#and how watson would inevitably FEEL ABOUT HIM.

[thesylverlining]

So, I, Um.... Yeah.

Perchance To Dream

Chapter One: First, The Storm

"There, there, you're all right now," I gently lied, as I lay him down to rest. And then, I told the truth, with all my heart. "And it will be all right. The room is dry, Sherlock. The waters are far, far from you, and they will not enter as long as I am here. Now rest. I will only be a moment." "Promise, John?" he asked, voice still high, faint, brittle. It was my name he'd said, I insisted to myself, most firmly. Mine.

(A fanfiction for Sherlock Holmes: The Awakened; Frogwares videogame series)

[swissmissficrecs]

Johnlock fics I read in 2023

This is everything I read in the Sherlock Holmes fandom last year that made it into my bookmarks. So while I may not have read enough to make a selected "best of" list, consider these the ones that made it past all my internal selection criteria and are deserving of a spotlight. A few of these were completed prior to 2023.

A Case of You by Silvergirl (17K, M, Johnlock, Sherlock/OMC) Sherlock is marrying an American, and at the rehearsal dinner, best man John makes a drunken love confession he doesn’t remember the next day. Badly hungover, John can't find anyone to tell him what the hell happened to the wedding, where the grooms are, or how he can put it right so that Sherlock can be happy. But what if he's dead wrong about what will make Sherlock happy?

A Midnight Clear by khorazir (16K, T, Johnlock) It’s Christmas Eve, and Sherlock is working. Because that’s what he does. He doesn’t need Christmas, or holiday cheer, or even company. He’s fine on his own, thank you very much – until a series of strange encounters on his way back to Baker Street makes him reconsider.

A Story That Is Almost, But Not Quite, Entirely Unlike Blue Carbuncle by Iwantthatcoat (16K, M, Johnlock) It’s the most wonderful time of the year, and the Holmes Family is all set to have one of those unimaginable Christmas dinners— but the game is afoot, as Mummy’s friend is caught up in a Christmas mystery.

An Elegant Solution by ArwaMachine (19K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock finds himself unspeakably aroused by the idea of John with another man. Problem is, the only man Sherlock will permit be with John is Sherlock himself. Seems like an unsolvable problem. ... or is it?

An Ocean Away by westernredcedar (14K, T, Johnlock) Sherlock Holmes has been gone for twenty long years, time enough for John Watson's daughter to make it all the way to Harvard University.

Avast Ye Merry Gentlemen by StellaCartography (10K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock is not a Christmas person. John decides it's Christmas that needs changing.

Bright Blue Ink by 13_33 (13K, G, Johnlock, Warstan) When one of my patients asks me about my relationship with Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, I answer this: I am his chronicler, his assistant in solving crimes, his confidant and friend. Of course, all these terms hold true, now as then, at the beginning of our shared history. But just as in a family portrait you can only see the put-on smiles and never the real faces of the people, they were only part of what made up my true relationship with Holmes. I know him, I then add; I know him well. [ACD]

Deductive Reasoning by cormorant (8K, T, Johnlock) John finds out that Sherlock has assumed for a while that their relationship was romantic, and feels like maybe he should have been notified about that.

Doting Husbands by Calais_Reno (16K, M, Johnlock) Sherlock takes on a new hobby: writing a story. If only something would happen! Takes place a year after the ending of Wooing Sherlock Holmes. He and John have been married for a year, still retired, living in Sussex.

Full Mount by ArwaMachine (54K, E, Johnlock) After Sherlock unceremoniously returns from the dead, John finds himself inexplicably angry all the time. So he does what any emotionally-constipated British man does: he joins a Mixed Martial Arts gym. As John throws himself into the sport and joins in on underground no-holds-barred brawls, situations arise that just might force John to face what is really going on underneath all the rage.

Indefinite Lines by ArwaMachine (298K, E, Johnlock) When two lines, inclined towards each other, are extended indefinitely, it is inevitable that they meet. Upon meeting, the lines become something new. Together. Perhaps it’s been like that from the beginning for Sherlock and John—their lives weaving together, inclined towards one another, moving closer and closer to something greater than themselves.

Live from the Morgue by disfictional (8K, E, Johnlock) Molly interviews Sherlock on her podcast, Live from the Morgue. John listens.

Lost In A Good Book by khorazir (68K, M, Johnlock) After chasing a criminal into a poky second-hand bookshop, John and Sherlock find themselves not only stuck in the building, but in L-space itself. With things still raw and unsettled between them after the events surrounding the Culverton Smith case, this adds another dimension to their predicament, which not only consists of finding a way out of the shop (while avoiding getting murdered by the criminal), but also to finally address the issues between them.

Nightjet by khorazir (22K, M, Johnlock) Officially deceased for eighteen months and still looking for the last remainders of Moriarty’s criminal empire, an exhausted Sherlock boards a night train in Germany to bring him to his next hunting ground. Due to a mishap with the sleeper cars, he is forced to share a compartment with a stranger – who turns out to be not quite as strange as Sherlock thought. The universe isn’t lazy, after all …

Nothing to Celebrate by DiscordantWords (30K, M, Johnlock, Warstan) Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead. Things only get worse from there.

Our Ghosts And This by LipstickDaddy (12K, T, Johnlock) An epilogue in three acts.

Primavera by Berty (9K, T, Johnlock) Italy in the springtime is as romantic as it gets but is it enough to free unspoken words and feelings after years of silence?

Salut d'Amour by ecoutes (11K, G, Johnlock) Despite Holmes claiming that my narrations of our cases were tainted with sentimentality, his preferences in music, I learned, were awfully romantic. [ACD]

Spare Parts by Raina_at (63K, E, Johnlock) Two years ago, Sherlock Holmes jumped off the roof of New London Hospital. Two months ago, he walked into John's clinic as if no time had passed at all. John hasn't seen him since. But then Sherlock knocks on John's door with a case he can't say no to, and while figuring out why the biggest manufacturer or synthetic limbs in the System is going after veterans, they also need to find out whether there's a way to fix what's broken between them.

stirringofbirds between my arms by NotusLethe (18K, E, Johnlock, Enola/Tewksbury) Over the years, John Watson gets to know his new flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, and the man's clever ward. [Enola Holmes]

Stretch by illwick (13K, E, Johnlock) Sometimes the lines get blurry. [Part 35 of a BDSM established relationship series]

The Adventure of The Reluctant Docent by mydogwatson (23K, T, Johnlock) Someone is killing the docents of London. Sherlock is on the case when he meets a very interesting docent.

The Case of the Freudian Dick Pic Slip by expoduck (11K, E, Johnlock) John accidentally sends Sherlock a dick pic he'd intended for another man.

The Mystery of the Missing Metallurgist by rudbeckia (14K, M, Johnlock) A young wife engages Holmes to find her missing husband. Lestrade thinks the man has absconded to America, but Holmes rises to the challenge of Proving Lestrade Wrong. The case turns out to be far more complex and dangerous than they first thought, and Holmes sends Watson to secure Lestrade’s help in bringing a criminal gang to justice. When Holmes gets injured, Watson realises where his heart lies and a little lighthearted banter leads to a tentative confession. [ACD]

The Silence Between the Notes by J_Baillier (44K, M, Johnlock, Viclock) Lieutenant John Watson's days in London are painted in shades of grey after losing both his military career and his family. Could an unexpected request to travel to Vienna to track down the errant son of a wealthy family break the monotony?

The Wizard of Baker Street by Calais_Reno (23K, T, Johnlock) In which Sherlock is a wizard under a curse and John spends a lot of time as a cat.

‘tis the damn season by chrysanthemumsies (22K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock and John travel to Edinburgh to catch a homophobic serial killer in time for Christmas. They figure out how to use their words, more or less.

Trapezoid by SilentAuror (27K, E, Johnlock, OMC/ OMC) Corey Graham invites John and Sherlock to visit L.A. to consult on a project… at least, officially.

Yorkshire by lurikko (8K, E, Johnlock) They're in Yorkshire, in a house in the moors, for a case, only Sherlock keeps touching John. [Omegaverse]

[topsyturvy-turtely]

an almost whisper

prompt "whisper" by @onesmallfamily

highly inspired by this gif by @phoenix27884:

a/n: hey! i wanted to at least do ONE prompt of the 30 day sherlock september challenge. here is my ficlet of yesterday, because seriously- i fell asleep while writing it 😅

ps: so sorry bout the no uppercase letters, as said i was very tired for half of this (and lazy for the second)

○◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠○

sherlock was sitting across from him. from john watson. what a gorgeous man he was. gray silky hair - combed back, a dark blue jumper that looked ridiculously endearing on him... his doctor hadn't had time to shave this morning and sherlock was currently trying to gauge how many colour shades you could see in john's beard. one, two, three...

the beard moved. well not the beard itself but the lips that sat between the beard.

what would it feel like to-

"sherlock, did you hear me?"

the asked man raised his eyebrows. had he heard him? "still caught up on the case, i fear."

"you solved it. what's there to think about?"

his john. asking just the right questions. unfortunately they were rather uncomfortable right this moment, considering sherlock had been thinking about and staring at john's facial hair...

topic change. "how was dinner?"

"delicious. pity you didn't have any."

"eating..."

"... slows you down, i know, i know.", john said, but there was an amused grin on his lips. for some reason sherlock had to look away to catch himself. john smiling at him like that, it did something to him. something that hits way further inside than just into his heart.

he sensed john leaning back and stretching his face up to the sun. sherlock simply had to turn his gaze back onto him. the sun highlighted the few blond strands left and the red undertone in john's beard... it accentuated the wrinkles, that sherlock loved, because they reflect just how real john is. the detective then realized he was staring again and looked away. pretending to focus on the people around him, maybe deducing them. in reality every sense was directed at john. he heard him move, sensed his body being closer to his, smelt a hint of the coffee john had drunk, saw him putting his chin into his hand out of the corner of his eye.

he felt john staring now. sherlock decided it was safe to glare back at him. and was swept off his feet, well he was sitting, but he was still overwhelmed by john's expression. there was so much adoration, fascination and out of a lack of better words - love in his eyes.

sherlock had to smile back at him. he felt his face getting hotter. john - without saying a word - made him feel special.

john's gaze never left his and then exclaimed, barely above a whisper, "i'd like to kiss you." it was out of the blue, but it felt like the perfect timing.

what happened next felt natural, like they were actors who were acting according to a script: sherlock stood up leaned over the small table and placed his lips on john's.

the kiss was over soon, but they both knew it was just the first of uncountables.

a smile, a hand sneaking into his, looks speaking more than words.

on that day just like that, with that tiny almost-whisper and their promising first kiss they stopped being augend and addend and began being a sum.

○◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠◡◠○

tag list! (tell me if you wanna be added or removed please 💚) @justanobsessedpan @helloliriels @catlock-holmes @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @so-youre-unattached-like-me @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @francj15 @we-r-loonies @mxster-jocale @sherlockcorner @noahspector @our-stars-graveside @jobooksncoffee @baker-street-blog @macgyvershe @myladylyssa @battledress @a-victorian-girl @dreamerofthemeadow @oetkb12 @ohnoesnotagain @mutedsilence @jawnscoffee @raenchaosandcozyadashofmurder @lisbeth-kk @quickslvxrr

[weast-of-eden]

it seems like some people actually liked my last fic rec, so here's another one, guys! this time i tried finding some fics that were a little different, like AUs, different POVs, rarepairs, WIPs, etc. again, these are pretty all set in canonverse (ACD or Granada) or victorian era unless specified otherwise. so without further ado, here is:

Eden’s ACD/Granada Unique Fic Recommendations

And With Him Disaster by eggshellseas (@/maxwelljacobfriedman on tumblr) 14k | Rated E Summary: John Watson is being stalked by a vampire. Notes: not-your-mother's vampire au, that's for sure. definitely read the tags before getting into this but man, this fic is so, so good. features not only vampire!holmes but also dark!holmes and it's a ride from beginning to end. ugh i want to talk more about this fic but i can't spoil anything!!

Into darkness then without a candle by Solshine (@/thehumantrampoline on tumblr) 10k | Rated T Summary: At first, Moriarty is just a disguise, like all the rest in his wardrobe; a helpful alias to bring Holmes closer to the evils he duels. And then the disguise wins at the Reichenbach Falls. AU inspired by the stage play, “The Secret of Sherlock Holmes." Notes: i can't even get into this. I CAN'T EVEN GET INTO THISSSS. there are no words. if there were, the word would be: UGH. this is such a unique fic and watson really pulls through in this. I CAN'T EVEN GET INTO THIS RIGHT NOW.

Back to Edinburgh by mightymads 4k | Rated T Summary: The Jezail bullet in Watson’s leg causes him so much pain that he is on the verge of despair. London doctors deem it impossible to extract the bullet without inevitable nerve damage. Holmes finds a surgeon in Edinburgh, who agrees to help. It is none other than Professor Joseph Bell. Notes: Dr. Bell says 'gay rights'! also Scottish Watson for the win! this is such a beautiful story, Watson really gets to take the center stage while Holmes gets to worry for his well-being. oh how the tables have turned. plus lots of ACD's personal life mixed with Watson's own, which I think makes this such a unique fic. it's just really nice to read. *chef's kiss*

The Red Notebook by Garonne 10k | Rated T Summary: Holmes is dead, or seems to be. Watson starts to write, and Mycroft starts to read. Holmes/Watson slash set during the Hiatus. Mycroft's POV. Notes: i LOVE Mycroft POVs, and this is one of my favorites. also i love fics that depict watson's stories as completely false, like Moriarty is not real and 'The Final Problem' was just john's way of coping. STELLAR FIC.

