#and I’m sitting here watching Sherlock of all things

[thatludicrousdisplay]

are you normal or are you rewatching bbc sherlock in the year of our lord 2022

[holylulusworld]

If the Impala is rocking…

Summary: If the Impala is rocking…

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!Reader

Warnings: hangover, crack, implied smut

“Fuck!” You exclaim loudly. Sitting up was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

Fuck. Your head feels like it’s going to explode. Your throat is drier than any desert, and we don’t want to talk about the kinks in your back and neck.

“Fuck me, twice,” you groan, and bury your face in your hands. Waking up in the backseat of the Impala, butt-naked and hungover wasn’t on your bingo card for this year. “What the fuck got into me last night?”

“I guess,” Dean slowly rises from the front seat, looking as bad as you. He cups his head with one hand, groaning as he’s experiencing the worst hangover ever, “that was me. I’m not sure, though.”

“You’re not sure?” You’d like to snicker, but your head is killing you. “Did we play hide the salami or not?” You move forward and bend over the passenger seat to get a look at Dean. He rubs his forehead, trying to remember if you had sex or not. “Well, you’re naked too.”

“I can see that, Sherlock,” he grunts, immediately covering his crotch with both hands. Yes, it’s that big. “This doesn’t mean we had sex. Let me try to remember. I need coffee first…”

“Hmm…can you take your hands off your crotch?” You point at this crotch, smirking cockily. “Maybe I remember better if I see him again.” You wiggle your eyebrows and snicker.

Dean gives you a bitchface. “You’re a little too eager, sweetheart,” he half laughs, half grunts because his head is killing him too. “I told you to give me a moment to remember if I ruined you last night.”

You snort. “Maybe I ruined you. If I go for a rodeo, I do it thoroughly.”

This time, Dean snorts. “Let’s look for evidence.” He wiggles in the front seat, looking around the car. “Hmm…nothing is out of order.”

“You are naked, me too. How can you say nothing is out of order?”

“There is no used condom, and my dick doesn’t feel like he got action last night,” Dean says. “Trust me, I’d know if we christened Baby.”

“Your dick doesn’t…what?” You giggle. “Seriously, Dean? I feel like I’ll be sore for a week.” You point at your crotch. Dean cranes his neck. Just now he realises, you’re naked too. His cheeks turn pink, and he drops his eyes to his crotch.

“What do you mean?”

“Dude, if you don’t know why I’m sore, I had fun in the backseat on my own, and or with your brother,” you deadpan before sitting back down in the backseat. “Fuck, I should look for my clothes.”

“You’re sore because I rocked your world,” he says while wiggling in the front seat. He points at something on the backseat, a cocky smirk on his face.

Your eyes drift toward the thing catching his attention. A used condom along with your panties. “I told you I’m sore.”

“Yeah, but you got my dick last night, not Sammy’s!” He points out. “I had you begging for more in no time.”

“You remember now?” you rub your forehead. Your memory of the last night is still foggy. All you remember is that Dean and you took a bottle home and decided to have a little victory celebration in the Impala. You parked the car in the garage of the bunker, and the rest is a blur.

“No, but the condom and your well-fucked pussy tell me so.” You roll your eyes. “What? I’m not lying.” Dean insists.

“Well, how about you remind me and come over here,” you smirk at Dean. “Only if little Dean is ready for a second round.”

“Damnit, sweetheart,” you giggle as Dean gets out of the car only to open the door to the backseat. He pounces on you, making you squeal and giggle. “I’m going to rock your world again.”

Fifteen minutes later you watch a very disturbed Sam run for the hills.

He made the mistake of opening the door to the backseat only to find you and his brother ruin the backseat.

��Sorry, Sammy!” You call after him.

“I’m not sorry,” Dean grunts. “If the Impala is rocking, don’t enter it! You should know better…”

Tags in reblog.

[sp0o0kylights]

Adopt a Jock Part One / Part Two / Part Three PART FOUR YOU ARE HERE Part five 

As always I own my entire soul to  @chalkysgarbagefire

Steve didn't show up to lunch that Monday. 

This was a problem, because Gareth and Eddie had carefully prepared the entirety of Hellfire to help make Steve play a D&D one-shot. 

(Well, mostly Eddie--and he'd left out the parts about how the entire goal was to acclimate Harrington to hugs and high fives. 

Gareth assumed that was a more careful conversation they'd all have later, outside of school grounds.) 

"Eds, if you jiggle your legs any harder the table is going to take flight." Gareth complained, scooting away before he got jabbed in the gut. 

"Where is he!?" Eddie muttered, glancing at his watch for what had to be the twenty-fifth time. “Are we sure he showed up to class this morning?" 

Stewart, the only person to share a class with Harrington, gave their leader an exasperated look. "Yes, I’m sure." 

He flicked his spoon, pointing it towards Eddie. "And yes he looked fine, yes, everything seemed normal, no I don't know why he's not here and no, no one fucking abducted him, or threatened him, or any of the other crazy excuses you keep coming up with!” 

Eddie’s frown deepened as Gareth and Grant traded concerned glances. 

"Maybe he just didn't want to sit with us today." Jeff remarked, approaching the topic with the same care a technician had when approaching a live bomb. 

Gareth thought it was a smart move, considering Eddie looked like he was about to rocket into the ceiling. 

"He's sat with us everyday, why would he change now?"  Eddie argued. 

"Maybe there's a basketball thing happening. Or he's saying hi to his jock buddies." Gareth tried, using the same cautious tone Jeff had. 

"We’re his friends!" Eddie snapped, looking two seconds away from losing his shit entirely.

 Almost unconsciously, Gareth and Jeff both raised a hand almost to try and help calm him.

Like he was a wild horse and they were the preteen girls in the movies determined to establish a bond before he killed their grandpa or some shit. 

This was what happened when one deviated from a predetermined Munson-made plan. Not that Steve had known that of course, but then, he wasn’t exactly catching the fallout, was he?

‘I am making Harrington buy lunch after this.’ Gareth thought, as Eddie returned to bouncing both his legs almost frantically. ‘From someplace expensive.’ 

"Maybe Hargrove ate him."  Grant suggested, as if the very thought of Billy Hargrove wouldn’t set Eddie off on a rampage. 

"I could see it." Stewart agreed. "Dude has cannibal vibes." 

"Not. Helping." Jeff hissed, his palm still in the air and hovering vaguely over Eddie’s shoulder. 

Sure enough, Eddie’s entire body tensed at the mere mention of Hawkin High’s new King. "That’s it. We’re going to find him.” 

“Have fun.” Tiff said, waving him off. 

Eddie glared. “We’re all going.” He practically spat.

With a put upon sigh, Tiff set her food down. "You really want to spend the rest of our lunch period stalking around the hallways looking for Harrington?" 

Eddie gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles went white. 

"Yes Tiff, I do." He said, a manic gleam in his eyes. 

He shoved up from the table, striking the kind of pose he often used during his rants. “This is a break in a pattern of behavior. A veer from an established path! This is the very first sign in every horror movie that something is wrong!” 

He went to put his foot up on the edge of the table, like a pirate captain looking to the seas ahead, but instead missed it entirely and fell forward. 

Eddie flailed for a moment, before managing to catch himself on the edge of the table. Instantly he began acting like he’d intended to fall like that from the start. 

“I refuse to let any of us behave like idiotic, stupid, horror movie characters.” He finished dramatically, hair hanging in his face. 

“You’ve been watching that Sherlock Holmes show again, haven’t you?.” Jeff asked him flatly. 

“Among other things.” Gareth muttered, because as usual, he was the one who’d been watching said shows and movies with Eddie.

Not that it bothered him any, just that it meant he got to watch his best friend adopt new behaviors in real time. 

Eddie flew back up, flinging his hair out of his face with a dramatic toss of his head. 

“Come on my Watson’s! Let’s go find Harrington. I have a one-shot to pitch dammit!” Eddie outright yelled, flinging his arm skyward once again. 

He got several startled glances in the cafeteria for it, but as used to Eddie as they all were, no one bothered to say anything to him. 

“Why the fuck would we all be Watson?” Stewart muttered as he stood. 

“I agree. Obviously, I’d be Watson.” Gareth said, also getting to his feet. “You’d be Mrs. Hudson.” 

“Oh fuck you, I would at least be the other crazy smart dude.” 

“Mycroft or Moriarty?”

“Mycroft.” Grant and Jeff chanted as one, the both of them putting their food away. 

“Not one of you is any Sherlock Holmes character. Except maybe the dog.” Tiff cut in with an eye roll as she finally gave in and stood herself. "Now come on, let's go take Eddie for a walk." 

Said metalhead flipped her the bird, but otherwise didn't protest. 

(Probably because this wasn't the first time they'd had to do laps with Eddie.) 

xXx

"Maybe he just went home." Gareth said reasonably some fifteen or so minutes later. 

They'd made their way through the school, Eddie obnoxiously bursting through all the bathroom doors to loudly (and embarrassingly) yell for Steve.

They hadn't seen hide nor perfectly shaped hair of their wayward jock, and none of them were looking forward to trapezing around the outside of the school to hunt for him.

Thankfully, they didn't have to. 

"Wait.” Tiffany asked, as they passed by the small little hallway leading to the art and photography rooms. “Is that Steve?"

Immediately all heads turned towards the direction she had pointed in. 

"I think so?" Jeff guessed, eyeing the guy standing in the hallway down from them. 

Gareth squinted, trying to get a better look. "Looks like." He agreed. "Also looks like Tiff was right, he is hanging out with other people." 

Eddie tensed at that. A true feat, Gareth thought, because he was already wound so tight he looked in danger of snapping in half. 

 "Fucking useless." Tiff muttered. 

Louder, she said; "Let's try that again. Isn't that our idiot jock with his ex-girlfriend and the guy she supposedly cheated on him with?" 

The lot of them watched as Steve stood in one of his classic defensive positions (arms tucked into his sides, back rigid and chin down, like he was about to perform some kind of football tackle.) 

Nancy Wheeler faced him, her own chin raised and her arms crossed like she was about to give the lecture of a lifetime. 

In between them stood Jonathan Byers, though he was angled more towards his girlfriend than Steve. The guy practically radiated discomfort but seemed to be managing. 

Even if his shoulders were practically above his ears.  

It didn't exactly look like a two on one situation, but then it didn't not look like it either. 

"Shit." Gareth said, which summed up the situation rather nicely. 

"Should we go save him?" Grant asked, concerned. 

Not one person moved.

 Instead, all eyes went to their fearless leader--who was uncharacteristically silent. 

Gareth took in the narrowed, frantic-turned-furious look upon his friend's face and wondered vaguely if he was going to have to stop a murder today.

Possibly two, depending on Byer’s involvement. 

"Defensive position boys!" Tiffany called out, breaking the spell with sheer volume as she made the decision for them. "Eddie, you with us or not?" 

Brave words for her, considering Gareth knew damn well that Tiff was often more bark than bite. 

Thankfully, it worked. 

"Right!" Eddie barked, jerking in place as he came back to himself. "Our Stevie needs us, men and Tiff!" 

He pointed forwards, like a war general leading a charge. "Hellfire, move out!" 

Fanning out into a triangle behind their club president, the lot of them followed as Eddie marched forward. 

"You know I didn't mean it like that." Nancy was saying, and even though Gareth didn't know her he could tell she was frustrated. 

 "You have people you can talk to. You have m--" she cut herself off when Eddie strode up next to Steve. 

Then blinked rapidly, reminding Gareth of a startled cocker spaniel when the rest of Hellfire fanned out around Harrington like wolves guarding their young. 

(Or brightly colored and very angry ducks, but wolves sounded cooler. 

Plus the last time he'd said something like this aloud; Grant had loudly informed him it was actually Muskox that made protective circles, Stewart brought up that triceratops were cooler, Jeff decided they should be bees and Tiffany had gone off on a tangent about badly done animal behavioral studies.) 

"I daresay I agree!" Eddie said, taking a dramatic leap forward and startling Steve and Byers both. 

That alone was a cause to worry--Gareth couldn't recall a single time Steve wasn't hyper-aware of his surroundings enough to get properly lost in it. 

At least lost enough that he missed an entire group of people approaching. 

"Steve is more than welcome to talk to people! His people." Eddie leaned forward a touch, the smirk on his face the one he used when he was playing up his role as the town's satanist cult leader. 

To her credit, Nancy recovered remarkably fast. "I take it you believe that's you?" 

Eddie reared back, like a cobra rising to strike. "Why Nancy Wheeler, Stevie here is an adult and can choose who he wants to talk to.”

He turned, one hand over his heart and the other held out to Steve. " Ain’t that right, big boy?”

Nancy and Byers both just stared. 

Gareth couldn’t blame them, he was staring too. 

Apparently deciding Eddie was too ridiculous to deal with, Nancy returned instead to talking to Steve--who, Gareth noted with more than his fair share of pride, looked a bit more grounded now that Hellfire had arrived. 

“I understand that we’re in a weird place right now, but you have to  know I still care about you, right?” Nancy bit her lip, clearly unhappy to have an audience but plowing ahead anyway. 

"I'm fine, Nance.” Steve told her, voice steady, but growing flat. 

 He was shutting down--shutting her out, if not everyone out. Gareth knew, if only because he’d watched Harrington do it to them more than once. 

(Knew because he himself had shut downs just like this. Eddie and Nancy were the kind of people who got loud in their anger, demanding people see and face them. 

Gareth on the other hand, even with his more explosive temper, often ended up more like Steve when faced with breakdowns with people he cared about. He didn’t want to hurt them. To say the wrong thing, to lash out when someone was just trying to help.

It was safer to shut up, back away and put some distance between yourself and whoever had pissed you off.) 

Either Nancy wasn’t aware of that or was too deep into her own emotions to see it, because she took a half step forward. “I know you’re not fine. I know you, Steve.” 

“Not anymore you don’t.” Steve responded, and Gareth wondered if he realized he was leaning away from her--and towards Eddie. 

