed.

“John. You are by far the best and closest friend I have ever had. And, I think it would be fair to say that includes my family.”

“Oh.”

“I know I might not make it obvious, a lot of the time. But I appreciate you immensely. I am… Very lucky to have met you.”

John let out a watery laugh.

“Shut up,” he whispered. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s… Good.”

He pulled back, rubbed the tears from his eyes, and smiled at his friend.

“Sherlock, I don’t wanna move.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 

“I didn’t mean this would happen in the near future.”

“No, I mean. I don’t… wanna… move. I kinda just… I like it now. I want…” He looked away, swallowed, embarrassed, and wondered how Sherlock had managed to say so many things today. “I want us to stick together.”

No answer for a few seconds. He looked back at Sherlock, who was staring at him with a mixture of cautious disbelief and hope.

“You’re… You’re saying this because I made you sad.”

Technically true. He probably wouldn’t have said it out loud if Sherlock didn’t bring it up. But…

He shook his head.

“I mean it. I- I’ve said it before. Not to you, but. I found what I was looking for. And it’s here.”

The disbelief slowly left Sherlock’s face.

“You’ll stay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’d like that.”

And Sherlock finally, finally relaxed. Smiled, with all his face. Leaned back on the couch and tried to suppress laughter.

“Is this it?” John asked. “You... wanted something that’s usually a... Couple thing. That’s why you thought you were in love.”

“Yes. That was… What convinced me.”

“Convinced?” 

“Yes, well. Mariana noticed-”

“Oh my God!” John laughed in disbelief, then leaned his forehead in a hand. “No...”

“She… meant well.”

“Yeah, I- I mean I guess it worked out good.” And, to her credit, she was usually right about this stuff. “But, still!”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Alright, well. Go on. What did she notice?”

“I was looking at you. After our latest movie night. You were heating up the food and singing… Something. It was… A nice moment. I wanted to remember it.”

John smiled.

“Don’t you forget about me.”

“Yes.”

“Yeah. Well.” He leaned down on the couch, too. “I guess it could look… like that, from the outside.” He chuckled as he remembered something. “I did let it slip that we slept in the same bed that one time. After… Slaney. So.”

“Hm. Yes. We… Cuddled. I enjoyed that.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“We could- Do that again. Sometimes. If you want.”

“We can?”

“Yeah. I love a good cuddle.” He scooted a little closer to Sherlock and threw an arm around him. “I love you .”

“Yes.” Sherlock turned his head so it would lean on John’s. “I do too.”

They sat like that until every bit of stress and worry seeped out of John’s body.

“So what’s in the kitchen?”

[sandcobangevent]

A Birthday on Baker Street

By @absolute-gibberish and @owletry

"Wakey-wakey, birthday boy- er no, that's a bit weird isn't it?" John pushes the door open with his shoulder before Sherlock is even awake. Archie is ultimately who wakes him, jumping up onto the bed and on top of him.

"Eugh, what are you-?"

"Up and at 'em, Sherly! I brought you tea!" John is already by his bedside, a steaming mug of Earl Grey in his hands. Sherlock burrows further into his blankets, shielding his eyes from the sudden flood of light into his room.

"Watson- It's early," he complains.

"And your birthday, sleepy head!" Mariana chimes in as she enters the room. 

"Exactly, let me sleep-"

John cuts him off, "No can do, Sherl-a-roo! We've got a busy day ahead of us, so sit up and drink your tea."

Sherlock groans. "Do I have to?"

"Yep." Mariana remarks.

"Absolutely." John follows.

Sherlock sighs and sits up. His weighted blanket is draped over his shoulders like a cloak, curls messy and wild from sleep. He yawns as he reaches both hands out for John to deposit his mug—well John's mug—but it doesn't come, and by the time he registers what's happening, they're already singing.

"-o you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Sherlock," John and Mariana poorly harmonize. It sounds like a whale dying. He buries his head in his hands.

"Must you do this?" He groans.

They power on through his whines, "Happy birthday to youuuu!" 

"Now drink your tea," John quickly adds, finally presenting the mug within arm's reach of the pouting detective.

"That was awful," Sherlock grumbles as he accepts the mug. Archie whines in agreement.

"Oh, we weren't that bad," Mariana chides.

Archie barks his dissension to the statement.

"Okay okay, maybe we were that bad," John relents with a chuckle, patting the disgruntled bulldog's head. He and Mariana persuade Archie off the bed and into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to drink his tea.

Sherlock shakes his head fondly as they shut the door. He looks down into his mug of tea. It's been so long since he had friends to make him tea on his birthday. Since he had friends. 

He sips his tea. It's perfect.

Earl Grey with two sugars and a splash of milk. It tastes even better than usual and he can't help but think it may be just because of the love that was put into its making. All for him. He smiles as he stands up and gets dressed for the day.

When Sherlock joins the others in the kitchen, John is in his pajamas, standing in front of the cooktop and humming to himself as he fries up another pancake —chocolate chip, Sherlock's favorite. They're lumpy and misshapen and a little burnt, but John insists they're not, and even though they all know that he's wrong, Sherlock steals and eats pieces of them off the serving plate nonetheless.

A plate topped with two pancakes, bacon, and eggs in the shape of a smiley face is shoved in front of him by a chuckling Mariana as John runs his slightly singed fingers under the tap. 

"I told you to be careful!" she chastises through giggles.

"It came at me!" John defends.

"It's inanimate!"

"Oh shush!"

Sherlock smiles to himself. It's a sickeningly sweet display of domesticity. He loves it.

Mariana runs her hand down John's arm as she walks back to the counter, a silent form of comfort even as they banter. By the time she sits down across from Sherlock at the table, a mug of coffee in one hand, a plate in the other, John's stopped whinging and follows close behind. They sit in silence for a moment, enjoying each other's company. John is the first to speak, and as always, he waffles on about one topic or another, Mariana occasionally chiming in. Sherlock sits and listens, eating his home cooked breakfast as his closest friends converse. 

"And on the agenda for today folks," John announces like a show host, "Ice skating annnd... drumroll please," he drums his hands on the table and makes the worst drumroll impression, "the Aquarium! Ha-ha!" 

"And of course, we'll take Archie for his walk then come back here for dinner," Mariana adds.

"Yeah, that too. That all sound good to you, Sherls?"

Sherlock looks up at the sound of his nickname, a bite of pancake —fork and all— in his mouth. He's quiet at first, just processing the last bit of the conversation, and as his friends patiently wait for his reply, he can’t help but be grateful for their understanding. 

He nods. Today is going to be a great day.

Sherlock eyes John skeptically. "Are you sure you're fine to walk?" 

"I'm a big boy, Sherlock; I think I can handle walking the few steps to the rink by myself."

"You haven't even stood up yet and you're already wobbling," Mariana points out.

"Yep, very helpful, thanks." John grunted petulantly. He attempts to stand, instinctually grabbing Sherlock's arm for support when he immediately stumbles. The three of them make their way to the ice.

Mariana is the first to make it there, not having been hindered by the task of keeping John upright. She steps onto the ice with ease, skating with grace.

Sherlock is next to enter the rink, calm and balanced. John is close behind, one arm still around the detective's shoulders, the other shooting out to grip onto the wall for balance. He plants a foot on the ice. He slips.

"Woah!" He falls backwards, landing square on his bum with a thud. Sherlock grabs the wall last minute for support, having almost been taken down with the doctor.

"Are you quite alright, Watson?" He queries worriedly like he didn’t also just almost fall.

"Yeah. Yeah- yeah, I'm fine, just- er- lost my balance there, landed on my tailbone," comes John's winced reply.

Mariana skates over, having noticed John sitting on the ground with Sherlock standing over him. She puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You okay, John? Did you fall?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine. Feet just slipped out from under me is all." John is already getting back up, using both of his roommates' hands for support. 

They lead him to the edge of the rink where he can hold onto the wall to steady himself. As Sherlock and Mariana step back, John carefully shifts his stance, trying to balance properly. "You two go on ahead, I'll catch up."

Sherlock hesitates, "Are you sure?"

"I'll be fine, go have fun," John takes a hand off the wall to wave dismissively and almost loses his footing. Both Mariana and Sherlock practically leap forward to catch the doctor, but he beats them to it when he quickly returns his hand to the wall.

Mariana tries to placate the stubborn man, "We can just go, John you don't have to-" 

"No- no- seriously, go. Go skate. Now." John adamantly interrupts. They know they will get nowhere arguing with him so they do. 

They both keep an eye on the unbalanced podcaster, as they skate around the rink, and after a while, John even joins them. They talk and laugh and show off to each other, spinning and moonwalking on the ice. 

It's maybe 30 minutes in, when John finally trips, left foot catching on the back of right, and he tumbles, taking down Mariana who was holding his hand and sliding into Sherlock who was only a few feet in front. Within seconds, there was a small pile of consulting detectives giggling at the situation and wincing at the surely forming bruises.

"Watson, it's completely safe, I assure you-"

"Sherlock, I don't care if it could withstand a bomb, I refuse to be the first to die in this horror movie."

Mariana smiles at their antics, chiding, "John, don't be so dramatic, it's just a trip to the aquarium!"

"Yeah and Jaws was 'just a job'." 

"Watson, we are walking through a chamber over the sharks, not hunting them." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John pauses in his protests, seeming to question his sanity for a moment. "...Did you just make a Jaws reference?" 

"Yes...?"

"Just for that, I'll do it." John acquiesced.

"What?" Now it was Sherlock's turn to question things.

"I'll do the shark- chamber- or whatever it's called-"

"Shark Walk," Mariana supplies.

"Yeah, that. I'll do the Shark Walk with you."

"Oh." After a moment of processing, Sherlock’s face splits into an excited grin and he takes off down the hall.

It's barely a full 60 seconds before they are standing on the transparent platform, John clutching onto Sherlock for dear life as they look down at the swimming beasts below.

"Magnificent aren't they?" Sherlock mused.

"Gorgeous." Mariana breathes out in awe.

"Terrifying." John shudders.

"Hardly," Sherlock counters.

"They're predators, mate! They're dangerous!" 

"Not to humans," Mariana replies as they begin walking down the corridor.

"Oh really?" John says skeptically.

"You're significantly more likely to get struck by lightning than attacked by a shark, Watson, there is really nothing to worry about." Sherlock defends.

"Especially considering that we live in central London," Mariana adds.

"Okay, but- What the hell is that?!" John startles as he finally takes in his new surroundings and notices an ugly looking fish behind the glass.

Sherlock follows his gaze. "An Anarhichas Lupus, the Atlantic Wolffish."

"It's horrifying!"

"Aww, it's kind of cute," Mariana comments, finally catching sight of the thing.

John is incredulous. "No it's not!?"

"It's known for its teeth." Sherlock grins and pulls out his phone.