Some Power of Selection by wordybirdy 12k | Rated E Summary: John Watson is a struggling doctor in recent practice on London's Upper Wimpole Street. One dreary Wednesday, an urgent telegram summons him to 221B Baker Street, where he meets a sombre and initially taciturn gentleman by the name of Sherlock Holmes. Sparks immediately fly – but not of the positive, life-affirming variety... Notes: enemies to lovers AU for the win! Stamford is such a knob in this one, truly. but that's okay, our heroes figure themselves out anyways. great banter in this one, if you like rom-coms then this is the fic for you!

One Page Is Missing by PlaidAdder 2k | Rated T Summary: "From this point onward I will follow the course of events by transcribing my own letters to Mr. Sherlock Holmes which lie before me on the table. One page is missing, but otherwise they are exactly as written and show my feelings and suspicions of the moment more accurately than my memory, clear as it is upon these tragic events, can possibly do." --The Hound of the Baskervilles, Chapter 8 **** This is the missing page. Notes: ok first of all you should read all of PlaidAdder’s Missing Pages series, it’s so beautifully written. this is the first of the series and the premise is so interesting and mysterious! this fic is for any fans of HOUN (me) or enjoyers of jealous Holmes (also me)

On the Orbits of Asteroids by Sheila_Snow 22k | Rated E Summary: Watson has a secret from his past that he's kept from Holmes, but the past has a tendency to come back and haunt you. Notes: Watson/Moriarty fic. yes you read that correctly and YES it's crazy good. there's still holmes/watson but it's angsty and– i can't even get into it, you just gotta read for yourself. also feat. Moran who is currently questioning his sexuality (yeah watson will do that to you mate)

The Better Part of Valour by rachelindeed 7k | Rated T Summary: Mr Melas considers himself a coward, but more than one man's courage comes with complicated cracks. Notes: for any fans of 'The Greek Interpreter' (aka ME) this fic is the coolest ever. POV from Melas, who is smart, witty, and very observant. you get to meet Paul Kratides when he's not in the middle of being tortured, plus the ANGSTIEST background story about Watson's war injury. Oof. But I literally love this fic guys pwease read it

☆The Adventure of the Purloined Heart by ladyblahblah (@/hungrylikethewolfie on tumblr) 15k | Rated M Summary: A gruesome murder unveils secrets kept buried for years. Some feelings can only be hidden for so long. Notes: This fic checks every single box for me. HOLY SHIT. It's got murder, mystery, intrigue; it's got pining, secrets, and unrequited (?) love. I think the reason I'm so unwell about this fic is because it's a WIP that ends on a doozy of a cliffhanger. if god loves me he will let this fic be finished one day. IT'S SO GOOD GUYS PLEASE READ THIS FIC. in my ao3 history is says 'visited 12 times in the past month.' what is wrong with me

i hope someone out there enjoys these! also i was going to tag the authors whose tumblrs i knew, but then i chickened out, so... sue me i guess?

also if there’s any AUs, tropes, or somesuch fics you wish existed but can’t find, feel free to ask me!! maybe i’ve read something you’re looking for :)

[gregorovitch-adler]

Intimacy

Just when I am in the middle of my speech, I hear some sniffing in the wedding hall. I look up. Everyone is tearing up. I see some people wipe their eyes with the serviettes.

Why? Did I do something wrong? No! I had spent the whole morning writing a speech for John's wedding.

Selecting and altering the words here and there carefully, with Lestrade's help, so that I would not give myself away in a room full of two hundred guests, about my true feelings for the groom.

And now everyone is crying. I messed it up, again.

It is just like the university days. I would say something with good intention, but without any filters, and everyone would interpret it the wrong way. They would distance themselves from me eventually. I would be left alone.

I knew I was going to be left alone anyway after tonight's reception and dance. That was inevitable. I hadn't expected the isolation to come so soon, though.

Perhaps everyone had picked up on my feelings for John. I had ruined the day with a slip up somewhere.

Breathing deeply, I square my shoulders and spit everything out.

"What's wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that?" I turn to look at John, the only source of sanity in my life. "John?"

John looks up at me with tearful eyes. (No, please don't cry!)

"Did I do it wrong?" I ask again.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson is tearful too.

Shit. She knew about us. Me. There was never an 'us'. She knew how I felt for John. Everyone obviously knows about my feelings now. Nobody can be so stupid.

Which means John does too, and now he is going to kick me out in the middle of the speech.

John screws his eyes shut and opens them again as he gets up from his seat.

"No, you didn't. Come here," he says and pulls me close before wrapping his arms around my back.

A huge round of applause erupts in the room. Everyone is cheering.

Unsure of what to do next, I awkwardly place an arm on his bicep.

John doesn't let go of me. He keeps holding on to me, and his hand goes up to curl around my nape. He holds me gently.

In this moment, I cannot help but notice the intimacy between us.

I'm not experienced in romantic relationships, but the way John keeps holding me with so many people watching, I feel even closer to him than I already did.

It's rather ironic that I feel this on his wedding day, with his wife watching us with a smile. But I can't help how I feel.

"I haven't finished yet," I say.

"Yeah; I know, I know," he replies and slowly lets me go.

I immediately feel the loss of his touch. I long for him to hold me forever.

I know this is irrational, so I pull out my phone again to continue with my best man speech.

I still have to take care of my words, should I accidentally reveal my heart in front of the man I love in public.

***

Prompt: Intimacy by @onesmallfamily

Sherlock September Challenge.

Tags: @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @gaylilsherlock @lisbeth-kk @keirgreeneyes @lookingforlifeoutthere @peanitbear @a-victorian-girl @curlyjohnlock @calaisreno @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @jawnn-watson

[mariana-oconnor]

The Final Problem pt 2

Last time, Holmes turned up at Watson's home having survived three attempts on his life and a mysterious meeting with ex-Professor Moriarty, and invited Watson on an impromptu trip abroad. Watson, of course, said yes. I am absolutely sure that nothing bad is going to happen to either them. Definitely not in Switzerland. Maybe they'll see a nice waterfall, though. I've heard Switzerland is beautiful this time of year.

Watson does very well at remembering Holmes' instructions. I would not be able to do that.

I spent a few minutes in assisting a venerable Italian priest, who was endeavouring to make a porter understand, in his broken English, that his luggage was to be booked through to Paris.

Is Holmes pretending to be an Italian priest? I feel like Watson should be more aware of the possibility of a disguise.

Also, the fact it turns out that Watson's Italian is terrible. Holmes totally chose that disguise to troll the fuck out of him. A+ friendship move, even when running for his life.

"My dear Watson," said a voice, "you have not even condescended to say good-morning."

Yeah, so rude. How dare you not say hello to your friend who is clearly sitting right there and not at all an Italian priest.

"They set fire to our rooms last night. No great harm was done."

First: how dare! Baker Street, my beloved! Second: despite the fact that it has been clearly established in part 1 that Watson is very married and very living with his wife rn, Holmes still refers to them as 'our rooms'.

"It was my brother Mycroft. It is an advantage to get about in such a case without taking a mercenary into your confidence."

OK, so he did appear in this story... actually doing something for once. This is a clear sign that things must be dire if Mycroft has pried his seal-like form from his well worn chair in the Diogenes Club to drive a carriage through the streets of London. Honestly, I feel like there should be a system of measurement for direness that is purely how much Mycroft is willing to move to deal with it.

"As this is an express, and as the boat runs in connection with it, I should think we have shaken him off very effectively."

Because this goes directly to one place and then that goes directly to another place, both of which are official and easily discovered by looking at a timetable, clearly we have escaped the people pursuing us. They will never catch us now!

Watson? I get what you're saying. But please think through the logic a little bit more.

"In the meantime we shall treat ourselves to a couple of carpet-bags, encourage the manufactures of the countries through which we travel, and make our way at our leisure into Switzerland, via Luxembourg and Basle."

Nothing bad ever happens in Switzerland.

"There are limits, you see, to our friend's intelligence. It would have been a coup-de-matre had he deduced what I would deduce and acted accordingly."

We're only playing 3 dimensional chess today, not 4 dimensional. I did wonder.

"I might have known it!" he groaned. "He has escaped!"

He did know you were coming for him. And when... Like. If I knew I was going to be arrested for a certain thing at a certain time, I'd make sure to be somewhere else, too, and I don't claim to be a criminal mastermind. Honestly, this seems inevitable.

"I should certainly recommend you to return to your practice."

Does Watson still have a practice? At what point does it become his neighbour's practice? Will his patients even recognise him?

For a charming week we wandered up the Valley of the Rhone, and then, branching off at Leuk, we made our way over the Gemmi Pass, still deep in snow, and so, by way of Interlaken, to Meiringen.

This is the literary equivalent of elevator music.

Doo do doo do dooo dodoododoo doo do doo do dooo dodoododoo

In an instant Holmes had raced up on to the ridge, and, standing upon a lofty pinnacle, craned his neck in every direction.

We had strict injunctions, however, on no account to pass the falls of Reichenbach, which are about half-way up the hill, without making a small detour to see them.

They sound lovely. Excellent place for a picnic lunch. Clearly nothing bad could happen there.

Although little sus whoever told them that they absolutely had to go see them. Hm?

It is indeed, a fearful place. The torrent, swollen by the melting snow, plunges into a tremendous abyss, from which the spray rolls up like the smoke from a burning house. The shaft into which the river hurls itself is an immense chasm, lined by glistening coal-black rock, and narrowing into a creaming, boiling pit of incalculable depth, which brims over and shoots the stream onward over its jagged lip.

Delightful. 10/10 would visit again. Love how it's described as being 'half-way up the hill', then 'TREMENDOUS ABYSS'. I know this is Watson's PTSD speaking, but the tonal whiplash is getting me, ngl.

We had turned to do so, when we saw a Swiss lad come running along it with a letter in his hand. It bore the mark of the hotel which we had just left, and was addressed to me by the landlord.

...the die is cast, the scene is set...

The appeal was one which could not be ignored. It was impossible to refuse the request of a fellow-countrywoman dying in a strange land.

Almost like it was... designed...

Along this a man was, I remember, walking very rapidly.

There was Holmes's Alpine-stock still leaning against the rock by which I had left him. But there was no sign of him, and it was in vain that I shouted. My only answer was my own voice reverberating in a rolling echo from the cliffs around me.

Well, I certainly didn't see that one coming.

Seriously, though. This is pretty heart-rending to actually think about. Watson just alone on the cliff side, screaming his friend's name into the tremendous abyss.

Then trying to apply Holmes' methods (because that's always gone so well before). Then finding the letter.

Strangely nice of Moriarty to let Holmes write the letter, but I suppose he thought that when he'd tossed Sherlock over the cliff he could just destroy it anyway.

An examination by experts leaves little doubt that a personal contest between the two men ended, as it could hardly fail to end in such a situation, in their reeling over, locked in each other's arms.

The inherent eroticism of plunging to your death with your nemesis, locked in each other's arms.

...him whom I shall ever regard as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known.

Fs in the notes.

So... I guess that's the last one, then. No more Sherlock Holmes stories after that. Nope. Well, that was fun. Thanks Watson, sorry about your friend.

[transholmes]

A Chirurgeon’s Cruelty 

I actually finished something!

A philosophical discussion between Watson and Lestrade concerning Holmes and the Hiatus. Post-The Norwood Builder.

ACD canon, more or less.

Chirurgeon: Alternate (and a little old-fashioned I think) spelling of surgeon.

In the immediate aftermath of the events in Norwood, Holmes and I found ourselves at Scotland Yard, dealing with the necessary paperwork that inevitably came at the conclusion of a case that involved the police but which never made it into any of my stories as I served no narrative purpose to bore my readers with that tedious legal part.  

As my own involvement in the matter had been scant, the pain in my shoulder and leg had bothered me more than usual and thus Holmes had not had me accompany him as much as he usually did, my own statement was quickly made. Holmes's statement was far lengthier and I spent my wait for him in the corridor outside the offices.   

I stood there at the end of the hall, leaning against the side of the window while I gazed into the courtyard below, not truly seeing the men milling about on the pavement but lost entirely in my own thoughts until the loud sound of a door being yanked open, then sharply shut afterward, jarred me out of my reverie.  

I turned and saw Inspector Lestrade standing in the corridor, his face flushed, and his already pointed features pinched in anger. Seeing me he walked over to me.  

“That man is utterly infuriating,” he snarled.  

“You've known Holmes even longer than I have,” I said mildly. “His personality can hardly come as a surprise.”  

“Perhaps not, but that doesn't make him any more palatable,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.  

I said nothing to that. Though my instinct was to defend my friend I knew how he had a tendency to aggravate police inspectors, Lestrade in particular. What was more, ever since his surprising resurrection not that many months before I had noticed an unspoken tension in their interactions, but I knew that it was one I could do nothing about, they would have to solve this themselves.  

“I must confess Doctor, I don't rightly understand how you can so easily accept his treatment.”  

“What do you mean, Inspector?” I said coolly, feeling myself bristle at his words.  

