#sherlock fandom

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Warnings: mentionings of torture, injury.

Don’t Tell Him

The pain is greater and more agonising than all the beating he got in that filthy cell in Serbia, because this pain isn’t just physical. Sherlock knows that if he answered John’s insistent questions about who the shooter was, it would break John’s heart, despite what Mycroft says.

“Tell him, brother mine,” Mycroft urges. “John is far more resilient than you give him credit for, and his feelings for you…”

“Don’t!” Sherlock snaps. “The love of his life shot me in the heart. I refuse to add that burden to his confused mind.”

“I agree that he is confused, but not for the reasons you think, Sherlock,” Mycroft says cryptically.

Sherlock closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep. He’s not only in constant pain, but he’s also exhausted with all the emotions that this whole business regarding Mary Watson throws his way. It’s so much harder to stay focused and aloof when the painkillers leave his brain all foggy and relaxed. His pining for John comes to the surface, tugging at his heart.

“Go home to Mary,” Sherlock urged John before Mycroft arrived. “She needs you more…”

“I’m staying,” John interrupted in his stubborn tone. “Just fetching some clothes and stuff before I’m going with you to Baker Street tomorrow. Non-negotiable!”

He had lifted his chin in defiance, daring Sherlock to protest. His last words are a puzzle Sherlock still hadn’t been able to deduce.

“You need me, and I need…to…”

***

John has gone to Aldi to buy milk, bread and eggs, wile Mycroft stays to keep an eye on his brother, with strict instructions from the good doctor to call if anything changes regarding Sherlock’s pulse, heartrate, temperature, and several other unnecessary trifles. (Sherlock’s words)

“John, for Christ’s sake, go!” Sherlock says exasperated. “I’m fine.”

John looks sceptically at him, grabs his wrist and takes Sherlock’s pulse. When he’s satisfied, he hurries out of the bedroom and descends to the front door, probably running all the way to the shops to reduce his absence to a minimum.

“Are you still convinced that he only has friendly feelings for you?” Mycroft asks with a quirked eyebrow.

“Don’t tell him, Mycroft! He can’t know. If he’s ever to realise how much…I…I wish she had finished…”

“Sherlock!”

Mycroft rarely raises his voice but when he does, it speaks volumes.

“I would not survive your demise, brother mine. She can count herself lucky that she didn’t kill you. Even John’s plea for her life would’ve been in vain, her pregnancy notwithstanding.”

Mycroft’s voice trembles with emotions, which is odd to witness.

***

Sherlock has no sense of time anymore, but he thinks it’s been days since his conversation with Mycroft. Something is being delivered, and John’s steps are heavier than usual when he ascends the stairs.

Carrying something. Not groceries. Two bags. One over each shoulder.

When John brings his meds later, Sherlock observes that something is different. John’s face is displaying a variety of conflicting emotions. There’s determination and insecurity, sorrow and relief, anger and hope. The last deduction does something to Sherlock’s shattered heart.

“What’s happened?” Sherlock asks calmly, although he’s terrified of the answer.

John’s voice sounds mechanical, as if he’s rehearsed what he’s about to tell Sherlock.

“Mary left a note. She’s gone. The baby isn’t mine. Her name isn’t hers. She’s apparently an assassin. Worked for Moriarty. She shot you. You knew, and you wanted to shield me. I want you to stop doing that.”

He sheds his clothes down to his pants and tee and climbs carefully into bed. Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat.

Is this real, or a hallucination?

“It’s real, Sherlock,” John tells him, as if he’s the one who’s become a mind-reader.

He lies down beside Sherlock, letting his palm rest over the wound, over his heart. The heart that beats solely for John.

Does he know? If so, how?

“You’re not as subtle as you think, Sherlock. What I saw traces of before this, became clear as day when your brain function was compromised by painkillers. Am I wrong?”

Don’t hide. Tell him.

“No, John. You’re not,” Sherlock says and places his hand over John’s.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @raina-at

@helloliriels @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @a-victorian-girl @peanitbear

@meetinginsamarra @topsyturvy-turtely @phoenix27884 @jolieblack @221beloved

[amberwamber17]

im so obsessed with teen johnlock

like

i have no words.

[16woodsequ]

"Your show might be delayed by the wga strikes!"

I watched Sherlock, mate. We waited three years for the 3 worst episodes you've ever seen. This is nothing

[froggyphobia]

[miinsie]

I love this picture

Why does he look like a cat whose dumbass is angry his owner won't let him eat plastic???

Edit: even better is that John is the one pulling him away

[ramigir]

[grocerystoresam]

superwholock walked so ourgoodshadows could run

[sir-looni]

"Sleep, Dear" by me

i love soft ACD Johnlock and i really want to draw them more often!

Go read the books!!!

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (31) Pride

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 31)

Summary: We get glimpses of Joanna Shirley's first year and an emotional trip to the countryside ensures that the circuit is closed.

Thirty-One Years Old

Some months after Joanna’s first birthday, we’re going to Sussex to spend a week with my parents. She has Timothy’s dark hair and my curls. Her eyes are violet-blue and radiant, her social skills are impeccable. Our daughter loves people. When we’re out in the park, at the shops, on the tube or the bus, she babbles to anyone who’s willing to listen. Most people are. During the Pride parade, that became quite evident. 

Molly had bought her a multi-coloured dress. In each hand she had a flag. The traditional rainbow flag in her right, and the bisexual one in her left. Every so often, people in the parade approached her to say hello, and she preened and had the time of her life. Timothy filmed the whole charade to show to our families later.