"Nope. Nope. Next room!" John hurries them out of there, not eager to witness whatever monstrosity of an image that Sherlock is no doubt googling; he'd like to sleep tonight, thanks. 

They continue exploring the aquarium, stopping to look through every window for at least a moment. Sherlock bounces on the balls of his feet and periodically lists facts on just about every creature that drifts by. John and Mariana happily listen to the detective's excited rambles, making comments every so often about everything from the information he's giving them to the scenery and staging of the tanks. They've just shuffled past the stingrays when suddenly they are alone in the ocean tunnel, stopping in their tracks to gawk. It's mesmerizing. 

The light shining down through the water casts a ripple of blue upon everything as sea turtles and fish swim by. They sit down. It's quiet and peaceful and serene and they could truly stay there forever under the water.

"Wow," John breathes, his face obstructed by the ever-shifting caustic network refracting down on them as they gawk up at the necklace carpetshark above.

It must be hours before any of them move, time passing calmly as they watch the creatures swim around them.

"-en the frames are secured in a machine called an extractor that uses centrifugal force to flinging the honey out without damaging the wax comb so that the bees can-" 

They're back in the darkened sitting room of 221B after Archie's walk. John sits on the sofa, Sherlock's head in his lap. He runs his fingers through the chattering detective's curls as they watch a documentary about beekeeping. Mariana sits on the floor opposite them, smiling at the scene before her. They'd had dinner together less than an hour before, all sneaking a bite or two to the now half asleep bulldog, though none of them would ever admit it. Archie lies curled up by Sherlock's feet, half-listening to every word that falls from his favorite person's lips, even if he has know idea what he's saying. 

As the documentary comes to a close, Mariana gets up, slipping into John's room for a moment before returning with a couple of brightly decorated packages.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"Gifts." John smiles down at him.

John had got him a new violin case, monogramed with a silver plaque donning his name and inscribed internally. 

"Happy Birthday! Try to keep it down, people are sleeping." Sherlock reads out with a small huff of laughter. The case is a deep blue leather with silver hardware and lined in soft velvet. His favorite color, he notes with a warm smile.

Mariana had bought him a handful of items, a botany kit, some chocolates from Spain, an antique surgical kit, and a small plushie.

"A stuffed rat?" He questions, holding the soft object as if it may bite him.

"It has a removable pouch that you can heat up in the microwave. I thought you might like having a warm friend to cuddle." She explains, smiling gently.

Sherlock seems to look at the toy in a different light for a moment before bringing it to his chest and hugging it tightly. The sight is adorable and his best friends can't help the warm feeling that comes over them watching as the detective buries his face in the cuddly rat, his glasses getting pushed up into his hair. 

After a while, Sherlock turns his head to the side, looking at his friends gratefully. 

"Thank you," He whispers.

They both smile softly at him, no words needing to be said. 

They stay like that for a moment until John's face does something odd and he abruptly blurts out, "Oh! I almost forgot!" before taking off down the stairs to Mariana's flat.

A few minutes later, Archie lifts his head at the sound of his owner coming back up the stairs. The door is soon shoved open by John, carrying a moderately-sized round cake with patchy blue frosting and frankly illegible writing on top. John grins as he places it on the coffee table, shooing away the overly curious bulldog.

Sherlock stares almost unbelievingly at the cake. It's lopsided and ugly and missing chunks, but that's not what's caught his attention. Rather, he's hung up on why it's there at all.

"Why...?" He trails off.

"It's supposed to say 'Happy Birthday Sherlock', but it's surprisingly hard to write in frosting," John unhelpfully amends.

"But..." Sherlock starts, "why would you make me a cake?"

"Do you not like it?" John asks, insecurity bleeding into his voice.

"No no no, I- I love it! It's just..." 

"Oh Sherlock," Mariana looks at him with a gentle understanding, "We got a cake to celebrate your birthday, to celebrate you."

"But why?"

John catches on. "Because we love you, Sherls." 

"Oh."

John and Mariana smile kindly at him. 

Sherlock looks back at the cake. The wonderful, ugly, homemade cake that his friends baked and decorated for him. The gesture alone seems to ooze with their love for him and that image seeps in and warms his bones. He takes a deep breath and carefully blows out the candle.  

As the candle smoke curls up and disappears, John grins at his best friend. "So, what'd you wish for?" 

Sherlock doesn't answer that. Not because of superstition, but simply that he didn't wish at all. He doesn't need to, he already has everything he could ever want: John and Mariana, two people who love him unconditionally. A family.

[sandcobangevent]

Holding you close, never letting go

By @falling-raine and @brother_m1ne

“I’m not telling her anything! Why did you do it?!?” Sherlock shouts at Abe.

“Sherlock, get off of him,” John asks him, barely able to conjure up a voice above a whisper, given the pain in his chest.

“Why did you do it? You fool!” He’s still shouting at Abe. John would like to protest, he really would, but he’s winded and his chest is tight, and Sherlock looks wonderful, he just can’t.

“I- she told me- in her songs- It- I followed her.” Ridiculous, John tries to mutter. Only to be interrupted by Sherlock’s slender fingers wrapping around the column of Abe’s throat. Squeezing the air from his lungs.

“You killed an innocent man- you tried to kill my best friend! You bastard!” John is only slightly flattered by the passion in his voice.

“Sherlock- just- get off him.” John has moral objections to the excessive torture of another human being, even if said human being isn’t a good one. The man is crazy, yes. But that’s through no fault of his own. That’s his mind, this wasn’t a conscious decision. He’s deluded. And sure, Abe has almost lost that status of human, but John still finds himself objecting to his unnecessary pain. 

“I meant what I said- I’m going to kill him.”

“He’s dying mate- stop- he’s dying.” Abe’s breathing begins to labour, clearly, any breath is forced by this point. 

“He’s going.” John reminds Sherlock, a plea for him to take it easy on the other man.

“Well, before you go, Abe. You deserve to know the truth.” John’s heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach. You can’t do that. You can’t reality check a deluded man. Delusions are like liquid. It will fit whatever space you put it in. You will always be wrong, there will always be a justification for what you are saying, reality will never hit them. You are wasting your energy.

“Sherlock.”

“You’re delusional. Elsie shot herself. She shot herself because she knew you’d come back.”

Sherlock… Oh Sherls. 

“You’re wrong.” Abe objects

“She’s fighting for her life in hospital- she’s never been communicating with you. Ever.” Abe’s eyes are full of fear. That fear is probably coming from his impending mortality, John reminds himself. There is no way Sherlock's words are hitting Abe properly. You cannot fool a delusion.

“You don’t know shit- you- she told- to come back. To rescu-” He pleads, coughing and spluttering his words out.

Sherlock leans into Abe’s ear, whispering loudly, “This is the first time until today.. That you have run away... I’m asking you for the first time... Love me enough now to stay..”

“No!”

“Come back. Baby, come back. Baby, come back.” Sherlock keeps singing as Abe chokes on the blood pooling in his thoracic cavity from the wound. As Abe fades, so does Sherlock’s song until both are gone. Only then does Sherlock release his hands from the ghost of Abe’s neck. The marks are left on both of them. This particular ghost will haunt John for a while, and he knows it. 

“John,” Sherlock asks, now turning to face his friend.

“Sherlock.”

“Please don’t be hurt. Are you hurt?”

“No, Sherlock. I’m fine, it’s okay.” He crawls up behind John, wrapping his arms around the man’s delicate centre. John seethes. 

“Let me take this off. Please.” 

“Excuse-”

“The vest, John. Please.” John nods quietly at the other man, who begins to unbuckle the bulletproof vest. He gently pulls it from John’s body and down his arms, trying to avoid grazing any skin for fear of further injuring his friend. Sherlock reaches his slender arms across John’s body, carefully clasping his hands around his chest and whispering gently into his shoulder, “I was so scared.”

“Me too,” John replies, lying back into Sherlock. He closes his eyes, resting on the other man, listening to their breathing sync up while they take turns glancing at each other just to check they’re both still where they think they are.

Footsteps clatter up the corridor, likely the police. Neither man moves. They’ve found too much comfort in the other's arms. They watch as the police storm in, move toward Abe, check he’s dead, check they’re both okay, call the forensics team. Both just stare, cathartic in each other's arms. They only move when the sun sets

; they even do that hand in hand. 

Notes:

[sandcobangevent]

The Business of Loving

By @miiints-repostiory and @paperleef

Red.

The deep, rich reds of life splatter the walls, a glittering, thick paint which mother nature used to color every being she called her offspring. It would soon coagulate, the pure essence of existence quickly corrupted by the frigid air of adulterated space-- sweet, imperceptible life, distilled in the most sacred of substances-- blood-- could never last long under the dark scrutiny of the unholy viewer, under the glare of God.

The doctor groans, leaning into his earl-- the tall, lean detective a solid island for his mind to grasp onto as the rest of reality swims. 

"My Earl?" Holmes' gaze finally flickers back to the man in his arms, a hand slick with gore coming up to tilt his head this way and that. His Boswell makes some wry, helpless sound, swooning in the detective's embrace. 

There had been another. 

He knew it before the signs had revealed themselves-- the look in his dear Boswell's eyes was telling enough on its own-- there was another, and he had been defiled- disgraced and degraded by the cruel, disgusting claws of another. 

The marks, the disarray of their hotel room-- it was clear, some filthy thing, lower than the rat or raccoon, had sought a feast in this room-- but they'd only found a fight, and in the process of flaying them, the detective must've lost himself to the heat of rage. Watson's cool hand comes up, shivering, to cup his cheek. 

"Holmes, I'm here," he sucks in a shaky breath, "I'm alright, Holmes-- Are you with me?" 

Holmes lets his eyes slip closed, taking in the grounding sensation of the doctor's palm against his cheek, the subtle weight of him in the vampire's lap. Slowly, he nods. 

"I am, but it is no matter-- are you alright, Watson? Please, tell me that creature did not hurt you," he fumbles frantically with the top latches of Watson's vest and dress shirt, only calming when all he feels is soft, sweet skin and a strong heart pounding in his chest. 

His expression is telling, though. 

"It's nothing to concern yourself with, Holmes," even so, the doctor wheezes when moving to sit up. Holmes' hand cascades along his torso and waist, but then something clicks. 

The pain paired with the lack of wounds, the deep red stains on his shirt, dizziness, a wavering sense of balance--

"The serum. You took it--- They hurt you--" 

"Holmes--"

"You're hurt, John!" The detective takes his boswell by the shoulders, sharpened claws pressing into his skin. Sherlock's typically calm gaze is blown wide with turbulent emotion. 

The doctor shivers and Holmes immediately retracts, fear overwhelming his  fury for a moment. He tenses, "I-- ghhr-" and sputters, choosing instead to click and snap his hand in rhythm. The sound is akin to the gentle ticking of a clock, if said clock had been running at ten times the speed, of course.