“You follow him around again like you used to before your marriage. Not only that, you've sold your practice and moved back in. It- Well if you will forgive me, Doctor. It appears not so much that you've forgiven him for the torment he caused you, but as if he never did anything wrong in the first place. How do you do that?”  

I knew how it must look from the outside, even for those who knew us both well, like I had a callous disregard for myself to so easily overlook three years of grief and pain, but nothing could be further from the truth. I did not dismiss the pain I had felt at his loss, but I could not hold that pain against him. I knew him too well.  

“Because I know Holmes and I know he's not a cruel man,” I answered.  

“Not cruel!” he cried. “How can you not call what he did to those who ca- To everyone, for cruel?”  

I sighed. I wasn't sure I could explain it in a way the inspector would understand. But for his own sake, and for Holmes's, I would try.  

“Perhaps I should have said rather, “without malice". If there was cruelty in his actions, Inspector, it was the cruelty of a chirurgeon who has to cut off a limb to save a patient.”  

Lestrade frowned at my words and I continued.  

“The chirurgeon finds no pleasure in his patient's pain or the loss he's causing them, but he takes the action anyway because he knows it is necessary. When I was shot during the war the wound turned gangrenous. The chirurgeon in charge had to cut out a significant amount of flesh from my shoulder to prevent the infection from spreading and killing me. He knew there was a risk that he doing so would damage the nerves in my arm and hand, but he did it still because the alternative was worse.”  

I swallowed. I rarely spoke of this. Though the pain of my loss had faded over the years, I still did not like to dwell on those times.  

“Unfortunately he did damage the nerves. I would never again be able to wield a scalpel. But I never once held his actions against him, nor the loss I suffered. He did it because he thought it necessary and I trusted his judgment. And so too for Holmes. What he did hurt, I will not dispute that. Nor that he put me through three years of grief. But like that chirurgeon all those years ago, he did it because he thought that the alternatives would be worse. Not just for him, but for the rest of us. I trust his judgment too.”  

I leaned back against the window frame once more, suddenly feeling very tired.  

“You say I act as if I thought Holmes had done me no wrong? I suppose in a way you're right in that. What he did hurt, and that pain will endure for a while. But I do not blame him for what his choices cost me any more than I blame my chirurgeon for what I lost back then.”  

Lestrade had remained silent through it all, his expression growing ever more thoughtful, but now he muttered, “I doubt you called that chirurgeon a close friend,” though he sounded reluctant rather than angry.  

I smiled.  

“I did and still do. He retired from the army some years back and now has a peaceful practice in Kent. I had a letter from him just the other week.”  

Lestrade had the decency to look recalcitrant, a flush creeping into his face. He gazed out into the courtyard and I resumed my former position looking out as well.  

We stood like that for a while. I couldn't tell what precisely Lestrade was thinking but my own thoughts were now occupied by Holmes. No, I truly didn't blame him for the pain he had caused, though I knew it would be a while before it had faded. Though it helped that I knew he regretted the pain he had caused even if he might not regret the act itself. His behaviour, not just towards me but to everyone close to him spoke of it, he had even grown more considerate of Mrs. Hudson though both she and I wondered how long his best behaviour would last. Even toward Lestrade if only the inspector would see it.  

Besides, I had lost the two people I had loved the most dearly in my life. I knew that I would never get my Mary back, but Holmes had been restored to me and my life had taught me to accept all blessings as I found them. I would not carelessly discard this one.  

We stood like that for some time, then Lestrade shook himself like a man pulling himself out of a dream.  

“I'm not sure I can agree with your viewpoint, Doctor,” he said. “But I will take your words under consideration.”  

Thank you, Inspector.”  

Before either of us could say anything more the door to Lestrade's office opened and Holmes stepped out into the corridor. Spotting us he strode over and I straightened up at the sight of him.  

“Watson, are you ready to leave?” he asked.  

“I've been ready for a while. I had little enough to offer this time,” I replied.  

“Then let us return home. Good day, Inspector,” he concluded, nodding towards Lestrade.  

“Good day, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade returned.  

I too gave Lestrade a nod in parting, before following my friend out of Scotland Yard. Hopefully, Lestrade would come around eventually, I knew I had done what I could. 

[curlyjohnlock]

Tango Between Broken Hearts

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial

#FFF211: An Old Friend

Fandom: BBC SHERLOCK

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Rosie Watson

Rating: G

Word count: 980

This is only a tiny glimpse of the whole story, and I will post this chapter and the next ones on my account on Ao3.

So much time had passed since John's forced farewell and, since then, they had never had a chance to untie their conflicts. And now Sherlock was finding himself grappling with feelings he’d never been able to disclose. As he walked through the street, he wondered if John sometimes felt seized by regret.

The evening fell on London, enveloping everything in such a melancholic atmosphere. He’d made a mistake trusting Mycroft, who said that returning to London would be good for his soul.

However, no matter how well Mycroft knew his brother, he wasn’t aware that John's absence had become an open wound in Sherlock's heart, making him incapable of moving on. Since that day in the hospital, Sherlock had never been the same.

As he walked through the familiar streets, Sherlock couldn't help but think that it had only taken a minute to shatter everything they had been. The drunk laughter, the daring escapes from the police, the cases, and all the challenges they had faced together now seemed like distant memories, buried in the depths of the ocean.

***

There had been four days now. No matter how much he looked for him, there was no sign of John. He had even phoned Mycroft, begging him to tell him where John was. But his devilish brother, with his inevitable slightly mischievous tone, said that all his favors had been repaid and he couldn't tell him anything. 

Sherlock hung up the call, growling with anger at his phone. A woman who was passing by turned around, frightened.

Sherlock had just put the phone in his pocket when he noticed his hands were shaking. Walking with uncertain steps, Sherlock approached the entrance of the park. The laughter and cheerful conversations of the children filled the air, creating a pleasant and joyful atmosphere around him.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment outside the metal gate, stopping to watch the children playing on the swings. Their laughter was rather contagious, but Sherlock wasn’t exactly in the right mood for such an atmosphere.

Sherlock’s gaze was drawn to a group of teenagers playing football in a corner. Among them, he couldn't help but notice a young boy with tousled blond hair. The boy's appearance bore a striking resemblance to a young John, bringing back a rush of memories. There were nights in which, between tears, he wished he could go back in time, to when he and John were younger, when they spent the days chasing criminals, and when Mrs Hudson scolded them for being late for dinner. 

As he continued walking on the pavement, Sherlock had to stop. There was this young girl with long blonde hair, who was now staring at him with her mouth wide open. It was quite clear that his presence astonished her. He stood in place, not fully understanding why she was staring at him like that. There was something in her… and he couldn’t believe his eyes. That was simply not possible. He carefully looked at her with his ice-colored eyes, trying to be one hundred percent sure it was her.  

“Do we know each other?” asked Sherlock, trying to hide the slight confusion that was pervading him.

The little girl seemed to be uncertain about how to respond. “You are… you are Sherlock!” she exclaimed in a high-pitched tone, not be able to hold back a smile.

Sherlock took a step back, surprised by the fact the girl seemed to know him. “Sherlock who?”

“Sherlock Holmes! The pirate that all pirates fear! My daddy always talks about you!”

Sherlock's heart shattered in his chest into a thousand pieces but, in his mind, the pieces of the puzzle came together. That was a pretty curious coincidence, since fate had brought them together ‌in that place.

That being said, he had returned to London with a specific goal, but he didn't expect that he would run into Rosie instead of John.

“My name is Rosie.” said the little girl, offering her right hand.

Sherlock crouched down to be at the same height level as her and shook it. “Last time I saw you, you still were a toddler. You've grown a lot.”

***

As they sat down on a bench, Rosie, who was still shivering with joy, said: “My daddy always says you're a great pirate and you've conquered all the oceans of the world!”

Sherlock tried to hold back a laugh, but he couldn’t help it. “Oh, is that it? Did your dad tell you that?”

The little girl enthusiastically nodded.

Sherlock smiled smugly. “Well, Rosie, I have to admit it. Your dad has a wild imagination. And, for the record, I'm a detective, not a pirate." 

The little girl frowned slightly. The idea of ​​John telling her daughter bed night stories about pirates was rather amusing. And he was even the main character of those adventures. 

As Sherlock and Rosie continued the conversation, a shadow fell over Sherlock. The man looked up and saw John before him. His face was pale, and it almost looked like he was about to have a stroke.

Sherlock stopped talking to Rosie and stood to his feet. 

“John…” Sherlock whispered, his heart pounding in his chest. 

Their eyes met, and a myriad of emotions passed between them. The Starbucks coffee that John was clutching flew and reached the ground with a thud. 

John's gaze was full of surprise, disbelief and a lot of anger, the same blind anger that had taken possession of him years before. A loud silence spread all over them, the past and the present collided in that very instant.

But before Sherlock could say any more, John took Rosie by the hand and pulled her away from Sherlock. 

Sherlock stood stunned in the middle of the park. “John, I’m back.” he said, his voice trembling. "I'm back!" he said again, with a more convincing tone.

“You shouldn't have come back!” thundered John, not even turning back to face him.

[pupil-of-law]

✍ + professor James Moriarty ((because I really need to see this now))

send me a ✍ + a muse to see how i would play them.

‘Have you heard the story of the Angel, the Devil and the infinite chessboard?’

The Château Osterwitz, embedded like a Florentine jewel high in the Bernese mountain range, was six hundred miles from London. As remote as Valhalla, and as treacherous to reach, except by the postal diligence. And yet Professor Moriarty was not surprised to see Sherlock Holmes standing in his drawing room on a dull, mist-choked early evening in September.

A dozen or so other professors were gathered at the Château for a conference, and Moriarty had his back to the creak of the door which announced his new visitors’ entry; explaining to the young daughter of a fellow professor a certain mathematical problem known in Game Theory as The Angel Problem. He showed no sign of acknowledgement, not the drawing of a breath nor a millimetre’s change in his posture, of the trespassers’ presence. ‘And so, whilst the angel can jump a whole ten spaces in any direction he likes, covering ten times the distance of the poor old devil, whom you recall can only move one meagre space at a time, the devil can still strand the angel, and eventually, if he is clever enough, and given enough time and space... he will catch him.’ The girl’s fiddling in her seat had stilled as she stared at the blackboard above her. A fear seemed to have entered her which Moriarty suppressed a smile as he recognised in an instant. It was a fear that all young mathematicians feel, coming across some strange and unsettling fact about the universe. Improbable as it was inevitable. Just like the arrival of Mr. Holmes. ‘Run along,’ he commanded, his voice allowing no possibility of answer. ‘Straight to bed. If not - remember, he’ll be ten paces behind you.’

When he turned to his guests, his eyes glinted with interest. The pleasant smell of pine and conifer on their clothes suggested they had enjoyed the scenery on their ascent by foot. He allowed his gaze to settle on the eyes of the young man stood poised before the french doors onto the peaked plateau of the mountainside, amid the rolling froth of the standard baroque cloud which according to the Old Masters transports divine messengers to earth. His expression was cool and unwelcoming, for if there was not a finger on a trigger between Holmes and his loyal chaperone Mr. Watson then he was both very much insulted, and very much surprised. ‘Have you come with the answer to our mathematical problem? Or could you not stay away?’ He smiled with wry curiosity as he began to approach Holmes across the Austrian Hunting Carpet under his Italian brogues. A stolen painting hanging on the wall just above Mr. Watson’s head was no doubt the auspice under which the pair had traveled here. But Moriarty did not need to deduce anything at all to know the real reason Holmes had traversed those six hundred miles to see him. Unlike the man before him, Moriarty could read his enemy’s intention in his eyes. ‘I’m afraid we’ve no room for you here tonight. If the gentlemen require mountaineering equipment, I shall have some fetched for you right away.’

[atlanticcanada]

Life Changing Choice: A Liver for Karla – COVID-19 concerns hours ahead of surgery

EDITOR'S NOTE: This series was produced by veteran CTV Atlantic Anchor & Reporter Bruce Frisko, documenting his sister's successful liver transplant surgery in May of 2022. Karla Frisko found a match in Scott Watson, a co-worker who was inspired to sign up for living donor testing after hearing her story. Although liver transplants are performed across Canada, living donor programs are not available in some provinces.

It's the first of May 2022, and with the promise of spring ever closer, Edmontonians anticipate longer, warmer days after a long winter slumber.

A new beginning.

In an Airbnb in Southwest Edmonton, my sister, Karla Frisko, welcomes Scott Watson and his husband, Joe Connors, into the unit.

After exchanging hugs and acknowledging the television camera, Scott turns semi-serious, telling Karla he brought her a gift.

"I figured, 'You can never have enough napkins,'” he says, handing her a bundle with a mischievous smile.

Karla immediately begins to laugh, and displays the message on the package.

"Shut up, liver -- you're fine," it reads.

“That's good, right?" says Scott, laughing with everyone else.

The levity is appreciated, even necessary.

It's the eve of perhaps the biggest day in the lives of Karla Frisko and Scott Watson.

Approved for the transplant list in July of 2021, Karla waited months, hoping for a donor as her liver disease progressed to the inevitable.

Friends and family lined up for testing, but none proved suitable.

Discouraged, Karla mentioned it on a conference call at work, and Scott was inspired to put his name forward for testing.

The match was perfect.

The stunning act of generosity was made even more remarkable by the fact they hardly knew each other: co-workers at Sunlife Financial who'd never even met in person.