Considering the way Wheeler’s eyes bounced between them, he knew she definitely had. 

Quite possible Byers too, from how he had to stop himself from pulling Nancy away. 

“I’ve been working hard to become someone else.” Steve added. “So you don’t have to feel responsible for me. I’m not your problem anymore.”  He spoke without malice, just with the pure emptiness of someone who completely believed everything he said. 

“Steve-” Nancy protested, but Eddie cut her off. 

"You heard him." He said, peacocking his little social win in a way only Eddie could. "Now if you don't mind, I have extremely important things to discuss and you have cut drastically into my time." 

He flicked his fingers in a shoo gesture, one that made Nancy's eyes spark in a way that quite frankly, terrified Gareth. 

"Fine." She grit out through clenched teeth. "You know I’m always available to talk, Steve." 

She strode off, passing Steve and the rest of Hellfire without a glance backwards. 

"Sorry man." Jonathan muttered apologetically to Steve as he passed, following after his girlfriend. 

Steve waved him off. 

"Well she's just a delight." Jeff muttered, once Nancy was well out of hearing range. 

Steve's entire chest heaved in a sigh, swaying slightly backwards as if the entire confrontation had physically drained him. 

"She's trying to help.” Steve muttered softly, scrubbing a hand down his face. “She's just...coming at it wrong." 

He turned, seeming to finally notice that all of Hellfire was there. "What are you all doing out here anyway?" 

"Rescuing you." Grant informed him. 

"From Nancy and Jonathan?"  Steve said in disbelief. 

Like Byers hadn't supposedly kicked his ass already. Nevermind the moping Wheeler had caused. 

(The entire school had witnessed the moping. 

It was, after all, part of what had drawn Eddie to Steve.) 

"Yes." Tiff replied bluntly. “Also if she corners you like that again, I will make it my personal mission in life to top all her test scores.” 

"I--okay." Steve blinked rapidly, clearly unsure of how to process that.

“Not that I needed rescuing,” He continued after a moment, staring at the whole group. “But why were you looking for me in the first place?” 

His voice was slowly recovering, coming out of that weird flatness it had scrunched itself into. It was an excellent sign, a sign of trust, and Gareth leapt to keep it before someone could say something stupid and fuck it up. 

"Eddie needed you to pitch his next one shot idea and couldn't wait for you to show up." Gareth admitted. “We decided to hunt you down since you were missing lunch.” 

“Oh.” Steve blinked again, and though it’d be concerning on anyone else, the guy just looked like a lost puppy. “I’m sorry man.”

“It's alright Stevie. I just thought you'd totally ditched us.” Eddie sniffed dramatically, looking like he was going to wing an arm around Steve’s shoulder but thought better of it. “No biggie.” 

He pouted, and made absolutely sure Steve could see him do it. 

“Is this you trying to get more of my M&M brownies?” Steve asked after a moment. 

“Oh my dear, sweet, athletic friend. Not at all. Instead, you are going to play the one shot I worked so hard on.” Eddie bounced his shoulder into him as he spoke.  

 It was a weird little compromise the two of them seemed to have, since Gareth had regularly witnessed Eddie ping-ponging off Steve’s shoulders. “Let us break your tabletop cherry.” 

“Or what?” Steve asked, the tiniest bit of humor peaking through. 

Eddie stared at him, abruptly still and completely serious. “I will cry, Steven. Loudly.” 

It brought a small smile to Steve’s face.

“Fine. I’ll play your dumb dweeb game.” He said, and couldn’t seem to stop the smile from overtaking his face when Eddie threw his arms in the air and cheered. 

“Come on, I’m pretty sure the bell rang forever ago.” Jeff said, as they began to venture out back to the main hallway. 

(“Hey guys?” Steve asked, right before they all split up to go to their various classes. “Thanks. For the save.”

Eddie positively beamed. “Anytime, Steve. Anytime.”) 

xXx 

“Hey Gareth?” Steve asked a few days later, joining Gareth in the library during his free period. 

(Gareth himself was skipping, because if he had to listen to yet another lesson on the Crucible he was going to declare himself a satan worshiping witch and demand to be hanged.) 

Gareth hummed to show he heard, as he carefully took stock of the loot he’d gotten from their last game. Eddie had been pretty good about it for once, and he wanted to look things over before the one shot. 

“Can I ask kind of a weird question?” Steve rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. 

“Shoot, Stevie.” Gareth replied, finally comfortable enough to use the main nickname Eddie had nailed the poor guy with. 

“Did Eddie give me a character with bad eyesight or “night vision” or whatever, because he thinks I have bad eyesight?” Steve’s fingers made sassy little air quotations around “night vision” because he knew damn well it wasn’t called that and didn’t want to get chewed out. 

It was appreciated, even if it was cheeky as shit. 

Gareth stopped writing. “Why’d you think that?” 

“He just keeps acting like I’m my character.” Steve replied with a shrug. “Like all that stuff we planned  about how my character gets around and relies on the group since he can’t see that great in the daylight? He does it for me too.” 

“It’s Eddie, he’s eccentric.” Gareth struggled to keep a straight face, trying not to give the game away. 

Laughing would absolutely clue Steve in to the fact that Eddie was doing it on purpose. 

“He just keeps telling me before he touches me. Outside of the game.” Steve continued, utterly baffled. 

Of course, Eddie was doing far more than that, in order to keep up the appearance that he was just being a weirdo who was too into his game. (Instead of trying to alert Steve to the fact he was going to lean on him, hug him, or do any other thing involving skin to skin contact that usually made Harrington panic.)

“If you don’t like it you should tell him,” Gareth said. He knew it was the better option, encouraging Steve to communicate. They could come up with something else if this was too weird (as frankly, many of Eddie’s plans could be. 

Bless the guy but he had a habit of going for the dramatic over the practical.) 

“No!” Steve protested, far too quickly. 

He cleared his throat with a cough, and continued in a much calmer voice, “No, I don’t wanna ruin his fun or anything.” 

As far as excuses go for letting something happen it was a weak one, but Gareth wasn’t going to call him on it. If Steve wanted to hide behind Eddie and his “fun”  then Gareth would happily pretend to buy it. 

Would buy whatever excuse Steve needed, to help make the guy feel more comfortable and like himself than the still often vacant ghost that hung around now. 

“Just wanted to know if he actually thought my eyesight sucked.” Steve finished in a mumble. 

“Well you did trip over the curb that one time.” Gareth teased playfully, and shot a grin at Harrington when that awkward look of his melted into something more offended. 

“I was walking backwards!” Steve defended, his normal, almost bitchy tone returning. 

“Uh-huh. And what about when you almost ate shit over that garbage can and Eddie had to save you?” Gareth taunted. 

He grinned, watching as a blush overtook the older boys face, Steve glancing away frantically and--

Oh. 

Oh!

'Oh-ho, ho, ho!' Gareth thought with absolute glee. The entire fucking school knew what Steve looked like when he had a crush, (Steve himself had made sure of that with Nancy) and Gareth recognized the beginning of it happening all over again.

Steve Harrington had a crush.

On Eddie.

Gareth could work with this.

“You know….” He  paused, grin turning sly as a sudden idea came to him. “If you want to mess with Eddie a little bit I have an idea.” 

Steve stared at him, confused. “Why would we want to mess with him?” 

Gareth leaned forward. “Because pranks are fun, Harrington. Legend has it you even used to do them.”  

Steve still didn't look convinced, but the nice thing about a man like Steve was that all Gareth had to appeal to was his sense of adventure. 

“Now." He clapped his hands together in a move that had very much been stolen years ago from Eddie. "How good are your acting skills?

Meant to post this yesterday but I got surprise laid off last week and that pushed me back a bit, sorries! Absolutely related, I have a Ko-Fi now lmao. It’s https://ko-fi.com/sp0o0kyghosthost 

Unemployment should go through just fine so I don’t really think I need to full panic but hey if you wanna throw me a dollar and yell “Dance writer dance!” I’ll do a lil tippy-tap jig. 

[raina-at]

Fire

Fire exposes your priorities.

The explosion shakes the very foundations of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock looks up from his microscope and sees a vast billow of smoke rise out of the windows of Speedy’s cafe.

Sherlock is out of his seat and down the stairs in two seconds flat. Mrs Hudson meets him at the door.

“What happened?” she asks, looking terrified.

“Gas explosion, if I had to guess,” Sherlock answers, taking her by the elbow. “We need to get out now.”

“Sherlock—”

“Now, Mrs. Hudson.”

He opens the door and forces her out of the building, taking his phone out of his pocket to dial 999.

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson grabs him by the shoulder and turns him around, forcing him to look at her. “Look!”

Sherlock follows her outstretched hand with his eyes and his entire world whites out on the edges. Rosie’s pram is parked in front of Speedy’s. 

Sherlock checks his watch. 4:10 pm. John normally comes home with Rosie at four…

They often pick up baked goods from Speedy’s before coming upstairs…

Sherlock feels bile rise in his throat, but he ruthlessly suppresses his fear as he presses his phone in Mrs Hudson’s hand. “Phone 999. They’re probably already on their way, but do it anyway. I’m…” he trails off and gestures to the entrance to Speedy’s.

He doesn’t even hear Mrs Hudson’s response. He runs towards the shattered door and carefully steps inside the wrecked cafe.

The air is thick with smoke, and he can see flames licking out of the kitchen. Glass litters the ground. 

He hears her crying immediately. “Daddy,” she sobs. “Wake up.”

Sherlock assesses the situation with one glance. Rosie seems relatively unharmed, but John’s unconscious, and trapped beneath a heavy-looking shelf. Mr Chatterjee is lying behind the counter. He’s alive, but that’s all Sherlock has time to determine before instinct kicks in.  He’s at Rosie’s side and is picking her up before he’s aware that he’s moving.

“We need to get you out of here, Watson,” he says as he lifts her away from John’s supine body. He hesitates briefly, registering that John is breathing normally, but knowing he can’t lift that shelf alone, and knowing he has to get Rosie out of here. Now. The gas valve is still open. There could be a second explosion any moment.

It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done in his life, but he clutches his wailing daughter close to his body and runs out of there as fast as his feet carry him.

“Daddy!” she wails into his ear, tearing at his heart with every forlorn cry. “Daddy! We can’t leave Daddy!”

Outside, he’s greeted by a pair of burly firemen, who pull him behind a safety barrier and hand him over to a paramedic, who forces him to sit in the back of an ambulance. They try to pry Rosie out of his arms, but she’s holding as tightly to him as he’s holding on to her.

“Daddy! What’s happening to Daddy!” she wails, sobbing into his shirt.

“Don’t worry, Watson, the firemen will save Daddy. They’ll get him out,” he soothes her mechanically, even as every muscle in his body screams that he needs to go in there and dig John out with his bare hands if he has to, because this can’t be happening, it just can’t. After all they’ve been through, a fucking gas leak—

But he doesn’t move even one inch, because he knows, he knows, he has to be there for Rosie, even if—

Especially if—

He feels bile rise again, but he swallows down the panic and the fear and the desperate need to run back in there, and holds on to Rosie, whispering soothing nothings into her blonde hair, even as she screams for her father, again, and again, and again. Sherlock wishes he could scream as well, but if he even utters John’s name now he’ll break clean in two from the force of the fight raging within him.

He could give her to someone else, run in, get John out.

But what if they both die in there? Who will take care of her then? 

So he sits, and he waits, and he holds their distraught daughter, knowing he has to, there’s no choice here, it’s what they both promised each other, she always comes first, no matter what. 

He waits. And waits. It feels like hours, but it’s probably five minutes, ten at most, before the firemen bring John out on a stretcher. He looks so small, but he’s wearing an oxygen mask and he’s clearly alive.

“Daddy!” Rosie screams, and Sherlock has to stop her from throwing herself on the stretcher, but honestly, he’d like to do the exact same thing. He’s weak with relief and smoke inhalation, and he’s glad when the paramedics take charge and get them all three into an ambulance. As soon as they’re in the ambulance, Rosie takes John’s hand. After a brief moment, Sherlock encloses her hand holding John’s in both of his. 

Sherlock watches their entwined fingers, one small hand and two large ones, the entire way to the hospital.

*-*

Sherlock meets Molly and Mrs Hudson in the waiting room once the doctors have cleared Rosie to go home—smoke inhalation and a few cuts and bruises, they were so lucky—and Sherlock excuses himself to the hospital bathroom, because he’s filthy and he stinks of smoke. 

He washes up, still numb with shock, and that’s when he notices his hands are bloody from pressing his fingernails into his palms. His wedding ring has blood on it. He washes it off, then is violently ill over the washbasin, his body convulsing as the fear and the shock and the smoke inhalation catch up to him.

What would I have done, he thinks. I almost let him die. I would have let him die. I would have watched as he burned to death, what’s wrong with me?

I should have saved him, should have gone in there and gotten him out, he’ll hate me, he’ll never forgive me, and he shouldn’t… I promised him I’d always be there for him, and I failed, failed, failed…

It’s Mrs Hudson who finds him. He’s still on the floor, holding his head in his arms, unaware when he started sobbing, only knowing he can’t stop.

She sits down next to him and wraps her arms around him, guides his head to her shoulders. “It’s fine,” she whispers, over and over and over, “he’s fine, they’re fine, it’s all going to be all right again.”

Slowly, he calms down. He becomes aware that he has a husband and a daughter to see to, and that this little episode is helping nobody at all.

So he helps Mrs Hudson to her feet and washes his face, then lets her direct him to John’s room.

John’s sitting up in bed, Rosie clinging to him, arms and legs wrapped tightly around him. He’s wearing a leg cast, an oxygen mask and a long-suffering expression as he tries to keep Rosie from tearing out his IV without letting go of her.

He stills when he sees Sherlock. Their eyes meet, and John smiles, and Sherlock swallows, near tears all over again, out of sheer relief that they’re all here, and they’re fine. Then John holds out his arm in an inviting gesture, and Sherlock collapses down on the bed and hugs his Watsons tightly to his chest. 