"Sherlock, really, I am fine-- You saved me, my dear. The pain won't last...I- simply didn't want you to worry." 

"Is it not the business of love to worry? Is that not what you called it time and time again, when Moriarty had me backed into a corner, when you've caught me strung out in a daze?" 

Holmes shakes his head, "I may seem something heartless and calculating to most, but I do fear deeply for you, my dear--- If something happened to you, I could never forgive myself. I would lose my mind without you, Watson." 

The biographer takes his muse by the hand, cradling delicate fingers in his own broader digits with a little squeeze. "I truly didn't mean to imply anything like that, my dear Holmes...I--" 

A soft sigh escapes him. Watson traces a circle into the vampire's lower back, who quickly takes the opportunity to nestle himself in his dear doctor's embrace. "You must know it's in my nature to consider myself humbly..." 

Holmes hums, “To a fault.”

"I owe you a thousand apologies, my earl." He merely sighs. 

"You owe me none. It is I who failed to protect you."

"Holmes,"

"You have been violated most cruelly, treated as a fair carcass, a golden banquet to be indulged upon-- a free-for-all feast. And yet here you are, worrying on whether I will take it well, when it is I who's failed you time and time again." 

"Holmes."

"Always, Watson, even I am so cruel with you as to take advantage of your kindness constantly-- I should have expected another would see an opportunity there as well and prepared you for it--" 

"Sherlock!"

A sharp flinch-- now it is Holmes' turn to be held deftly by his shoulders, his Boswell's grasp just as firm but a hundred times more gentle. The vampire relaxes minutely, not meeting Watson's gaze. 

He sighs, speaking slowly-- as though each word needed careful consideration beforehand, "I am not some damsel to be saved, my dear. I know worry is merely the nature of attachment, but you must know I am capable, Holmes." Watson's hold relaxes, his hands shifting to slowly massage tension out of Holmes' shoulders and arms. 

"It is in the business of love to worry, yes, but so is trust, my earl," The doctor very carefully brings their foreheads together, his muse finally looking back at him. 

"I cannot describe in words how deeply I am honored to receive your care. Your brand of affection-- it is oozing with love more than anything else could. More than any heart could be drained purely of blood when crushed by the cold fist of truth."

"My dear Watson...."

"But I beg of you to trust me, Holmes. I worry deeply for you too, almost every second of a case I am worried for you. But I trust you, Sherlock. I trust you." 

All is quiet in the gorish room for just long enough to take one's heart rate. Holmes sighs, sinking into Watson's embrace bonelessly. He takes claim of the space between the writer's jaw and shoulder, gingerly pressing a kiss to the hollow of his neck. Watson hums, pleased. 

"I do, dear fellow, I swear I do, but..." 

Watson cradles him, nails gently scratching at his scalp, then trailing down to card through his hair. 

"I know, Holmes. I understand."

The detective sighs. 

"Then you must know it is no fault of yours?" 

"Of course. I know fully, my dear. There is no fault on your part, either." 

A wry little chuckle escapes him, "Forever too kind, my Boswell."  

Watson hums a tune of mirth as well, "Someone must show your clients some sympathy." Holmes cannot help but laugh more clearly at that, his whole body overtaken by tremors of gaiety. 

Cooling to a slightly more serious tone, the detective looks up at his biographer, "I still must make it up to you, my dear Watson, for now I have unintentionally breached another line of yours. Despite your impeccable temperament, I feel my actions are errant and deserving of proper follow-up." 

Watson traces the careful form of the vampire in his arms, mapping out the planes of his back, his shoulders, and his neck-- hand only coming to a stop at Holmes' cheek, which is stroked affectionately by thumb. 

"Consider yourself forgiven if you indulge in a proper dinner this evening. And, of course, if you could deign yourself to helping me clean this garish room." 

Sherlock smiles for a moment, a soft, earnest thing uncharacteristic to the typically petulant and cool expressions of Holmes. 

Then he sighs, full quickly filled with drama, and flops back against the floorboards.

"If I must, my dear Watson." It sounds almost strenuous, but good humour sparkles in his eyes. He tosses an arm over his forehead, looking like a distressed maiden, "The things I put myself through, for your sake..." 

The poet laughs heartily at that, smacking Holmes' thigh. 

"Get up, you impish fiend." 

"Am I your favorite fiend, Watson? Your beloved little wretch, your darling minx?" 

Watson rolls his eyes, taking a moment to admire Holmes' lithe frame as it is highlighted by the sparkling moon. He sits up and leans over, pressing a kiss to the detective's chest that elicits a little giggle. 

"Always, Holmes." 

[sandcobangevent]

Wounds heal better with Sweet words

By @el-on-mars and rusnuz

“Quite.. the place.. Well, listeners, we have finally gotten to the old warehouse. It looks just like your typical abandoned building, except we have suspicion of an... abduction happening. Unfortunately. But maybe, just maybe, this exploration will lead us in the right direction of solving this case!”     “And I’d hope we do it without being stalled by your commentary..”     “Hey! I was about to give credit to you for finding this place!”     “...Would that change anything?”     “Well. I suppose not really but, argh just let me finish yeah? Sherlock had deduced from the previous murders that the next victim should be in this abandoned building, and, well, we’ll get to test that theory out right now.”     “Of course we will, Watson! And I know the whereabouts of that awful man. So, onwards!”  

“Pft, alright mate.”  

Sherlock stepped into the doorway of the warehouse, John followed by into the darkness of the concrete walls.     They were on a stealth mission to investigate and potentially locate the murderer that’s been causing the murders for a couple of weeks now. The murderer had found the best hiding spots and, unfortunately, taken the lives of already 5 innocent people... Cruel world, this reality.     John focused on the “saving the hostage” part rather than anything else as he took a look at the building from the inside.     21:07 upon the time of arrival, John checked, no lights inside, mostly dark except for the few beams of dim light coming from the street lamps outside. Perfect hiding conditions for the both detectives and their plan. Well, mostly Sherlocks plan, but John couldn’t just sit around and not accompany Sherlock for such a mission like this.     “So... You think the victim is really being kept here somewhere?” John whispered as they began to walk into darkness.     “I know they are,” Sherlock whispered back, “it has been empty buildings, the same situations, repetition every time. I’m sure of it.”     “Well, better believe that than expect to find nobody here. Though, best case scenario, there really wouldn’t be anybody here, and the killer would live your average, non-murderous lifestyle! Like an average person does.”   “Watson.” Sherlock warned sternly.     “Yep. Sorry. Focus.” 

They walked down a long and narrow isle of concrete all around them, occasionally, metal pipes would climb up the walls and trail off in inconsistent directions. No further conversation was held, the only noise were the soft footsteps on dusty concrete and probably a few insects scattering away and in the holes in the old broken surface.      They were soon met with a wall which had a door sized opening on the left. Sherlock turned to face John as he almost voicelessly spoke: “We’re here.”     John felt an unease settle in his gut. Were they really at the end already? Was there really a person on the other side of those walls? Either his intuition was wrong, or Sherlock was right..      One is a much more trustable source than the other.     Sherlock, seemingly sensing the increased nervousness, told quietly: “We are going to save a person from death, no need to worry about anything else.”     It was hard to believe these words at the moment. Well, yea, they are going to save someone, but John was worried about a million of other things as well! The state of the kidnapped person, the location of the murderer.. where could he be right now? And what if he was currently in this same building. What then? What if someone gets hurt? What if Sherlock gets hurt..      No, John wouldn’t let that happen. He will keep an eye out for any danger. And he will not let anybody get hurt.      He finally answered Sherlock:  “Yeah.. yeah sorry, you’re right... Let’s go then?”     Sherlock hummed a small sound of confirmation and entered into the opening. John followed quickly behind, not leaving him alone, not leaving them vulnerable.     At the end of the short tunnel, a dim light poured in from the next opening, an invitation and the destination of their mission.     John quickly went in front of Sherlock and quietly spoke: “If.. if anything were to happen, let me take the hit, alright? I have my gun with me, just stay safe.”     Sherlock stood baffled for a moment before speaking up.      “Watson, that is kind, but I assure you-“  

“I need to make sure that you’re alright... Ok?”     A sigh escaped from Sherlock and he nodded, and they slowly entered the dimly lit room.     In the far corner, right in front of their eyes sat a person tied up to the chair with simple white ropes and their mouth was covered with duct tape. They were looking at the ground, not even noticing the rescuers that stood a few metres away.     It was John who spoke up to get their attention: “Hey..”     The person jumped up from the scare, eyes wide and now bubbling up with tears.     “Hey! No we’re here to rescue you, alright? You’ll be fine, I promise. We’ll get you out of here.”     John spoke softly as he stepped towards the person and managed to remove the duct tape from their mouth.      “.. . Thank you..”     “No worries. Now, let me get you untied from this chair..”     Though his motions were interrupted by a yelp from Sherlock right as he got stabbed in his lower abdomen, the murderer holding him from behind.      “NO!”      John screamed as he swiftly took out his gun, pointing it to the murderers face.     The man roughly removed the knife from Sherlocks stomach and he fell down to the ground, shaking from the trauma.     “SHERLOCK! No.. just.. . Oh god.”     Tears were streaming down his face. Sherlock was bleeding out. He hadn’t kept his promise...     John had to act fast. Much faster than his mind could even think.     “Now.. you can put the gun down, and you can help out your friend while he’s still breathing. Or I can kill all of you on the spot-“     John caught the murderer off guard by shooting out just above his head, and in a second of vulnerability, John punched him in the face, the knife fell out of the murderers hands and John punched him again, and again, and then pushed the murderers body against the wall, where it fell down bruised and unconscious.     The victim was sobbing and hiccupping, unable to do anything while being tied up. They were watching Sherlock as he somehow managed to breathe out: “good work, Watson.”     John, still high on adrenaline, dropped straight next to Sherlock, not even checking the wound but taking off his jacket and pressing it into Sherlocks stomach. He had experienced many events just like this in the army, but Sherlock was someone he couldn’t lose.     “It’ll be ok Sherlock trust me I’ll get you to the hospital and you’ll be ok! You will be ok. I can't lose you Sherlock I can't lose you too..”     Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed in agreement.      “I won’t go anywhere without you, John.” Sherlock breathed.     “You’ll be ok you’ll be fine well be ok you will survive you’ll be alright...” Was all John could say as he applied deep pressure to the wound. Sherlock couldn’t lose blood. He already had about a 10th of it lost, maybe more. They needed to get to the hospital asap.     “John..”     “Sherlock I.. I need to call the hospital. Now.”     “John, you’re doing amazing.”     He really didn’t have time for compliments, no matter how good it felt to receive them from Sherlock.      John asked sternly: “Sherlock, you’ll need to hold the jacket tightly on the wound while I call for help, ok?”     Deep breaths filled the air, Sherlock had managed to stay calm, he replied: “Anything for you, John..”     “... Everything for You, Sherlock..”