Now, though, with surgery scheduled first thing in the morning, a complication.

"Last night, Scott got a phone call from the University of Alberta to tell him that his COVID-19 test had come back 'indeterminate,'" said Karla. "And so, if he tests positive, that simply means our surgery is delayed."

It would be a crushing disappointment after the flurry of activity that got them to this point.

"This is our last day before we go in for a pretty major surgery -- a life-saving surgery," said Scott. "But also having to wait for that COVID-19 test to come back negative adds an extra layer of worry."

With surgical teams booked and the clock ticking down, there are fears COVID-19 could derail the plans, which feel serendipitous: Scott was born and spent his early years in Halifax, a city I've called home since 1995.

"All of my extended family, cousin and all of them still live in Halifax and Cape Breton," said Scott. "So, my story's made it back there, and it's starting to be shared on social media, through Facebook and other platforms, so it is becoming bigger than I ever expected it to be."

"And I'm from Newfoundland, and Newfoundlanders are quite proud of their own," added Joe Connors. "So, by proxy, they're quite proud of Scott and everything that's he's been going through right now."

After a couple of hours of small talk over coffee, the news finally comes in a text message.

"Negative! Negative COVID-19 test," said Scott. "PCR is good!"

"Karla, how do you feel about that?" I ask my sister.

"I'm super-excited," she says. "We're moving ahead."

And so they are, with both heading to hospital in just a few hours: one by chance, and one by choice.

A new beginning just ahead of the biggest day of their lives.

Keep an eye out for Part Two of Life-Changing Choice – A Liver for Karla, airing Tuesday on CTV News at Five.

from CTV News - Atlantic https://ift.tt/tA3mS2r

[jww-archive]

when: 2021

who: dalton & mckenzie watson / @tylerxdixon

Dalton was driving down the ranch road and headed back up to the house with an empty trailer coming back from a sale. He pulled around back the barn and left it hitched. He was already a tad behind for supper, and that was something he didn’t like bein’ late for. He was walking back up to the house when saw a truck he didn’t recognize. 

He stood on the porch and took his boots off and then moved to hang his hat, and walked into the house. He saw Ty, and this time he was wiser. Here we go again, Dalton thought himself. He went to wash up, and leaned over to give his wife a kiss as she scurried around the kitchen. “Sorry I’m late, love.” Dalton glanced to Ty. “No Junebug?”

“No, just Tyler.”

A small smile twitched at his lips. Didn’t take the boy long, Dalton thought to himself. He understood it - his daughter was his pride and joy. He felt a little less annoyed doin’ this a second time around. Liked this boy a little more, which helped. Dalton knew his father, they often ended up at the same sales in Texas when he made the drive.

As the food was put the table, they said grace, as they always did and began to eat. The conversation turned to ranching and horses, and Dalton gave a few clipped points of conversation. He asked about a stud he read his father had bought and how that was working out. 

When the food was eaten, Dalton helped his wife collect dishes, as he did every night and then he moved to go sit on the porch with a glass of sweet tea. Ty moved with him, and Dalton knew it was coming. This one seemed to have a better sense of timing. Ty moved to sit down in the chair next him. Dalton noticed that he was nervous. He waited, taking a drink of his tea.

“Probably wondering why I’m out here.”

“Only one reason why the boyfriend visits the parents without the girlfriend, son. Wasn’t born yesterday.” Dalton had a very small amused grin on his face. He was in a good mood - sales tended to do that.

“Of course not, sir.”

“Go on, then.”

“I wanted to ask for your blessing to marry June.” Dalton didn’t say anything, and just looked at him. “I want to marry her because she’s my best friend. The only person I want to see every hour of every day and not get tired of. The person who makes house chores feel like fun. I don’t care if she makes a billion dollars or stops everything tomorrow, as long as we’re doing it together.”

It was a nice speech and Dalton nodded slowly. It dawned on Dalton a little slower than he realized. All the time he was hoping that his daughter would marry a man like him, and when the last one showed up -- almost identical to himself -- he realized that his daughter deserved a man better than even her father. Kenz didn’t deserve the shit he’d put her through, the same shit that Dalton had his reservations about his daughter enduring with the other. Kenz didn’t deserve the fights, his broken bones when ranching bent toward dangerous and he was left in the crossfire, and the inevitable shit that came with loving a man as rough as Dalton was then. But June -- she seemed like she found a man better than him. Dalton didn’t say all that to McKenzie’s father -- would’ve went better if he did, he reckoned. 

Dalton turned to look at Tyler. “I’ve said this before, but my daughter is the greatest gift from God outside of my wife. I’d sell the ranch for her, trade my life for her. Son, she’s smarter than both of us. She’s -- well, she’s my world. I worked hard to be a father she could be proud of, be a father that modeled the type of man I wanted her marry.” Dalton gave him a sad smile. “I won’t see her hurt, and in that, I also won’t take away her freedom either. You’ve got your hands on the best woman on this planet, I know it, because she’s like that one in there.” Dalton took a sip. “As long as you honor her, listen to her, give her your all, and make her happy, you have it.”

[topsyturvy-turtely]

Fluffbruary with turtely

Day 8

[day 7] [day 9]

prompts: grass | sunrise | fashion by @fluffbruary <3

fandom: BBC Sherlock

[source for the picture]

♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡

John was huddled beside Sherlock in the grass, which was damp from the morning dew.

"This wasn't in the flat mate bidding, you know.", he said with a yawn.

"There never was a flat mate bidding?", Sherlock replied and John had to grin because he could see Sherlock's confused facial expression without actually facing him.

"Well, no. But I doubt it would have said. 'I will also wake you at four A.M., so we can stake out the stalker of a famous fashion designer in Clampham Common."

Sherlock gave him a side glance, but didn't say anything.

"In the winter.", John continued.

Sherlock didn't respond.

"In what feels like 15 degrees below zero."

Still Sherlock kept his mouth shut. But John was freezing, bored and starting to get moody. He was talking to keep the boredom, cold and bad mood away.

"Why did you take that case anyways? Can't be more than a- what? Two?", John blew into his hands and rubbed them. The gloves did next to nothing.

"A bit more respect, please, John. This is Vivienne Westwood you are talking about."

John scoffed.

"Are you laughing at Vivi-"

"I am laughing at you, fancy pants."

"Oh. So now you are complaining about my trousers as we-"

"Not complaining at all, your arse looks delightful in all your trousers and you know that."

Sherlock smirked. He looked up. "Look.", he said, his voice suddenly sounding incredibly soft. "The sunrise."

John shifted his weight, little impressed by the pale-yellow sun, peeking through the fog. "Oh, how romantic.", he said sarcastically.

"Consider this your date of the month.", Sherlock countered cheekily.

John shook his head incredulously, "This is your idea of the date of the month?! You'll need to at least kiss me to count this ridiculously cold stakeout a fu-"

John's words where cut off by cold lips pressing against his. Immediately John pulled his boyfriend closer by his lapels. He opened his mouth to deepen the kiss when Sherlock pulled away. John just dragged him back.

"John-"

"Shut up, and keep kissing me. It was finally getting interesting."

"But the stalker! She just-"

"I said-", John grumbled while pressing his lips to Sherlock's. "Shut. Up."

John had apparently pushed too hard into Sherlock, who had been in the process of getting up, because the great detective fell in the damp grass and John crawled over him. "It's just getting interesting.", John smirked down at him.

Sherlock's gaze darkened. "Make it interesting then."

They did. Good thing the park wasn't busy at sunrise...

♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡♥︎♡

A/N: naughty bois 😏 this must have legitimately happened because i swear i didn't plan to write that...

and not to forget: Rest In Peace Vivienne Westwood. she used to live in London Clampham, which is why the two of them are in Clampham Common btw :)

tag list! (tell me if you wanna be added or removed💚) @justanobsessedpan @helloliriels @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @7arantellgrrl @ssmeowl123 @so-youre-unattached-like-me @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @pansherlock @the-smol-bean-libby-blog @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @francj15 @almosttinycowboy @ladylindaaa @we-r-loonies @mxster-jocale @sherlockcorner @noahspector @our-stars-graveside @jobooksncoffee @baker-street-blog @psychosociogentleman @quickslvxr @macgyvershe @myladylyssa @johnlock2708 @battledress @a-victorian-girl

[angeli-marco-writes]

Sherlock Holmes - Kiss Me, Mr Detective

A/N - Season 1!Sherlock, the cutie. And friends to lovers. Two of my favourite things. I do not own Sherlock Holmes, the character, the universe, the adaptations or anything: this is a work of fiction set on the BBC adaptation of Sherlock. Did I still write 8.2k words (exactly) for it? Yes. I also don’t own the song or the lyrics used within, and if you fancy it, listen to ‘Kiss Me’ by Ed Sheeran while reading.

Warnings - Bad language. Mentions of murder and drug usage. Mild angst. Smut, loss of virginity, masturbation, oral m receiving, penetration, unprotected sex, so 18+.

Summary - After a fight with John leaves Sherlock feeling particularly down, he calls on the one person who is always there to support him. Only tonight, it’s different. Feelings come to a head, exploration ensues, but is this just a one time thing? That depends on whether she stays the night...

TO SHERLOCK, it’s just another normal day, whereas to John? He’d rather not admit how regularly these awful days roll around. Sure, the case didn’t go as well as it could’ve, and Sherlock admittedly could’ve made much more of an effort to comfort John after the apparent ‘heartbreak’ he endured. He just could not understand it. Why the hell was John so emotionally responsive to a case they’d been on for less than twenty four hours which turned out to be a bust anyway? 

“You are absolutely unbelievable!” 

“People die every day, John. You’ve killed people, as have I. It isn’t that great a surprise.” Sherlock deadpans, picking up his teacup, raising it to his lips, drawing a long sip from the warm liquid. 

“Oh, yeah, of course. The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.” John mocks. “Do you not even care that people are still dead despite the fact you solved the case?”

“They’d be dead either way,” he reiterates, “at least we got to them before they completely decomposed. Will me caring about them stop them from being dead? No, Dr Watson, it will not.”

“Sherlock!”

“John!” He mimics. 

John slams his hands down on the desk, shaking the wood and everything resting on it, surely sending the vibrations through the floor and notifying Mrs Hudson of their ‘domestic’ as she so likes to call them. The buffalo even begins to swing. John’s tea is long forgotten, but Sherlock’s is keeping him grounded, calm, as John waggles his fist in Sherlock’s passive, blank face. 

“You-” he pauses, gulping down breath. “You are a fucking machine, I can’t even deal with you right now. How dare you be so cold hearted and untroubled by this. You’re a disgrace.”

As if he hasn’t heard that one before, Sherlock scoffs. 

Placing his teacup back down with a clink, he stands, the darkness of the night, of the room, closing in on them both. Nights like these really are danger nights, any night John leaves him. That’s what's coming next, but there isn’t a thing he knows to say or do to prevent the inevitable. He’ll simply just text Her instead, she’ll keep him grounded. 

“Why? Emotional context? Emotion, whether of ridicule, anger, or sorrow, whether raised at a puppet show, a funeral, or a battle, is your grandest of levellers. The man who would be always superior should be always apathetic.” 

With a huff like a bull, John viciously turns on his heel, blaspheming under his breath, cursing Sherlock out. He reaches for his coat and snatches it off the stand, slamming the door open. 

“MACHINE.” John screams before pulling the door shut with a great slam, seething, the coat stand still rocking in his wake. 

John’s footsteps thunder down the stairs, but before he’s even gone, Sherlock’s phone is withdrawn, and he’s tapping out a message.

Can you come over? Please? SH

It wouldn’t usually bother him as much. The case didn’t phase him, at all, but John’s opinion did. It always does. But today was a particularly long day of being brutish and rude, cold and distant, his usual and true self, but John’s more and more impatient with him now. 

Being called a ‘machine’ is, again, nothing unusual, but this time it stings a little more than usual, especially after his recent arrest, and a fallout with Molly. He only has one person left, right now, who doesn’t hate him. His longest friend, the one he keeps away from it all so as to not tarnish her life with his misdeeds; Y/N, the one he can always rely on.

He knows she’s arrived by the sound of his window crashing open. Crawling up the bricks, skimming the drainpipe, latching onto the ivy; it’s her usual manner of entry. She never uses the door. 

Putting his cups and saucers into the sink, he makes his way through the house, opening his bedroom door to find her already sitting there on the bed, her coat hung up on the hook, her work clothes clinging to her body. 

“Hey there Mr Detective, you okay?” she asks as jovially as she can muster.

The way he ambles across the room, his dressing gown floating behind him, and slumps down onto the bed, instantly tells her he’s not okay at all. She can’t help but to look upon him sympathetically, edging a smidge closer to him, until he’s prompted enough to wrap his arms around her torso, finding his rightful place tangled around her. She knows him well enough - his past, and his current life - to realise she’s the only person he’s ever felt comfortable enough around to do this with, and that brings her a certain swelling pride in her bosom, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock as he feels her skin heat up against his cheek. 

It doesn’t take long, either, for his head to follow suit, burying into her chest. He’s always, always had a thing for her boobs, ever since they were in uni together. 

That’s something so special about the two of them, he doesn’t have to say anything for her to know he’s not okay the way he does with everyone else. And naturally, he can read everything about her in a split second.

“I’m here, bud.”

