#itsonlytext

[itsonlytext]

Quiet Days

It was so unlike Sherlock to follow the tide, to knuckle under, to allow such menial phrases such as ‘quiet days’ to slip out of his mouth. Defying those social standards and refusing to submit to them was what differentiated him from others, gave him his title, made John even look his way the first time that they met.

no warnings, just some complicated feelings and overall a very queer scene >1000 words.

(if it better suits you, here's the ao3 link to this one-shot.)

Sherlock had imagined it more than he was (ever) willing to admit:

The heat of their skin blending into sighs, the tugs, the way their names would roll off of each other’s tongues and melt onto their skin, sink into their core and erupt a blinding light - so hot and demanding that they wouldn’t care about the amenities of keeping each other hidden until night, so deliciously shameless that they would proudly bask in the afternoon sunlight until the heat of their bodies were indefinitely hotter than the sun itself.

He gazed at the sight in front of him - John, (Oh God, John.) ever so content in his patterned armchair, gazing at the bright screen of his laptop with tired eyes. It was a sight he was used to seeing whenever a quiet day doomed Baker Street and the detective would leave the front steps of his mind palace and open his eyes with an arduous sigh. John would always be there, always so calm, always sitting with his laptop open, feet (slightly) stretched out, arms (sometimes) crossed over his chest. Sherlock always wondered what he was looking at, reading, watching. Whatever it was, whatever was drawing John’s eyes away from him, he hated it.

Sherlock’s ears pricked with a thought.

Experiment: Record himself working - simply working over a case in the lab at St. Bart’s hospital for exactly ninety minutes and in silence. Then, write an entire dissertation about himself - anatomical habits, childhood events and/ trauma accompanying the result of an in-depth MRI of his own brain (something to elicit interest in the doctor if it hasn’t been drawn already). When John isn’t paying attention (eating, watching Jeremy Kyle, sleeping, on an unsuccessful date), he will upload the video and dissertation onto John’s laptop. That way, no matter if John has decided he will spend his quiet day on his laptop, he will still be focused on Sherlock - still looking, reading, watching - honouring him with the attention he wants. (Needs.)

Reminder: Make sure to inform Molly that he will, at some point, require a camera and the lab.

For now, Sherlock sat quietly the way he always did on quiet days.

He was sure that he never believed in quiet days. If he did, he hated them. Or he once hated them. Over time, as he allowed the quiet to hold him down, force him to stop moving and sink deep into his bones, Sherlock realised that perhaps he could allow them to pass every now and then without sparking a fuss whenever they did.

Quiet days, Sherlock thought to himself as John shuffled in his seat, his eyes still glued to his laptop (and not the detective), how pitiful they could be.

The term was planted by Mrs Hudson, who would climb up the stairs with a knowing smile and a tray of fresh tea as she whispered, ‘it’s awfully quiet today,’ or ‘today’s going to be nice and quiet, I can tell’. It was then germinated by John, who always agreed with her as he’d gratefully pick up a biscuit from her tray and reply, ‘yes, I think so, couldn’t come sooner,’ or ‘definitely a quiet day today, Mrs Hudson’.

Sherlock somehow watered it without wanting to - he always knuckled under John, even whilst simultaneously convincing himself it was the other way around. At some point (he didn’t know when), he had also started to refer to these days as ‘quiet days’.

It was so unlike Sherlock to follow the tide, to knuckle under, to allow such menial phrases such as ‘quiet days’ to slip out of his mouth. Defying those social standards and refusing to submit to them was what differentiated him from others, gave him his title, made John even look his way the first time that they met.

John (oh God, John).

When would he realise that he was being stared (gazed) at?

It was all Sherlock ever did on quiet days. It was all he knew to do, eventually morphing into instinct whenever quiet would bless Baker Street. He knew it was the result of conditioning, a simple failure on his part - to pair one with the other. John, quiet days. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore. (Perhaps not so much a failure.)

John hadn’t noticed the staring (admiring), not even as he took a sip of Mrs Hudson’s tea or a bite from an overly sweet biscuit.

Update ongoing experiment: Now the thirty-second instance that his staring (treasuring) has gone unnoticed by John. When would he realise? Sherlock suspects in due time, perhaps when the next quiet day comes. (False hope - another seed unconsciously watered due to John.)

The detective, having barely moved since the morning, tucked that ongoing experiment in the deep confines of his mind palace - now archived, dormant, always ticking.

He went back to adoring John (oh God, John).

John - a much simpler word, much easier to accept than the existence of a quiet day. Quiet day - two extra and redundant syllables, much more difficult to knuckle under. But without having tolerated its existence or going the full ridiculous length of three syllables, Sherlock never would have discovered John, he knew that.

John (oh God, John).

He wouldn’t mind letting that syllable slip out of his mouth every now and then.

“John.”

Sherlock savoured the way his head snapped up with a hum, so quick to respond to the deep, baritone voice that called him.

He cleared his throat and shuffled. “Yeah?”

“Quiet day,” Sherlock replied plainly, his eyes gazing at the desk and wandering over the tea and food Mrs Hudson had left for them that morning.

John watched him for a moment, a gentle smile tugging his lips as he watched the detective’s deeply contemplative face and wondered what he was thinking about.

[a-victorian-girl]

SH: Well, that was tedious. JW: You went on the Tube like that?! SH (irritated): None of the cabs would take me. (Source: Ariane DeVere)

Rebuilt frame by frame, like a puzzle :)

Thank you for reblogging!

@chocolate1elise  @whatnext2020 @happydistraction @snonkerdoodlefizzy221b @gaypiningshit @7-percent @zz-kennedy @discordantwords @nowiamcoveredinyou @221beloved @bluebellinbakerstreet @bluebellofbakerstreet @strawberrywinter4 @apazwtsn @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @totallysilvergirl @im-on-a-case @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @my-dear-sweet-melody @safedistancefrombeingsmart @elennemigo @helloliriels @colourfulwatson @blogstandbygo @sakshisahu @paulineholmes02 @ben-locked @ninasnakie @compact-and-beautiful @13monkton @curlyjohnlock @awh221b @bs2sjh @yan-yae @dmellieon @itsonlytext @immaculate-benediction-batch @astudyinvillains @peanitbear @dapetty @jolieblack @topsyturvy-turtely @theofficialinternetloner @aphroditesdilemma

(please tell me if you don't want to be tagged!)

[helloliriels]

Join me in raising a glass, to a fic that raised the bar ...