The drive to the hospital was fast and anxiety ridden.    The medics managed to find them in about 5 minutes time. The victim was taken and immediately set up on a nourishment system and given water, and Sherlock had his stab wound properly closed for the time being of the drive. They would need to inspect him before deciding on taking him into surgery or not.    The murderer was being dealt with by the police, though John couldn’t give a flying fuck about that disgusting man. Hopefully, he’s put in jail before they can even arrive to the hospital.   Mariana was contacted right away in the truck, and also while crying, asked which hospital would they be housed in.   Upon the arrival, Sherlock got taken away into the examination room and John was left alone in the lobby, utterly devastated that Sherlock got so badly injured.    He had promised him that he’d keep him safe. Promised that nothing would happen to him.    It didn’t make it any better that this was the same situation that Mary was in...   And she had died.    The exact same situation was happening right now, so, how could John stop crying? How could he deal with knowing that Sherlock might not open his eyes again? That this was the last of the interactions he had with his best friend? The last of everything..?   The entrance door swung open as Mariana came rushing in and immediately wrapped John into a tight hug, both of them sobbing; they couldn’t believe this had just happened.  

“Are you ok, John?”  “I’m... Yea, physically, I am perfectly alright.”  “..How did this even happen..”  “I told him I’d keep him safe.”  “He is safe. He’s alive.”  “I..” staggered breathing and sobs were bitten down as John mumbled the sentence.  “It’s just like with Mary.”  “Ohh John, no. No. Nonono. Sherlock won’t die. He’s stronger than he looks. He wont die. He can’t, actually! He will survive this, and do you know why I’m saying that?”  Silence. John only saw a blurry image of Mariana through his tears.  “I’m saying that because he had, might i say, the best army doctor treat him, and keep him alive. He will get through this John. I know he will.”  They embraced each other again as John let out a sigh.   “...yea, he will.” 

------------

“...and he ATE the cheese! Can you believe that?!”    “..gross.”    “Exactly.”    Mariana ended her story and sighed while glancing at the time on her phone.    “It is kinda late already. We should get going, John.”    “Yeah.. yeah in a minute. I want to discuss something with Sherles if that’s alright?”    “Sure! But be quick, I think we’ve bored Sherlock out of his mind by now.”    “Not at all,” Sherlock replied “It is quite too underwhelming in here. Your presence is greatly appreciated.”    “Awwwh! Well of course, Sherlock, someone’s got to keep an eye on you!”     “And you’ll be let out soon enough, don’t you worry,” John chimed in.    “Alright, I’ll wait for you outside, John. Goodnight Sherlock!”    “Goodbye Mariana.”    And the two of them were left alone in the room. John had so many words to say, too many thoughts to string together a coherent sentence. Should he even bring this up? After the surgery went well and Sherlock was in perfectly good recovering conditions..     Sherlock, perhaps out of sheer boredom, perhaps out of understanding the complicated feelings John was experiencing, sneered: “I don’t know how much is “quick” by Marianas terms, but you are taking way longer to say your thoughts than the time limit you’ve been given.”    “Yeah, shit, sorry... I just don’t know where to begin? It all happened so fast, too quick, I barely had time to react..”    “You did, though.”    John hummed in agreement: “I did. I think..”    John wasn’t even sure where to lead his thoughts anymore, he felt like he had to tell every detail of every feeling and emotion he had experienced, mostly of those surrounding the image of Sherlock being injured, unsteady...    “..you did. The evidence is saying that right in front of your eyes.” Sherlock added and smiled warmly.     “I.. I don’t know if I can believe that... You passed out Sherlock..”    “Hm. ‘Suppose I did.” Sherlock remarked and supposedly tried to remember exactly when and how he had passed out. But to no luck.    John continued: “You lost.. a lot. Of blood. Not enough to be fatal but God.. I couldn’t even... 

I can’t...”    He had trouble finishing the sentence. Saying his feelings out loud were proving to be much more challenging than saying them in his head. All the things he could say right now amounted to only one ending. And he didn’t want to bother Sherlock with his pain while he was injured and definitely needed more support than listening to John vent about what he has been through.      Sherlock has been through worse. Much worse.     “You know you can trust me with anything, right? I don’t want you to hide. Not from me, not from your own feelings, John.”    Sherlock, as always, read John like a picture book. And what he said was true- John could trust Sherlock with anything.     John gathered up his words and finally said:    “I can’t lose you like Mary...”    These words had many implications. John didn’t want to lose another person that he held dear to him. He didn’t want to lose a person he loves. And he loved Sherlock unlike anything else in the world. He thought, perhaps even more than Mary...    Sherlock took Johns hand and held it in his, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles.    “As I had said before – I am not going anywhere without You, John.”    And for some reason right now, John could believe his words. Maybe it will be alright. Maybe it is ok to believe that Sherlock will recover just fine and they could go back to living their crime-solving lives as they had before.

John felt it to be an appropriate time to say “I love you”, for any reasons that bubbled up inside him.    “I... Love you too.”    Yep. Definitely something warm bubbled inside John and he couldn’t help but smile looking at Sherlock and knowing the impact of these words that were exchanged between them.     “Do these words hold significant meaning beyond the terms of our friendship?”    Well that certainly wasn’t what John expected to hear, he didn’t really have time to think or respond as the door croaked open, a familiar face appearing from behind it.    “John, the visit time’s over, c’mon!”    “Be there in a sec’!” nodded back at Mariana, but turned his head back to Sherlock and asked: “Tomorrow?”    Sherlock squeezed his fingers around Johns hand and whispered: “Tomorrow.”    They broke the contact and said goodbyes, both of the men now had something to think through while they were away from each other.     John thought about “the terms of their friendship” and concluded that there may be something more than what he had previously thought about. Something deeper, more intimate.     John decided that he could be alright with these feelings. 

[sandcobangevent]

Good Grief

By @shinymoonforest and saturn11dae

—- ˚ ༘ ⋆ —-

Sherlock never understood emotions very well. How they worked, how others experienced them in comparison to him, how he was either “too much” or “too apathetic” … All of this and more was a bit of a mystery to him, despite spending years trying to study people’s reactions. 

Detective Holmes had solved some of the toughest cases in the UK, from online creeps to diamond thieves, and yet emotions felt more difficult than almost anything he had ever experienced.

And this new emotion was no exception.

He and his friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson, were spending time at The Volunteer, the latter’s favorite local pub. It was nothing out of the ordinary that evening; a few drinks, a few laughs, spending time with his flatmate. Yet despite this, a sinking feeling made itself more known in Sherlock’s chest. Except it wasn’t sinking, rather it was… floating? Bubbly? Empty? He wasn’t sure what to make of it as he rocked back and forth in his chair, making popping noises with his mouth. Something that the doctor seemed to catch onto after a minute or two.

“You alright Sherls?” he inquired, noticing the other’s common methods of self regulation at play. Sherlock, meanwhile, merely looked at John with his lips tightly pressed together. It almost mimicked the constrictive feelings in his chest, as much as he tried to fight them. 

“Sherlock?” John asked again, brow now furrowed with worry after not initially receiving an answer. “Sensory overload?”

An assumption, based on past experiences with public places, but a correct one at that, and Sherlock quickly seized the opportunity to leave their current situation with a brisk nod.

“Alright- Hey, that’s okay, we can head home if you’d like- Would you like that?”

Another nod, his hand now fidgeting with his own shirt, as if he could twist this pressure free.

“Okay, gotcha, I’ll just—uhh— Oi, ‘xcuse me mate! Can we get the bill?”

—- 𖦹 —-

“It’s really rather difficult to explain, Watson,” huffed Mr. Holmes, quickly taking off his shoes and beginning to pace around the flat. The poor doctor nearly had to sprint to keep up with his flatmate, who had gotten a head start in storming out of the pub when the noise supposedly got too overwhelming.

“What, even for you?” John scoffed, earning a look from the detective and a nervous smile for himself. “Right, bad time— bad joke— If you don’t want to explain it, you don’t have to, mate, but it might help a bit if I knew what was going on.”

“Well, what if I don’t want to?” he chided back, finally bringing his movements to a stop with a curled up seat on the couch. 

“Then you don’t have to,” the podcaster replied, through which Sherlock could hear the sigh in his voice and thought that perhaps his tone was a bit harsh. “I’ll get your sensory things.”

As John wandered further into the flat to grab a few things for his friend, Sherlock’s mind couldn't help but begin to spiral. Clearly, he decided, this wasn’t a sensory issue - at least, not fully. He gave a nod and signed ‘thank you’ upon being handed his ear defenders first and foremost, but even with them on he still felt overwhelmed by something. It spiked and simmered in his chest with each back and forth the doctor made, rising and falling like his breathing, his heartbeat. Even in his current state he can deduce this, that something about the man was causing a disturbance in his mind. It was horribly distracting to his deduction process - an attribute he had noticed in some of their previous cases - and he wasn’t going to figure out what on Earth was bothering him so much with those sparks dancing in his head. 

“I am going for a walk,” declared the detective, suddenly standing from his current position on the couch just as John was about to hand him a cup of tea. The beverage is held by the perplexed podcaster for a few moments, too stunned to speak even as his flatmate begins to walk to the door. With ear defenders, no shoes, and a blanket still draped around his shoulders, he adds, “I would not like to be disturbed,” before closing the door behind himself. He could hear the confused sigh behind the door of 221B, the supposed placing of his cup of tea before John wandered off to do something else. 

It only stirred around the pit in his chest even more.

So he wandered down the stairs to the closest place that he could decompress and process… everything, really. 

221A. The door was shut faster than it was opened, somehow, causing Ms. Ametxazurra to practically jump in her seat. “Sherlock, wha-??” “Do not worry, Mariana, I am simply in need of an area to self-regulate.” Right on cue, the detective begins to pace back and forth in the flat. “And you can’t do this in your own room? It has to be my flat?” “Yes, of course it does!” he groaned with frustration, throwing his hands in the air as he spoke before they began to move repetitively. Mariana’s curiosity grew at the sight of such an abrupt entrance followed by such a tone. She paused her current TV show and resigned to watching Sherlock instead, attempting to discern what could be bothering him. 