Above all else, he just needs to know someone is there for him in moments like these. The world is cruel to him, and Y/N wishes more than anything that it wasn’t. Upon instinct, her hands stray, one to his back, pressing against the silk of his dressing gown, the other cradling his long neck, fingers knotting in the dark curls there. 

She isn’t sure how long she stays there, simply holding him, feeling every twitch of his muscles, every breath of his against her skin, but she likes it. Of course she does, every time she likes it. Sherlock brings her an inordinate amount of comfort at the best of times, today is no exception, especially with what the day has held. Even when she’s the one comforting him, he doesn’t realise how much he helps her too. 

His flat is so familiar, his bed as comfortable as her own. She knows his sock index, she’s studied his periodic table over his shoulder more times than she’d care to admit, and she even has her own toothbrush in the bathroom in case she has to pop over for an emergency freshen up. Sherlock has, and always will be, her first port of call, and that she remembers as she shifts further onto the quilted bedspread, her phone on his oak bedside locker. 

His head begins to stir against her chest, his curls tickling her collarbones, small hums escaping his lips as he pushes himself up, his elegant yet trembling hands still splayed on her waist.

“I could feel your heart beating weirdly, what’s wrong?” he asks, quirking his eyebrows. 

“Just the usual.” she vaguely replies.

Sherlock isn’t having it, though, and scans her a little more. “You’re still in your work clothes.”

“Great deduction. I was hoping you’d go a little deeper, though.”

“You hate wearing work clothes longer than necessary, which means you had plans straight after work, considering you finished… five hours ago? That’s your usual time for today. Counting overtime, forty five minutes, walk to your car, another ten, but your umbrella wasn’t working, round that up to an hour, leaving at 6. You arrived home, no, not home, at your boyfriend’s house for dinner. However, you’re not comfortable enough with one another yet for you to use his shower, or perhaps you are, but you elected not to, and stay in damp clothes that only had seventeen minutes to dry with the heater on in your car for the journey there. You ate dinner, Mexican, had a glass and a half of five percent wine, realised you couldn’t drive, but you didn’t particularly want to stay. Nonetheless you sat and watched the telly with him for hours, football, I can see the dreariness in your eyes. I know how much you hate it, and frankly, same. You stayed for almost all of the match, seeing as you’re now sober, but something else happened.” She lulls her head to the side, prompting him, her smile not meeting her eyes. “As soon as the match ended, he tried to make a move on you, he pressed his mouth to yours, he tried to push his hand up your skirt;” his throat bobs with a vicious gulp; despising the thought of anyone else laying a finger on her, “you swatted him away, rightfully so.” 

He pauses a minute, his harsh tone of voice and his sharp face softening. He can see the vulnerability in her eyes, her walls about to crumble. This woman he appreciates so much. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

Smiling melancholically up at him, she brings her hand back to his hair, her fingers carding through the soft curls. His face buries back into her chest just as her voice offers a broken whisper, “I broke it off. I was the one who couldn’t commit this time.” 

And as she lays her head on top of his, her breathing more shallow, resounding in her chest, he dwells over those very words. The way she said them, not to mention the words themselves, hold a myriad of meaning. What could she possibly-

Oh.

The subtext, yes, impeccable. She’s always had a way with implications and subtext, always knowing that the likelihood of him actually picking up on it is little to none. But now, now he’s become trained to her, her way of life, her way of thinking, her way of speaking. This is too good an opportunity to miss. If she means what he thinks she means, ever hopeful, then this is completely unfamiliar territory. 

Gathering all of his courage in one deep breath, he begins to pepper kisses on her skin. The faintest brush of his lips on the tops of her breasts, all that’s available to him with her shirt the way it is. He feels her heart flutter, her breathing stutter, but despite the chemical flush of her chest, he still isn’t quite sure she likes it. Not until he feels her grip on his hair increase, and he glances up to see her head thrown back. Her spine delicately arches against his hand, thrusting her chest further into his face. 

His nimble fingers reach for her buttons, undoing the top two, giving him space enough to find the valley between her breasts. Lathering kisses there, licking the swells of her boobs, his tongue pulsates with the increased thrumming of her heart. The sensation is new, so unbridled, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with the stirring in his loins right about now. That unknowing is only further amplified by the sound that rips from her chest when he involuntarily bites down on the supple flesh. It couldn’t be… a moan?

Sure, he understands the chemistry of it, the reactions that occur in the synapses of the brain, the pheromones and hormones released when one is aroused, but this is all new to him. And, from his embarrassingly basic level of theory, surely that doesn’t start until some more stimulation on other parts of the body commence? Nipples, perhaps something lower down… then again, what does Sherlock know?

Of course it’s an intimate moment, the closest he’s been to a woman before, and maybe that’s why he freezes, stops, and she tugs his head up by his hair, her gentle, pleasured smile with her lips softly parted deepening the look of bewilderment painted onto his face. Her eyes are twinkling, alight with an excitement he hasn’t seen for far too long. 

“What are you doing?” she whispers. 

He shrugs his shoulders with a sudden force, his dressing gown falling off a little. “I don’t know. But now I feel like I read your pining words all wrong.” 

She gasps, a wheezing sound, sucking the air from the room. She smacks his arm gently, muffled by his button-down and dressing gown. “I wasn’t pining! I was saying.”

“Hmm, same difference.” 

Everyone must acquiesce when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. “But no, you didn’t read them wrong at all, but I know you don’t see me that way, you don’t feel things that way.” 

He pauses, his beautiful plump lips pursed, fidgeting on the bed. Brushing her hair off her face reveals the pain she expressed. However, her eyes glued on his, sadness is betrayed in every line of his young, clean-shaven face. His entire bone structure is taking a nosedive. 

“For you, I’ve been feeling everything from hate to love to lust, and I guess that’s how I know I want to hold you close.”

“Sherlock...” she whispers, her singular word an inflection of surprise. 

Never tearing his eyes from her, his hand comes up to her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the slightly blushing skin, searching her face, with his big blue eyes, for a shred of reluctance. But, all he sees is her, so he elects to do what his heart is yelling at him to do for once, and kisses her breathless. His full lips holding hers, his one hand on her face, the other still wrapped around her back. Hers fly around his neck, clinging to him for dear life.

It doesn’t take long, their movements steadily heating, for their previously slow, intimate kiss to grow into something more, Y/N pulling herself up from the bed and making herself comfortable on Sherlock’s lap. His breath hitches in his throat, a cute little hiccupping sound escaping his lips in between embraces. 

As much as he loves just this, soft caressing and gentle petting, he just knows she wants more. He does too, that much is evident from the length prodding at Y/N’s inner thigh as she moves gently on his lap. She won’t make a move, though, he’s too inexperienced, and she’s too much of a sweetheart to corrupt him, so she thinks. Ever since he first saw her, she’s been corrupting him slowly. He didn’t realise at first, but over the years, he began to understand, and now he’s in too deep. 

For Y/N? It’s always been him. Every breakup she’s had, she’ll come to Sherlock’s flat, full well knowing the real reason she broke up with them, because she couldn’t commit, because she was too caught up on him. 

Skimming his hands beneath her shirt, he savours the press of his hands on her bare skin, warmth seeping from her body into his, his fingers dancing along her spine. Electricity shocks her in bursts, unlike anything else, from his touch alone. 

“May I take your shirt off?” he asks. 

“Fuck, yes.” she groans. “May I do yours?”

“Be my guest.”

In a tangle of limbs, a few buttons pop off, and eventually, two shirts make it out the other side, tossed from the bed and into the laundry pile. Aka Sherlock’s floor. He’s like that: sock indexes, yet he won’t get a hamper. A walking contrast.

His thumbs press beneath the band of her bra, savouring the pressure of the flesh that falls into his hands, but that’s as far as he gets. 

“Never undone a bra before?”

He shakes his head sheepishly. “I know the theory. Just… you always wear peculiar ones.”

“I wear relatively normal bras, and this one is certainly bog standard. Had I known you’d be undressing me Mr Detective, I’d have worn something nicer.”

“Just do it for me.” He requests, chuckling. 

She unfastens her bra, and allows her breasts to spill from the cups, into Sherlock’s awaiting hands. The gasp that erupts from him sends Y/N’s brain into overdrive. He’s cupped her chest through her shirt before, buried his nose into her cleavage countless times, but never before have they had such skin on skin contact. Her lips press to his neck, shifting her closer to him. Sucking on his pressure point, she receives a similar gasp in response, only this one is more guttural, more a sound of pleasure than surprise. He’s wilting from a single kiss to his neck. 

“Has no one ever given you a hickey?” She husks in his ear, her voice alone sending tremors down his spine. 

“N- fuck, no.”

“I’ll make it worth it. All of this.”

“I know you will.”

She fuses her lips onto his again, savouring the faint hesitations as he grapples with his breath, eager to get some control on his mind with all that’s happening. Never did she ever think Sherlock would be here beneath her, his rough fingertips brushing over her peaked buds, and his palms dancing over her waist. Never did she think she’d hear him whisper his next words, either, not in a million years. 

“More.” he pleads. “Can we do… more? Whatever that entails?”

“That depends what you want to do.”

“Get me out of these damn trousers. They're rather uncomfortable.”

She snorts lightly, a piggy like sound, the one they bonded over all those years ago. “I can feel why.”

“I imagine you want out of your work trousers, too.”

“God, yes; they’re ghastly.”

“I don’t think so.” he hums. “You look nice.”

Her cheeks begin to burn, blood rushing to colour them, betraying her true feelings, but as he tweaks her nose playfully, the little snort escapes again. 

They were in the dining hall, second week of university, almost ten years ago, and Y/N was sitting with her friends, downing enough coffee to sink a ship, eating her hangover away, when her friends decided to make her laugh with tales of last night's drunken events. Unbeknownst to her, one of the greatest minds of the twenty-first century was sitting just a few seats down on the half-empty bench, watching her perceptively in his periphery. That’s when he first heard the sound. The cutest thing, and it startled him into action, beginning his deductions almost instantly. Admittedly, her student ID on the table aided him a little. 

He shocked her from her haze, too, as soon as he spoke her name. 

“Y/N, eighteen, jurisprudence first year, freshers week over with. You left a boyfriend back home, but you’re more sad about leaving your dog, as I would be. You don’t particularly care about law but know it’s a good undergraduate to receive anyway. Dyed hair, extrovert, killer hangover, and apparently there’s a little piggy living inside your nose. Sherlock Holmes, would you like some aspirin?”

“That’s weird; what are you, some kind of detective?” She asked, sans malice, a playful bounce to her words. 

“Chemistry, going for a masters. But I do like the mystery, yes.”

“So you’re… bright. Nice to meet you, Sherlock, and it seems you know almost everything you need to know about me. But yes, I will take that aspirin, if you don’t mind. How was your weekend?”

He smiled at her, the first true smile he’d given in a long time. “It was nice, thank you.”

And thus a friendship was born, all because he heard her little piggy snort. 

Her slender fingers work wonders with the fastener and zip of his suit trousers, and even manage hers too, all within the space of a few seconds, but Sherlock is reluctant to let her go, even just to get her trousers off. 

“I need to sit up, just for a minute.”

“No.” Sherlock commands, insistent. “We can make this work.”

“Sure we can, but it won’t be very comfortable. Come on.”

She’s barely peeled away from him and wrestled hers off before he’s drawing her back in for a kiss, his trousers settled just above his knees. 

“Sherlock,” she protests, mumbling against his lips, her hands on his heavenly, broad, muscular shoulders. “Sher!”

Her squeal at his sudden tug on her panties disappears, captured by his eager mouth. And in fact, her panties seem to disappear along with it, thanks to Sherlock’s swift movements and nimble hands. Maybe he’s had some experience to be so good at this…

“You sure you wanna go this far?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been. I need you.” 

He takes a deep inhale, dropping his forehead against hers, his breathing coming out in bursts as he tries to get a grasp on the situation. “Kiss me.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice, instantly getting to work on the waistband of his boxers as his tongue lavishes her own. His hips rise briefly, just long enough for her to tug the elasticated material from around him, slipping past her, and then he kicks it into their growing pile of clothes. His length falls into her awaiting palm, and-

“Wow.” She exhales in amazement. “If I’d known you were packing this much, I’d have jumped you long ago.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Absolutely not, until tonight I thought you’d just laugh at me.”

He pecks her lips affectionately, “Never. You’re bloody beautiful, I’ll let you do anything to me.”

“Hmm, anything, you say?”

Stifling a chuckle against her neck, he recommences, “Maybe not anything.”

Yeah, that's definitely the right call. Still, she finds herself all but clawing at him, her breath hovering teasingly just over his lips, their noses touching, her hands clamped to his cheeks, feeling the building heat there. She must be making such a mess of his bed right about now, but for one night? It can’t matter.

This is a one time thing, it has to be. Sherlock just needs to release some tension, she just so happens to be there. Still, she can’t prevent the little glimmer of hope shining through at the possibility of this being a more-than-one-time thing. The moral compunctions of their friendship after this don’t matter anymore, because he’s leaving a fire in his wake, his delicious fingertips digging bruisingly into her bum before trailing lightly up her spine, skimming her shoulder, brushing her neck - arched for him to reach where he wants, able to mark her as his own - and finally slipping over her lips, taken obediently by her awaiting mouth. Christ, if there’s one thing she hopes for tonight, it’s that his actions never relent.