And the Award goes to ...

@arwamachine for Indefinite Lines

Nominated by @discordantwords and echoed by @the-reading-lemon for 'Author most likely to make me scream about those two idiots in every single chapter'.

Read the fic that has critics raving: "An Absolute MASTERPIECE!", "Had me completely enthralled from start to finish!", "A tour de force!", "Wrenching. Heartbreaking. Painful and Beautiful.", "Crafted so carefully!", "I'm a puddle of emotions 🫠", "One of the BEST johnlock fics ever!", "Earned it's place in the top 10 fics of all time!", "The Love Was There!"

To scream about those two loveable idiots more, as only Arwa can deliver! ... also check out Monsters in the Woods, Full Mount, and To Stand Before the Storm. All worthy of their own award consideration!

@chinike @johnlocky @rhasima @gregorovitch-adler @whatnext2020 @safedistancefrombeingsmart @chriscalledmesweetie @amyreadsandstresses @kittenmadnessandtea @khorazir @kettykika78 @totallysilvergirl @7-percent @sarahthecoat @bluebellofbakerstreet @john-smiths-jawline @a-victorian-girl @iwlyanmw @purplevatican @raina-at @weeesi @peanitbear @peageetibbs @kaursblog11 @calaisreno @meetinginsamarra @mutedsilence @sakshisahu @itsonlytext @bewitched-bullet @strawberrywinter4

[strawberrywinter4]

WIP - A Gentleman’s Shrine (A historical Johnlock AU)

Summary:

Sherlock Holmes has been taught that he has one purpose in life: to carry on the family legacy. “High society is dying,” his mother continuously informs him.

The Great War has recently ended, which has left London in a swivel of downfall and success.

Every year when his mother hosts the Noble Legacy Gala, Sherlock wishes he could fall into a rabbit hole and never come up, dreading the unnecessary and tedious event.

That is until he sees Captain John Watson attending the Gala, the most beautiful, dangerous, and interesting man he’s ever met.

Notes: This story is currently in the works and I can’t set a specific date when it will be released, but I hope soon! This is a historical AU taking place in London, about 1924, I’d say (the date may change), and requires a lot of research, so just know I’m trying my very best!! This story will be rated explicit.

Tags: @a-victorian-girl @whatnext2020 @totallysilvergirl @ninasnakie @thegildedbee @whodwantmeasaflatmate @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @sherlocknjohn221b @jawnn-watson @blogstandbygo @lisbeth-kk @holmesianlove @7-percent @itsonlytext @chinike @peanitbear @mary-johnlocked @bakerstreetbe @curlyjohnlock @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @ceceliajupe @ghostofnuggetspast @dw91165 @jolieblack @gwendelaneyisjohnlocked

[itsonlytext]

Innate Destructibility

He knew that if he wanted this (them) to work, he was going to have to stop squirming in his own words.

content and warnings: sexual thoughts, brief mentions of drug use and overall a rather (unspoken) angsty scene >1000 words. john struggles to communicate, sherlock struggles to understand.

(if it better suits you, here's the ao3 link to this one-shot.)

John (oh God, John).

He tried to hide the fumbling in his hands as he clumsily wandered over the planes of this warm, inviting body, but he couldn't. He knew that John had figured it out by now. (He must've.)

He had, of course, done it in the past (experiments, drunken teenage accidents, Janine). But he had never done it with John before - a man. (The man.) And no matter how hard he tried to force the trembling in his slender fingers to dissolve with every heated kiss, to push down the shaking in the sighs that escaped his lips, he knew he couldn't have hidden it. John always knew. He must've. (He sees everything.)

"Sherlock," he sighed out with a gentle laugh, pulling away and staring up at him earnestly.

Sherlock ignored the way his heart was beating faster than he had ever felt it before (heroine, 29 mg cigarettes, murders, they didn't compare anymore - they never will). He ignored the way his curly hair fell slightly into his line of sight (John) and blew out the breaths trapped in his lungs.

John rested a hand on his (left) shoulder, his hand hot to the touch, leaning his back flat against the wall. He seemed to struggle to find his words (it was unlike him, Sherlock thought. John always knew what to say). "I- You.." he huffed.

Oh. Flushed cheeks, heavy chest, nostrils slightly flared - he was catching his breath. (How didn't he deduce that?)

Sherlock kept his lips pursed the way he usually did when John spoke (too scared to ruin it with his innate destructibility).

"You know that you don't.. we don't. We don't have to do that.. right now," he shook his head, running his hand over his mouth and looking firmly into Sherlock's eyes. "This.. is good. This is really good, we don't have to do anything else yet."

Sherlock didn't understand. (Never understood anything.)

He didn't reply. Didn't he want this? Surely those four torturous years of waiting, hurting, miscommunications and implications had been enough to calcify their current intentions. (Clearly not.)

John pursed his lips and moved his hand from Sherlock's shoulder to the nape of his neck. "Come here," he pulled him into a confident, firm kiss.

It was only (upsettingly) brief.

John knew he was confusing (losing) Sherlock with every obscure and choked out sentence, slowly pulling the rod back to shore with the bait still lamely dangling on the hook. He knew that if he wanted this (them) to work, he was going to have to stop squirming in his own words - an underlying disease that made all his bait look so incredibly unattractive.

"We can.. We can always--"

"John? Is that you in there?"

Mrs Hudson's wandering voice fell close to the (closed) bedroom door. "John?" her voice tilted like she was on the precipice of laughter.

Sherlock could see her scrunched up nose and smile in his mind. Her interruption was a good thing, he knew. No matter what John was about to say, he wouldn't have been able to understand it anyway (he never did, he never did).

"What are you doing in there?"

John dipped his head frustratedly and lowered his voice. "She's going to have a field day with this," he muttered.

A small smirk tugged at Sherlock's lips as he graciously stepped back and allowed John a bubble of fresh air from the wall he had been previously pinned to. He gestured to the door. "You might as well."

"What?"

"Well she's already heard you."

"Oh!" her voice had gotten louder, as if she had somehow managed to lean even further into the door. "Is Sherlock in there with you?"

The detective suddenly opened the door. "It is my room, Mrs Hudson," he replied plainly.

John didn't seem too pleased with his answer. Sherlock couldn't precisely tell why, but the face he made twisted his stomach into unfathomable discomfort.

"Yeah, no, Mrs Hudson, we were just.. Talking."