Later, when Rosie’s asleep and Sherlock is dozing in his chair, he feels John take his palm, soothe gentle fingertips over the cuts Sherlock’s fingernails have made into his skin. He pushes his oxygen mask aside and kisses the wounds on Sherlock’s hand, a silent gesture of gratitude and forgiveness, of perfect understanding. I would have done the same, the kiss says. And it would have killed me, too.

Sherlock meets John’s eyes and nods, just once. There are no words for how he feels, and he’s grateful that he doesn’t need any. He pulls John’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles over the IV. Soon, they’ll be able to joke about it. Soon, perspective will return and Sherlock will know emotionally as well as intellectually that he made the right decision. The decision John would have wanted him to make.

Right now, though, he keeps his lips pressed to John’s skin and his hand trapped between both of his as if in prayer and only thinks, Thank you. Thank you fate, thank you luck. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

-----

Tags under the cut as usual, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

[calaisreno]

His Move

1557 Words / Prompt: Manipulate

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Mary was an assassin, the business of her past never quite behind her. She’d run away once, and Sherlock had insisted they go after her. At that point, John was willing to let her go. They were never going to have the future he’d imagined when he bought her that ring. 

She was already dying when he arrived at the aquarium, and said the things you would expect a loving wife to say. You were my whole world. 

He felt a dull sense of relief, and hated himself for it. The problems of your future are my privilege. 

A future, cut short. And still, her problems would haunt him.

When Sherlock reached out his hand towards John, his eyes wide, John saw the horror-stricken expression on his face.. 

You were my whole world, he thought. 

Her body was lifted, put on a stretcher, and carried out. John followed.

Sherlock texts him: I’m so sorry. SH

John doesn’t reply.

Please talk to me, John. SH

He feeds Rosie, gives her a bath, puts her to bed. She fusses; she’s old enough to sense something is wrong. Now she has only her father to keep her world stable.

John, please. SH

He plans the funeral; there’s no one else. Mary has no family, only a few friends. It’s his responsibility. This keeps him busy, gives him space to work out what comes next.

Sherlock is actually sorry. This John doesn’t doubt. He’s not a sociopath, regardless of what he says.

John’s words at the aquarium were spoken in anger; he doesn’t blame Sherlock for Mary’s death. John is the one who brought her into their orbit. He can’t change that, but sometimes he thinks about what would have happened if Sherlock had returned six months sooner. Of course he would have been angry, and would have expressed how he felt about watching his best friend die, being abandoned for two years. Six months earlier, maybe he wouldn’t have paid attention to the new nurse, the one who kept flirting with him. 

He has no doubt that he would have come back to Baker Street if Sherlock wanted him. The compromise, as always, would have been on John’s part. Sherlock is never going to change. He will always treat John as a convenience, a habit that doesn’t require thought. 

Sherlock is rarely solicitous, never bestows compliments, only flatters someone if he’s being manipulative. The speech he gave at the wedding nearly knocked John over. Maybe Sherlock was only trying to do what was expected of him, but it was unexpectedly touching. 

Sitting there, hearing the two people who love you most, he’d had this thought: I would have waited for you, if I’d known. 

In his own way, Sherlock does love John. He also knows how to manipulate John, to get him to do what he wants. To keep John in the dark when he doesn’t trust him. 

Loving Sherlock has always meant giving something up. It means following him into danger. John isn’t sure he can afford that any longer, not with a child to care for. 

He has to be sure.

It doesn’t surprise John to see Sherlock at the funeral. Mrs Hudson sits with him, and Lestrade joins them. Molly slides into the pew, whispers something to Greg. It’s a protective entourage; they all know what John said.

Harry is home, watching Rosie. John sits alone, in the front row. 

Sherlock has texted him daily, and John hasn’t replied. That’s why Sherlock is here. He wants John to accept his apology, for everything to be as it was before he ruined it all by dying. Not that Sherlock understands it this way; he doesn’t think that dying ruined things. He’s convinced that he had to do it, that John would have died if he hadn’t. In his mind, there was no alternative. 

Maybe he’s right, but for two years, John carried the weight of grief. That’s just feelings, sentiment; Sherlock wan’t dead; he was saving John, saving the world, winning the game. He left John behind, let him grieve, because that was the only way to solve what happened at Barts that day. 

Sherlock will still leave John behind at crime scenes, run heedlessly into danger, and probably get wounded at some point. He will question John’s intelligence, talk to John when he’s miles away, text him impatiently while he’s treating patients. He will dismiss John’s concerns as frivolous, insist that sentiment makes him weak. He will break John’s heart again and again. That’s just the reality.

And John could break his heart, too. He has a temper, and letting go of anger is hard. Will that anger still be simmering in a year, two years? It’s hard for him to forgive; even in death, he hasn’t really forgiven Mary. 

Can he say he forgives Sherlock and really mean it?  

John prayed for a miracle, and hit the ghost when he returned. Sherlock didn’t hit back; he made a joke. He missed the point. 

But he pulled John out of a bonfire. His look of panic is something John won’t ever forget.  

He tricked John into forgiving him—but has also tried to be worthy of that forgiveness. 

He has expressed his love for John in front of a hundred people. 

These are not the acts of a heartless man.

Sherlock needs him. Maybe two years away was as hard for him as it was for John. 

Does John need him?

He imagines a life without Sherlock. He weighs it against a life without Mary. One is possible, one is past.

His wife was a master manipulator. He’s only beginning to realise the extent of that. He’d had doubts, but couldn’t put words to them until he was in Leinster Gardens, hearing her admit that she’d shot Sherlock, that she would do anything to keep John in the dark about who she really was. 

The woman he fell in love with saved him from despair.

The woman he’d married was a facade. 

He never forgave the woman who shot Sherlock. 

The woman he went back to gave him his daughter. 

So. Mary’s gone, and what he feels about that is a confusing mixture of guilt and sorrow—and relief. At some point, he loved her. Or the idea of her. He chose her. 

She made choices as well. She chose death, rather than allowing Sherlock to take that bullet. When John came back to her, she understood that he would never completely forgive her, that he was doing it for Rosie. She’d chosen to save Sherlock, to die rather than live with John’s grief over losing him a second time.

Sherlock didn’t kill her. She chose to die.

But when he stood at her grave, he didn’t ask her not to be dead.

What he wishes now is that they’d never met, that he could rewind time and make a different choice. That she was still alive, a stranger living somewhere else. 

But then he wouldn’t have Rosie. He loves his daughter completely, protectively, without rhyme or reason. He wants the best life for her, the carefree childhood he never had. And he imagines her growing up without a mother—with a father who has chosen to be alone. 

He pictures her, a child with pigtails and a stubborn streak. A teenager able to go toe-to-toe with her father and still see reason, take a small step back when she’s wrong. A young woman with curly blond hair and a teasing smile. She leaves for uni, and he’s alone again. He grows old, and remembers.

Does he need Sherlock? 

Absolutely, desperately. Like air. 

Can he trust Sherlock? 

Probably not. And he won’t change him.

He misses Sherlock. Whatever they have been to one another, his heart wants him. 

Is it worth the risk?

He’s standing in the church reception hall, drinking a cup of terrible coffee. Sherlock is across the room, looking at him. His expression is sorrowful, not the fake sorrow he can put on during a case, pretending he cares. His hands are stuffed in his coat pockets and he’s slouching against the wall, watching John.

Coworkers from the surgery express their condolences. Mrs Hudson hugs him tearfully. Lestrade tells him they need to get together over a pint. He accepts their sympathy, makes small talk because that’s what people do. All the while, he feels Sherlock’s eyes like a magnet, pulling on him. 

As the hall begins to empty out, he can resist the pull no longer. Sherlock looks up, surprised, as John walks towards him. His pale eyes fill with tears. 

John has given up so much already. He doesn’t blame anyone but himself. Maybe he’ll never fully trust Sherlock, but he’s already forgiven him. 

Setting aside all his objections, laying down his anger and his regret, he surrenders.

When he pulls Sherlock into the hug he’s always wanted, this time Sherlock hugs back. John makes deductions. He can smell a cigarette, maybe two (nervous). He feels his ribs, still too prominent (unhappy). He’s trembling with the emotion he hates (love). The world may have lost a fine actor when Sherlock Holmes became a consulting detective, but this is not acting.

“Please come home,” Sherlock whispers.

John smiles into his shoulder, his own tears beginning. “Oh God, yes.”

[thegildedbee]

Choice: May 10 Prompt from @calaisreno

Program Note: Here, apparently, is my version of the Fall (I didn't know I had one until writing this 👻 in response to the picture the word "Choice" prompted in my mind's eye.) Because I'm doing these on the hoof, you may find aspects that don't make sense or contradict something I wrote previously and so on. I point this out not to whine,😊 but to invite you, if you're perplexed at anything, to feel free to let me know, in the notes or by message! I'll add any feedback re incongruities to my own growing list of errors, and, if I do something with these prompt puppies someday in actual fic form, I'll be sure to ponder any observations you send my way! ( tgb 🐝) ...........................................

Fleeing from Kitty Riley’s home after Moriarty's escape, Sherlock is more furious than he has ever been at any time in his life, and his breathing is shallow and patchy. He stands in the middle of the street, caught in indecision, as he watches John paging through the cuttings in Jim’s “Richard Brook” file folder, his heart beating erratically, his mouth pressed into a line that twists into a grimace, despair evident in every centimeter of his body. 

John registers the sudden quiet, and looks up distractedly, his forehead creasing in concern when he spies Sherlock suspended between one side of the street and the other, immobile. 

“Sherlock? What? What is it?” 

Sherlock’s brain has been stoppered along with the rest of his body, through the force of the emotional tsunami racing through his nervous system. He closes his eyes briefly, registering the storm inside: fury, despair, futility, chaos, blackness, and a deep unhappiness that any semblance of okay has disappeared, blown far out of sight and beyond his reach. His mind stutters on the last one, and he suddenly knows where he should be. 

“There’s something I need to do,” he says grimly, looking at John as if peering at him from a vast distance, which he is. He feels his thought processes beginning to slowly start making connections again.

“What is it? Can I help?” John says, confused, tentative.

“No. The rest I have to figure out on my own.” Sherlock turns away from John and breaks into a jog on his way to Bart’s, intent on catching Molly before she leaves the building, his feet pounding in a dismal cacophony as he makes his way. The mounting tension pressing against his skin from deep inside his body levels off when he catches sight of her in the hallway, and he skids to a stop and flags her down. 

“Molly. Earlier – when you said I looked sad, and asked me if I was okay. You were right. I am sad, and I’m not okay. Time is running out. I have very little room to maneuver, and none at all if I can’t find an ally I can trust. You said you didn’t count, and that’s not true. You do count. I’ve always trusted you. That’s why I’m here now. ” 

He looks at her intently, saying urgently, “I need your help. Moriarty has injected a lethal poison into the world that surrounds me, and its effects are accelerating, and they’ll soon take on a life of their own, if they haven't already.” He stops, fists balled up, his fingernails sending sharp stabs of pain through his system. 

Molly returns his gaze, also intent, scanning his face, her forehead furrowed. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I think I’m going to die.”

“Explain.” 

“I will. But first – it’s important for you to know that you can tell me no, for what I'm about to ask” he says softly, slowly, carefully. “If I wasn’t everything that you think I am – everything that I think I am – would you still want to help me?”

Molly looks back at him, steady on. “Sherlock. You are many things, some good, some not so good, some peculiar, some hard to fathom, some astonishing. Inside these walls, I have spent thousands of hours reconstructing lives with you, and beside you. I know who you are when you are here and I know it to be who you are when you walk back out these doors.”

She sits down on a stool, and says gently, “Tell me what you need. I’ll do my best to help you.” She watches as Sherlock gives her an achingly helpless nod, an expression that she doesn’t think she’s ever seen before on his face. “It’s urgent, yes? Let’s get started then. What do you need?” 

“You. I need you. Your medical expertise. Your access to Bart’s. Your ability to work with my streetside networks. Your solidity. Your counsel.”

As he speaks, Molly sees him beginning to regain his footing, and says, encouragingly, “Go on.”

“Moriarty is nearly done setting up his fun house mirrors, reflecting a false image of me to the world, destroying my reputation. I think he means for this all to end by making it seem as if I’ve committed suicide, when it will actually be by his hand in one way or another. It’s inevitable.

“I have a very few hours to try and tilt the odds in my favor. I need to meet him at a time and place of my choosing – in the morning, here at Bart’s, on the rooftop. No cctv; no outside intrusions; no other people at hand. Just the two of us, finishing the game he’s been playing, moving the last two pieces on the board: him, and me.

“But the roof, Sherlock. That sounds incredibly dangerous. What if he forces you off the edge?”

Sherlock continues, his tone grim and determined. “It may come to that, although I will do my best to turn the tables on him. I won’t know until I meet with him what options are viable. I hope to capture him; my best chance of repairing the damages he's made by his slashing through my existence is to take him alive. But it may not be possible. The roof we’re standing on – he may go over the side; I may go over the side; we both may go over the side. I am going to try and prepare for these eventualities, but I have very few resources I’ll be able to have at hand. I’m afraid that, in the end, it will come down to the unanticipated, and to whatever luck the universe will allow.”

“If you fall – how are you going to manage that?” Molly probes, worried.

“Before I answer you, first -- when this is happening, I’m going to need you to be in contact with Wiggins. Hold on, let me make sure he’s gettable.” Sherlock steps aside to send a text and then sets down his mobile -- and then immediately picks it up again, glancing up at Molly. “One more – stay with me,” and his fingers set to work sending a message to another number. He regroups, then at the feel of his mobile vibrating, holds up a finger. “Okay, Wiggins is standing by for instructions after we’re done."