“...Would you… want to talk about it?” She inquires following a pause. “First Watson, now you, for goodness sake-” The man stopped himself, both physically and verbally, from going any further after recognizing the tone of his voice. A deep breath was taken, in for four counts, holding for seven, out for eight, just as he had practiced and performed so many times in the past. Many times still, most likely, in the future, given the complications his own mind could cause him. The accountant noticed this technique and noted its implications, worry lines forming within her expression. “Sorry.” “It’s okay,” Mariana acknowledged, turning her body towards Sherlock and her full attention with it. “Frustrated?” “Very,” he started, his pacing picking up again. “There is a certain individual whose very presence causes me to feel sick. Or… not exactly “sick,” rather… anxious. Confused. A whirlwind of different emotions combined into one that seems as though it should make sense, and yet it doesn’t. I feel as though there is a great storm in my chest, sirens blaring, red lights flashing, a swarm of chaos ready to explode right out of my body. Just the same, this person brings me peace, comfort, stability, and while I do not understand how these two polar opposites can co-exist I do understand that it’s fairly overwhelming that-” He stopped. “Why are you laughing?” Sure enough, the Spaniard had partially put a hand over her mouth to try (and fail) at hiding her smile, only for small bits of laughter to slither through her fingers. “Sorry, sorry, cariño, I’m not laughing at you- well- I’m not laughing at your feelings-” “Then what?” he inquired, albeit with a bit of childlike impatience. “Just- you being you, Sherlock. I promise you, you’re getting yourself all worked up over something that’s not nearly as bad as you think it is.” “You have the answer, then?” This had grabbed the detective’s attention, his eyes widening as he stepped closer to her. She, in turn, made a silent offer for him to sit next to her on the couch, to which he quickly accepted.

“Mhm.” “Well?” “Love.” And all of a sudden, everything stops. The heightened heart rate, the restlessness, even the stimming all completely freezes as soon as that word is uttered by her lips and processed in his ears. “It’s… complicated, for sure,” Mariana continued, “But also beautiful. And messy, and charming, and chaotic, peaceful, gut-wrenching, comforting… That’s love. It’ll make you question everything and feel completely right all at once. The right person makes you absolutely frustrated with how much you adore them, one way or another, even if they frustrate you to hell and back sometimes.” Sherlock chuckled at this last comment, as if finally releasing some of that built up pressure in his chest. Still nervous, but it’s something.

“I’m not surprised that it’s overwhelming you, from what I can tell-” He nodded in response to this, both confirming her observation and urging her to go on. “But the only way to push through this feeling is to confront it. Otherwise, you may as well explode from pushing it down so much.”

“How on Earth would I go about doing that,” the man retorted, “when I could hardly word this- this blasted feeling myself??” “Sherlock-” “No, I-” He stood up again, taking a few steps forward, a few back, circling her couch a few times as he spoke. “This- this love is metaphorically oozing out of the very core of my being, infecting everything I touch. Cases, tasks, thoughts-” “Sherlock.”

Another forced pause, as he did earlier, though this time upon hearing her firmer tone. “Please just… take a breath, we can work through this, okay?” “...Okay.” Sitting down once more, he closed his eyes and rehearsed the breathing technique taught to him what felt like ages ago. In for four… hold for seven… out for eight. “There you go,” she sighed, her voice gentle, quiet, giving him the necessary silence to take a few deep breaths. Then, just as he’s exhaling, as if able to read his mind…

“...It’s John, isn’t it?”

He opened his eyes as he exhaled, preparing mentally as his secret was fully revealed. 

“...Yes.”

Her eyes held a certain sincerity that Sherlock often admired in people. The ability to properly empathize, know generally what the right thing to say was as if it was second nature. A type of kindness he had attempted to tap into but generally saw brighter in other people rather than himself. 

People like Mariana. People like John.

“Whether or not you tell him how you feel - which you should, by the way - these feelings won’t change anything.” “But what if they do?” His counter was quick, alert, frightened, as if he had rolled this thought through the crevices of his grey matter countless times.

“You really think he would stop caring for you that quickly? After all this time?” Her remark, meanwhile, came softer, her tone leaning on that apparent second nature of hers. The words gave the detective pause as he pondered them, thinking on how sensitive John had become to his needs. How he came to care for his scattered self, even when they were at odds. 

“...He did attempt to calm me even as I stormed out of the flat… Even… when I was unable to give him a straight answer as to what was happening...”

How much he cared for Sherlock, no matter what.

“And he’d do more than that, Sherlock. He has done more than that, multiple times.” “...I… I love him,” he stammered, as if fearful of the words being somehow forbidden or cursed.

“You love him,” reassured Mariana before gently going to hold one of his hands. She squeezed. He squeezed back. “And you want to tell him… don’t you?” “...I do.” “Okay,” is all she replied before aiding him in finding a solution. A plan to properly structure his feelings in word form, one way or another.

—-  ˏˋ ✸ ˎˊ —-

‘Stick to the plan,’ Sherlock told himself whilst marching back up to 221B. ‘Just stick to the plan, and everything will be fine.’ It was easy, he thought, until he was back at the door to his flat, his home, with test tubes bubbling in his gut all over again. A hum of… love, apparently, according to Mariana. One that motivates him to push open the door, albeit carefully, as if it would shatter if he rushed into things. 

John was turned away from the entrance, fixated on something in the kitchen. Archie soon perked up from his bed upon being alerted to the detective’s presence and ambled over to him, jumping up a bit to paw at his leg. A small half-laugh, half-sigh sort of noise escaped his throat, and he can’t help but lean down to give the dog his due affections. “That you, Sherls?” rang that oh-so-familiar voice, whose owner soon turned around to discover the answer to his own question. “Oh good- I uh-” He shifted back to what could now be seen as two pots on the stove. Next to it, two plates ready to go with one half of Sherlock’s favorite comfort meal.

“Did you make-?” “Yep, just ah- just finishing up the sauce here.” Soon enough, tomato sauce was poured onto the penne noodles, cooked just as it was preferred, down to the very brands of sauce that were combined to create what was often described as “the perfect array of flavors.” He really did care for him… The thought made the taller man smile.

Both men soon took their seats, glasses of water already set at the couch table that John brought their plates over to. It isn’t even a few seconds, though, until the shorter shuffled back to the kitchen to retrieve the earlier cup of tea from the microwave. “It’s not as warm as it was earlier,” he sheepishly explained after sitting back down, “but I figured it’d be a shame if I just tossed a good cuppa of Chamomile. Besides, I didn’t know if you’d want it later and-” “Thank you.” His voice was soft, though his smile seemed softer. The sight alone brought a tinge of warmth to John’s cheeks. “Oh- Yeah, of course. Anytime.” Just as that second nature of kindness fascinated Sherlock so, too, was he fascinated by the patience of some of the people around him. Never cross when emotions threw his tone and temperament out of balance (not unless it was deserved, anyhow), yet never infantilizing him due to his behavior. There were times where it felt close, yes, but many times it was for good reason. Many others it was because of genuine concern for his well-being, just as he cared for theirs. In his own way, yes, but still never usually questioned in a negative light. Another thing he admired about the man that was John Watson, it seemed…

Minutes went by filled with nothing but the clinks of forks on plates, the occasional scratches and wanderings from Archie, the doctor talking to himself and the dog a bit. All the while, Sherlock attempted to keep his metaphorical ducks in a row internally. His thoughts raced around in the waters, threatening to spill out at times where a random urge struck him, only to be pushed back by the dam that was anxiety and comforting food filling his mouth.

‘If you tell him now, you’ll ruin the plan,’ Sherlock tells himself. ‘Have dinner, then go over the bullet points, rehearse what you want to say, then just say it. That way you say everything you want to say, you don’t embarrass yourself, and-’

“I love you.” Even Archie seemed to go silent at the words, ones that the detective didn’t even realize have left his mouth until he noticed John staring back at him in awe. Maybe he didn’t hear…? “You…? Sorry, what?”

‘Bugger.’  His complexion was quick to match the podcaster’s flushed face and then surpass it, the dam beginning to crack under pressure as he finished his bite of penne, careful not to choke on it. 

“There’s a stampede in my chest that I cannot control and it drives me mad when I am around you.” The anxious stimming started as fidgeting with the fork. 

“There are times where I have to watch you through my fingers because staring at your face for too long causes a bubbling in my stomach and chest that is almost nauseating.” Then it transitioned to snapping once the plate was put down. 

“It is an absolute whirlwind that has distracted me for some time now.” Then his leg was bouncing. 

“With you I am both anxious and at peace and comforted and confused and all sorts of things in between that I can hardly decipher on my own-”

Then-

“Woah- woah woah woah-” The plate and fork alike have been placed onto the table, the blonde holding up his hands in Sherlock’s general direction. “Easy, mate, easy.”

He did his best to do so, to “take it easy,” as it may, even if he felt the exact opposite in the current moment. Alarms rang in his mind, blaring at how he had completely and utterly ballsed up his whole plan after Mariana had so carefully gone over things with him. And now what would happen? Who was to say what would happen now?

“...Sorry,” the detective murmured, looking down at his plate with a twinge of guilt tainting those striking eyes of his, complimenting the embarrassment clearly shown on his florid face.

“No, no, you’re okay!” blurted John, almost instinctively placing a hand on his arm without a second thought. “I…uhm…”

The unexpected rise in volume gave Sherlock just enough courage to raise his gaze to glance at the man next to him, only to be met with a face similar to his own. Blushing, nervous, avoiding eye contact, smiling. He was… smiling? “I… I love you too, mate...”

It was almost amusing how much four simple words could mean to a person, how much weight they can carry coming from the right people. All of this pressure inside of the detective, fizzing and soaring and popping like fireworks inside of him. A slight smile creeped onto his face, even if he did think it premature, as he hadn’t even confirmed the meaning of these four - or rather, five - words.

“You… love me? You-” “Yeah- uhm-” John cleared his throat as a means of pausing before speaking. “I have for a while, mate, I just… each time I thought about bringing it up, I got this… this sinking feeling in my chest. Like something-” “-would go horribly wrong if you revealed your feelings?” Sherlock’s smile grew as he finished John’s sentence, particularly when being met with a nod of confirmation.

“Y-Yep. Dead on there, Sherls.”

The doctor’s flatmate soon pulled him into a tight hug, burying his head in the crook of the man’s neck. A factor that, especially when he could feel his best mate’s warmth, only increased his own. Nevertheless, he hugged back tight, above the diaphragm just as Mr. Holmes liked it. His arms stayed there, too, even as they both pulled out of the hug. It worked out, though, as Sherlock’s arms also seemed comfortable wrapped around John’s torso. “I love you,” he proclaimed once more, as if to triple confirm they shared this feeling.

“I love you too,” John echoed, laughing upon being given a second, shorter hug before the detective - his detective - is zooming around the flat, jumping up and down with a grin. 

‘Good grief is he adorable when he’s happy,’ the doctor silently pondered. Because they were, truly, especially now. They were both in love and happy. 

Even if the road to the moment had its bumps, they were both content with that.

 —- ‪‪❤︎‬ —-

[sandcobangevent]

Our Love Oozes for You

By @c-hark and @peculiar-psi

INT. 221A

MARIANA

What… is this?