(Innate destructibility - a virus that attacked more than just his speech. His actions, his mind, him.)

She grinned.

"Yes, erm." Sherlock watched John uncomfortably rub the nape of his neck as he stepped closer to their landlady with flushed cheeks.

Oh. He was embarrassed.

"Did you need me?"

Her eyes wandered over him knowingly before nodding. "There's a delivery out for you."

"Right, er, thanks.." he glanced at Sherlock with another ambiguous gaze - nothing that promised, 'we'll talk about this later', or 'i'm sorry, maybe when we're alone'. His facial features provided no form of context that Sherlock understood. (Why couldn't John ever finish the sentences that mattered? Relieve him of this unadulterated agony?)

Sherlock watched him follow Mrs Hudson out of the bedroom without a second glance.

John (oh God, John).

tags: @nathan-no @helloliriels @dragonnan @strawberrywinter4 @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @7-percent @totallysilvergirl @inevitably-johnlocked @meetinginsamarra @a-victorian-girl

[itsonlytext]

Restoring Balance · scene ii

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

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

(read this chapter on ao3.)

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

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

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

“Apple.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sherlock picked her up without hesitation.

"What do we do now?" he whispered.

She yanked on his hair.

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

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

"You alright?"

His head snapped up.

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

"What?" he asked.

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

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

"Dada."

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

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

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

John tilted his head. "You.."

-seemed incapable?

-looked out of place?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reply.

"Don't see why not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, put a muzzle on her?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

He knew what. John's plan had failed.

"What.. What has got into you?"

Sherlock turned to look at him.

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

But Sherlock didn't say that.

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

But that didn't happen.

None of it did.

"No idea what you're talking about."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John perked up.

There was another beat.

Sherlock glanced at his friend.

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

"Yeah."

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

She giggled.

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

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

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

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

[itsonlytext]

Restoring Balance · scene i

He had already made up in his mind that he was going to sink in the silence alone today and yet there John was, texting him at 5am asking if he and Rosie could visit.

(read this chapter on ao3.)

sherlock discovers that although things will never be the same, it doesn't mean that it will always be necessarily bad. there aren't any warnings today - this is post season four, so feelings are (obviously) a tentative topic but there isn't anything upsetting ≈ 1500 words. also, we get a bit of rosie fluff. i love rosie. and fluff. and rosie fluff and mainly fluff and rosie with a bit of fluff but also rosie fluff the most

The weeks following Eurus' discovery were silent.

Of course, not literally - the builders that Mycroft sent to restore 221B after the explosion were incredibly loud and invasive. (Invasive about what? Nothing sentimental even survived. They were just doing their jobs. Sherlock eventually realised that he simply didn't like their presence every day from 3-6pm.)

But after they finished, after there was nothing left to be restored or repainted, Sherlock couldn't do anything but hover around the living room in the silence.

With a quick gaze over the room, it looked exactly the same as it did before the explosion, Mycroft's men had done well to ensure that. However for Sherlock, he couldn't help but notice how off-key the new wallpaper was, how the spray painted smiley face was neater than before and how the new desk by the window was an inch taller than the old one. He lived there - of course he was bound to notice. (He was himself - of course he was bound to notice.)

The detective stumbled out of bed and into the (unfamiliar) living room with a sigh. He didn't bother changing out of his pyjamas, for he had already decided that he wasn't going to do anything (or see anyone) at all today.

Another silent day - that was his resolve.

Early morning sun streamed down through the windows and straight into his eyes. It was earlier than usual, Mrs Hudson was yet to bring up his morning tea. Besides, he didn't want it; there was a persistent pit in his stomach that wouldn't let him sleep. (He wouldn't have been able to keep the tea down anyway.)

He made a point not to look at the walls or the smiley face or the desk that was too tall as he sat down in his armchair and pulled out his phone. He had two new messages.

Can We Come Over Today? Rosie's Been Asking For You.

Hope It's Not Too Early.

It was sent two hours ago. John often used to wake up early (a habit sustained as a result of the army) but recently, after his daughter was born, had somehow managed to wake up even earlier.

Sherlock's fingers hovered over the keyboard. The silence rang in his ears (he never got used to it, not really). He had already made up in his mind that he was going to sink in the silence alone today and yet there John was, texting him at 5am asking if he and Rosie could visit.

He blew out a gentle breath.

Sure. SH

John responded immediately.

Thanks. We'll Be There In Fifteen

He was probably struggling to entertain his daughter's early morning excitement any longer, waiting for a reply back, another shoulder to lean on. Sherlock suddenly felt bad for not seeing the messages sooner. His stomach churned.

He let his phone drop down and onto the leather of his chair. He glanced around. Tried not to let his gaze linger on anything for too long. There was an awful tightness in his chest whenever he breathed, as if his lungs didn't want him to. He needed a cigarette. Probably shouldn't. Not if Rosie's on the way. (Damn it.)

For now, he'll have to settle with just tea and hope it'll stay down.

John was (unsurprisingly) right - fifteen minutes of sinking deeper into his chair trying not to look at anything and there was a knock at the door.

A nest of blonde curls toddled into the detective's arms before he could stand up. He lifted her up and ignored the way she eagerly tugged on his hair with a remarkable grip.

“Watson,” he greeted calmly.

“Yeah,” she grinned, pulling on his curls and bringing his head down with it. He winced.

“Let’s not do that,” Sherlock said as he gently pried her tiny fingers away from his hair.

"She's doing that to me, too," John began. Sherlock glanced up, suddenly aware of his voice, his presence. He was lingering by the door with heavy eyes and a large baby bag over his shoulder. He pointed to his greying hair. "I think I've got a bald spot here now."

"You've always had that."

"Oh, thanks," he replied lightly, dumping the bag by the door and walking in. "You're erm. Up early."

Sherlock didn't reply, instead he turned his gaze to the toddler. She gazed back at him with an illiterate babble. Her stare was so firm yet so playful. (So John yet so Mary.)

“Any cases?” John carried on, fluffing up a pillow with a fist before falling into his armchair with a sigh.

For a moment, as he asked about cases and fell into his armchair, it was like time hadn’t irreparably cracked and bruised their friendship. But Sherlock knew that wasn’t true. Of course it wasn’t - the bags under John’s eyes and the silver colonising his blond roots ensured that it wouldn’t be the same again.

It made the pit in Sherlock’s stomach sink even deeper and he didn’t know that was possible. (He wasn’t sure it would ever go away.)