Sherlock takes in a deep breath and pauses, and then takes in one more. “I’ll ask him to have members of his crew gather signs that can be placed to block off the street, and arrange those people so that they can reinforce the restricted access. There will be a crucial period when there should be nobody on the street who is not one of our confederates. He’ll text you when that is, and I’ll need for you to keep a lookout and provide help from inside the building, in heading off any of Bart’s personnel who may be at ground level for some reason, and who look inclined to leave the premises.

“That’s one thing. The next is if I’m injured. I’ll need for you to assess the situation and, only if it’s absolutely necessary, get some of them to help you route me to the emergency room. But only if it’s absolutely necessary. You know that my definition of absolutely necessary will be much further out on the scale than anyone else’s. Anything short of that, I’m asking you to triage me yourself as best as possible until Mycroft appears.

“Mycroft is helping, then?”

“No, not yet. I can’t be sure he’s not compromised. After whatever events transpire on the roof, I’ll know which it is, but I don’t have enough evidence yet. If I’m dead, it won't matter which it is. If I’m conscious, I can let him stay, or send him away and zigzag myself away somehow, whichever makes sense.”

Molly waits quietly, absorbing all the details she's being entrusted with.

“There are two items I need, and I’ve told Wiggins where to find the first – one of the old-fashioned nets that firefighters used before modernizing their equipment, in the case of suicidal jumpers or people up several stories high, caught in a burning building. They’re circular, but they’re stored folded in half. There’ll be a large laundry truck at the site, and the net will be stored hanging on the outside passenger side panel. Wiggins’ people will grab it, open it, and hold it – and we’ll hope for the best.

Molly's eyes dart back and forth, turning over the scenario. “But Sherlock, that’s incredibly risky. If the net is that old – whatever material it’s made out of could have degraded over the years, as well as depending on how it's been stored. It may not hold, and that’s if you actually land on it.”

“Or I can land on it, and it holds, but the momentum causes my body to bounce off of it, and I may get smashed up even so," Sherlock says evenly.

“Or no matter how hard they try to manage it," Molly continues, "one or more of the people holding it could falter, causing it to tilt at an angle, or even drop it before you land, or drop it if and when you hit it, come to that."

"Yes," Sherlock affirms. “Or there could be a wind gust that throws things off. And so on. I know. As clever as we both are, I’m sure we could find more specifics of what can go wrong. But at that point I’ll have no control over the matter, so spending more time on it now won’t help me stay alive."

Sherlock’s mobile vibrates again, and he reaches out quickly to grab it, as if it is something vital to hang onto while floating across a stretch of ocean, lost. After he reads the message, he also sits down, the stool catching him as he sways, and slips, holding him up.

Feeling some of his rising panic receding, he says, “There, that’s the second piece. There’s a small company about an hour outside of London, D30, that makes body armor for extreme athletes who ski, use motorcycles, and so on, people who attempt jumps and find themselves falling from a height, and need impact protection. They're doing work for the military now as well. They’re brilliant chemists, and they’ve been working with polymers and created a material that’s soft and pliable, but when hit with force it goes rigid, dispersing the force at the points of contact, and then returns to its original state. I’ve texted one of the engineers to see if they can bring me something to wear, and they should be here within the hour. It should help some."

“That's good," Molly says, although the stern cast of her face is at odds with her words, the reason why revealed with what she says next. "Sherlock, what about John? Why isn’t he involved in this? Or is he, toward some other end?” Molly asks, tense and apprehensive.

“Whether or not Moriarty and I actually physically struggle, I may still need to make the choice to jump, because I may need to buy time up ahead to be safe from Moriarty’s people while I try and neutralize them – especially if I can’t trust Mycroft. I may need to appear to have died."

Sherlook looks her in the eye, and then drops his gaze. “I’ll need two forms of evidence to bluff being dead. One is to have you do the autopsy and sign the death certificate. For the second verification, I'll need a compelling witness at the scene, and that will be John. I will need for him to believe I’m dead, no question, in order to convince others, as everyone will be looking to him over the days ahead, to see if there are any falsities about what's happened, and if he puts a foot wrong, it will all be for naught. He’ll have to be there to confirm my fall and how it killed me.

“There’ll need to be some stagecraft – I’ve stored some blood in the empty cadaver bin at the end of the last row on the bottom, which you’ll need to hand over to Wiggins, and which they'll spill around my head. I’ll place a rubber ball in my armpit that I’ll squeeze against my side, and that will stop my pulse along that arm."

Molly looks dissatisfied with the chain of thoughts Sherlock is sharing, but she remains quiet. "An additional bit of insurance that this will go off as it should," Sherlock continues, noting her disquiet, but shrugging to himself mentally, "there’ll be a bicycle rider who will collide with John to slow him down as he moves toward where I've landed. When he stops to help John up, he’ll place one of his riding gloves over John’s nose and mouth. His gloves will be soaked in a substance that, when John inhales it into his lungs, will immediately hit his bloodstream; he'll be light-headed and disoriented and somewhat clumsy for a short while. After it clears his system, he’ll assume that how he felt will be due to the shock of seeing me fall.”

Having heard all she can without responding, she slides from her stool and stands up, bending her elbows and placing her hands on her hips. “You’ll tell him, won’t you? He’ll be devastated if he doesn’t know the truth, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock shrugs, this time physically, his countenance withdrawn, his voice hesitant. “Initially, maybe. But I don’t think that John’s regard for me is based on a solid foundation. I told him once that heroes don’t exist, and that even if they did, I’m not one. But I think he’s invested in my being an infallible genius, and a chief reason he's stayed with me is that he has a front row seat to watch me perform my mental gymnastics. I’ve been observing him over the last hours, taking in the information that has been amassing that I’m a fraud, and I think it’s starting to have an effect. Even if he doesn’t completely believe everything they’ll say about me, if he believes even some of it, that will be the end of us. And if he does manage to set all of that aside -- I will have irreparably disappointed him by not being able to anticipate Moriarty's game and to beat him at it . . . and, in fact, to have done as badly at handling Moriarty as anyone without a brain would."

“Sherlock, I don’t think that’s true about John," Molly says insistently.

"You may be right, Molly. But beyond me, beyond myself, the horrible stories that are being spun are catching John within the web as well. The collateral injustices he will have to bear is thatof being an object of curiosity, of pity, of scorn -- at the very least -- and, much worse, he will come under suspicion himself of having been duplicitous." Sherlock sinks his head down into his hand, his expression wrecked and weary. "I don't want to add fuel to that fire, and divorcing him from myself and my work is the only thing I have of value to give him, in a poor imitation of compensatory and punitive damages for loss of employment, emotional distress, and product liability," he says forlornly, his tone edging into bitterness.

"Sherlock, even so, you need to give John a chance to let you know how he’s responding to all of this. Don't assume you know his mind."

Sherlock's eyes dart back and forth, lighting anywhere but in her direct line of sight. "I will, Molly. I’ll see him one more time, here in the lab before I go to meet Moriarty. I’ll be able to tell what he's decided about me then, after he’s had time to take in the latest theatrics and make a judgment. I'm sure he'll let me know what he thinks of me, and how he feels."

........................................................ @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper rest of the @s in the tags, which will work for communication purposes, I hope? just say the word if you want to be untagged or tagged xoxoxo

[strawberrywinter4]

Watch and You’ll See

"John takes up birdwatching. Sherlock is baffled but supportive."

Thanks to @stellacartography for the prompt!

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Relationship: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson

Tags: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Birdwatching, Cheek Kisses, Reassurances, John’s new hobby, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Angst

Read here on ao3.

*•*•*•*•*

“You didn’t have to come with me, you know,” John says as they stroll down the path.

“I didn’t,” Sherlock confirms. “However, this new… hobby of yours leaves me no choice but to find answers.”

John only rolls his eyes, the conversation morphing into silence.

Sherlock eyes the book titled Birds and All You Need to Know in John’s hand, a bag slung around his shoulder. Sherlock just doesn’t understand and it’s bothering him considerably. John Watson is a veteran, a man who’s killed several, a professional doctor, and, in all honesty, a dangerous man in some situations.

And he’s taken up birdwatching.

Yes, he’s also taken up blogging as well, but his therapist requested that, and he’s gotten quite the following. So, Sherlock can’t ponder why John would dive into a hobby such as watching birds; a calm and overall observant activity on which one must focus.

It started as a slow process. On days when they didn’t have a case, John would slip out of the flat without a word, a slim bag over his shoulder. Then, the bag turned into an obvious organizer for supplies. Sherlock could make out the outline of a binocular, but that’s all. Once he finally confronted John and asked where he was headed at least two times a week, John casually responded, “Birdwatching,” with a happy-go-lucky smile on his lips.

Sherlock blinked, baffled by the statement.

Now, John has taken his hobby to the next level and decided to take a day trip to Sussex, where there is more nature to be appreciated. John only mentioned that he was off for the day and that he probably wouldn’t be home until late afternoon, but Sherlock was having none of it.

This was piquing his interest.

Sherlock insisted on accompanying John, which John first protested, but Sherlock didn’t care for his argument.

They sit on a bench that overlooks plenty of branches and slim trees. John sighs, setting his bag down and grabbing his binoculars from inside.

“Again, you really didn’t have to come,” John says again as if that will get Sherlock to disappear.

Sherlock can tell John expects him to poke fun, to laugh at such a contrasting hobby to which he would usually have. But Sherlock does nothing of the sort.

Instead, he leans forward and kisses the doctor’s cheek. “You are ridiculous sometimes,” Sherlock says. He then takes the book from John’s hands and begins observing the hardcover.

John continues to stare at him in bewilderment.

“Tedious… but probably factual,” Sherlock murmurs. He then looks at John. “Do you have a notepad?”

John blinks, then nods slowly. He gets out a notepad and a writing pen from his bag, handing it to Sherlock. Sherlock sees that John has already scribbled down on each set of paper, filling up almost half the notepad.

Sherlock feels warmth overtake his chest.

It’s… quite adorable, really. John is so dedicated to this activity and it shows in his writing, each category of birds having notes of specifics under them.

Sherlock hides his smile, eyes settling on John.

John huffs a laugh as he sees Sherlock’s expression. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh all you want, you git,” he says as he reaches for his notepad.

Sherlock holds it out of reach with ease. “I’m doing no such thing,” Sherlock tells him. “Now, I suggest you start before it gets dark.”

“What, so you can take pictures and send them to Greg?” John questions.

“Who?”

“Never mind. Just- Sherlock, it’s embarrassing.”

“Why should it be?” asks Sherlock. “I’m simply watching you enjoy something that you’re fond of.”

“Sherlock-”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is, for once, genuine. “Please. I’m… glad you have something to pass your time with. There’s no need to be embarrassed.”

John smiles gratefully at him.

For the rest of the day, the two men observe different birds, Sherlock admittedly finding this hobby fascinating as well. The majority of it consists of observations, so why wouldn’t he? Sherlock also can’t be blamed for correcting John’s monitoring throughout their experience or slipping the notepad out of John’s hands to write his own set of notes.

And he can’t be blamed for staring at John in awe every time the blogger acquires a glint in his eye when he sees a new bird, or when he pats Sherlock’s arm excitedly when a bird appears close.

All the more reason to love John Watson.

*•*•*•*•*

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(Please let me know if you don’t wish to be tagged or if you’d like to be tagged. Thank you so much for the reposts!!💞)

[petrichoriansys]

Sherlock & co. headcanons

Long post, sorry :,) I think about these idiots a lot. Lots of projection onto Sherlock, I apologize in advance.

I’m gonna avoid adding any ship headcanons because I want to focus on their characters and how they help each other, not the possibility of romance.

- Sherlock is an amazing artist. And I mean like, AMAZING. But he hates showing people his sketchbook. John is always baffled when he manages to catch a glimpse.

^ Idk if they’ll include Mycroft since he’s only in like two of the books but if they do include Mycroft, it’s absolutely his fault that Sherlock is insecure about showing his art to others.

- Sherlock’s ear defenders have stickers on them. Mariana gave him a pride flag sticker to put on them, he loves it.

- John shaved all his facial hair off once. Sherlock refused to look at him till it grew back, unless he put a mask on. Mariana laughed constantly during that time.

- John sleeps with his socks on. Thank you, fanartists.

- Sherlock will sometimes randomly decide to plop into John’s bed in the middle of the night. John secretly loves it.

- Sherlock’s hands are always freezing. Sometimes he’ll put a hand on the back of John’s neck because John hates it and it makes Mariana laugh, then John can’t stop himself from laughing. Sherlock loves when they laugh.

- John and Mariana have movie nights in 221B. Sometimes Sherlock will join but he doesn’t really enjoy movies, so he’ll just be on his phone. They do it in 221B anyway because they want Sherlock to feel included even though they know he won’t watch the movie regardless.

- CANE USER JOHN.

- As a followup to the previous hc, John hates using his cane in public. He always gets weird looks and he’s insecure about it. He often has to use it in the flat because he refuses to use it out in public, and Sherlock and Mariana never mention it. He’s gotten a bit more comfortable with it because of that.

- John has A Chair that no one touches. If a guest sits in his chair, Sherlock will tell them to move. John needs to always have an open, easily accessible spot to sit down due to his leg.

- Sherlock often goes nonverbal, especially after cases. John and Mariana have learned sign language for him. Partially to communicate with him while he’s nonverbal, partially to cut down on noise when he’s overwhelmed.

- Since it’s said in the beginning of the show that Sherlock has DID and I personally have DID, here’s a hc specific to that (which totally isn’t projection at all……). Sherlock has a child alter, as do many with DID. While John and Mariana aren’t very experienced with this stuff, they’ve taken time to learn and always make sure to keep the environment safe for said alter. They also will wait for Sherlock to tell them who’s fronting, because he often gets frustrated when they ask.

- Sorta related to the last one but also just general, Sherlock hates when people ask him things (unless it’s related to his interests). Stop asking him how his day was, stop asking him how he’s doing. If he wanted you to know, he would tell you.

- Sherlock loves John’s mum. She sees him as her son.