WATSON

This, my friend, is WHSmith's best detective game. A perfect puzzle for the two best detectives.

MARIANA

We have a whole detective agency and you bought this for… what? 

Watson rustles through the paper and box

WATSON

Yeah, based upon true crime and we don’t have Mr. Senior Detective telling us the answer.

MARIANA

Right, right. 

The two pass around the couple of cards and papers

WATSON

‘He left a note at the man’s door: ’ And it has a bunch of numbers.

MARIANA

I think that’s a cipher…

WATSON

Like the secret messages! You know I used to play scavenger hunts at home using these when Mum used to set up for my friends but they did use, y’know, letters?

MARIANA

I used to make ciphers back in high school– Here, let me see.

Watson passes the paper over and as Mariana mutters the numbers to herself, John picks up his microphone

MARIANA

“20-8-5-0”

“23-1-20-5-18”

“6-1-12-12-0”

“13-5-5-20-0”

“13-5-0-20-8-5-18-5”

“—13”

WATSON (To himself/listeners)

And that, dear podsters, is the sound of pure detective work. Join us on a lazy Saturday. With some board games and the sunlight feeding in through the windows, bathing us in a soft glow o-

The living room door slams open with a bang, showing a dishevelled Sherlock, manically looking through the mail

WATSON

What– Sherlock? What’re you looking fo- Mariana just organised those!

All three of them start scrambling around, the microphone left on the coffee table, short enough for Archie to snag into his mouth

WATSON (con’t)

Where’s my microph– Archie! Give that back!

Mariana is trying to fight through Sherlock’s obsession with finding some mystery mail in the background while Watson is chasing Archie, who has the microphone in his jaws, panting and growling into it. The microphone is dropped onto the floor with a 

click

INT. 221B LOUNGE

WATSON

So where did you say we’re going–? Actually, who is this guy? Sherlock, you’ve given us nothing but the fact he’s a criminal. If he’s such a threat, who the fuck is he! Because, yes, you’re Sherlock Holmes; you know best but if we’re all in danger I’m sure we’d like to know something!

SHERLOCK

James Moriarty, Watso- 

WATSON

Jame… Like Professor James Moriarty? The… Oh no. 

SHERLOCK

Oh no, indeed. James Moriarty’s a mastermind, who has a mind that may even oppose my own. I’m sure that… Watson, have you met him before?

WATSON

I mean… Technically? We were meant to meet dozens of times but things got in the way and we thought he got fed up and gave up–

SHERLOCK

He’s been watching… Watching us for long enough that he’s decided to strike. 

Click

INT. 221B LOUNGE

SHERLOCK

Watson… What is this?

Sherlock taps the table where the abandoned game has laid for many a day, starting to pick up the note with the code

WATSON

Oh, just some detective game me and Mari were playing earlier this week. I can clean it u-

SHERLOCK

No. This… An alphabetical cipher. Where did you get this?

WATSON

WHSmith? I mean I suppose it was the last one there. And the cheapest and– You saying it was planted there?

Sherlock ignores Watson’s query and instead mutters something incoherently as he decodes the letter in his head.

SHERLOCK

1 is A… 20… T. H… E– Oh.

Sherlock’s eyes flick over the paper as he decodes the rest in his head

SHERLOCK (con’t)

Switzerland, Schattenhalb. The Reichenbach Waterfall.

Sherlock paces back and forth in the living room, clicking his fingers as he mutters to himself

Click

INT. WATSON’S ROOM

MARIANA

I can find a couple plane tickets to Switzerland, Sherlock. Not sure if we can sit together– Summer holidays have taken up most of the–

SHERLOCK

No. No, Mariana. We cannot give away our plan. We do not have the element of surprise and realistically that is all we have. If a predator sneaks up and gives away its position, it only has the chase left. At least for us, the chase is left for us to capture. We must cover up our tracks, sneak and take him when he least expects it, if we still have that option now. Or perhaps he expects us to come en masse…

WATSON

So– So what do you expect us to do? Oh fffffuck–!

Watson bangs his leg on the table leg that holds the microphone and the only thing he gains is a mumbled question

MARIANA

Oh– John, are you… oof.

WATSON

Yeah.. Christ that hurt. Fine… Is the mic alright?

click

SHERLOCK

it would be easier– more effective even if I were to go alone

WATSON (taken aback)

What? Sherlock, Are you serious?

MARIANA

Yeah, uh what… Sherlock.

SHERLOCK

Yes, I do understand that up until this point I have allowed you t-

WATSON

‘Allowed’, yeah alright, mate.

SHERLOCK

Yes, fine. Up until this point, I have held the expectation that you are to ‘tag along’ and document the cases. But if you recall, this… I cannot ensure your safety and yet this happens repeatedly, I am certain you can hold your own in the face of danger, Watson, Mariana. But this would be too dangerous. 

WATSON

Come on, mate! What have we been against? That one guy– The american? Hell! He shot me, Sherlock! I–

SHERLOCK

Moriarty is much more lethal than a simple pistol, Watson. He is… what I believe my shortcomings have accumulated into. A master criminal finally outwitting the master detective.

There’s a clear tapping on a laptop while as Sherlock paced back and forth again, the sounds overlapping in a way that no one can tell what is being said anymore until Watson picks up the microphone and walks out of the room

Click

INT. Airport

SHERLOCK (nervous)

I- I really do not think this is the best course of action-

MARIANA

Sherlock, any other time, you run off to- to…

WATSON

You run off to God knows where, leaving us to wonder where you’ve gone!

SHERLOCK (exasperated)

Mariana… Watson… Moriarty is like no one you will ever meet. 

WATSON

Well then, that’ll make two people.

SHERLOCK

He has no morals, yes you have stared down the barrel of a gun and seen the most brutal of deaths but, my dear companions, he will have no mercy upon the innocent. He… I cannot guarantee your lives. But, if you insist…

MARIANA

We do. Sherlock, of course we do.

WATSON

Mhm. Yes we do. Now, out with it, I think our gate’s opening soon.

SHERLOCK

I suppose we must rewrite our plan. Utilise the extra people into taking him by surprise…

INT. PLANE

SHERLOCK

Watson… I, really am not sure about… All of this. 

WATSON

Mate… Right, it would be very uncomfortable and an incredibly bad idea but… I mean– Would you like a hug? And I’ll buy you a stupid overpriced water.

SHERLOCK

Yes, yes I would like that.

The two hug briefly after some awkward manoeuvring 

SHERLOCK (con’t)

Moriarty… He has been currently growing in popularity and knowledge in a smaller university, gaining information through academics and working as a mathematician. 

I have… Come across his person before, long before. During the early times of my career, I had been investigating a murder in the rural part of England. I was much… sloppier in the job than I am now. James Moriarty, drives people to paranoia, drives them mad enough to murder, plays the cat till the mouse just gives in. But now I believe the cat is ready to pounce.

There’s a long silence as they pull away

WATSON

Christ, Sherlock… I uh… Wow. I mean we should be careful… But I’m sure we can take him. Three against one! And oh people are looking…

A shorter pause

SHERLOCK

Thank you, Watson. I do appreciate you deeply… 

Sherlock does stare intently at Watson for a moment

SHERLOCK (con’t)

I don’t believe you’ve noticed but… erm… Mariana’s drooling on your arm.

WATSON

Wha- WHAT? Eugh… Marriii… Sherlock– Sherlock! Help me- Why are sleeping people ten times more heavy than awake–

Click

INT. ???

The waterfall echoes their steps as they walk the treacherous path down behind the falls.

WATSON

Hey, it’s uhm… Y’know a bit nice for an epic showdown, you get what I mean?

MARIANA

I… Yeah. Yeah. John, we should… I was honestly thinking we should come back here when we’re…

Mariana breathes in the soft air as they trek

MARIANA (con’t)

Not investigating an ‘evil mastermind’. It is very lovely here.

Sherlock hums agreeably as he walks along 

SHERLOCK

Yes, the Reichenbach Falls. Known for its 250 metre drop and I believe there’s a tourist area for such activities as rock climbing and paraglidi…

A mystery echo off Watson’s voice from earlier

WATSON

That uhm… That wasn’t me.

MARIANA

John! Don’t tell me the mic is broken aga-

It repeats back the microphone content, almost starting a feedback loop from the live audio.

WATSON

So much for the element of surprise…

Click

The sound goes quiet as everyone comes to a halt, Sherlock mutters something under his breath, following the sound of the feedback loop.

WATSON (hushed)

No, no. Have my horror movies taught you nothing?! Hand.

Sherlock scoffs and takes his hand although it is implied Mariana also links arms with Watson as they slowly inch towards the sound and slowly the silhouette of a man comes into focus and the repeated loop ceases

MORIARTY

Did you miss me?

SHERLOCK

Never in a million years would I… ‘miss’ you of all people. 

MARIANA

Oh… Oh no. I’ve– We’ve met you before.

MORIARTY

Yes we have, Ms.Ametxazurra. We have indeed… It is such a pleasure for you to be apart of the game too…

WATSON

No, mate. It really isn’t.

MORIARTY

But it is! Me and Sherley have had such a fun time playing our little game… But I believe there needs to be a winner now. I’m sure you haven’t held too much of a grudge against me…

Sherlock dives and tackles Moriarty, using his version of the element of surprise, surprising everyone of the group instead of just the opposing party as Mariana starts to dial the police, Watson drops the microphone onto the jagged rock of the cavern in the waterfall

WATSON

SHERLOCK!! Sherlock– Oh god! 

Sherlock himself battles against Moriarty as Watson runs over to throw a punch, hoping to run a two against one. 

MARIANA

Yes- Police, please. Mhm. Can– 

SHERLOCK (far away)

COMMISSIONER LESTRADE! REICHENBACH FALLS, I HAVE HIM

WATSON

Sherlock! Oh god– MARIANA! Fuck FUCK! 

MORIARTY (grinning)

I was just enjoying the game, weren’t you?

SHERLOCK (struggling)

You are a sick man. You- EUFHH

MORIARTY (prideful)

Ah, ah ahh~... No being careless now. One wrong move and…

The two dance along the edge of the cliff, stumbling as Moriarty grins, knowing he’s won.

WATSON

SHER- SHERLOCK!

MARIANA

I… SHERLOCK! Oh god… 

Click

INT. 221B

The door to 221B swings open with a long squeak. Soft footsteps slinking towards the kitchen. 

WATSON

You know, Mari. I don’t… 

MARIANA

Hey, you go do… your podcast stuff. You’ve been going on about finishing this episode for the entire plane… I’m gonna go uh– shower. It’s been a long… long day.

WATSON

Yeah, yeah. 