“Haven’t checked.”

“Greg hasn’t called for anything?”

“Who?”

“Sherlock.”

The corner of his lips tugged. “No. Mycroft called yesterday though. Something about a political domestic.”

He tilted his head. “And I’m assuming you turned it down.”

Sherlock smiled. Then suddenly, he winced.

“Rosie!”

“G’na pull it…”

“No!” John huffed, reaching forward and holding out his arms. “You don’t pull on people’s hair. It hurts.”

She grunted angrily, burying herself into Sherlock’s neck so that her dad couldn’t take her. “It’s alright,” the detective replied calmly, splaying out a large hand on her back and trying to ignore the piercing headache forming at the nape of his neck. He stood up with her and faced the mantle. “Let’s do something different.”

John watched as Sherlock fed her curiosity by providing context for all the memorabilia that had accumulated over the years at 221B. She (obviously) didn’t understand anything and she (definitely) didn’t care about the context other than they were all great to shove into her mouth, but it kept her from creating pools of bald spots in anyone’s scalps and for that the men were grateful.

John knew that their spontaneous visits were good for Sherlock - that he needed Rosie’s livelihood and John’s tiredness to feel needed enough so that he wouldn’t drown in his own mind. He also knew that Sherlock wouldn't ever realise that for himself.

“Oh, and that’s a pinned vampire bat. Not sure where from. Mexico, at a guess.”

“ ‘nd dat one,” the little girl grabbed a tiny metal object with sparkling eyes.

“That’s just the gun token from Cluedo.”

So instead of saying it, John just carried on keeping the visits spontaneous. (He figured that some things were better left unsaid. Or maybe one day Mrs Hudson will say it out loud and make the detective realise.)

“I bought some breakfast on the way,” he said suddenly. “Figured you haven’t eaten yet.”

Sherlock shifted his body slightly to face him. “Didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well.” He stood up. “Let me take her, you eat.”

“It’s alright.”

“You’re not on a case, Sherlock, you’ve no excuse not to eat.”

“Not hungry.”

“That’s a lie.”

He glanced down at Rosie as he reluctantly handed her over to John. “Your father’s a tyrant.”

“I try,” he replied with an exaggerated grin, taking his daughter into his arms.

Sherlock strode over to the paper bag and pulled out the food. Cafe pastries, a sandwich. Nothing he could stomach yet. (The Danish looked good though. He was going to save that for later.)

He glanced back. John had sat down on the carpet with Rosie in front of him, playing with the skull and the tiny gun from Cluedo.

He knew very well that John could currently be in the comfort of his own home instead; he’d have a wider variety of toys for Rosie, (proper) baby food, their beds. John only did it for Sherlock’s benefit, not his own. But Sherlock didn’t say anything because he couldn’t deny that their presence probably was, on balance, better for his lungs than a three-month-old secret stash of Marlboro reds. (Damn it.)

He glanced back at the bag and pulled out the Danish pastry anyway, hoping that it would make his stomach feel better and not worse. He took a bite.

There was a knock at the door and Mrs Hudson used her elbow to push it open. She was carrying a tray of fresh food from the cafe and his tea.

“Too late,” Sherlock muttered between a bite, lifting the Danish pastry to show her.

“Oh, John,” the old lady ignored him, setting the tray down in the kitchen. “I didn’t know you two were coming.”

“Neither did we, really,” he smiled politely, ignoring the way Rosie climbed his frame and started to reach for his hair. “Well. Not until half an hour ago.”

“If I had known, I’d have gotten those cakes for the little one, the one she likes,” she gestured lovingly with her hands.

“She’ll like anything with sugar.”

As they conversed, Sherlock glanced at his watch. She was fourteen minutes late.

Mrs Hudson was never late to float upstairs with his cup of morning tea, she lived by that strict schedule for years; wake up, dress, make breakfast, eat, tidy her kitchen, make Sherlock's tea, carry said tea upstairs, tidy 221B and then open the cafe. She was the only subtle reminder that Sherlock wasn’t completely alone in the silence when he’d wake up at 8am to find a freshly steaming cup in the living room.

But after the explosion, things had been different - her (right) hip had gotten worse, her limbs more fragile in their venture up the stairs. She was, unfortunately, getting older. As a result, Mrs Hudson had been getting to him later. It wasn’t her fault, he knew that. (But it still troubled his stomach.)

Sherlock blew out a breath and shook the sleeve of his robe down to cover his watch. Suddenly, the Danish pastry in his mouth didn’t seem as appealing anymore.

this ended up being way longer than i thought/wanted/hoped, so i’ve split it in two. next one will be coming up soon. thanks folks!

let me know if you’d like to be/no longer be tagged.

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

[itsonlytext]

'must a cup of tea be such an arduous request?'

slightly (and a bit obsessively) in love with bbc sherlock.

i gladly take all types of requests regarding him - whether it's x Y/N, john & canon characters, an OC, if we're going for a dadlock vibe, childlock, some fluff, angst or a little bit more (winky face) - i'm always ready. oh, and i'm on ao3, too, if that sort of thing suits you better.

let me know if you would liked to be tagged in anything specific. i will, of course, appropriately use content warnings for certain triggers or 18+ topics.

just be kind and remember that there is no queerbaiting in this house.

a (progressive) list of my works:

quiet days - in where sherlock begins to look forward to quiet days as opposed to resenting them.

the circle of life - john moves out and sherlock struggles to cope.

lost at sea - sherlock x femOC, just some sour talk, really.

innate destructibility - john struggles to communicate, sherlock struggles to understand.

sacrificial investment - sherlock tries to come up with ways to make john stay.

restoring balance - post season four, sherlock learns to let go of how things used to be at baker street. see part two here.

[itsonlytext]

The Circle of Life

Time always insisted on having an incredibly toxic relationship with Sherlock - he was never sure if the day would pass him by without realising or force him to feel each gritty atom, one by one, until yesterday would come to feel like a year ago. Today was most certainly one of time’s most toxic and unforgiving days.

content and warnings: angst, ideations of sh and mentions of drug use. nothing explicit, hopeful ending. pretty much no fluff. ≈ 1500 words. john moves out with mary and sherlock can't seem to cope.

(if it better suits you, here's the ao3 link to this one-shot.)

At first, she thought he had relapsed.