- John is oblivious. He’s had many people (mainly women) ask him out and didn’t understand he was being asked out on a date. He once had a friend who thought they were dating because she didn’t explicitly tell him and he just kept hanging out with her, thinking she just wanted to be friends. No malicious intentions whatsoever, he literally is just oblivious as fuck.

- On that note, John is bi, Sherlock is gay, and Mariana is lesbian.

- John’s insecure. Just in general. About his body, about his scars, about his voice, everything. He’s especially insecure about how much he yaps. It just happens and he gets frustrated with himself. Sherlock secretly loves it.

^ One time, John got so annoyed with himself that he decided he wouldn’t talk unless necessary. Sherlock told him he loves the yapping and reminded him that the podcast listeners love his rambles. John instantly went back to being his normal, yappy self.

- Possibly he/they Sherlock?

- The trio have all helped each other with insecurities. John’s and how they’ve helped him I’ve mentioned previously in this post. Mariana often feels out of place since she has no family in Britain and her accent stands out, but John always reminds her that him and Sherlock are her family too. Sherlock secretly loves her accent. Sherlock’s got a ton of mental issues (as stated in episode 1), and often gets frustrated because he has a hard time expressing his needs. John and Mariana do their best to accommodate. I’ve stated some ways I hc they do that previously.

I’m gonna stop now, but I could go on for hours.

I’ve actually been writing this on and off for several hours, oops.

Goodbye, enjoy some silly hcs. Feel free to add on to some of them in replies/reblogs, I’d love to see your hcs and I’d def love to hear (read ig) opinions on these.

[meetinginsamarra]

mayprompts2024 #16, experiment

Read parts 1-11 on AO3 here

Part 12 only on tumblr so far

++++++

The Perfect Place - Part Thirteen

John put the skull back on its place on the mantelpiece and pointed at the dagger Sherlock had stuck into the wood to keep several letters in place. He frowned and gave Sherlock a disapproving look.

“You shouldn’t keep such a sharp dagger in the wood.” John chided.

Oh dear, here come the admonishments, Sherlock thought.

He braced himself against what John was likely about to say. “It’s dangerous to keep a sharp object here. People could get hurt.” Or “You’re destroying the wood, it’s difficult to repair damage like this.”

John continued. “It’s really bad for the blade, it’ll get dull, you know? Also, the tip might break and get stuck in the mantelpiece. It would be a shame to ruin such a fine dagger.”

“Erm, okay?” Sherlock stuttered, surprised, “Yes, will do.” Not what I expected.

When John peeked under the sofa, he pulled out the Turkish scimitar that Sherlock had already missed.

“Oh, great, you found it! I’ll be needing it tomorrow.” Sherlock called out happily.

“What for?” John brandished the scimitar and made some thrusts into Sherlock’s direction. “You going to waylay guileless travellers?”

“No, of course not.” Sherlock decided to test John’s sense of humour. “I’ll need it to chop the remains from the latest flatmate-candidate. He insulted Billy and therefore he had to die.”

John looked Sherlock straight into the face, utterly deadpan. “Good then that I didn’t. Also, you’d better use this letter-holding dagger for precision cuts through the corpse’s joints.”

They stared at each other for three long seconds before they exploded into raucous laughter.

For the next ten minutes, Sherlock watched John hopping excitedly around the sitting-room, ogling things, pawing bits and fondling bobs.

It was an amazing sight of utter joy.

Sherlock was reminded of a toddler experiencing their first Easter egg hunt in a magical wonderland. He suppressed the urge of handing a basket to John so that he could put the found treasures inside for later perusal.

(Others might have been reminded of a squirrel suffering from dementia, getting excited over and over again about finding the same nuts it had hidden juts several minutes ago, thinking they were new.)

(And yet others would have thought of a cuddly hedgehog searching for windfall like apples and pears to gain weight for the next winter.)

John commented on every mysterious, unusual, weird or quirky object that he picked up, showing it to Sherlock and silently asking for more information, data that Sherlock was more than happy to provide.

“Are you needing a cup of tea as bad as I?” John asked after a lot of talking, “I’m parched.”

(Also, his throat was terribly dry from all the dust he had inhaled while scrutinizing Sherlock’s things.)

“Let’s make some,” Sherlock offered, “and you could have a look at the kitchen.”

Sherlock put the kettle on while John first commented on the lovely choice of green tiles on the kitchen wall and then asked about the array of chemistry equipment on the kitchen table.

“I’m doing a lot of experiments here,” Sherlock explained, “to gather data and evaluate clues in order to solve the crimes that I consult on.”

(This was true, of course. Also, it sounded much better than the whole truth. Namely, that Sherlock followed mostly some whims he had when he was bored and just experimented with whatever was available to him. He had produced mountains of laboratory journals with millions of spreadsheets of data that nobody would ever use. Like one of his latest obsessions when he had tested the durability of mummified Guinea pig embryos after being exposed to various kinds of acids and then thrown against a bed of nails.)

“What is it you’re currently experimenting on?”

“I’m measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.” Sherlock replied and poured the hot water over a teabag.

“Interesting.” John said. “I’ll get us some milk.” He reached for the handle of the fridge.

Sherlock suddenly remembered where the saliva had come from and an electric shock of terror struck him.

“No, don’t open…” he began to shout.

But it was already too late.

“… the fridge.” Sherlock whispered.

John’s shriek reverberated in the deadly silence that followed.

+++++

tagging some people��@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @peanitbear  @raina-at

[problematic-weather]

Ointments and Bandages (Sherlock Holmes x Reader)

Sherlock Holmes x GN! Reader

summary: after another solved case, it seems sherlock and enola are caught up in a storm— and underestimated the severity of the storm and their injuries. battered and bruised, they stumble upon a small cottage. who would’ve known that it’d be a home to the countryside herbalist? and it seems sherlock finds peace and interest in the pain.

word count: 2.3k+

it’s really just fluff and teasing, and was self-indulgent to get out of a writing slump

warnings: unedited, and i did not watch enola holmes 2 yet ;(( GIF NOT MINE!

Before Sherlock had opened his eyes, a concern that drowned in his mind is that he was nowhere near London. Nor where they were supposed to have gone after concluding the case. The tiniest shift sent a spike of discomfort through him, an aching feeling hard to ignore throughout his body– pulsing the most around his ankle. 

Sherlock had already gone down the list of things possibly wrong; evaluating himself and the damage that had befallen him before he had finally peaked open an eye.

Sunlight was his welcome. An abundance of it, as well as the earthy smell of nature. It was then confirmed, he was definitely not in the streets of London, nor in the confines of his flat. Green was the next color seen, as his eyes adjusted. Plants of all sorts hanging from the roof, and an array of dried leaves and grass hung across the wall. He stared down at himself, inspecting the cuts and burns covered with bandages, a green trail of liquid flowing down one of his arms. Where was he–

“About time you’ve risen, Sherlock.” Enola grinned, walking closer to her brother, a kettle in her hands. “We thought you wouldn’t budge till sundown.” Sherlock’s brow raised as he attempted to sit upright, groaning in the process of his ankle shifting off the chair (as a rest), the wrap loosening as well. 

“I’m sorry,” he inhaled, “‘We?’”

Enola grinned as she settled the kettle down on the table near him, rustling with the fabric dangling around her arms. There, Sherlock noticed the change of clothes his sister was currently wearing. Bigger clothing, looser, and much more available pockets– more than likely deeper as well. The type of clothing that was convenient for someone who dwells in the countryside, rather than the bustling streets of the capital. 

“Yes, ‘we.’ Very generous, they are. Letting us in during the storm and dressing our wounds. You were left down here, due to your inability to walk and symptoms of fever– I was barely able to walk the stairs, though, in much better condition than you were.” Enola smiled widely, “I doubt you remember any of it.” 

Sherlock hadn’t. Fragments of images flashed through his mind: the storm, the solved case, the guilty aristocrat, chasing the aristocrat– fighting the aristocrat, and ending up in the doorway of a house through the horrid storm. Ah, there does it. 

“Now that you’ve awakened, I’ll go and alert the–” 

“No, Enola. We need to leave.” 

That’s when Sherlock noticed the figure. Or, the owner of the cottage. Through the oak-framed window, skin glowing in the sun’s light as fingers gently trailed along the various vegetation through inspection– lost in thought. 

Sherlock continued to watch as they slowly continued to walk towards the window, eyes scanning the different species before finally deciding, pricking the plants before tying and positioning them into the basket properly. 

“Ah!”  Enola called out your name, waving enthusiastically as she gestured towards the kettle. “It’s finished!” 

A laugh was an immediate response, hands dusting themselves against the now-dirtied apron. “I’ll join you in a moment, Enola.” Eyes wandering across the room, finally stopping and lingering on Sherlock. 

“It seems the last guest will also be joining, isn’t he?” Sherlock responded with a simple nod, confused at the pleasant welcome. As you disappeared from view, Sherlock turned to his sister. Before he could question her once again, Enola cut him off. 

“Do be polite, and ask not as many questions as you’d like to partake in.” Sherlock’s mouth opened slightly, eyes gleaming with feigned offense. 

“I beg your pardon. Out of the two of us, are you not the most inquisitive? Jotting notes in a scramble and accusing the–” Enola shushed him loudly, walking over. 

“Alright alright! There’s no need to bring up past efforts. Just don’t bombard.” 

“I certainly will not. But given our situation, a few questions are certainly in order.”

The door adjacent to the fireplace creaked open, revealing you. 

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Holmes. I do hope you haven’t suffered a great deal recovering on that chair.” Sherlock tore his eyes off his sister and provided a small smile to his healer.

“Of course not, I apologize for the inconvenience I might have caused throughout our stay.” A hand raised in the air and dismissed his apology, footsteps groaning against the floor as you drew closer. Scanning his injuries, the smile on their face faltered. 

Turning away, Sherlock watched as your hands and feet moved with familiarity. Straining the golden liquid from the kettle into two cups, pushing them forward to both of the Holmes’ hands. 

“Tumeric and ginger tea. Though, if you’re not a fan, I’ve noticed a few ginger slices dipped in honey would be more than adequate for both of your sakes. Being injured and such.” Sherlock and Enola offered their gratitude, quietly taking a sip each. 

“I must ask,” Sherlock started, lowering his cup first. “Why would you let us in?” 

“I wouldn’t have a clear answer to give you,” you replied, pouring another cup for themselves. “I planned on turning you away, but the guilt would eat at me for refusing shelter for two strangers in the brute of a storm.” 

“And if we were dangerous?” 

“Then, I guess that would be unfortunate on my account. No one ever really is in these parts though, wandering travelers or villagers asking for simple ointments.” Sherlock’s brow raised as he took another sip. 

“A profession in medicine?” 

“On the contrary, I merely dabble in it and such. Your common street doctor in London holds much more qualifications–” 

“And yet,” Enola cut in, “You have reduced the swelling of my brother’s ankle, the burns, and cuts on our bodies, as well as lowered our feverish heads.” 

“I still wouldn’t–” 

“I would have to agree with Enola as well,” Sherlock grinned. “For a herbalist that simply ‘dabbles,’ your skill has reduced our condition a great deal.”

A bright smile tugged on your face, one Sherlock could only describe as infectious. There seemed to be a certain air about you– a mood or comfort that trailed along with your steps. A simple life, but complex within the mind of an individual who welcomes injured strangers, and heals them into full health. A skill to aid with absolutely no knowledge of their patient, but does it with the notion of being good. 

Being better. 

Something that Sherlock had forgotten, being wrapped up in the cases and twisted lives of England. It was almost endearing. 

“You both are too kind for your own good. You both may have to stay the night if you’d like. Before dawn, tomorrow, I can request that you both ride in the back of one of the villager’s carts.”

“That would be gracious of you, but too much, really,” Sherlock rejected, ignoring the look of his sister’s shooting glare. “You’ve already tended to us enough. We’ll be on our way to report back as quickly as we can.” 

“It isn’t a bother, but if you wish. Enola, before you go–” you grinned, staring at the girl in question with a small wink. “Why don’t you go outside and check the sundial? Or try the trick I showed you. I know you–” 

“Absolutely!” Enola agreed, grabbing at the full-sleeves, hiking them up and past her forearms. Scurrying out of the room, a smile crept onto your face. As you turned to face the older Holmes, you noticed he had a small one as well. A tiny upturn on the right side of his face as he stared at the door she had ran out of. 

“She’s a very bright kid, very interested in everything around her.” You complimented, walking around and opening drawers with the needed wraps. “I wonder if she gets it from her older brother.” 

His frown vanished, though the idea had made his mind turn. 

“I certainly hope not. She’s much more free and impatient to know the in’s and out’s of everyone she comes across. I’m afraid that gets her in more trouble than she wants.” 

You hum as a response, placing the materials on the table near him, and pulled up a stool to sit on. 

“I need to redress your wounds,” you offered, hands stopping in front of his forearm, hovering over the old bandages. 

“Of course, thank you, once more.” Unraveling the bandage and discarded it to the side, you reach out and grab a cloth, wiping away the mixture of plants and grim. Adding a new salve to his wound, you slowly bandaged it up and continued to the next. 

A comfortable silence fell onto the two. As you continued from one small injury to the next, careful hands and skillfull analysis to use different mixtures in vials to apply and dress once more. It was until you reached for his ankle, and made slight contact, did you hear a quiet hiss. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled. A hand supporting his heel as the other peeled away at the wrapping, showcasing the tiny splotches of soft purple. You scootched your stool closer, resting the ankle on your lap. 

“I’m going to have to touch around the ankle, unless it’s–”

“Do as you must.” 

You nodded slowly, ignoring the flush of embarrassment attempting to flood through. With skilled hands, you slowly move around the different parts of his ankle, rubbing and squeezing gently. 

In doing so, your eyes slowly look up again at him. He seems calm, for the most part– but with eyes staring intently at his ankle, there might’ve been an area you had missed. 

As hands trail upward and circle around the malleolus (yk, the bony ankle joint– the circle-like one, yeah, that one), his breath had hitched. Mouth frowning as he focused more, you had gotten your answer as to where. Now, the question was how bad. 