Whether it’s what he intends to happen or not, his fingers in her mouth give her an idea, one she prays he goes along with at least a little, so she pulls away. The dirty, telling smile on her face hints at what she’s about to do, lending Sherlock to shift a little more up the bed, his eyes following her every move. Hands splayed on his thighs, her small fingers gripping onto the fine hairs there, she begins to take his tip into her mouth, never once breaking eye contact with him. Yeah, this is what’ll drive him insane. 

Inch by inch, she takes him into the welcoming heat of her mouth, pulling off slowly, only to go down again. She adds her tongue into the mix at some point, too, and her hand, on what she can’t reach, tickling his balls, but further than that, his mind is blank. Hot white, washed with pleasure. The sounds he emits are other worldly, so much that he has to muffle himself with his own hand; what would Mrs Hudson say? He’s always had such control over his mind and body, but this… he’s slowly losing all semblance of control, and he’s not even mad about it. What he does know is that there’s a building heat in his abdomen, a coil about to spring, and his cock is beginning to twitch. If she keeps going this incredible way, her teeth grazing him ever so gently, adding another new sensation into the mix, he’s inexorably going to finish before he can help it.

“As much as I adore your torturous ministrations, I think I need to be inside you…” He husks, his voice deep.

A smirk gracing her lips, she looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, mischief glinting in her pretty little mesmerising eyes for a second, before she hollows her cheeks and takes him wholly, allowing his length to slip partially down her throat. Her moan reverberates around him, and Sherlock begins to thrash above her, scrunching the duvet in his hands, not caring if it creases. If there’s one thing Sherlock hates, it’s creases. And being called a machine by his best friend. Right now, though, it seems as though every misstep in his day has led him here, into the welcoming heat of Y/N’s mouth, taking him so eagerly, her tongue lapping at the vein on the underside of his dick, a string of saliva remaining as she pulls away. 

“I think you’ve got a couple of rounds in you, Mr Detective. Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yes.” He stammers, his head tossed back in pure ecstasy a moment later as she begins to work on the head with kitten licks. “But… can I s- fuck me, say something?”

“I plan on it.” she chuckles, “anything.”

She goes back to peppering kisses all over his member, tip to base, brushing his balls, working her way back up. 

“Touch yourself f- for me.”

“What? Why?” 

Her tone is more inquisitive than anything else, but upon that playfully rueful look in his lust-darkened baby blue eyes, she knows he’s going to get her back for this little display, and he’s just worked out how. It works both ways, she can prepare herself for what’s to come next while pleasuring him. And he gets to watch. It’s a win-win for him. Maybe he likes this sex thing a little more than he’s letting on. 

“Are you sure you want me to? I’ll just make a mess on your sheets, Sher.”

She swallows him again, bobbing her head up and down on his length a few times while he grapples with literal reality. He’s teetering on the edge. One more move, and he’s a goner. His head is already against the wall, lolled there. 

“I don’t care about the sheets, darling, I need you ready for me.”

She gulps, nods, and reaches one hand around her, skimming over her stomach, until it nestles between her thighs. She rubs her thumb over his tip, collecting the pre-come beading there, while she rubs over her throbbing pearl, pressing softly. Then, as she inches down on his cock, taking him in her mouth, she also collects the slick from between her thighs, and uses it as a lube to push a finger inside herself. Of all the times she’s touched herself, she never imagined, even in her wild Sherlock fantasies, that she’d be doing it with his dick down her throat. With every bob of her head, she scissors herself more, sinking back onto her fingers. 

“I think I’m-” Sherlock begins to say, his words cut off by an utterly obscene moan splitting the air. 

She hastily abandons her one post, and wraps both of her hands around his girth, working on what she can’t fit into her mouth with her increased speed, licking and suckling his head as he begins to fall apart, coming, with a scream, down her throat, his one hand clamped over his mouth, biting down harshly to silence his cries; the other buried in her hair. 

His whole body falls lax, completely spent, meanwhile, Y/N savours every drop she’s been able to draw from him. He softens in her mouth, allowing her change to slip away from him, grasping a tissue from the bedside to wipe away any excess. That’s certainly something she never thought would happen… 

He’s calm, though, smiling lazily through hooded eyes, his breathing regulated once more, making beckoning motions to her with his big hands. He’s placated, though, and sliding her hands into his, she’s allowed time enough to get into place, smiling softly at him, raking her fingers over his scalp in a comforting way. Even as she sits herself on his lap, she can feel him hardening beneath her ass, slowly but surely. She was right about him, he’s definitely got another round in him. 

“Do you have a condom?” he asks. 

“No, sweetheart, they’re in my other bag. I didn’t plan on getting any for a while… do you?”

“Not in here, that I’m aware of. John may have stashed some in my less favoured dressing gowns or socks, and he definitely has some upstairs, but I’m unawares.”

“I’m gonna sound crazy here, but do we need one?” She says hesitantly. His eyes widen, he cocks his head to the side. “I was tested after my last partner, I’m clean, and on birth control. You’re a virgin. There’s no point, is there?”

“You have a considerably good point.”

With that, energy rejuvenated a little, he wraps an arm around her body, flipping them over so he’s on top, shadowing her, looming over her, gazing down at every inch of her naked beauty.

“Take your time. I’ll be your safety.”

“I know.” he whispers, a tearful smile making its way onto her face. “Thank you.”

He needn’t say more, because she already knows why she’s being thanked. For her kindness, for making him so comfortable, for accepting the fact he’s still a virgin in his late twenties and, if he’s being honest, has no damn clue what the practicality and reality of sex is. Sure, he’s seen porn. He’s also looked at John’s laptop. But that doesn’t prepare one for when the moment comes. It’s like all of that goes out the window, and he simply remembers the first time he opened a biology textbook at secondary school, pictures of flushed organs staring back at him, desperately waiting to be relieved. That’s what his own coock is like right now, already hard again, virtually pulsating with hunger in his palm. He strokes himself a couple of times, glancing down at Y/N’s wide eyes.

“Are you okay? Can I…”

“Yes, Sherlock,” she chuckles, “whenever you’re ready.”

Now, he thinks. He rubs two digits through her folds, gathering her wetness, enamoured with the way it glistens on his fingertips. Tentatively, he brings his fingers up to his mouth, swirling his tongue around them to get a taste. Eyes rolling into the back of his head, he moans. She’s better than any cup of tea he’s ever had. 

His cock slaps against his lower stomach pleadingly, so he grasps it in his hand, and begins to enter her, pushing gently, feeling every flutter of her walls. Her arms fly out, hands grasping his shoulders, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake at the delicious stretch. It’s nothing like they’ve ever felt before. 

“Can I move?” He asks, balls deep inside her, their pelvises flush against one another. 

“Please.” She all but begs. 

Before doing anything else, Sherlock hooks one strong arm around her body, malleable in his hands, and holds her chest against his. Her breasts push into his skin, her nipples gaining friction from the dusting of hair there. Her one hand cups his slender neck, the other, his sharp cheek. Their eyes meet in a fierce gaze of burning intensity, and he begins to move. Slow, calculated, sharp thrusts punctuate her core. With every heavenly stroke, he can feel the ridges in her velvet walls, squeezing around him unwittingly.

“Jesus,” she cries, her clutch increasing. 

“Hmm, not quite.”

The smirk in his words is quite literally audible. He’s so cocky, so full of himself, and fuck if she can’t feel another gush of arousal coursing through her, drenching his cock. How does he manage to be so attractive when he’s so dishevelled?

“Is that good?” He asks, unsure.

“So good.”

She brings her legs up, skimming the clenched backs of his thighs, until they wrap around him, drawing his hips into her at a new and improved angle. Heels digging into the base of his spine, he begins to move with a new purpose, his thrusts more passionate as his breath is drained from him by her kisses, his eyes alight with a new flame. 

“Oh my God, Sherlock.” She pants, pulling him in for a kiss he greedily returns. 

He drives his hips deeper, squeezing his fingertips into her supple waist bruisingly. It’ll be a mark that she belonged to him once, even just for one night. That’s when he reaches that special spongy spot that makes her entire body buckle. She all but screams, pressing into him wholly. 

The coil is building, ready to break. He seems to be nearing the edge, too, his member twitching inside her when he buries himself particularly deep. She’s oh so fucking close… She licks into his mouth filthily, desperately clashing her teeth with his, eager for his kisses to tide her over. Silence her. Shifting his supporting hand, he trails one dextrous finger around to circle her clit, adding the faintest pressure for a moment. She mewls as he groans into her hot skin, clawing at him, entirely at his whim. Now he knows where to press, he settled his grip back around her, and draws her in close. This time around, he bends his knees a little more to measure his movements more carefully, ensuring that he ruts up and brushes her sensitive bud with his pelvis, helped by the extra friction of his neatly trimmed pubic hair on every thrust within her, his tip just scraping her g-spot.

“I- Sherlock, please tell me you’re- oh sweet mercy- close.”

He grunts softly in her ear. “So close.”

Their lips meet tenderly, passionately, in what they acknowledge to be a final kiss, moans mixing between them, savoured by the other. 

His thighs clench, her legs tighten around his waist, and finally, her sweet walls flutter, squeezing him as she reaches her climax, his not following long after, spilling inside her, painting her soft walls white, marking her. 

“Y/N,” he cries in ecstasy as his orgasm reaches him. “Sher…” she repeats, her saving grace as pleasure washes over her entirely. 

Their whole bodies wind up pressed together, bound together as one, skin on skin completely, becoming one another. 

He lets her down gently, unravelling his grip, unsurprised when their sweaty skin sticks together. Her long legs unfurl, splaying in a butterfly. Sherlock tumbles ungracefully away, somehow landing with a certain gangly elegance on the space of mattress beside her, his arm instinctively flying over to place on her stomach, the skin hot and flushed red. Her chest moves hastily up and down with the thrumming of her heart, while his barely shifts despite his shallow breaths, his white skin glistening in the moonlight. 

“Are you okay?” He huffs, turning on his side. “You look pretty fucked out.”

His baby blue eyes train instantly on her nipples, hard in the open air. This is the first notifier, the first inkling she has to feel self conscious, so she draws the sheet up around her as best as she can. Sherlock’s not having any of it, taking a stronghold on her arms, and pulling her until she’s lying on him, naught to separate them. 

“I’ve never been this close to anyone physically and y'know.” He hums tiredly. She’s never heard him sound tired before… 

She smiles up at him as best she can, “Are you glad?” 

He begins to hold her ever closer, squeezing her tighter, feeling every ridge of her body. 

“I’m so glad that you were my first, in so many ways.” 

Praise from Sherlock is a rarity, and she’ll take it as and when she can, savouring every moment, this time by holding him like a koala, her grip not wavering. 

“I’m glad too, Mr Detective.”

He brushes a kiss to her cheek, “As much as I like this, we need to get you cleaned up.” 

A supporting arm beneath her bum, he picks her up, and unsteadily ambles into the bathroom. 

“I don’t know much about this, but I know you should probably use the toilet, should you want to avoid a UTI, so if you’d like me to leave…”

He sets her down on the loo seat, cupping his hands over his nether regions, and he hurries to grasp for things, until she puts her hand on his arm, squeezing in a conciliatory manner. 

“You do remember the camping trip, don’t you? You really don’t have to leave just because I have to pee, you never did before. In fact, you frequently annoyed me with it if you had a particular point to make, steadfastly refusing to leave the bathroom after following me in there when I went to pee. Why does this change anything?”

He shrugs, dropping whatever was in his arms, “It just doesn’t feel the same now, though.”

“Ooo, and now Mr Detective feels things.” She jokes, poking at his ribs. 

He recoils, chuckling with her, “Only for you.”

As Y/N washes her hand, Sherlock begins to wrangle with a floorboard, clattering about until he eventually pulls out a small lock box, from which he withdraws a packet of brand new marks-and-spencer's ladies briefs. 

“Why the fuck do you have these? Anything you wanna tell me?” she asks, eyes wide.

“John’s idea. He has plenty of girls over here who frequently stay the night, simply a precautionary error.” He takes a beat, gargling with some mouthwash, “they’re clean, new, I just don’t like the idea of you in dirty underwear, and I know how reluctant you are to go without them whenever you’re not in your own bed. I stayed with you enough nights in university to know that.”

Those nights were awfully painful. She’d take the floor, he’d take the bed, and every time she’d have to wash the sheets. He’d sweat and vomit, shake and cry, plead for the pain to be over. He wouldn’t go to hospital, he wouldn’t call his brother, he’d just turn up on her doorstep, high as a kite, almost in tears, knowing he’d gone a little too far. And each time, it was a little farther. 

“Thank you, Sherlock.” 

She takes them from him, and begins to shimmy them up her legs, only prevented by Sherlock moving to grab a handful of her arse. 

“Hmm, I like this. Fancy another round?” He smirks. 

“I’m too tired, babe. Give me a bit.” 

He can see the lazy smile on her face, the tiredness in her pretty eyes, so he wets a flannel, and begins to clean her up with gentle movements between tender kisses.

“How do you know how to do all of this?” She asks, inquisitive more than anything. 

“Instinct, I suppose. I never read or learned about it, seeing as I never thought it would happen.” 

She snaps the waistband before moving her hands to his waist, leaning up onto her toes to reach him, kissing her softly. 

“Look at you now.”