It was an ordinary afternoon; Mrs Hudson had just come back from visiting John and Mary and was about to start her shift at Speedy’s. Before she got ready, she clambered up the stairs of 221B, carefully preparing the scolding she had in store for Sherlock, for he had (rather rudely) declined to accompany her to visit their friends. Of course Mrs Hudson knew that, no matter how much he tried to bury it, Sherlock was still struggling to accept that John had indefinitely left Baker Street.

But that didn’t mean she deserved the winds of his door slam.

She peered into the living room with a peep, fiddling with her fingers and walking in when there wasn’t a response. It was empty. She rolled her eyes. The poor boy’s probably still being a lump after his tantrum, she thought to herself.

It wasn’t anything unlike Sherlock to feel everything so deeply - to take full responsibility and pride in his successes and simultaneously bear the entire weight of his failures, even if it flattened him to a single atom. Knowing this is what led Mrs Hudson to knock gently on his bedroom door. (Perhaps she could help lift some of the weight.)

“Sherlock?”

It was silent.

“Mrs Hudson?”

She could hear the deep, muffled crackle of his voice slipping under the bathroom door. She quickly leaned in. “Sherlock, are you alright?”

Mrs Hudson knew something wasn’t right when he didn’t reply, instead hastily shuffling around, the sharp shudder of plastic and pained grunts echoing throughout the bathroom.

She took pride in her knowledge - the way she understood Sherlock better than his own blood, read his boundaries silently, knowing exactly what he needed and when. But right now, as he swung the door open and almost caused her to topple over, Mrs Hudson couldn’t read the detective’s sunken face at all. (She could of course feel the dark, heavy atmosphere that emanated from him, but that always remained an unspoken chronic emotion, a constant variable in any of her deductions of Sherlock.)

The last time she had seen him like this was years before they met John, years before he became Sherlock. The last time she had seen him like this was when she would sympathise over the constant itch in his arm, the shaking and the pain.

“Fine,” he replied curtly, his tone more annoyed than even he had expected it to be, pushing past her and into the living room.

Before following him, Mrs Hudson glanced past the bathroom door with a concerned frown. If she had learnt anything from her previous life, it was that scents were the most important thing to rely on - it had saved her life. But she couldn’t smell anything that brought her back to her past life (or in this instance, Sherlock’s). Mrs Hudson couldn’t catch the foetid stench that used to burn her nostrils and choke her insides.

“Sherlock, you’re not still upset, are you?” she asked halfheartedly, ignoring the way he didn’t bother to pull his robe over his shoulders fully and curled into his armchair. She didn’t give him any time to answer. “I’ll make you a nice cuppa, that’ll make you feel better.”

Mrs Hudson quickly rushed down the stairs, ignoring the fact that she had originally come up to 221B with the intention of scolding the man, yet now she was leaving to find ways to make him feel better.

Should she call Mycroft? She grimaced at the thought. (God, she hated that man.)

John might help, though he is the reason the poor man is nothing but a heap of pity upstairs, Mrs Hudson thought to herself.

Perhaps she would just make a cup of tea. Mrs Hudson was beginning to think that was all she was good for.

•

He didn’t know how long it had been since Mrs Hudson’s voice faded out of the living room. He didn’t care. (Couldn’t.)

He shifted uncomfortably in his armchair, hoping that her wilful eyes hadn’t caught the back of his shirt when he walked in. With every quiver of his pulse beating against his skin, every laborious release of carbon dioxide from his cracked lips, Sherlock could feel the sharp stinging spread across the planes of his back and shoulders like a wildfire. He knew he should have gone back to the bathroom the moment Mrs Hudson disappeared, but he couldn’t. Not even the blood blossoming onto his shirt like the petals of a rose, the heat clinging to his skin or the pain could make him move even if he wanted to.

Sherlock knew that he would have to get up eventually - of course he would, if he worried Mrs Hudson anymore she would most certainly call his brother or, even worse, John (oh God, John).

Of course he would get up. (He always did.)

His resolve was this: he will have sat up by the time Mrs Hudson was back with his tea, clear her suspicions of his pain entirely (scapegoat onto the lack of any recent excitement) and once she leaves, completely content, he will hide in the bathroom again - wipe away the dried blood on his back and then try to find his secret stash of (29 mg) cigarettes to nullify the pain he had caused himself. He hadn’t looked for them in months. (He will come to discover that someone had found and discarded the last of them).

He wondered how long he had before Mrs Hudson reappeared.

Time always insisted on having an incredibly toxic relationship with Sherlock - he was never sure if the day would pass him by without realising or force him to feel each gritty atom, one by one, until yesterday would come to feel like a year ago. Today was most certainly one of time’s most toxic and unforgiving days. Sherlock couldn’t remember the blur between the day before and the present, how long he had spent surviving each molecule of light on the tiles of his bathroom floor, trying to muffle the pain, trying to ignore the fact that he could feel every bone in his body shake when Mrs Hudson came knocking on the door.

If he didn’t have Mrs Hudson, if he lived alone, Sherlock was sure that he’d have still been on that bathroom floor right now, the shard gripped tightly around his fist until his shaking limbs were uncontrollable, until the white tiles were (indefinitely) stained. Did he want that? He wasn’t sure. Should he curse Mrs Hudson’s presence or be grateful for it? He wasn’t sure. (To be, or not to be? He wasn’t sure.)

How will he bring himself to sit up by the time Mrs Hudson is back?

Sherlock was sure that, if he were here, John would have forced him into submission - holding him under the spotlight and demanding he say what was wrong, forcing him still until he could put out the spreading fire on his back before it could reach his arms.

But John wasn’t here. The fire was spreading. (It was too late.)

John (oh God, John) - the Doctor, the Roommate, the Blogger, the Husband.

It was the circle of life - the fire will be put out, they will wander across the body of land and sympathise for all the lives lost in the heat, but they will eventually clear the remnants of what once was and start again - life will come back again. (John was supposed to come back again.)

How would he convince Mrs Hudson that there was nothing wrong when she walked in with the tea?

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and pursed his lips uncomfortably. From where he lay curled up in his chair, his arms were tucked beneath him and wrapped around his chest like an iron lung, forcing his fingertips to recognise the irregular heartbeat and force it into submission the way John would have. (Should have.)

How would he wipe away the dried blood on his back and shoulders without John’s help?

It was the circle of life - Sherlock will die, Mrs Hudson will enter 221B with a tray of fresh tea and find his still body, she will call his friends and they will all sympathise over how tragic his life had been, but they will eventually tuck him deep into the earth and start again - life will come back again. (John will never come back, not really. Not now that he’s got Mary.)