Click

WATSON (shaky)

So that was… Uhm… The adventure of Riechenbach Falls? I think… That’s what we decided to name it. I don’t… 

There’s a buzz of a phone nearby before a bit of shuffling

WATSON

What’s… oh. It’s uhm… A voice message. From Sherlock… I mean– I don’t know if he’d want me to play it on the podcas… I mean he’s gone but I suppose… I mean the listeners should have a right to uhm… know how the podcast ended.

A short silence fills the room as Watson’s room door opens and it’s not ultimately clear but it is implied Mariana walks in to sit with Watson, the bed creaking under the excess weight. Yet Watson presses play nonetheless.

SHERLOCK (VOICENOTE)

…Hello John, Mariana and I’d assume the listeners if my deductions are right. I am recording this on erm– Well you’ve just started recording our recent adventure. I am already aware that I will never- That you will never encounter Moriarty ever again. I am willing to put even my life on the line to make sure society is free from any further affects of his… presence. 

Furthermore, I would recommend forwarding the finished episode to Gwen’s MET email, alongside all the evidence I have been getting you to collect. I’m sure she’d be enthralled by the evidence laid out. Well… If I have failed to return back to you. Then I believe this has become the final problem. I am so sorry, my companions… my friends. I was contemplating on telling you on the plane but when have I been known for ‘talking’ unlike you, Watson, I am not a ‘professional waffler’ I… haha… Goodness, I’ve never quite been able to regulate my empathy and its correlation to my work. But I am exceedingly proud of what you two have achieved. 

I hope you enjoyed our final adventure together. 

click

[sandcobangevent]

a double bed and a stalwart lover

By @jartchick and @crashingmeteorz

“One bed,” John says nervously, stating the obvious ostensibly for the listeners but in truth trying to parse Sherlock’s reaction. They’re stood in the cheap hotel room he’s booked them - though he didn’t book them a single, did he, despite the concierge’s insistence he did, last time he tries to save a few pounds on a case, honestly - and staring at their meager accommodations. If Sherlock’s judging the setup, he’s not showing it. Or maybe he’s not hiding it? John’s honestly not sure.

“Am I supposed to offer to take the couch?” Sherlock asks him, sounding very much like the idea is as horrifying as sleeping on the streets. John rolls his eyes.

“Nah, mate, we’ll be fine.” They will be - no, really, they will be. Sherlock will moan about John’s snoring and John will doubtlessly kick a pair of outstretched, gangly legs out the way at least thrice, but they’ll catch something like shuteye, he’s sure of it. Or John will, anyway - Sherlock’s not likely to sleep much, despite John’s repeated recommendations toward it.

“And you’re sure you don’t want the couch?”

“Oi!”

“Just….checking,” Sherlock says dubiously. “In any case, I very likely won’t have much use for the bed.” John smirks to himself, pleased with his knowledge of his friend - Sherlock Holmes may be able to read anyone like a book, but there are probably very few who can read the man himself just as easily.

“Yeah, well, just don’t hog the blankets if you bother to get some rest,” says John, yawning and kicking off his boots, decidedly ignoring the heart motifs that cover the walls and furniture, grateful it doesn’t extend to the pillows. “I will shove you off the mattress.”

“I’d like to see you try,” says Sherlock absently, already lost in thoughts of the strange little Russian woman they were hired by, his eyes focused on some invisible spot in the ceiling. Fondly, John pats his shoulder before making for the loo - with any luck, he’ll get a few hours in before dawn.

It’s a surprise, therefore, when John wakes up in the hotel’s queen bed the next morning and finds Sherlock not just asleep, but asleep in his arms.

It’s cute, actually. Charming, even. A little- well, okay, a little panic-inducing, and not for ‘no homo!’ reasons so don’t even try it. Just- well- they’ve not- they’ve not…done this. They’ve done the hugging, even the cuddling, or something adjacent to it, them lying practically on top of each other on the couch when John was trying to prove a point and Sherlock stubbornly refused to be moved, there’s even been the odd kiss on the cheek - New Year’s Eve at The Volunteer comes to mind. There’s not many boundaries they haven’t crossed, to be frank about it.

But sleep? Sleep is something so precious to them both, or certainly precious to both their bodies, since Sherlock derides sleep as an unfortunate and bothersome necessity. So rarely gained and gained well by either of them, what with John’s nightmares and Sherlock’s abominable habits, and yet…christ but John feels well-rested. Not a nightmare in sight. And Sherlock?

Sherlock’s sleeping like a babe, all six feet and two inches of him. He’s tucked himself dangerously close to John’s armpit, at which point in the night John must’ve shifted his arm to accommodate and laid it loosely around the man’s shoulders, though it’s almost certainly going to be impossible to move without waking Sherlock up. John’s other arm faces far less plausible deniability: it’s stretched out and culminates in a hand settled quite proprietarily on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock’s upper limbs, and one of his gangling legs, are brought in tight, one hand fisted in John’s t-shirt like a child might hold a teddy bear, while an extended leg is thrown haphazardly over both of John’s.

They’re sleeping a bit like lovers, if John’s being completely, totally honest about the whole thing, and the notion is less earth-shattering than he’d expect. His pulse isn’t racing, his head isn’t pounding, he just - he feels at ease. Like this is how they should’ve been doing the whole flatmate thing all along, like there’s a rightness to their close proximity, like John’s heart might burst if he got any happier. Still, he ought to wake Sherlock now - the detective wouldn’t choose this kind of blatant, vulnerable exposure were he conscious. And yet…

It’s just- look, he looks so peaceful. Dark, intelligent eyes closed gently against the world, hair fluffy and messy and gleaming in the sun that streaks through the curtains (blackout curtains the website said, yeah right, who are they kidding), face utterly relaxed and letting out the tiniest kitten-like snore every few minutes. John can’t remember the last time Sherlock wasn’t either straining with thought or loose with fluidity but in constant aggressive motion. Here he is now, calm and sweet and unworried, and John could just…let it go on.

But they’ve work to do. Oh, damn it. Daring to brush a hair gingerly from Sherlock’s face, John whisper’s his bedfellow’s name.

“Sherlock,” he says again softly when there’s no response. “Sherlock, come on, it’s morning.”

“Shh,” Sherlock mumbles, and it’d be funny if John weren’t waking up more and more every moment, and suddenly facing a very serious problem.

“Sherlock, mate, I’ve got to take a piss like you wouldn’t believe,” John says in a bit of a panic.

“Go piss, then,” replies Sherlock in vague confusion, burying himself deeper into John’s warm body.

“Right, I would, except you’re kind of trapping me here.” Sherlock finally opens his eyes at that, squinting hard in John’s general direction. “Look, I’d leave my arm if I could but since I’m not exactly a bit of Ikea furniture- thank you.”

At last, Sherlock rolls away from the cocoon he’d made in John’s side, still staring groggily in complete bafflement, but John’s too desperate for a wee to worry about it much. By the time he renters the tiny hotel room, Sherlock is already up and pacing, throwing clothes and things vaguely in John’s direction and declaring they’ve got to set out at once.

They decidedly don’t talk about the sleeping thing. It’s for the best, probably - but John can’t help his twinge of longing for the surprising comfort afforded him this morning, resigned to the fact that it isn’t likely to be a repeat incident.

Ah well. It’ll pass.

-

-

-

A few days after the conclusion of the case (and the punch that little old lady could pack, you would not believe), they’re once again safe and sound at Baker Street, when John collects the mail and finds a nasal strip delivery addressed to him among the bills and adverts.

“Sherlock, I think these are yours,” John calls out, waving the small box at him to get his attention. It’s a Saturday, and Sherlock’s huddled up with his feet and arse perched on the sofa, watching the live footy results with intensity, so it’s a few moments before he notices. But once the strips catch his eye, Sherlock’s springing up in one fluid movement, hurrying over to snatch the box out of John’s hand.

“You know, I don’t think I knew you were a snorer,” John says, reading the package. “Granted, you don’t sleep enough for me to really notice but the few times you do bother to sleep I don’t recall you- Sherlock. What are you doing?”

“Testing the measurements,” Sherlock replies, bending nasal strip to nose and making thoughtful little ‘hmm’ sounds.

“Right. That’s my nose, though?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock, clearly and slowly, as though John’s being thick. John bats his hand away, irritated.

“Are those meant for me?” he asks. Sherlock beams, his work apparently complete.

“They’re a perfect fit!” proclaims Sherlock, pleased with himself. “These had quite excellent reviews but online shopping is such a gamble; fortunately, this one paid off. Where are you going? Your nasal strips-“

“Not even getting into it,” John calls over his shoulder, heading for the shower - he’s needing one, anyway, and it’ll prevent him from getting into a tiff with Sherlock over some misguided attempt at helping.

Thea nasal strips are conspicuously missing from view when John’s dressed and returned to the lounge, the live results over and Sherlock reading a book on the ‘unknown secrets of fungi’, or whatever the title boasts, so he considers the matter laid to rest.

When John retires for the evening, however, he finds the argument-inducing package sitting neat and unassuming on his nightstand, and nearly storms out to declare that he is not a snorer, but deflates and lets it rest.

He can just toss the stupid things and forget it ever happened, right? So John does- or, he starts to, anyway, swiping the package and making for the bin, except…

Well, a bit of research can’t help. He looks the brand up and-

“30 p?” he gasps aloud. It’s not a fortune, mind, but it’s a hell of a lot more than a package from Boots might cost, John’s guessing. He proceeds to read the website - everything from the reviews Sherlock mentioned to their so-called success rate, to the method applied to these particular nasal strips.

Well. What’s one night sleep with them on going to do?

“Fuck me,” John says aloud the following morning, bleary-eyed but quickly becoming alert and refreshed, his usual grogginess absent. Even his mouth doesn’t taste as sleep-tangy as it usually does.

Best sleep of his life, probably. Fuck’s sake.

-

-

-

“Sherlock?” John calls from his bedroom. “What’s this then?”

“Humidifier,” Sherlock calls back, not bothering to get up from the lounge floor he’s been supine on for the better part of two hours.

It’s been only two nights since he’s started on the nasal strips and John’s already being accosted with some other sleep tool. The humidifier, gently humming and letting out a barely-perceptible steam spray over his room, is certainly a less insulting gift than the previous, but it’s significantly more confusing.

“Right. Why’ve I got a humidifier again?”

“Your bedroom is too dry,” Sherlock explains, barely raising his voice enough to be heard over the distance between the lounge and John’s room. “Poor ventilation is the most likely culprit, but there could be any number of contributing environmental factors.”

“Yes, I understand the purpose of a humidifier, thanks very much,” John says tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m just- I’m just checking here, are you running some sort of experiment, or testing a theory out, or-“

“I’m improving your sleeping conditions!” Sherlock declares, insulted. John blinks in surprise.

“What for?” he asks. Sherlock says nothing. “Sherlock, what for?” Silence. “Sherlock, if this is some sort of experiment, I’m telling you right now-“

“For the last time, Watson, I generally conduct experimentation that follows the standard code of ethics set by my forebearers,” Sherlock insists, still refusing to get up from the floor. “As I said before, your room is dry, and your sleep will benefit. That’s all.”