After brushing their teeth in an amicable silence, their pinky fingers overlapping on the porcelain of the sink, he aids her back to the bedroom, settling her on the bed. She has things here: deodorant, toothbrush, moisturiser, and yet somehow she doesn’t have underwear, even after all these years. Perhaps that's one too many things to explain… 

With superfluous extravagance, he throws her his shirt, offering her a wry wink. She finds a blush clawing its way onto her cheeks, dumbfounded. It smells like him, just like a forest glade if it was rained on by tea and cigarettes. Maybe he’ll let her keep it as a memory.

In such a short amount of time, she’s learnt that he has a very sensitive neck. Very. A single kiss there has him biting back a moan. A low one at that, considering his deep voice also drops almost an octave when he’s aroused. His nipples are almost as sensitive as his neck, and he rather likes it when she tugs on them unwittingly. 

His first orgasm comes quickly, but his refractory period is astonishing, and it takes longer to achieve a second high, long enough to make her come more than once, she assumes, though her first orgasm was mind blowing enough for two. Perhaps that’s just because it’s his first time, but it’s impressive nonetheless.

What’s the point in learning all of this if, once he comes around from his post-orgasmic haze, he’ll pretend like it never happened, in typical Sherlock style?

The shirt, though a small gesture, means a lot, and her vision begins to cloud as she looks down at the black cotton. 

“You mean you want me to stay?” She croaks.

Sherlock turns to her from his set of drawers, his face full of apparent obviousness, brows furrowed in that cute bewildered way. 

“Of course I want you to stay.” He states, like it’s the plainest thing in the world, like it’s stupid for her to even ask. But she’s silent, and when she says nothing in response, he launches into a long winded explanation: don’t show sentiment. “I- I just mean, i-it’s midnight, I’m not having you out in London alone. You stay with me. Only if you want to as well...” 

She nods eagerly, “Yes. Yeah, course I want to stay.”

He all but leaps access the room, jumping onto the bed, before planting a proper smooch on her lips, grinning down at her. He slips into his usual side of the bed, and she takes hers, rolling to look at him.

“Don’t get cold.” He warns, tucking the duvet up around her shoulders. She giggles like a child, that small snort sounding again, prompting Sherlock to press his thumb to her nose like a button. “How are you… feeling?”

“I’m fine bub, really. That bloke doesn’t matter to me at all. Bit of a scumbag if I’m honest. You’re the one I’m with, the one I wanna talk about. How are you feeling? Must’ve been a pretty big blow up with John for you to call me and be so... teary.”

He sighs, crestfallen, “He called me a machine.”

Her gasp pierces the air, her hand flying to his hair, stroking in consolation, cooing senseless reassurances to him. She’s done this innumerable times, but now it feels different, like there’s no barrier. 

“He’s done it so many times that it needn’t bother me anymore, but the way he looked at me, like I was this abhorrent monster, especially after the day and the disappointing case we had, it got to me. I hate having feelings.”

“You don’t have to hide them with me, though.”

He hums gently, burying into her chest. “I know. That’s why I treasure you so dearly.”

“That means you also have to trust me, and you’re not going to like what I have to say.” His chest heaves, shifting her whole body. That’s his way of giving in. “Please just talk to John. You know that whenever he leaves, he’ll come back, and try to pretend it never happened. He needs to know you’re human and that he upset you, but also that the case upset you as well. No one’s superhuman, and once you let John in on the fact that you’re not a machine, things between you will be so much easier, because you might agree for once.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He grumbles. 

He pulls her into his warmth, hooking her leg around his as he snakes his arms around her back, breathing deeply from the crook of her shoulder. She begins to pepper kisses on his salty skin, savouring the taste with every small swipe of her tongue.

“Your heart’s against my chest, your lips pressed to my neck,” he breaks off with a faint whimper when she sucks a little harder, “I’m falling for your eyes, but they don’t know me yet.”

“Of course they do,” she whispers brokenly, hoarsely, “they’ve always known you.” She swallows thickly, “Does that mean it’s a feeling you’ll forget?”

“No, I don’t think I ever can.”

The silent words that pass between them both are so special, too special to be spoken aloud. ‘Think I’m in love now.’

“Kiss me like you wanna be loved.” He begs. 

And really, who is Y/N to deny him? They just stay that way a little while, revelling in their lazy kisses, until she begins to fall asleep. It isn’t the first time she’s fallen asleep in his bed, not by any means, but it’s the first time she’s fallen asleep in his arms. She isn’t mad about it.

“Settle down with me, cover me up, cuddle me in. You were made to keep my body warm.” She smiles into her words, and embeds herself into him, entirely covered by the duvet, spattered in his kisses, safe in his arms. Sherlock feels safe with her legs around him, her fingers in his curls, holding himself against her. Amicable silence is how they drift off, Peaceful.

John re-enters 221B at a respectable hour. He got a fair amount of sleep on Greg’s sofa, having no girlfriend in the picture right now, but not enough to deal with Sherlock just yet. Not before his coffee. He expects to see Sherlock sitting in the exact same spot as when he left, perhaps just with a refill of tea, his fingers still steepled beneath his chin, eyes closed yet wide awake. Instead, he arrives at a seemingly empty, considerably clean flat, with no Sherlock in sight. Perhaps the unsleeping man must actually be asleep, he thinks, so he quietens down, and toes off his shoes before wandering farther into the flat. Even if the man does piss him off extraordinary amounts, perhaps he should just check he’s okay…

He gives the bedroom door a quiet rap, listening in momentarily before pushing it open. Frankly, he’d rather have found Sherlock with a cigarette in hand and the whole flat torn to shreds for the level of surprise he gets upon reaching the bed. His first idea is to scream bloody murder, but that might annoy Mrs Hudson, and upon stepping closer, even in the sliver of daylight through the curtains, he sees the duvet riding down a little. The last thing in the world he ever thought he’d see: Sherlock in naught but boxers pressed against a half naked woman, his palm splayed on her bare thigh. Sherlock? Spooning? It seems so, his entire body pressed to this woman. John feels himself go rigid, his feet glued to the floor, his gaze unmoving from shock. 

It takes his phone to buzz in his pocket to get him moving, and when he does, all he tries to do is balance precariously on his tip toes in a wry attempt to get a birds-eye view of the whole thing. He’s not disappointed, or disturbed, once he does, though, his army agility proving useful. Sherlock’s hand is holding her, fingers entwined, just next to her chest. He wonders how comfortable it is, but if they’re staying this way, it can’t be too bad. Maybe all Sherlock needed to loosen up was a good shag. 

She’s wearing his shirt, too; Sherlock’s black dress shirt from the previous day. And Sherlock? He never seeps in anything less than a full set of pyjamas, he’s weird like that . 

This girl begins to stir, her lips parting gently, small hums escaping. Next, her eyelids flutter, and her hair shifts on the pillow. He didn’t make any noise, did he? John was specifically careful not to, just in case. He doesn’t fancy Sherlock’s wrath just yet. 

One eye opens, and she whispers, almost incoherently, “Hi John.”

How she knows his name and who he is, he’s not at all sure, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this face in his life. The hair is familiar, and maybe, if she were more awake, he’d recognise her smile, but he’s never seen a woman in Sherlock’s company beside Molly Hooper. Speaking of… 

Before he can even say anything, though, before he can ask who she is or if she wants tea or if she date-raped his roommate, she’s mumbling, and detaching her hand from Sherlock’s, rolling over. Dumbfounded, John just stands there and watches her cuddle into Sherlock’s chest, her arms wrapping around his torso like second nature. Even in his sleep, not consciously thinking about his actions, he grips her back - one hand resting just above her bum, and buries his nose into her neck.

John can’t help but smile to himself. Maybe their fight was for the best if Sherlock now has a girlfriend, someone he turned to for solace. So, he grasps for the top of the duvet and pulls it up over both of their figures, reaching their shoulders, and leaves, staring wistfully for a brief moment at the seemingly happy couple. 

The weight of the duvet of what startles Sherlock, though, stirring him a little, inviting him to him against Y/N’s skin, smiling with eyes barely open. This is really nice, he thinks to himself, not waking up alone. 

She smiles back blearily, and in her morning voice, whispers to him, “Kiss me Mr Detective.”

[youreyeslookliketheocean]

youreyeslookliketheocean’s DSMP Fic Recs!!

Figured it was about time for one of these... :)

Mostly SBI-centric because they’re my favorite dynamic. I’ll probably add to this list as time goes on, and I also want to go back through my ao3 history and find some lesser-known fics I really enjoyed to rec them all. But for now...

* oneshot  ** unfinished work

** the lights go out (my heart goes still) by curseworm

With his old home unwelcoming and his new one gone, Tommy is alone. After hours of staggering through the freezing snow, he finds a cabin.

Technoblade’s cabin.

He hides himself away in the deepest corner he can find, taking only what he needs to survive, wasting away in the cold and the dark. He’s petrified at the thought of being found out, terrified of what he thinks Techno would do to him.

When Techno finds his injured teenage brother huddled in a filthy little cave beneath his basement, the rage he feels is immeasurable. The voices demand blood, and blood he will give them. Dream won’t be getting away with this one.

(On the other side of the world, in a country that floats on a man-made lake, Philza gets himself in a bit of a pickle.) 

** The hearth down under by Crystalquill

A tiny change gives Tommy the courage to flee to the Nether instead of the cold tundra, finding an unlikely ally in the midst of a fiery hellscape.

But tiny changes can alter the course of history. The SMP will never be the same.

(Lots of cool Nether worldbuilding in this one!!)

to be a wanderer, wandering by hydrangeasheart

Tommy's feet drag in the snow.

It's so, so cold. He's so cold. His toes are freezing. His exposed shins feel like they’ve been cut open-- even the one that’s bandaged. His wings have gone numb, which is almost, almost good, because now he can’t feel the shifting, broken bones inside of the left one, just under feathers and muscle.

He doesn’t know why he’s still walking.

-

Or, Tommy leaves the exploded ruins of Logstedshire behind, and walks until he finds somewhere safe.

And things keep going from there.

(A canon-divergent AU, splitting off somewhere around when Tommy started hiding out below Techno's house.)

that’s, like, a hundred miles by No_one_you_know (and then “as long as i’m here”, and “he’s my brother, i just raise him”)

Dream would kill him. Dream was going to kill him- he was going to- no, he wouldn’t. Dream was his friend- friends don’t hit each other- Dream was supposed to take care of him- Dream /was/ taking care of him.

It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. He couldn’t clear his thoughts as he stumbled to the family computer, pulling up a tab on google and frantically typing the name into the search bar.

The words Technoblade Watson stared back at him, the little black bar at the end of the letters blinking slowly, mocking him.

Why, of all people, did it have to be Technoblade?

in short: the one where dream sucks as a parental figure, tommy runs away, and visits his least favorite family member technoblade.

passerine by thcscus(blujamas)

Do I really need to put the summary here? Pretty much everyone knows this fic. Also, though, if you enjoy this one you should totally read thcscus’ connected fic, “shrike”!! It’s only at 2 chapters right now but it’s already really good and has this dark, foresty aesthetic I love...

not with a bang but with a whimper by dip_dyed_ghost

He knows Tubbo doesn’t care about him anymore. He knows that. He’s been shown that. But it doesn’t stop Tommy from caring about him. He brushes the pads of his fingers over the compass’s glass and wonders how he’s doing, if he’s tired of it all yet, if he needs help. He watches the way it points strongly in the direction over the ocean. He hopes he’s alright.

Even after everything, he hopes he’s alright.

During his exile, Tommy finds a drugged and hurt Tubbo on his doorstep. He can’t not help him.  

(This one has a neat take on potions, in my opinion. Also it’s only 4 chapters so it’s a quick read!)

take this compass, follow it home by lightning_anon

Tommy's a fuck up, he can't pay attention, and never sits still. He taps his hands, pushes people away, and has never had a best friend. He's a screwed up, forgotten kid lost in the foster system. He's also just been placed with a new family. Tommy knows how this goes, he never ends up staying long. After all, no one wants a fuck up like him.

Why would this house be any different?

Or: the obligatory sleepy bois foster fic, but with a focus on the neurodivergent kids that inevitably get lost in the system.

(Genuinely want to see more books like this in original fiction. It’s part of what inspired my newest og wip, “To Build a Home.” So sweet and I feel like I had my eyes opened to some neurodivergent tendencies I never knew existed. I read this in a day and can’t rec it enough.)

bloodlines by youreyeslookliketheocean

Tommy’s an orphan on the run from his previous guardian. Philza’s a king who prides himself on keeping his kingdom in an era of peace. Wilbur’s the crown prince, and Techno’s right beside him as his adopted brother. When Phil’s kingdom of Pogtopia is threatened by the bloodvines—a strange, brainwashing plant infecting many of the surrounding kingdoms—the four must work together to keep the kingdom, and their family, safe. --- A royal au sbi fic... + the bloodvines, for spice.

(Yes I’m self-promoting. But, in my defense, I’m very proud of it. If you checked it out it would mean the world to me :’))

Heat Waves by tbhyourelame

Dream has always held a gentle admiration for George, but when their nuanced friendship trickles into his sleeping mind, he awakens to a new world of conflicting emotions and longing. Lost in the midst of a heat wave, he continuously listens to a song that works itself in to the very core of his heartache. Floridian nights, unsent messages, spiraling infatuation, and terrible, terrible weather.