When she’s used up her charm…let’s just say; her bad temper is as untamed as her good mood…

“Just like her mother,” Dad often points out when I complain.

There’s no sympathy to get from Papa either.

“A tornado is calm compared to your tantrums as a child and teenager, Bee.”

“Ha, bloody ha,” I retort, but I know it’s true.

Having a strong will and principles can be good things, I guess.

***

Joanna has never seen Papa’s garden and beehives. The last time we visited, it poured down all weekend, so we stayed inside.

She has yet to have taken her first steps, but there have been other firsts. 

First trip inside the city: New Scotland Yard with uncle Greg so he could show her off to all his previous colleagues (he retired two years ago.)

First solid food: corn porridge (she detested oatmeal.)

First tooth: four months (she bit me when I breast fed her.)

First real trip: Sussex to Grandad and Lock. (She refuses to call Papa anything else.)

First BIG toy: an antique rocking horse from the granduncles. (Guess which one searched worldwide for the correct one, a replica from his and Papa’s childhood.)

***

The second Joanna sees her grandparents, she starts to wriggle in my arms, can’t get to them fast enough.

“Easy, my little octopus,” I mutter and hand her to Dad with a relieved sigh.

“Hey there, princess Shirley,” Dad coos and kisses her cheek.

“Da!” she exclaims and pats his shoulder, before turning eagerly to Papa, stretching out her arms.

“Hello, little Joan,” Papa rumbles, which make her giggle and shout: “Lock!”

“You’ve got to stop calling her that,” Dad protests half-heartedly.

“Nonsense,” Papa says mock serious. “Not until you stop calling her princess Shirley.”

Joanna points at herself when she hears Dad’s name for her.

“Yes, that’s you,” Papa agrees proudly. “My clever girl.”

***

After lunch and Joanna’s nap, Dad and Papa walk around the garden with her, safely in Dad’s arms to show her the different flowers, letting her smell and touch. Her dazzling smile, and the besotted looks on my fathers’ faces are caught on camera. I decide to get it enlarged and framed as a Christmas present.

Papa points out the beehives, but they stay at a distance lest Joanna’s waving arms disturb the bees. I stifle a sob when she turns and points a finger at me when Papa says the word “bee”.

“Yes, darling. That’s Mummy too,” I say in a choked voice.

“Well done, princess,” Dad praises.

“Cess,” Joanna manages and presses her palm against her chest.

***

A week later, as a farewell, Papa takes Joanna for another stroll in the garden, which she seemingly can’t get enough of. She took her first steps there two days ago, eager to get her hands on a bee that was resting on a flower petal. When the insect flew away, she turned questioningly at Papa, who had followed in her steps ready to catch her if she lost her balance.

After they’ve finished the circuit, Joanna starts to wail, but Papa’s excited voice and gesticulating hand, gets her attention.

“Let me tell you what I once told your mother when she and Granddad moved to Baker Street,” he starts, and goes through the different stages of human decay, the art of flagging down a taxi in London, and pissing off the likes of Philip Anderson.

Before he’s finished, Joanna has fallen asleep in his arms.

Also available on AO3

You can find the fic that inspired this one here

Here we are. At the end of an amazing month of prompts which have produced ficlets, limericks, heartbreakingly beautiful writing, hilarious new AUs and so much more. Tears have been shed, laughter has been shared, the fandom has shown endless support and love to everyone involved.

Thank you to the wonderful @calaisreno for instigating this marvellous event, and to everyone who has participated, commented, reblogged and cheered along the way.

(P.S There'll be no Rosie at the age of 106 as you requested early in the month @totallysilvergirl because that would ensure the demise of our OTP, and we both know that I don't do that...)

@keirgreeneyes @raina-at @helloliriels

More tags in the replies

[safedistancefrombeingsmart]

Smile, it's free therapy. (Douglas Horton)

Because I realised I didn't have that many gifs with a truly happy John Watson. 🥲 Bonus Sherlock and there will be more to come.

[partiallypilot]

Kissing in the bathroom of an opera when they should be focusing on a case.

[dawningday84]

I don't care how many newer versions of the Holmes brothers are made. These are mine. Time may have moved on and searches for "Sherlock" may bring newer actors, but everytime someone likes or reblogs one of my old posts, my heart does a little leap. The BBC Sherlock fandom still lives. People still care about these characters. They are still loved and we still want more ❤️

[under-loch-n-key]

"It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but that you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it."

Happy Johnlock Day!!!

I know Valentine's isn't here yet, but I wanted to make a drawing for it anyway. So, Happy (very early) Valentine's Day!

I finished my Granada Holmes/Johnlock Valentine's Day drawing!! I hope you enjoy!! 💛💛

Holmes got his beloved poisonous flowers and Watson received some sweets. I love them.

The cafe is a cafe I use in my comics. It's called "Witches Cap - Cafe and Roast". Like I said in my last post, I always enjoy putting characters in it. [:

(Sorry for the wonky lines.)

(Edit: everyone is saying such sweet things, thank you lot so much!! 💛😭)

[221bstrange]

John: *struggling to open a jar Sherlock: *opens it John: Sherlock: You loosened it for me. John: Damn right.

[ohno-wallace]

“Goodnight”

𝙸𝚗𝚝. 𝙰𝚒𝚛𝚋&𝚋 — 𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