How would he find the cigarettes after months of keeping them hidden?

Sherlock grit his teeth even though the stinging on his back calmed down as the blood dried. Time was doing an evil thing, he knew, Mrs Hudson never usually took this long to make tea. Time was suffocating him in the silence, forcing him to foresee what he shouldn’t be able to.

What will he do if he never finds the cigarettes?

As the air around him became thin and forgiving, Sherlock released the grip on his chest with a sigh and breathed in. Mrs Hudson has finished making her tea. 

Time was wrong, it will pass. (That’s all it ever does.)

He closed his eyes at the sensation of dried blood stretching over his back as he lifted himself slightly. Mrs Hudson has placed a single teacup and saucer on a tray. Sherlock ignored the dull pain just because he could. Mrs Hudson has carefully climbed the staircase with the tray of tea gripped in her hands. Sherlock sat up straight and lifted the fallen sleeve of his robe over his shoulder.

Mrs Hudson knocked on the door and walked in with the tea.

And Sherlock will begin.

tags: @a-victorian-girl @dragonnan @nathan-no @helloliriels @strawberrywinter4 @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @7-percent @totallysilvergirl

[itsonlytext]

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

(i’ve created an ao3 account.)

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

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

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

fanks!

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

[itsonlytext]

Sacrificial Investment

If sawing off his own leg, midday, on the bathroom floor wasn't enough, what would be?

content and warnings: ≈ 1550 words. a bit of gruesomeness, angst and some strange yearning - nothing too unalike myself, really.

(if it better suits you, here's the ao3 link to this one-shot.)

Whenever they were on a particularly complex case, amidst the obscurity of the criminal mind and the police's incompetence, there was a strange hour between the afternoon and evening - John would begin to get tired of searching for clues (that were probably never even there), Mrs Hudson would bring up a tray of left overs from the cafe (knowing that they wouldn't have had dinner otherwise) and Sherlock would settle into his armchair with a manilla file in his hands (he has already looked through it thrice).

Baker Street would fall quiet within a blink, John would fall asleep in his armchair, Mrs Hudson would fall victim to their untouched teas and Sherlock would fall into the depths of his mind palace.

But tonight, the detective couldn't focus.

He opened his eyes frustratingly and let his hands fall from the steeple under his chin. He glanced around. (How long had he been in his mind palace?)

The fire was still burning a ferocious heat that sent shivers down his legs and John was still asleep in his armchair with nothing but his fist to hold up his head as a picture of the victim slipped off his lap and onto the carpet with a flutter.

Sherlock mustn't have been away for long, he knew, because usually, after about an hour or so, John would wake up with a grunt, rub his eyes and stand up clumsily. He would gather all the evidence together into a neat pile before shaking the detective out of his mind palace and whisper, 'going back to Sarah's now mate. She's missed called me about forty times. Let me know if you get anywhere with.. this'. Then, he would leave. Leave Sherlock alone with the remnants of a (frustratingly cold) case and the dying fire.

But John hadn't done that yet so he mustn't have been away for longer than thirty minutes.

John (oh God, John).

Sometimes Sherlock would watch the doctor's calm face, notice every gentle twitch and sigh as he fought off (and eventually succumbed to) sleep.

Sometimes, before John even had the chance to wake up after an hour, Sherlock wanted to lift John into his arms and tuck him under the covers of his own bed (and not Sarah's).

Sometimes he wondered how John would react if he ever gave him his own bed instead of letting him lay down in an undeserving woman's bed.

It could go either one of two ways: John will stay asleep - so familiar and content with the idea of being in Sherlock's arms that he will happily rest his head against the pillow and allow the warmth of their bodies to carry them into the morning where he will leave in a hurry (he'd be late for a shift at the GP). Or, John will wake up to the unfamiliar comfort, convince Sherlock that it was fine and leave without another word.

Conclusion: whichever path John chooses to take, he would always leave.

The detective sighed under his breath, feeling the fire numb his skin with warmth. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the way his shirt creased under his duress and trousers scratched against his legs.

He glanced down.

Sometimes Sherlock considered cutting his own leg off.

On the quiet days that would fall upon Baker Street like a blanket of warmth, he sometimes wondered what he would use to do it; hydrofluoric acid, a gun, a machete (he'd have to ask around for one of those) or a simple kitchen knife. Maybe he'd use all four at once.

Either way, he would definitely choose to sacrifice his left leg - he favoured the right one more. (John was left-handed - they would be perfectly fitting puzzle pieces.)

John (oh God, John).

As Sherlock shifted in his armchair, crossing his (left) leg over the other, he realised that he would probably miss his limbs if he cut them off. But it was (undoubtedly) worth it.

John shuffled uncomfortably in his armchair with a gentle sigh, his eyes still glued shut with the loss of consciousness.

Sherlock watched. Yes. Anything was worth it if it meant he'd have John.

He could imagine it now: the blogger rushing into the {bathroom/kitchen} to find Sherlock in a pool of his own blood and a {bottle of hydrofluoric acid/a gun/machete/kitchen knife} in his hands. The doctor hurrying to stop the flow of blood that spurts from his thighs (Sherlock will push him away). The long limb, detached from the knees, lamely rushed to be preserved (it will be too late).

'What the hell were you doing?!' John will exclaim after having phoned an ambulance.

'Investing,' he will reply plainly.

The fire suddenly crackled as it began to die, pulling Sherlock away from his thoughts. He watched the flames dance in flimsy flickers of shadows and heat. Amputation by fire would be rather excruciating, he thought to himself.

Of course, Sherlock would have to endure endless sessions of physical therapy, months of disabling pain and the adjustment to having just one leg, but he would also have John.

John would never leave his side. (He wouldn't trust anyone else to care for Sherlock.) He wouldn't leave ever again.

He will be there to remind him that 'everything will be alright', to help tuck him into bed and take him to the hospital for check ups. He will stay with him during the night and play doctor, forcing him to eat and take his pain medication on time, tell him that 'just because things are different, it doesn't mean you can just give up. You're Sherlock bloody Holmes, for God's sake'.

John will mistake his indifference to the entire ordeal for denial and suggest a therapist. Sherlock will refuse. (It won't be denial or grief at all - it will be acceptance.)

The doctor shuffled again - his position in the armchair was growing more uncomfortable (why couldn't Sherlock just do it? Lift him up with ease and push him into the warmth of his bed?) - he was going to wake soon. (Going to leave.)