“I find it inspirational that your sister is such a free personality,” you trailed off. Sherlock’s eyes were torn away from his injury, and you could feel them settling onto you. You slowly continued to feel around the bone, and carried on. 

“It may bring in the possibility of danger, but I believe that comes with the package of expanding your connections and personalities.” 

“Arguably, yes. However, with the occupation we serve, the outcome of meeting a foe rather than a friend can outweigh those ‘personalities.’” 

“Perhaps that’s what makes her feel free. Being passionately curious and unlocking everyone’s own inner workings.” 

“Yes, but in the circumstance of high stakes, a few simple mistakes can threaten her life of her and–” 

At that moment, you squeezed the under part of the joint, and Sherlock winced terribly. Completely thrown off, you hid the thought of cracking a smile. 

“Well then, it seems you have a bruised bone, Mr. Holmes. The tea and ointment helped reduce your inflammation, at least. Nothing a few days of–” 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock started, glaring at you. “Did you–” 

“Distract you? Yes, and it worked. I heard a rumor that detectives liked argumentative conversation,” you joked. “Clearly, it’s true.” 

Reaching out a simple salve, you smeared a thin layer around the bone– massaging it quickly in the process. 

“Don’t be discouraged, I did enjoy the topic. And I believe mistakes are good to make.” 

“And how so? Or is this another attempt to distract and assault me?” 

“Assault?” A loud laugh coursed through you before you realized, “Rude, but I won’t object. I’d be a fool to reveal my true intentions before you’ve interrogated me.” 

“I just think mistakes help us, sometimes. You’ll accept failure better, you learn, and you counter them in the future as you grow.” You muttered.

Grabbing a fresh bandage, you lifted his leg once more and slowly wrapped it around it. You knew he wasn’t staring at the bandage this time, but you, as you silently tended to him. 

Honesty, you’d look if you knew you could handle it. Truly. 

But a man such as Sherlock Holmes is hard to look at, you came to the conclusion. Especially when you’ve teased him; a man you’ve just met, your first conversation too. There was always the tiniest bit of embarrassment when offering a quote worth of “wisdom.”

“You both seem to be good people, and something tells me if Enola finds trouble… you’ll be there to protect her. As impatient and free as she may be in her youth.”

You finish wrapping his ankle and tie a small knot. With a final look of satisfaction, you clapped twice. 

“That should be everything, I believe. I’d suggest not leaning all your weight just yet, leave it ‘til the weekend. Or until your doctor urges otherwise.” 

But as you raised your head, you realized your words may have fallen on deaf eyes. Sherlock seemed lost in his own world, fingers tapping against the wooden table in a quiet rhythm. As the silence began to be uncomfortable, he spoke: 

“You’re a peculiar puzzle piece.” 

The sudden observation raised interest in you, paired with much confusion. 

“Should I be flattered?

“Do you find it flattering?”

“I would need you to elaborate before I can say for certain.” 

“A false-edge piece, specifically. That is all I will say on the topic.” 

If you weren’t as stumped at Sherlock’s vague explanation, you would’ve caught the small, lopsided smile and huff of amusement. 

The steps of the youngest Holmes burst in suddenly, eyes wide. 

“We have a quarter and four hours until sundown.” 

Enola’s eyes gleamed hopeful, waiting for her brother to respond. 

Sherlock had given you a quick glance, before giving his sister a wide grin. 

“I guess that means we’ll have to stay the night. If, it isn’t a bother,” he quickly adds, as he says your name. “I’ve quite enjoyed our talk, doctor. A night more may better my condition.”

Heat flamed across your face, as you watched his eyes shine with challenge.

“I’d be honored.”

—————————

thanks! hope you enjoyed! <3

[specialagentlokitty]

Patrick Jane x reader - similar

May I request a Patrick Jane x Holmes Reader (I just recently started watching The Mentalist and I'm obsessed) where the reader is Sherlock's sibling and just as observant as him, maybe the reader and Jane meet on a case or something? - @elemental-of-magic💜

You didn’t particularly like want to go to America, but you Mycroft needed to send someone over to help and out of you and Sherlock he decided you were the best fit.

So here you stood at the crime scene, arms crossed over your chest as you just looked around.

“Excuse me, are you supposed to be here?” A man asked.

You flicked your gaze to him, looking him up and down.

“I can ask you the same thing Patrick Jane, you’re not part of the CBI, you’re not a agent or a detective for that matter.”

He rose a brow at you.

“And you’re not part of the CBI either, but you are a detective.”

You smirked a little, reaching into your pocket, you pulled out a badge cover and tossed it over to him.

“Government agent.” You said.

“But going to be a senior agent aren’t you?”

He walked over and handed you the badge back.

“It’s not about age, it’s about efficiency.”

He nodded his head and looked at you.

“So, what’re you doing so far from home?”

“You’re criminal is actually my criminal, and I know exactly how to find him.”

“Then you better act fast because we’ve just found another body.”

You turned around to look at a woman and you were quickly introduced to them all.

It only took you a few hours to locate your criminal, and he was arrested, and you looked at your phone.

Mycroft: good job. Come home in a few days.

You didn’t bother to reply, you just set it back on the desk and you looked around in boredom.

You grew tired of just banging about the office, so you made you way to their kitchen to make some tea.

“I know you’re behind me.”

“How?”

“You’re not exactly quiet walking.”

“Observant.” Patrick said.

You turned around, setting your cup on the table you sat down and he sat opposite you.

“So, if you’re so observant tell me about me.”

You scanned him up and down, and you began to list everything about him, only leaving out the part about his reason for being with the CBI.

He nodded along.

“You left things out.” He said.

“I assume they would be rather sensitive topics for you.”

“Thank you.”

You gave a nod and sipped your tea.

“You know, revenge won’t do you any good, it won’t give you closure or heal the pain you feel.”

“How’d you know I just didn’t want him arrested.”

“After what he did you’d want more than him to be thrown in prison. But let me tell you, it isn’t worth it. Let him rot away for the rest of his life, sitting with the knowledge that when you find him and arrest him, he has to know he’ll never see the outside world again.”

Patrick nodded his head a little.

“Do you have to leave soon?”

“Not unless my brothers need me.”

“Perhaps you can help me track down Red John?”

You leant back in your chair.

“It is not my war to fight.”

“I understand, I just thought you could offer some insight is all.”

You looked at him.

“I will help you either way, but I will do nothing more than review any evidence you already have. This is not my fight Patrick Jane, it is yours and yours alone, but I will offer you support.”

“Can I ask why?”

You took a small breath.

“I understand the pain of loosing someone you love. I believed my brother was dead for two years, and nothing could heal that pain.”

“He’s not dead?”

“No the bastard faked his death with the help of our older brother. Currently I’m not on talking terms with either of them.”

“I understand why not.”

You looked away and turned back to him after a moment.

“I haven’t introduced myself yet.”

“(Y/N) Holmes, I put it together based on the initials on your badge.” He smiled

[llamagoddessofficial]

Thank you for the commission, @silcatian! Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think this might be the first time I've written a Swap Sans! 👀 I went the true himbo route

---

“TSK! HONESTLY!”

...

Huh. You perked up, at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice- he didn't usually sound frustrated when cooking. Unless his brother had walked in with takeout. You closed your work laptop, getting up off the couch and heading into the kitchen. 

“What is it?” You poked your head in. Sans was wearing his post-workout gear, fresh out of the shower, he looked remarkably handsome dressed in just shorts and a loose white top with ‘AWESOME DUDE’ written on the front in very faded black marker. He was holding a still-sealed packet of gnocchi and glaring at it; the stovetop was decorated by a saucepan of almost-boiling water, and a second shallower pan that contained some kind of pleasant smelling creamy sauce.

He narrowed his sockets at the packet, as he put it back on the countertop. “THIS GNOCCHI IS ENCOURAGING THE CONSUMPTION OF CARDBOARD AND PLASTIC! CARDBOARD AND PLASTIC IS NOT HEALTHY FOR HUMANS. THAT, I KNOW. I SHOULD’VE MADE MY OWN PASTA FOR OUR ROMANTIC DINNER! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO WOO YOU IF MY COOKING IS FULL OF CARDBOARD AND PLASTIC?”

“... Erm...” You were trying not to laugh. You hadn’t been aware tonight was supposed to be a romantic dinner. “Explain a bit more...?”

He jabbed a finger, accusingly, at the packaging.

“THE TEXT HERE CLEARLY INSTRUCTS ME TO ‘ADD BOX TO BOILING WATER’!”

...

Oh my Stars. 

You tried not to laugh. You really did. But you couldn’t help it, a little giggle came out.

“Sans...” You said, moving over to the countertop and picking up the offending box. “I’m pretty sure it means add the contents of the box.” 

He glanced over at you, with those beautiful sky blue eyelights. “... REALLY?”

“... Yeah.” You scanned the package, and it just confirmed your suspicions. “You’ve bought a two person gnocchi serving. And you’re reading the part about ‘to serve two’. It just wanted you to use all the gnocchi in the box, boo.”

“HM.” He scratched his chin, but his happy aura didn’t lessen at all. He always took these things in stride. “WELL, I SUPPOSE THAT DOES MAKE A LOT MORE SENSE. I DID THINK IT WAS ODD.”

Your boyfriend was the smartest person you’d ever met, by no stretch of the imagination. But simultaneously, he was one of the most blunt, and easily confused.

He had multiple PhDs. That wasn't a joke, they were framed on the wall, he collected them mostly just for the fun of it. Statistics, mathematics, ‘puzzleology’ or something, a lot of space related stuff you didn’t understand. Numbers went through his head like he was a living calculator, his propensity for puzzles was absolutely unmatched and his eyelights merely had to scan something for him to make the most incredible difficult conclusions with total ease. A Sherlock in his own right. He explained astrophysics, both theoretical and non-theoretical, as easily as if he was explaining the answers to the morning crossword.

... And yet. He once asked you how to spell YMCA. On your first date, he pondered why humans got salmonella from raw eggs, because he thought it came from salmon. The two of you were watching a documentary about a lion pride and he asked if it was ‘based on a true story’.

Honestly? You just loved him more for it. It was funny and endearing. His line about salmonella had made you so giggly (much to his apparent delight) you’d thought about him all day- every Sherlock needs a Watson, right? You were not mathematically gifted, but that was okay. Sans did yours and his brother’s taxes because he just enjoyed crunching the numbers, and meanwhile, you could explain that when the recipe said the steak needed to ‘sit’ for half an hour, it didn’t mean on a chair. The two of you covered each other’s weaknesses.

Your running theory was that he was just too smart. Day-to-day stuff went over his skull, just like academic stuff went over yours. And that was okay. You knew he wouldn’t judge you for struggling with numbers, let alone for not understanding his long enthusiastic tangents about incredibly complex mathematical theories, he knew you wouldn’t judge him when he openly questioned why the plural of foot was feet but the plural of boot wasn’t beet.

...

... To be fair, you didn’t get that one either.

Sans opened the gnocchi and put it on to boil. It only needed a few minutes before it was already done, ready to strain. Sometimes, you just didn’t understand; he was an absolutely incredible cook, on your first date at his place he’d made seared ahi tuna steaks with some kind of delicious sweet lemony sauce, full of complicated flavours you didn’t understand, pulling out all the stops to impress you. It had completely blown your mind, especially when he openly admitted he wasn’t familiar with cooking with human food.

... And at the same time, when he made tacos for his brother, he filled them with glitter. 

Non edible glitter.

You strained the gnocchi for him. It always surprised you, how fast the stuff cooked. He added the pasta to the sauce, tossing it all together and throwing in a little sprinkle of something green, then setting it down to reduce.

You leant back against the counter.

“... You know I’m already wooed, right?” You said, softly. “And not just by your cooking.”

“OF COURSE, BOO.” Confident as ever. “BUT I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH AND IT IS VERY IMPORTANT TO MAKE SURE YOU ARE RE-WOOED REGULARLY, TO ENSURE YOU FEEL APPRECIATED.”

You felt your cheeks get pinker. “Is that one from your dating manual?”

“NOPE.” He winked. “THAT’S A SANS ORIGINAL. MWEH-HEH.”

He held his hand out. You took it, linking your fingers with his bones and giving a gentle squeeze.

“... Well. Consider me feeling appreciated.” 

He beamed. “EXCELLENT! MY DATE NIGHT WAS SUCCESSFUL, AND IT HASN’T EVEN STARTED YET!”

He had you giggling again. He always seemed to. 

“Do you wanna eat on the couch? That new black hole documentary is on in twenty minutes.”

“ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO WATCH IT TOO?”

“Absolutely. You might have to explain some stuff to me, though. Like... the whole ‘time slowing down as you fall in’ thing.”

“WELL, IT’S VERY SIMPLE, ACTUALLY!” His eyelights flared up into stars, infectious grin spreading across his cheeks. “IF YOU WERE AN OBJECT APPROACHING A BLACK HOLE, IT WOULD APPEAR AS IF TIME WAS SLOWING AROUND YOU...”

You let him continue, allowing yourself to indulge in another of his tangents. You just liked hearing him talk about something he was interested in.

... He thought it was his cooking, good looks and dating manual advice that had won you over. And they certainly helped. But really... it was this sort of thing that had ‘wooed’ you, in the end.

[raina-at]

Nightmare

I've set myself the unofficial goal of hitting all my AUs this month. So have some Spare Parts Boys. All you need to know, though, is that this AU is totally canon compliant until TRF save for two things: One, Sherlock and John were together before the Fall, and two, they live on Titan in the 24th century.

----

It takes a while for Sherlock to accept how much he still has to learn when it comes to anything to do with interpersonal relationships.

Case in point, just because the person you love most in the world has forgiven you for the horrible thing you did to him, doesn't mean it's not still haunting both of you.

John has nightmares. John always had nightmares, even back before Sherlock jumped. John has enough trauma Sherlock isn't responsible for to keep him in nightmares for the rest of his life. 