“So…” John says, considering the small machine on his nightstand, “it’s a gift, then?”

Again, Sherlock does not respond, but John decides to let the whole thing go and appreciate the humidifier as a present and nothing more. He doubts it’ll have much of an effect on him, but it seems Sherlock’s in a giving mood, and it would be rude to refuse him.

And of course, as is to be expected, John sleeps for nearly nine hours uninterrupted - better, even, than that first night with the nasal strips. For God’s sake, is Sherlock the bloody doctor or is John?

-

-

-

The ‘sleep improvement’ gifts continue in that fashion over the next few days. Immediately following the humidifier is a heavy-duty portable air con unit that is placed atop a simple but sturdy stool John’s never seen before, filling the room with mildly cool air (it’s not set to blasting, since heat’s still just barely beginning to creep into London this time of year) that makes him never want to leave his bed. Sherlock pokes his head in, the morning after it’s been set up, nods approvingly, and goes back about his day.

John, who had been moving slow in an effort to lounge in the comfort of his new offerings, was naked save his pants at the time, and for that reason opted not to use the opportunity to do any more digging into why Sherlock is so invested in his room being comfortable. A theory is forming in John’s brain, anyway, and he’s willing to wait things out and see if he’s right.

The next gift, arriving three days after the last, is a huge duvet-looking thing, although it feels soft enough to use as its own blanket, forget sheets or any similar such nonsense. It comes with a couple of matching pillow cases, all in a subdued, vintage-wash type of red and off-white. John puts his hand to the blanket and sighs, watching as it sinks into the comfortable, fluffy fabric. Sherlock claps delightedly when he notices John testing the bedding out.

“Swindon Town!” he says in excitement. John, already half-asleep at just the prospect of tucking himself into this thing, blinks uncomprehending in Sherlock’s direction.

“What about them?”

“The colours, Watson,” Sherlock explains, gesturing to the pillow cases and duvet. “You stated six or seven months ago you missed the freedom of childhood bedrooms, when there were no qualms about action figures or sports iconography. I specifically chose something that would harken to that type of room design without embarrassing you, unless…unless, of course, I misunderstood…”

“What? No, that’s- Sherlock, this is lovely mate.” John puts a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, shaking away his own expression of surprise. “You didn’t misunderstand, I just wasn’t expecting- I mean, I was mostly on a tangent, but still, this- I’m just thrown off, because, well, I mean- you remembered that?”

Sherlock looks at John as though he’s being thick.

“Yes,” Sherlock says slowly, drawing the word out. “You said it. Of course I remember it.”

He doesn’t remember the dishes, or the laundry, or where he left his rosin half the time, and he actually likes using the rosin, since it means using his beloved violin. And yet, Sherlock remembers a stupid, half-drunken rant on John’s nostalgia for childhood bedrooms. John is hit with a wave of affection so fierce it nearly knocks him off his feet. Somehow, he stays steady - and decides his theory is that much stronger.

“Thank you,” John says after a while. Sherlock nods primly and, considering it for a moment, touches the duvet as well.

“Very nice,” says Sherlock softly, almost longingly. Before John can swallow his fear and invite Sherlock to try them out with him (innocently, mind, he’s not a complete pervert), Sherlock snaps into perfect posture, drawing himself to his full height.

“I’m glad you like them, Watson,” he says sincerely. “Now, I have a mouse in a wall in need of assistance.”

“Sherlock, we’ve talked about Graham in the walls-“

“You’ve talked about it.”

“-and if he chews through the wiring Mariana and I will kill you. Together. Joint effort.”

“I’d like to see you try!” Sherlock replies over his shoulder, already turned on his heel to, hopefully, retrieve his wayward mouse.

John sighs. The invitation will just have to wait, he supposes. He’s not sure why, but he feels he’ll just know when Sherlock’s ready to join him - and it’ll have something to do with these bloody perfect gifts.

Sure enough, the following morning after yet another elevated night’s sleep, the lounge has been taken over by what appears to be a brand new mattress.

“Alright, this is a bit far now,” John says in dismay, hands on his hips. Sherlock opens only one eye, observing John from his spot on the right side of the mattress, presumably testing it. “Sherlock, that thing must have cost a ton!”

“£200, actually.”

“This is what I’m talking about! 200- wait, seriously?” John stops his frantic disapproving hand-waving in midair. “That mattress only cost you 200 p?”

“Mattress topper,” Sherlock clarifies, rolling neatly over to the left side and settling in. “Hypoallergenic down alternative. Supposed to be very comfortable. Lie down with me, Watson.”

“Sorry?”

“Here,” Sherlock encourages him, patting the just vacated spot to his right. “Give it a try. Might be a bit too soft on your aging back-“

“Oi!”

“-but I have a feeling you’ll find it as agreeable as I do.” Shaking his head in some mad, rather familiar combination of resign and affection, John kneels on the floor and tests the firmness of the mattress topper with his hand, first.

“God, that’s…oh that’s quite nice actually…what is that? The sheets, I mean?”

“French linen, 100 thread count - it’ll only get softer with repeat washes.”

“They know what they’re doing over there, I suppose,” John mutters, flopping onto the mattress topper beside Sherlock. Sure enough, it feels wonderful. Soft, yes, but not without a certain firmness. He got used to the inflexibility of the cots the army provided, back when he was active, and never quite shook the need for something at least half-firm beneath him for a good night’s sleep. This, atop his already firm mattress, will do quite nicely.

“You accept, then?” Sherlock asks him. His voice is even, normal, but when John peeks over in the man’s direction, Sherlock is stock-still, eyes boring into the ceiling. John is not a cruel man - he feels no need to draw this out. But still, he wants to remember this moment: what Sherlock looked like before everything changed.

“Yeah, alright,” John says after he’s memorise Sherlock’s expression, ironed it into his brain. “Just do me a favour: if you’re coming to bed late, try to be quiet, yeah? No point in investing in all this if you’re just going to wake me up sneaking under the covers.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen comically, staring into John’s as though he’s just said something shocking and scandalous.

“Watson, I- or, that is-“ Sherlock flounders a moment longer before he simply gives up altogether, his rueful smile accompanying John’s satisfied one. “Oh, alright then.”

“If I’d realised all this was half for you, I wouldn’t have been nearly as grateful.”

“Not true!” Sherlock proclaims, standing from the mattress topper and stretching. “The nasal strips are all yours.”

“Very funny. Hey! Where are you going? Sherlock! You’re helping me put this thing on my bed, I’ve got a humidifier and an air con to navigate between now, and I’m going to need some help!

-

-

-

The fan is blowing pleasantly cool and surprisingly powerful air over them both, they’re snuggled under a laughably oversized but supremely comfortable blanket, while held from below by European linen sheets and a ridiculously plush mattress topper. Between the humidifier reducing the dryness in the air and the state-of-the-art nasal strip John’s got on, he’s breathing easier than he has in years. By all accounts, they’re the two most comfortable men in London, maybe the country.

And yet.

“Sherlock,” John whispers. There’s a distinctly emphatic sigh, the soft ‘fwump’ of the blanket being tossed around, and the bounce of the bed as John’s bedfellow shifts around on it. This has been happening steadily for the last hour and a half, ever since Sherlock trudged in wearing his blue cotton pyjama trousers and nothing else, a heavy-duty memory foam pillow tucked under one arm.

“Sherlock,” John tries again, a little louder this time but determinedly soothing in his tone, trying to placate. Sherlock grumbles something inaudible and just rolls about the mattress with more vigor, picking up his insanely heavy pillow and fluffing it aggressively before slamming his head back onto it.

“Sherlock-“

“Go to sleep, Watson.”

“How the hell am I meant to do that?” John asks good-naturedly, grinning at Sherlock in the dark. Sherlock, for his part, rumpled and sleepy-looking, appears about ready to leave the bed. “Hey, hey, I’m only joking, relax.”

“This arrangement clearly isn’t working despite my best efforts-“

“Sherlock, would you get over here?” John interrupts, arms wide open. Sherlock blinks at him.

“Over where?” he asks. John sighs and decides to demonstrate rather than explain, reaching out and gently pulling Sherlock to him. He tugs at a bony hip, the other hand pushing a little more forcefully on Sherlock’s back, until they’re finally arranged in a similar fashion to that night two weeks ago in the shitty hotel room. Sherlock’s legs move almost on instinct, one tangling with John’s and the other tucking up between them. He blinks at John in surprise.

“Better, d’you think?” John asks, sleepy and content. Sherlock is radiating…something. Not heat, not exactly, though the warmth of his body is pleasant contrast with the fan beside the bed. And though there’s certainly something shy and bashful spreading over Sherlock’s cheeks, that’s not quite what John feels either. It’s something unnameable - but comforting. From the way Sherlock’s foot strokes unthinking lines along John’s calves to the tight grip Sherlock has on his t-shirt, there’s a pleasant, tingling sensation that rubs John the right way all over.

“I suppose,” Sherlock concedes after a long while, still totally baffled by this turn of events but making no moves to change their positioning. In fact, he just noses, tentatively, at John’s throat and sighs, relaxing into the embrace.

“Good,” says John, pressing an absent kiss to the top of his detective’s head, stroking Sherlock’s back as he does, coaxing them both into sleep. “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, Watson,” says Sherlock, kissing John back, though he seems less absent about it, lips lingering for a while on John’s cheek - not so much out of a desire to continue the kiss as a reluctance to break it.

“You’ll suffocate like that,” John says amicably, the distant part of his brain that’s still online thinking this is going to need to be a conversation in the morning, and the settled, cozy part of him thinking fuck morning, if this is the new bedtime routine let it last forever.

“Mmmf,” says Sherlock petulantly against John’s cheek.

“Sherlock,” John says a little more sternly. When that doesn’t do the trick, he cups his friend’s cheek and forcibly removes him from John’s face. “Good night.”

“But-“

John kisses Sherlock soundly on the mouth. There’s not heat to it, not really, just a golden kind of warmth, that same feeling of rightness John got when Sherlock folded into his arms, when he woke up in the hotel room and found Sherlock wrapped ‘round him. It’s just his lips on his best friend’s, firm and sweet and chaste, and when he pulls away, Sherlock lets out the most satisfied sound he’s made all night.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John murmurs. Sherlock nods in a daze, pressing his cheek against John’s chest and practically purring.

“Goodnight, Watson,” he says again, and this time John can hear the tiredness, the sleep that pulls at them both. “‘Til morning, then.”

When morning comes, they don’t talk about it- there’s no need. Sherlock’s smile could power entire seaboards, could beat out all the stars in the sky, and his good morning kiss knocks the breath right out of John’s lungs.

They never sleep apart again.