Without a leg, there will also be more quiet days than usual - no more physical cases, no thrill of the chase, only the bright screen of a client's email and a few pictures to help move his days along. Sherlock will have to accept the sacrifice of adrenaline for the selfishness of attention - an investment indeed. (But what if John doesn't stay anyway?)

If sawing off his own leg, midday, on the bathroom floor wasn't enough, what would be? (His left leg, too? Perhaps throw an arm in there just to be safe.)

"Sherlock?"

His head snapped up. (When did he wake up? How did he not notice?) "Hm?"

"Look, I.." he grumbled, tiredly pulling out his phone with a wince. "Jesus, I'm going to.. you know. Sarah."

Sherlock didn't believe John was ever capable of leaving him to heal alone - he had, in the past, given up dates with women to ensure Sherlock's safety, satisfy his boredom, save his life. If anything, he thought, John would listen to why Sherlock had to sacrifice his leg and would be honoured - so flattered that he would sacrifice his own left leg (Sherlock was right-handed) in an attempt to wordlessly reciprocate his love.

"Right," he replied gently, his voice deep and crackling like the fire, watching as John picked up the photo of the victim from the carpet and piled it on top of the rest with a yawn. He pulled on his jacket.

They would live in 221B forever - the loss of their limbs only rekindled by the warmth of their love. John would stop any and all future relationships with his girlfriends (they wouldn't be able to understand) and then he would accept Sherlock's help into bed before reciprocating. They wouldn't ever have to leave the flat so it didn't matter that there were only two flights of stairs between them and the rest of the (incredibly undeserving) world.

Sherlock would never have to watch John leave ever again.

"You erm.." he began to walk towards the door, briefly glancing at the detective with a nod. "Text me if you.. You know. Find anything new. A lead."

"Mm."

"Oh, Sherlock," he turned around with a stern point.

The detective perked up at the sudden consciousness in John's voice, as if he hadn't just woken from a nap.

Perhaps this was it - he had somehow manifested his thoughts into a strange truth - perhaps John changed his mind, too tired to climb down the stairs and far too tired to call for a cab. (Perhaps he was here to stay.) "Yes?"

"Try and get some sleep, will you?"

Oh.

Sherlock gazed at John hovering by the doorway, waiting for an answer despite his exhaustion. He nodded so slightly that no one else would have caught it (not even Mrs Hudson) and watched John leave the flat.

It was silent.

He glanced down at his (left) leg. Still there. (Of course it was.)

Sherlock knew that he had an undying addiction to overthinking, so far past an overdose with a drug that plagued his reality as he knew it. Comfort, sacrifices, investments - nothing but the products of his brain. He must stop. (He must, before he accidentally sacrifices his heart, too.)

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

[itsonlytext]

Lost At Sea

He knew exactly on what nights to wait by the window and what nights to just turn to sleep - all entirely dependent on what her mood was like that day. Tonight, Sherlock will find himself waiting.

content and warnings: sherlock x OC, nothing too explicit just sexual talk, really. i'm trying something new, if it goes well, i will further explore this stuff! 18+ >1000 words.

(if it better suits you, here's the ao3 link to this one-shot.)

In the time spent between their first kiss and the first ever 'I love you' that slipped out of Ophelia's mouth on Christmas Eve, their relationship wobbled on two feet.

John would often leave 221B for days at a time to 'explore' with his new girlfriends or to celebrate, as Sherlock put it, extremely menial and embarrassingly dull romantic holidays. On those days, Ophelia would pack a small bag, cross the road and spend those days with Sherlock. They kept each other sparklingly electric with the frills of suggestion and intellectual intimacies.

But while she still had her flat, their relationship balanced on being (shamelessly) physical.

Late at night, when John and Mrs Hudson were surely asleep at such an ungodly hour, Sherlock would stay awake. He would sit at the desk by the window in the dark living room simply waiting. He would sit so still that the cold night air struggled to differentiate between him and the furniture, so indifferent to the loss of time that he would sometimes go hours without realising. He knew exactly on what nights to wait by the window and what nights to just turn to sleep - all entirely dependent on what her mood was like that day. Tonight, Sherlock will find himself waiting.

With a flicker, behind the translucent curtains adorning Ophelia's living room, the lights would turn on. That simple gesture was Sherlock's invitation, as if she were a lighthouse and he was lost at sea.

He would blindly leave 221B and cross the silent road, only the gravel under his feet reminding him that he was (regrettably) still human, still affected by the bitter winds that pinched his cheeks and nipped at his nose. Sherlock would climb the stairs of her flat and into her apartment, door unlocked, as always, waiting for him - as if the time he would spend unlocking it was time wasted, time they could be spending with each other instead.

Sometimes she'd be in the living room with a smile, others she'd already be under the covers, waiting for him patiently.

"I have to admit, I wasn't sure I'd see you tonight..."

She stepped forwards with a soft frown, feeling the cushion of carpet beneath her feet. Even in the darkness of her bedroom that enveloped their bodies as they stood at the feet of the bed, Ophelia could see the concern on Sherlock's face. "Why not?"

"You were quite upset."

Earlier that day, Ophelia had walked into the hospital for a shift to find that the head of the Pathology Unit had taken away her lab and moved her into someone else's without telling her. She was livid. (Mainly because that meant Sherlock couldn't freely walk in whenever he wanted, but she didn't say that bit.)

"I suppose there's only so much I can do in a lab by myself," she sighed gently. "Besides, I made a promise."

"One that you don't have to keep."

"Why not?"

He frowned, gesturing to himself in the darkness. "It's me, I would understand."

Ophelia giggled, reaching up and hanging her arms around his neck. He ignored the way his skin tingled the moment she made contact with him - another sign that he was (regrettably) still human. "I want to," she replied, his reaction to her touch going unnoticed. "Besides, isn't sex good for this sort of stuff?"

"What?" he asked quietly, pushing away a lock of hair from her face.

"Increasing mood levels and all that..."

"Not only that," Sherlock replied more confidently. He lifted her off the floor with a grip on her thighs and pressed his lips against hers in a hum.

Ophelia immediately began to straddle him with a small, soft squeal. He gradually walked her around the room before pressing her against the wall for a moment and looking deeply into her eyes. He couldn't exactly see the green in the dark, only the way the excitement bubbled up in her eyes with every growing second. Sherlock repressed the urge to falter, to dip his head and mutter her name. He was most definitely human. (Damn it.)