Like his father's death. Or the incident on Mars that is responsible for his synthetic arm.

John had PTSD and was nearly suicidal when Sherlock met him, on his way down the bottle or his sidearm. Sherlock shocked him out of that state by providing adrenaline on a daily basis. In the beginning, the adrenaline was chasing criminals through the streets of New London and the frozen plains of Titan. Later, that adrenaline included sex. But John still had nightmares, and the bed they shared before Sherlock jumped was often besieged with these night terrors. John would wake up screaming. Sometimes he’d claw at his artificial arm as if he wasn’t sure what this thing was doing on his body. Sometimes he’d whimper and beg for it to stop, whatever was torturing him.

Sherlock hated these nightmares. Still does.

But it’s a special kind of hell when you’re the thing that haunts the person you’d literally die for. When you become the nightmare. 

It’s been a rough few days. John’s clinic was busy, and they had a truly gruelling case, human trafficking, sympathetic victims, and an unsatisfying outcome. They got the local thugs and they freed the victims, but the big fish escaped their net. 

They went home and both of them fell asleep as soon as their heads hit their respective pillows.

Sherlock woke suddenly to John screaming his name, over and over, panting with fear. Sherlock did what he always does, he gathered John in his arms and whispered, “I’m here, it’s all right, it was just a dream. I’m here. I’m here,” kissing John’s brow and breathing with him as he slowly calmed down and fell asleep again, still clinging to Sherlock like he was going to vanish if he let go. 

It’s getting a bit old, to tell the truth. It doesn’t happen that often anymore, but it happens frequently enough to bother Sherlock. He’s also more than a bit disgusted at himself for having the nerve to be annoyed at John’s subconscious. It’s been two years, a small, insidious voice inside his mind whispers. When is this going to stop?

Probably never. That’s the short answer. The long answer that it’s probably going to be less and less frequent, as the scar tissue over this particular wound in John’s subconscious grows thicker.

Sherlock still feels like shit every time it happens. Because it shows him, time and again, that no matter how much they’ve grown and changed and forgiven and promised, no matter how good he’s been, there’s a part of John that still lives in that moment. There’s a corner of John’s mind that’s stuck with the worst thing Sherlock has ever done. 

When he’s sure John is fast asleep again, he gets up and sits in the window seat, watching the clouds race over the murky sky, revealing glimpses of Saturn. Occasionally, a shuttle passes through his line of sight, or a hovercab. The city is quiet at this time of night. Never asleep, but dozing. 

John’s hands are warm on his shoulders, caressing tense muscles with soothing strokes. “Come back to bed,” John whispers in his ear, soft breath tickling against his neck.

“In a minute,” Sherlock replies, making room for John to slip into the seat behind him, letting John rearrange them so he’s resting against John as John’s arms come around him.

“What is it?” John murmurs into his hair, his voice soft and quiet and gentle.

Sherlock knows he could say nothing. He could just take John to bed and distract them both from the dark of the night with the heat of their bodies. Instead, he takes John’s hand between both of his and traces idle patterns over his palm. “It’s always going to be there. Isn’t it?”

He can feel more than hear John sigh, his chest heaving with the deep breath he takes and then lets out, slowly. “Probably.” John meets his eyes in the window’s reflection. “Doesn’t mean I don’t forgive you. Doesn’t mean I want to be anywhere but here.”

“I know.” 

And the thing is, he does know. And it still hurts. Both of them. 

“You know, I have patients who ask me why their synthetic limbs feel pain.”

Sherlock sighs, because he has a feeling he knows where John is going with this. “Are you going to give me another lecture on how ignoring pain is stupid?”

Sherlock can hear the smile in John’s voice when he replies, “I’m that predictable?”

Sherlock brushes a kiss over John’s knuckles. “Never.” Another kiss. “Well. Sometimes.”

John chuckles, kissing Sherlock’s hair. “Well then, Mister I-Know-What-You’re-About-To-Say-Before-You-Do, tell me what I was about to say.”

“That pain is good, because it shows you your limits. That pain reminds you of past mistakes. That it’s a teacher, and a guide.”

“A bit more poetic than I would have phrased it, but shockingly accurate as usual,” John answers, and Sherlock can feel him smile against Sherlock’s hairline.

“I know all of this. What bothers me is that you’re in pain because of my mistakes.”

“I know. And that’s the reason why I forgive you,” John says gently, moving their joined hands over Sherlock’s heart. 

Sherlock says nothing, pressing John’s hand closer against his heart. He can’t express what John’s forgiveness means to him, what this second life they have together has given him. And he knows that the pain he feels every time he watches John live through his death is both his penance and the price he has to pay. He just wishes he was the only one who had to go through it.

“Want to go back to bed now?” John asks, pulling Sherlock even closer.

Sherlock smiles. “In a minute.”

In a minute, they will go back to bed. They will chase away melancholy thoughts and lingering aches with hands and mouths and words of adoration breathed into sweat-slick skin. They will fall asleep entangled and wake together to greet a new day together.

For now, though, Sherlock kisses John’s palm and together, they watch their city doze the night away.

-----

Periodic reminder that I'm collecting all of these ficlets here on AO3.

Tags under the cut as always, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

[ohwhataniight]

more than the world can contain - Chapter 4: A Scandal in Belgravia - Part 3

Part 1, Part 2

Songs I was listening to while writing:

Sherlocked

Faded

Tango del Fuego

So. I can't stop writing and posting little bits of my WIP. It's horrible. I can't seem to be able to sit down and proofread and complete it before I appear on your dashboard again. Anyway, please forgive my impatience once again.

Irene Adler makes me hot. Seriously, every character in this universe makes me swoon. Impertinent.

J

Now that’s a visual and auditory experience I never expected I’d acquire. Sherlock Holmes, the mighty and seemingly heartless (I declare bullshit to that) detective, lying like a giant lump in his bed under covers he keeps throwing off, tossing and turning, his voice alternating between tiny whimpers and an anxious baritone. “I am not in love, I am not in love.”

In retrospect, I should have seen this coming. I had been foolish enough to be comforted by his “married to my work” facade and assume that this - us, solving crimes together - would keep being enough for him. I should have listened to Donovan. “He’ll get bored of you” meaning you’ll never be enough. Because, apparently, people who could be enough for Sherlock do exist, after all, in the form of women who match him in wits and ineffability. It only makes sense that he has to deny being in love with such a person, a woman, now that was unexpected, only a day into meeting her. Such forms of denial, when uttered with such desperation by those lips, are akin to a declaration.

Honestly, I don’t know what this sinking feeling in my stomach really signifies. I should have expected this, and even if I hadn’t, I shouldn’t care. I don’t know why I care, why it feels so ugly and wrong that Sherlock Holmes is so adamantly denying (declaring) his love for a woman who, painful as it is to admit, is a perfect match for his mind and his looks. I think I have sort of become addicted to this - this us, again - to being handcuffed together, running around foggy London hand-in-hand, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, just the two of us, sleuth brothers-in-arms, colleagues, friends.

For some reason I can only blurrily see, my knees give out with the idea of someone else stepping into the equation.

“He’ll get bored of you”.

About bloody time I realized that, then.

But for now, he’s unconscious, and distressed, and he needs me. So I provide the comfort he requires, my hand brushing damp, stray curls away from his forehead, stroking his head, hushing him, taking it all in (including the image of his lipstick-stained skin) while I still can, privy to the fact that the only reason he accepts that is because he’s high as a fucking kite. The realization tugs painfully on my heart like a rusty hook.

Yet, he seems to want me here, leans into the touch, drags me close with his arms wrapped like tentacles around my waist when I make an attempt to withdraw after musing on consent, and when he calls my name I realize that I’m more than okay to do that for the most brilliant man in the world.

I’m okay with him needing me, until he realizes he doesn’t anymore.

S

Tasteful touch, the moaning. It attracts some delightfully appalled stares. Especially from John. He’s been counting.

She is interesting too, diverting, even. A pleasant distraction. I stalk her on Twitter, become occupied with her in more ways than one. I never respond to her texts, and yet it’s still somehow like a two-way conversation. She catches up quickly, she understands. It’s refreshing to find someone who is equally intrigued by The Game, and fit to follow (or even lead, sometimes).

Until her texts become all about John Watson.

Still not responding?

Are you so terribly busy, Mr. Holmes?

You’re having breakfast together, aren’t you? How domestic.

I can do to you things that would make John Watson blush.

We could let him watch.

John watching. John participating. John. The images materialize instantly in my head - it’s the curse of exceptional intelligence combined with a synaesthetic ability of sorts. Damn my mind palace. Thankfully, the presence of both Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson in the room is distasteful enough for me to be able to brush off every and any unsettling image involving the Woman and John.

To be continued...

[canisonicscrewyou]

Okay here’s the thing, some of you are asking for the 2019 Aziracrow Cosplay Pics** in my inbox, and upon reflection how could we not. You’re gonna get so much more lore than you could’ve ever asked for or wanted,though. This is a long post, and I almost want to apologize for it. **Pre-HRT baby face pics ahead

For context, Damien and I have known each other since freshmen year of high school, 2012. In fact, we had like no classes together, and whenever one of us mentioned our nerd shit in class the first couple of days, kids kept telling us we HAD to meet each other. We finally met in a history class after they got transferred into it, and exchanged fandom memes back and forth after school on the sidewalk that day until our rides picked us up, and pretty much from then on freshmen year EVERYONE thought and asked if we were two little queer kids dating in our Catholic School.

And of course we weren’t— we just sat in each others’ laps a lot, or grabbed at each other a lot, and were a little inseparable for a while. Neither of us read anything into this. We were also, very importantly, cringey little 14-15 year old SuperWhoLock girlies, only I didn’t watch Supernatural, and they didn’t really watch Doctor Who, and we both thought Sherlock was pretty good. We supplemented our own love for our special little shows for the other. We were so inseparable that Damien’s 1-month-long-freshmen-boyfriend got them a Doctor Who gift for Valentine’s Day. The key to the Eleventh Doctor’s TARDIS. (My favorite, at the time, and also one that I knew they definitely sold at the comic book shop up the block.) They break up with him for giving them chocolates with nuts(allergy), and immediately give my little autistic ass the TARDIS key at lunch. Neither of us read anything into this. This is a common theme.

Damien, at some point, tells me to read a book they love, Good Omens. Due to my brain being the way it is, it takes about 3-4 business years, until college, to read Good Omens at their recommendation.

Damien is one of my best friends throughout high school and college. I also think it’s important to note that they were a jock, and I was a theatre kid. And the only time I convinced them to do something, a haunted house, with the drama club, to share a hobby maybe, they got hit in the head with a lightsaber by a 1st grader and needed stitches immediately after we started.

ANYWAYS.

I get Damien into cosplay a year or so later- 2013? 2014?

But it also takes us years to cosplay together- we would help with each others’ cosplays a lot. By that I mean I built a bunch of their props and they helped by getting the supplies with me and generally just hanging out. It takes us until 2019 to cosplay together.

Good Omens is out on Amazon Prime.

We text each other.

“Do you want to do a couple’s cosplay of this?

Yes, yes of course I do.

And yes, of course you’re Crowley, and of course I’m Aziraphale. And of course I’m Crowley, and of course you’re Aziraphale.”

Pretty much every week that summer, we built our wings from scratch, from wire and masking tape and ethically sourced goose and duck feathers and mall Chinese food. We go out and plan and shop for our gay little outfits. We sit and talk in their car, in my driveway, for ages every time, every night.

Another fun fact: this was the same convention that I painstakingly painted their tits blue for. And also painstakingly helped them wash blue off of in the shower, drunk, later that night. Unrelated, Aziraphale was the first cosplay I felt comfortable in.

Another fun fact: while getting ready for the photo shoot we booked that morning, my family dog scared my cat Almondmilk, and he peed all over my Aziraphale cosplay, and I yelled a bit. Our photographer rescheduled, blessedly, and a few hours later our photographer was asking how we wanted to stage the kiss, since of COURSE there had to be a kiss, but instead we sort of just—

“We’re really good friends— We’ve known each other since high school— We’ve already seen so much of each other this is no big deal— Do you need another shot?”

“Uh-huh,” Our photographer says, knowingly. “I think maybe one more, if we’re comfortable with—“

“Oh yeah, no problem at all-“

“Uh-huh, Yeah,” Our photographer says, knowingly. “Tilt your head up more.”

Not many couples can say they somehow managed to get their first kiss documented and edited in HD.

Damien got nauseous at the last day of the con, and the only thing we had to help were these honey sticks from a tea shop booth. They couldn’t open the little sticks themself, with their fangs in, so I took them and ripped them open with my teeth to give to them. Completely, totally unrelated, though, I think this was the summer I began to realize, perhaps realize once more, that I was so absolutely done for for Damien.

Anyways all of that went SO well, that we were planning every Ineffable Husbands cosplay we could. Somehow, our most logical next choice was a fun and very quick, messy little boudoir photo shoot in my college dorm room, while they were visiting me 3+ hours away from their school.

Down so bad you lovingly pack wigs to go to college with so that you can have your best friend sit in your lap for your little ship.

We did that as Just Good Friends, literally in front of an old friend who took the photos and helped us stage the poses a bit.

We went to sleep that night in that bed. It was big enough to fit 3, maybe even 4 people if you were in a pinch. The bed was not treated like it was that big. (Note, we now sleep on a full sized bed, and it’s suddenly too small.)

And we talked for a while and we went to bed and all I could think about was how much I loved them no matter the sense of the word. And how many nights we sat talking in your car in my driveway for way too long, wondering if I should ask if I could kiss you. (A quick pronoun change, because I know you’re reading this.)

And

Nothing

Came

Of

This

For

LIKE

FOUr

MORE

YEARS.

Just good friends. Just good, good friends.

And that’s how Good Omens helped me realize, in retrospect of 2019, how in love I was with my Crowley best friend.