Another fic I think pretty much everyone knows about. Listen, listen... I was once an idiot who said “Oh no, I’ll never read Heat Waves. It’s irl, not characters, and it’s probably cringe”... No. I was so wrong. This fic is wonderfully written, with a pretty quick moving plot and great characterizations. You do need an ao3 account to access it, though. Just to let you know. (Also read “Helium”, unfinished and hasn’t updated in awhile, but it’s the continuation). 

Guitar Strings and Keyrings are What it Takes to Build a Home by Anonymous

Techno was adopted by Phil when he was 12 years old.

He'd been enjoying his morning before Phil came to him asking if he would mind them taking in another kid. Against his better judgement, Techno agrees and ends up with two new foster brothers who he was determined to not get attached to, no matter what.

Tommyinnit’s unbeatable method of avoiding sudden death by eneliii

“I uh,” Tommy starts, not knowing how to break this to the hero lightly. He hates to be the bearer of bad news. “I think your powers are broken? It’s not a bad thing of course, but like, I swear you tried to mind control me and it like, totally failed. Which is fine, honestly, don’t feel insecure. Everyone’s power stop working sometimes… I think.”

Sheesh, this is very awkward. Why is no one else talking? Why is Philza looking at him like he grew three heads? Why is the Blade staring at him so intensely? Why is Willow still frozen?

“Did I, did I hit a nerve? Yikes,” Tommy hisses, “Well um,” He steps back, bracing his legs and bending his knees, “This was like super fun, but I’m - I’mma head out.”

or,

in which Tommy manages to annoy the hell out of Phil, Techno and Wilbur by being both impossible to catch and irritatingly endearing.

or or,

a crack fic where Tommy is a vigilante and Phil, Techno and Wilbur are the heroes hunting him down.

(Feel like I am obligated to say how incredibly funny this fic is. Seriously. I have a distinct memory of sitting on my neighborhood park’s swing, giggling hysterically, while reading this. Well...until the end... but we won’t get into that...)

** bones in the ocean by bunflower

“Your reputation precedes you, y’know.”

“Does it, now?” Philza watches him coyly from where he’s now leaning against the wall, arms folded around his chains and gaze half-lidded, his lips curled in an arrogant, cat-like smirk.

“The Angel of Death, the ferryman of the Styx, the terror of the western seas. One of the most feared captains ever to sail, and yet, I have to wonder… how did a man like you end up all on his own? We searched the area where you were found—not another soul in sight. So,” He fixes him with a long look, allowing the silence to hover like a dark cloud, the words rolling off of his tongue with all the venom and smugness he can muster, “—tell me, Philza. Where is your crew?”

OR: Technoblade is a naval captain, and Phil his unwilling prisoner. Somehow, they manage to come out of it as friends in the end.

(Is this fic considered popular like passerine/Heat Waves now? Cause I feel like it’s reputation precedes itself, at this point... Pirate au.)

****

Okay! That’s it for now. Like I said, though, I want to add to this over time and also dig back for some older things I’ve read. Also, if you have any recs feel free to send them in! I’m about to go back to school and therefore might not have time for reading fun stuff, but whenever I get the chance I’d love to check them out!!!

Happy Reading!!

[chriscalledmesweetie]

Mrs. Hudson Tribute Episode

In a comment on The Three Holmes-Watson's Gruff, PatPrecieux suggested that in response to Una Stubb's passing, she would like BBC Sherlock to do "a tribute special like TAB to honour this lady who really was the heart of the show."

I concurred, and here's what I came up with:

It starts with Sherlock and John, retired in Sussex. Rosie and her wife have just arrived with their son, Harry, to celebrate his second birthday. This leads to bittersweet memories of Rosie's second birthday.

We have a series of flashbacks to party preparations in 221B, then guests arriving - Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft - with lots of presents. They wonder why Mrs. Hudson is late, and eventually John goes down to check on her. He comes back up ten minutes later with one of those patented Martin Freeman "I can do it with a look" expressions that tells the whole story. Mrs. Hudson died of a brain aneurysm in her sleep.

Next, we have the heart-wrenching and heart-warming memorial service, where everyone reminisces about Mrs. Hudson's colorful life. They use footage from the show, from behind-the-scenes, and from work Una Stubbs had done previously in her 60+ year career. Each of the main Sherlock characters has a chance to talk about how she touched their lives.

Then comes the reading of the will. It turns out that Mrs. Hudson has left 221 Baker Street jointly to Sherlock and John. John, who had still (inexplicably!) been living in his old place even after Mary died, decides to move in to 221A. To get the place ready for him and Rosie, he and Sherlock go through Mrs. Hudson's things, with both laughter and tears.

Comforting each other in their grief brings them closer together, and discussing their feelings about Mrs. Hudson's loss opens them up to talking about other difficult topics. Eventually, the subject of their own relationship comes up, and they finally acknowledge their romantic feelings for each other. The long-overdue Johnlock kiss happens at last.

Back in Sussex, grown-up Rosie says she's sad to have lost Nana Hudson before she was really old enough to remember her, but from everything she's heard about Mrs. Hudson, Rosie is sure she would have been delighted to know that losing a Nana led to Rosie gaining a Papa.

The closing shot has Sherlock and John with their arms around each other on one side of the fireplace, Rosie and her wife on the other, little Harry between them, and in pride of place in the center of the mantel stands a framed photo of Mrs. Hudson.

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[pompompurin1028]

Coffee

Summary: Working and spending time together with Kunikida in your home during the winter when you’re not feeling very motivated

Pairing: Kunikida x reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: None

A/N: Can also be seen as a companion fic to my Dazai comfort fic Hope. It's snowing outside today and just suddenly thought about and felt like writing Kunikida.  Experimenting a bit more with setting in this fic🤔. And I had @requiem626k​ in mind when I thought about this idea at first so it’s dedicated to her <3. I’m sorry if it turned out a little bit more angsty than intended... 

My Masterlist

There is an inexplainable sensation of serenity that embraces you as you watched the snow fall outside the window.  

Small bundles of white scatter from the skies, like rain, fluttering in all directions with the wind in a dance of its own. Blanketing everything in the vicinity with layers of white -- the ground, the trees, the buildings, it is like a quietness had enveloped over everything in sight, creating a silent, picturesque panorama. Dwelling in this sight, even though the more rational part of you knew it was impossible, as you watched the sight outside the window, it felt as if you could take a handful of it into the palms of your hands just if you had taken the step outside. But the thought that if you had spoken your thoughts out loud to your beloved, he would gently remind you that it is not feasible with a soft voice, you couldn’t help the smile from creeping up to your face. 

Breathing out a soft sigh, as you laid your head back against the couch taking your eyes away from the window, you closed your eyes shut for a moment to block out everything, attempting not to think about the amounts of work that you had planned to finish looming before you. Though working diligently and with the aid of Kunikida’s detailed schedules to ground and organize you did wonders in putting your heart at ease when you found yourself, at first, lost in the winds of uncertainty and jumbled up thoughts. But as it continued to drone on, part of you couldn’t help but feel an inevitable drain pulling at your energy and motivation, and though you did your best to not let it overtake you, with time, it only felt like a downward spiral, like a dread that all the hard work you did will go down the drain in a single moment of delving in such feelings. At times, you wondered how Kunikida managed to keep up with his schedules all the time, and the thought of it only made you admire him even more.

But knowing stressing out about it wouldn’t do much to help, taking in another breath, you instead willed yourself to stop the train of thoughts that found itself into your head. As the melody you had put on the speakers a few hours earlier entered your ears, a smile replaced the troubled expression on your face when the music calmed your nerves slightly. This together with the soft, steady crackling from the fireplace brought your focus back to your reality and your surroundings.

With your thoughts halted for a bit, you found yourself once again relaxing for a little, until you recognized the familiar clacking of a spoon against a glass mug moving closer towards you. When the rich aroma of coffee filled your senses, you couldn’t help yourself but perk up from your position knowing that Kunikida is back from the kitchen with the cups of hot drinks he made on the regular during early afternoon when the two of you stayed at home. Chuckling slightly at your drastically enthusiastic movements, you watched with a smile as he placed down the two mugs before you on the coffee table. 

If there was one thing you could be certain about in the very moment, despite how everything else seemed rather fluctuating, was that Kunikida always made the best coffee. Even if it felt as if he were too busied and focused with the work he had at hand, you knew he continued to noticed the needs and words of others. And being his lover, you were often surprised by how he remembers even some of the most mundane elements of your routine, and that includes how you like you coffee.

When he sat down beside you, comfortable silence between the two of you filled the room once again, filled only by the sounds of spoons stirring against the mugs, as the two of you sipped at the warm liquid. 

“How does it taste?” he questioned carefully, his green eyes almost glinting as he attempted to study your reaction when you sat your mug back down on the table with a satisfied sigh.

“Perfect as always, Kunikida.” You smiled at the blond man beside you before he seemingly relaxed slightly after your words. “One of these days, you got to teach me how you do it. Somehow it tastes much better than when I do it.” 

“Maybe one day,” he mused before he picked up his pen to write down something in his notebook. “When I have perfected the formula.” Shutting his notebook firmly, he settled it down on the table once again and took another sip from his mug with a serene look on his face, but if you looked closer you could scarcely see a flush of pink going across his cheek. 

Admiring this expression upon his face, you couldn’t help but soften at it, and hoping desperately for you mind to commit the scene before you to memory. Though with you alone around, it wasn’t too rare of a sight, but having spent and lingered for long enough at the agency, you knew that, more often than not, he was not able to maintain such a cool at work. But that thought alone only warmed your heart even more knowing that it was a rare sight that you were able to view.

“Still experimenting to find the best coffee beans, I see?” You inquired, laying back a bit into the comforts of the sofa once again, you tilted your head you survey his reactions.

Watching him attempting to study the mug of liquid rather intently for a moment before he finally placed it down and answered. “Something like that, yes.”

Chuckling at his reaction, you once again took the mug into your hands and cradled it gently. “Still, every cup that has been made from your hands have really been nothing less than one of the best I’ve had. I’m certain that you’ll figure it out in no time.”

Another smile crossed his lips at your words. Adjusting his glasses, his gaze turned towards the laptop sitting on the table once again before asking. “You ready to continue?” Then as if he caught the tired look in your eyes, he swiftly changed his question, and his tone softened. “Do you think you’re able to continue for a while more?”

When met with silence from your side, his worries only grew. Gingerly holding his hand out towards you then grasping it into his own, with the warmth of his hands surrounding your own, a wave of comfort fell over you. Glancing at your overlapping hands, before raising your gaze to meet his, you were met with a look of concern on his face which he attempted to mask with one of calm. You knew though Kunikida would have wanted desperately, especially when you are in such a state, to maintain his composure since him panicking would do no good, nor is it efficient in calming you down, but at the same time the state of your well-being has him deeply worried. 

“I wouldn’t want to mess up your schedule, nor the schedule that you so meticulously helped me plan out,” you finally spoke, your voice escaping you like a breath, barely audible. With that you let your head fall slightly as he held closer onto you as if he were trying to support you.

“And yet there are times, even when we have faithfully set all the guidelines for ourselves to follow, that we fail to meet them. When life and reality drives us up a corner no matter how hard we tried and how diligently we worked...” Kunikida spoke grimly, like he was reminiscing his own experiences from the past, like each word stung an open wound of his. In turn, squeezing his hand tightly in yours, you tried to ground him back to the present in return for how he usually does for you, and to remind him that he is no longer alone with his sentiments.

“But we keep going?” you asked with a softened voice awaiting his response. Having been his lover and have gotten to understand him, you knew that he was much more sensitive and vulnerable than he makes himself out to be. Wielding his ideals and schedules like a suit of armour to battle the harsh strikes from reality, but it can only last for so long before one finds themselves hurt in the battlefield. And that only adds to one of the reasons for your affections for him.

Nodding his head in agreement, he sighed almost silently. Finding his hand holding yours tighter than before, you once again squeezed his in return in the hopes that he can sense your silent support. “Sometimes we ought to change our plans in accordance with reality, because in the end,” he took a deep breath before he continued. “They are tools which we use to seek and chase a better version of ourselves day after day... Right?”

Humming in agreement, you gazed up at him once again, then found yourself finally settling closer to him, then gently bringing him into an embrace, both as a comfort for yourself and for him. “And how can we chase a better self in the future if we fail to take care of our current selves?”

“So, it’s perfectly alright to take the time to care for yourself, to rest up and rejuvinate your energy and motivations,” Kunikida mumbled into your embrace. “There’s nothing to be ashamed or guilty about.” he continued, his soothing voice made each words feel like it were coated with honey, sweet and comforting. “It is like making a good cup of coffee, you have to experiment, test with failure and different ingredients. At times there are unexpected bumps in the way, but you can always try again. Perhaps there is a long way until it can be perfected, but all we can do is sit down and take the time to review our formulas, take a break and rest your mind, before we can get up to try once again.”

“Kunikida.... thank you... for all of this.”

“Of course, Y/N, it’s the least I could do.”

Though there was still a long way to go before you could be done, both he and you knew this, yet for this moment wrapped in the warm embrace, you felt that you could not bring yourself to care. Even if the snowfall outside the windows chilled, or that the sunlight was slowly dimming outside. With the scent of coffee still lingering in the room, and his presence by your side, everything seemed just a little better.

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