He took a deep breath and adjusted his grip on her thighs.

"Intercourse comes with.. Benefits." He sat down on the edge of the bed and let her rock him into a deliciously slow rhythm.

"Like what?"

She knew what - she was a doctor, and Sherlock knew that too. (A simple, yet expected human failure - the urge to rely on another's actions or words for pleasure.) Ophelia's human-ness must have spread to him through their (delectably satiating) kisses, because although they knew these basic facts like the back of their hands, Sherlock repressed a sardonic remark and answered her instead.

"Lowers blood pressure.. Eradicates stress," he mumbled between kisses. He lowered his hand between them and pressed the heel of his palm against her abdomen. "Eases pain. Makes for a better night's sleep."

God, he was definitely human.

Ophelia scoffed against his lips as she peeled away his jacket. "Apparently I've never slept with anyone, then."

"Or perhaps the man you've slept with are just morons."

She giggled. "Maybe."

They would spend the rest of their nights together, challenging each other's knowledge and risking their most definite human traits with stolen kisses and incoherent mumbles until a blanket of sleep would take them away at the golden beacon of dawn.

tags: @nathan-no @helloliriels @dragonnan @strawberrywinter4 @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @7-percent @totallysilvergirl

[strawberrywinter4]

Unleash

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Rated: Mature

Tags: BAMF John Watson, Protective John Watson, Doctor John Watson, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Dark Themes, Case Fic, Sherlock Holmes Whump, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Drugs, Drugging, John Watson to the Rescue, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, First Kiss, Kissing, Rough Kissing

Sherlock touches John’s arm briefly and John’s attention goes back to him instantly. His hand grips Sherlock’s form, bringing him impossibly closer. John presses their heads together, his voice coming to a whisper. “Everything will be okay, darling. I promise. Just hang in there for me. Stay awake.” Darling was on instinct. Really, it’s the only thing that grounds John. Sherlock’s anguished eyes meet John again, though it seems like he’s struggling to do just that.

Read here on ao3.

Tags: @a-victorian-girl @jolieblack @whatnext2020 @helloliriels @colourfulwatson @totallysilvergirl @ninasnakie @thegildedbee @whodwantmeasaflatmate @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @sherlocknjohn221b @jawnn-watson @blogstandbygo @lisbeth-kk @holmesianlove @7-percent @itsonlytext @chinike @peanitbear @mary-johnlocked @bakerstreetbe @curlyjohnlock @keirgreeneyes @ceceliajupe @ghostofnuggetspast @dw91165 @demonboycrowley

(Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged or wouldn’t like to be tagged.)

Omg, I finally finished it! Thanks to all who encouraged me with BAMF John. It meant so much🥰

[a-victorian-girl]

Hello Vicci! Can you do a photo manip of mature / aged Benedict with Sherlock's curly hair? Please, please! (I wish he wear Sherlock's hair but well, he's Benedict not Sherlock these days, so..)

(´O｀)(*°∀°)=3

Hi sweetie!

So sorry for answering your ask so late! But there was no point in answering it without the photo manip, right?

Mmmh, Sherlock 2024… OMG SWEETIE you're asking me for something that I dream of seeing every day 😭 (a dream that, from what I see, is getting more and more distant...), but hey, we can fantasize a little with this, right?

This is for you too, @jobooksncoffee! (do you remember your request? bc I do! jaja)

Are you ready? See him below…

Source: gettyimages

Well, actually this photo was taken in 2022.... 🤷🏼‍♀️

@strawberrywinter4 @jobooksncoffee @adumpofdumbstuff @topsyturvy-turtely @inevitably-johnlocked @calaisreno @meetinginsamarra @pressurepoint221 @catlock-holmes @peanitbear @chocolate1elise @whatnext2020 @happydistraction @snonkerdoodlefizzy221b @gaypiningshit @7-percent @zz-kennedy @discordantwords @nowiamcoveredinyou @221beloved @bluebellinbakerstreet @bluebellofbakerstreet @strawberrywinter4 @apazwtsn @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @totallysilvergirl @im-on-a-case @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @my-dear-sweet-melody @safedistancefrombeingsmart @elennemigo @helloliriels @colourfulwatson @blogstandbygo @sakshisahu @paulineholmes02 @ben-locked @ninasnakie @thelostsmiles @compact-and-beautiful @13monkton @curlyjohnlock @awh221b @@bs2sjh @yan-yae @dmellieon @itsonlytext @immaculate-benediction-batch

[strawberrywinter4]

Come to Bed

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Rating: Mature.

Relationship: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Poor John, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Addiction, Forehead Kisses, Sleepy Kisses Fluff and Angst

Summary: Sherlock wakes up to the sound of John arguing with his sister. Sherlock has never been the one to properly comfort someone, but in this situation, it comes naturally.

Sort of inspired by this scene.

Read here on ao3.

Tags: @a-victorian-girl @whatnext2020 @totallysilvergirl @ninasnakie @thegildedbee @whodwantmeasaflatmate @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @sherlocknjohn221b @jawnn-watson @blogstandbygo @lisbeth-kk @holmesianlove @7-percent @itsonlytext @chinike @peanitbear @mary-johnlocked @bakerstreetbe @curlyjohnlock @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @ceceliajupe @ghostofnuggetspast @dw91165 @jolieblack @gwendelaneyisjohnlocked @cortina

[strawberrywinter4]

I’ve Missed You Terribly

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Relationship: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Bearded John Watson, Established Relationship, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Anal Sex, Rimming, Praise Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Top John Watson, Spanking, Size Kink, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content

Sherlock makes his way to the door, opening it to see John at the foot of the stairs, Mrs. Hudson right beside him. But not just any John. John with a beard. Sherlock’s heart stops, his breath stuttering.

Read here on ao3.

___

Um… so yeah!

I’m sure you can see where I got my inspiration. Listen, Martin was way too fine in Miller’s Girl to not get the appreciation he needs.

Tags: @a-victorian-girl @whatnext2020 @totallysilvergirl @thegildedbee @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @blogstandbygo @lisbeth-kk @itsonlytext @chinike @peanitbear @helloliriels @ghostofnuggetspast @a-freemaniac @jolieblack @7-percent

And let me just say, Sherlock would go feral.

(Please please please tell me if you’d like to be tagged or if you wouldn’t like to be tagged. I know these themes aren’t for everyone, so if you don’t wish to be tagged or wish to be tagged, please let me know!)