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 3) Chapter Eighteen

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Eighteen: Christmas Deals

Summary: It's Christmas at the Holmes household, but that doesn't mean there aren't problems.

Months later…

            “Oh dear god, it’s only two o’clock,” complained Mycroft. “It’s been Christmas Day for at least a week now. How can it only be two o’clock? I’m in agony.”

            It was Christmas Day once more, and Sherlock, (Y/N), and Mycroft found themselves in the Holmeses cottage for the first time. John and Mary had been invited, too, though that situation was far more complicated. Mary had come, but John hadn’t arrived yet. No one knew what he would decide to do.

            After the confrontation in 221B, the pair had split up. No divorce, but neither stayed with the other. John moved back to 221B, and he and Mary hadn’t spoken since.

            (Y/N) had recovered from their injury, and they, Sherlock, and John had gone back to their old dynamic, but Sherlock and (Y/N) could see John was…sadder, more melancholy. It was an unfortunate turn of events, but perhaps Christmas would heal the breach. (Y/N) was told that Christmas sparked such miracles.

            And now there they were, engaging in such “Christmastime bonds of family and friendship” with the Holmeses. Well, currently they were just being annoyed by Mycroft.

            “Do you know John used to make graphs of all the childish things you and Sherlock do?” said (Y/N).

            Mycroft scowled. “You’re not an example of a mature individual, either.”

            “Mikey, be nice to them! They’re our grandchild,” said Mrs. Holmes.

            (Y/N) smiled as Mrs. Holmes ruffled their hair and handed them another cookie. Mycroft fought not to glare. It seemed (Y/N) had become the favorite of the family as soon as they got a proper introduction to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.

            Their smile fell as they saw Sherlock reading the paper. “Lady Smallwood Suicide,” “Shamed Peer takes Own Life,” and “63-Year-Old dies following Letter Scandal” lay emblazoned on the cover.

            “Why are we doing this again? We never do this,” said Mycroft, drawing (Y/N)’s attention any from the news.

            “We are here because (Y/N) is home from the hospital and we are all very happy,” said Mrs. Holmes.

            “Am I happy? I haven’t checked,” said Mycroft.

            “Behave, Mike,” said Mrs. Holmes, putting down a mug of tea and walking into the living room.

            “Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end,” muttered Mycroft. However, he didn’t dare say it loud enough for Mrs. Holmes to hear and took a sip of his tea when she looked back at him suspiciously.

            Sherlock started his watch, and (Y/N) furrowed their brow.

            Mrs. Holmes headed into the sitting room and put down a mug of tea for Mary. She sat in front of the fire with a book in her lap and Mr. Holmes staring into space in an armchair near her.

            Mrs. Holmes tutted fondly when she saw Mr. Holmes. “Cup of tea, Mary. Now, if Father starts making humming noises, just give him a little poke. That usually does it.”

            “Did you write this?” asked Mary, holding up the book titled The Dynamics of Combustions by M.L. Holmes.

            “Oh, that silly old thing,” chuckled Mrs. Holmes. “You mustn’t read that. Mathematics must seem terribly fatuous now!” She tutted as she heard Mr. Holmes start humming. “Now, no humming, you,” she scolded fondly before leaving him a cup of tea and exiting the room.

            Mr. Holmes chuckled. “Complete flake, my wife, but happens to be a genius.”

            “She was a mathematician?” asked Mary.

            “Gave it all up for the children,” said Mr. Holmes, smiling as he glanced into the room where Mycroft and Sherlock sat. “I could never bear to argue with her. I’m something of a moron myself. But she’s…well, she’s got the brains and beauty for the two of us.”

            Mary smiled. “Oh my god. You’re the sane one, aren’t you?”

            “Aren’t you?” joked Mr. Holmes.

            Mary lowered her eyes and took a sip of her tea to avoid answering. At precisely that moment, John opened the door to the living room and paused awkwardly. Mary looked away and focused on the random page of the book she’d turned to.

            “Sorry, I-I just, uh…” John trailed off.

            Mr. Holmes looked between the pair. “Oh, do you two need a moment?”

            John squared his shoulders. “If you…don’t mind.”

            Mr. Holmes stood. “No, of course not. I’ll, uh, see if I can help with…something or other.” He bustled away to the other room and closed the door.

            He looked at Sherlock and (Y/N), and they looked up as he spoke. “Those two. They alright?”

            “Well, you know, they’ve had their ups and downs,” said Sherlock nonchalantly.

            (Y/N) glanced at the door. No shouting. No crying. That was good. At least, (Y/N) supposed so. They hoped the pair ended up happy. They cared about them. A slight sob filtered through the door. Scratch the no crying.

            “Is that good?” asked (Y/N), looking at Sherlock.

            “I’ve heard people cry in relief,” said Sherlock. “I believe you have, too.” He referenced when he returned from the dead.

            “I don’t remember that,” said (Y/N), looking to the puzzle book they’d been given for Christmas. They were nearly done already.

            “Deleted it?” said Sherlock, amused.

            “No, I remember being angry,” replied (Y/N).

            “Ah.” That would be accurate. Sherlock glanced at his watch. “I’m going to get some air while all that—” he gestured at the door “—works itself out.” He stood up and headed towards the door.

            “I’m coming, too,” said (Y/N). They weren’t sure how to deal with the emotions John and Mary were going through, so they’d just let it pass while they waited outside.

            Sherlock and (Y/N) walked outside of the cottage and stood in the breezy air. Sherlock took a deep breath and relaxed slightly while (Y/N) tucked their hands into their pockets and looked over the hills. It was peaceful and quiet.

            Until Mycroft walked out after them. “I’m glad you two have given up on the Magnussen business.”

            “Are you?” said Sherlock in a bored manner.

            “I’m still curious, though. He’s hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you two…hate him?” said Mycroft.

            “Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets,” said Sherlock.

            Mycroft looked at (Y/N). “And you?”

            “Magnussen is like Moriarty. He uses people and doesn’t care what happens to them. I don’t like that,” said (Y/N) coldly.

            That made an impression on both men. They remembered everything that had gone on with Moriarty, all the danger and death. They remembered how Moriarty managed to take (Y/N) and the consequences of it. Sherlock and Mycroft both hated it. Neither had conducted themselves well.

            “The real question is why don’t you hate him?” asked (Y/N).

            “He’s never caused too much damage to anyone important. He’s far too intelligent for that,” said Mycroft. “He’s a businessman and, occasionally, useful for us. A necessary evil—not a dragon for you two to slay.”

            “Dragon slayers? Is that what you think of us?” said Sherlock.

            “I rather think we’re doing the right thing,” said (Y/N).

            “Sherl, Mike, are you avoiding spending time with us?” called Mrs. Holmes from the front door.

            “No,” said Sherlock and Mycroft quickly.

            “Just brotherly affection,” said Sherlock sarcastically.

            Mrs. Holmes gave them all a motherly glare and closed the door again.

            “I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline,” said Mycroft to Sherlock.

            “I decline your kind offer,” said Sherlock automatically.

            “I shall pass on your regrets,” said Mycroft.

            “What was it?” asked (Y/N).

            “MI6—they wanted to place Sherlock back to Eastern Europe,” said Mycroft. (Y/N)’s eyes widened. “An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to him in, I think, six months. I warned them that he might not take it since he disliked his previous leave of Baker Street. But they still wanted me to offer the job to him.” He tutted and turned back towards the cottage. “I’m going in. The air isn’t agreeing with me.” He paused. “Oh, and…your loss would break mine and (Y/N)’s hearts.”

            “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?!” said Sherlock, staring at Mycroft in shock at the sickening sentimentality of his words.

            “Happy Christmas?” remarked Mycroft as he headed into the house.

            “You hate Christmas,” said (Y/N) and Sherlock.

            “Yes. Perhaps there’s something in the tea,” said Mycroft.

            “Clearly. Go and have some more,” said Sherlock.

            (Y/N) cocked their head as Mycroft walked inside. “Dad, is there something in the tea?”

            “Yes,” said Sherlock.

            “What? Why?” asked (Y/N).

            Sherlock looked down and sighed. “Because it is time for me to face Magnussen, and I can’t have anyone running around getting into danger. Here…here, they’ll be safe.”

            (Y/N) furrowed their brow as they put it together. “You drugged them?”

            Sherlock checked his watch. “It will go into effect in about…thirty seconds.”

            “Dad, why didn’t you tell me?” said (Y/N) quietly. “I thought we weren’t keeping secrets or lying.”

            “Because this is dangerous. And I won’t let Magnussen get any information he could use against you,” said Sherlock. “I can risk myself. I won’t risk you.” Not to mention, this case had gotten them close to being killed. He had to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.

            “But you’re not drugging me,” said (Y/N).

            “I could never do that to you,” said Sherlock. He knew it would hurt them oh-so-much. “But I need you to stay with me and stay careful. Please, (Y/N).”

            They stared at him carefully before nodding. “I’ll follow you.”

            But they, too, were willing to lie. (Y/N) cared about their dad. They would go along with his plan as far as they could without stepping in to protect him. It went both ways—even if the parent was supposed to watch out for the child, the child here was as fierce as intelligent as the parent. And if (Y/N) knew one thing, it was that Sherlock needed someone to look out for him. And who else but family? Who else but (Y/N)? They had been helpless with Moriarty. They wouldn’t be with Magnussen. They refused to be.

            Sherlock’s watch beeped. “It’s time,” he said.

            He led the walk into the cottage. Everyone lay in their chairs, asleep. Only John was crouching over Mary and trying to shake her awake.

            “Mary, can you hear me?!” he cried worriedly.

            “Don’t drink Mary’s tea,” advised Sherlock.

            “Sherlock, did you drug my pregnant wife?!” shouted John incredulously.

            “Don’t worry. I’m an excellent chemist,” said Sherlock.

            “What about—?” John glanced at (Y/N), knowing they didn’t like drugs.

            “It seems to be necessary,” said (Y/N).

            “And I’m sending someone to keep an eye over everyone. They’ll be safe,” said Sherlock.

            “What the hell has he done?” said John, staring in disbelief at (Y/N).

            “He seems to have made a deal with the devil,” said (Y/N). They crossed their arms and looked at Sherlock. “What exactly is this deal, so dangerous you wouldn’t tell me about it?”

            Sherlock took a deep breath and explained.

A few months ago…

            Sherlock sat in a small restaurant and finished eating his pasta as someone stepped up to his table.

            “Shouldn’t you be in the hospital doting over poor Mx. Moriarty?” said Magnussen.

            Sherlock didn’t allow Magnussen to have the satisfaction of getting a reaction at the use of that name. “Have a seat.” He got straight to business.

            “Thank you,” said Magnussen, sitting.

            “I’ve been thinking about you,” said Sherlock.

            “I’ve been thinking about you,” said Magnussen.

            “I want to see Appledore, where you keep all the secrets, all the files, everything you’ve got on everyone,” said Sherlock. “I want you to invite me.”

            “What makes you think I’d be so careless?” asked Magnussen.

            “Oh, I think you’re a lot more careless than you let on,” said Sherlock.

            “Am I?” Magnussen leaned forward.

            Sherlock smirked and leaned forward. “(Y/N) noticed it when you read the paper.”

            “Noticed what?” said Magnussen.

            “The dead-eye stare. Except, it’s not so dead-eye, is it?” said Sherlock. He reached out and took Magnussen’s glasses. “They knew you were reading but not the paper. I suspect a portable Appledore. How does it work? Built in flash drive? 4G wireless?” He frowned as he examined them and found nothing. “They’re just ordinary spectacles.”

            “Yes, they are,” said Magnussen, taking them back and smirking. “Maybe Mx. Moriarty can figure it out. Want to bring them down?”

            “This is between you and me,” said Sherlock. He wouldn’t give Magnussen a chance to get his claws into (Y/N).

            Magnussen chuckled and sat back. “Pity. You continue to underestimate me.”

         ��  “Then impress me,” said Sherlock. “Show me Appledore.”

            “Everything’s available for a price,” said Magnussen. “Are you making me an offer?”

            “A Christmas present,” said Sherlock.

            “And what are you going to give me for Christmas, Mr. Holmes?” said Magnussen eagerly.

            “My brother,” said Sherlock.

Present day…

            “Oh, Jesus,” said John, taking a step back from Sherlock.

            “Dad, this is risking so much. We should’ve tried to figure out Appledore ourselves, first. There’s something…something we’re missing, and he’s going to count on that,” said (Y/N).

            “You’re going out of your mind!” said John, staring at Sherlock.

            “I like to keep you guessing,” said Sherlock.

            Before the discussion—argument—could continue, the sound of helicopter blades split the air.

            “Ah, there’s our lift,” said Sherlock, straightening and leaving behind everything but his eagerness to take on this case. “Coming?”

            “I’m not letting you do this alone,” said (Y/N). They were going.

            “Where?” said John.

            “Do you want your wife to be safe?” said Sherlock to him.

            “Yeah, of course I do,” said John.

            “Good, because this is going to be incredibly dangerous,” said Sherlock. “One false move, and we’ll have betrayed the security of the United Kingdom and be in prison for high treason.”

            “What?” cried John. “But I had nothing to do with it!”

            “You’ll be there,” said (Y/N). “That’s enough.”

            Sherlock nodded. “Unfortunately, Magnussen is quite simply one of the most dangerous men we’ve ever encountered, and the odds are comprehensively stacked against us,” he said.

            “But it’s Christmas,” said John, indignant.

            “I feel the same,” said Sherlock. He glanced at John’s expression. “Oh, you mean it’s actually Christmas. Did you bring your gun as I suggested?”

            “Why would I bring my gun to your parents’ house for Christmas dinner?” exclaimed John.

            “It’s in your coat,” said (Y/N), nodding to it.

            “…It is,” admitted John.

            “Off we go, then,” said Sherlock, walking towards the door of the house.

            “Where exactly are we going?” asked John.

            “Appledore,” said Sherlock.

            Danger, thought (Y/N).

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