#((John is so purposefully annoying Sherlock.))

[cherrytr3kisses]

Comfy Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Sighing, I sat down on the sofa with a cup of tea and looked at the wall, deep in thought. Today was a busy day, the library where I work was overcrowded all day long. I stretched out and sipped my tea and then decided that I should take advantage of the silence and watch a movie until Sherlock and John returned. I turned on the television and went through the programs until I found something that suited me. The only problem was that halfway through the movie I realized how exhausted I was and therefore didn't realize that I had fallen asleep.

Sherlock's POV: Me and John just had an unnecessary conversation with someone who promised me new information about our current case, but instead things we already knew were brought up. John and I walked quietly back home while I wondered if I had missed something. I was quite annoyed about today because I was hoping to finally make progress with my case and instead I didn't make any progress. I cleared my throat, started to think about whether Y/n would be home yet and came to the conclusion that she probably would be home. I was hoping that maybe she could add some taxes, but then I remembered that she had worked today. She was somehow so important to me. I understood the feeling, which is rather unusual for me, I just knew that she was a very interesting person and understood me.

Without really noticing we had already arrived at Baker Street, John nudged me and said something about how he had another date and disappeared again so I went up the stairs and towards my room. I opened the door and blinked when I saw Y/n laying on my sofa, her hair mussed and a half-empty cup of tea placed in front of her. I found myself smiling when I heard her yawn my name. Apparently I was a bit too loud. I quietly walked towards her and carefully lifted her into my arms. She buried her face in my coat and whispered my name once more. I walked towards my bedroom, pushed down the doorbell and walked purposefully towards my bed. When I got there, I put Y/n, who had now fallen asleep again, down and covered her with my blanket. I looked at her one last time with a smile and then went into the living room to continue my research.

[lacelynpage]

Something you do to annoy them for fun~ Sherlock Preferers

Sherlock:

The most amusing way to annoy Sherlock is to play a note wrong on the violin. You always play a song he knows and will purposefully play the wrong note or play a section out of tune. It is fun to watch his nose wrinkle up and see him wince at each incorrect note. He usually will end up either taking the instrument from you or playing the song after you have finished correctly. It is a way to annoy him without making him mad. 

John:

The best way to annoy John is with the simplest things. Not putting your cup on a coaster is one. You will both on purpose and on accident sometimes not use a coaster. It is amusing to watch him scowl and grumble about it. Sherlock will do it as well and you both laugh about it together. One day you both filled at least a dozen and half cups full of water, tea, and coffee and left them around 221B for John to find.

Mycroft:

It is easy to irritate Mycroft. One of the simplest things that will drive him crazy is if you call him anything but Mycroft. His full name is Alexander Mycroft Chad Holms and you loved to use any variation of that to bother him. You called him Chad, Alex, Myke, Alexander, and of course Mykie. It was highly amusing watching his eyes start to twitch as you called him anything but his preferred name.

Greg:

Greg is not a terribly neat person. His desk is usually in some sort of disarray but he always claims he can find everything. The best way to get under his skin is to organize it just a little. You never actually fully clean it but you will put certain things away so that he just gets annoyed. You mostly do it if you're upset with him over one thing or another. But sometimes it's just because it bothers you.   

Moriarty:

Your favorite way to bother Jim is to hide things from him. Mostly his phone or his keys. It's fun to watch him rush around the house trying to find them and in the end just hold it out to him. Usually he will then chase you around the house till he finally catches you. Then you usually make him kiss you before finally giving them up and letting him leave. It bothers him when he can't find them but the chasing is always amusing.

[topsyturvy-turtely]

june challenge - day 2

[based on this prompt list. check out my contribution for day 1]

2. pet names

john was cooking. lasagna along with some salad. everything was almost done. the only thing left, was a bit of seasoning for the salad.

"sherlock, could you hand me salt and pepper, please?"

sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, looking into his microscope. his equipment was spread all over the table, but the salt and pepper was out of reach. well, out of reach for john - sherlock would just need to stretch out his arm and could hand him salt and pepper.

but of course he didn't.

"sherlock? could you hand me salt and pepper please?", this time he put more stress into his request.

still nothing from sherlock.

"hellooo? earth to sherlock?! could you please just stretch your arm out so i can finish dinner?", john's voice now had an annoyed undertone and he waved his hand next to sherlock's face. of course john could just walk around the table and get it himself, but by now this was a matter of principle. he had cooked lasagna, damnit! it is not like asking your boyfriend to stretch out his arm once would be a too difficult task to request.

"oh come on sherlock, love, could you just hand me the goddamn salt?"

with a jerky movement sherlock whipped his head around. his eyes were big, his face blank and his mouth was slightly open. this made john feel a bit worried.

"wha- what is it, sherl-? are you okay?"

the detective looked utterly shocked. the eye contact was making john feel almost uncomfortable. was sherlock mad? john had no idea and didn't know how to react so he pointed across the table. "uh, the salt please, love?"

sherlock blinked.

and blinked again.

and then ten times more.

"yeah, this is getting a bit scary now.", john said, trying to ease the atmosphere that was suddenly ten degrees hotter.

sherlock continued staring at him. god, he loved his eyes. but sometimes having eye contact was a real challenge for john. why was he staring at him like that?!

sherlock inhaled sharply. Then he gulped. Then he opened his lips and there was a click of his tongue to hear. this was really weird...

"sooo, in fact- yo-you mean...", sherlock stumbled over his words.

john was confused. why was sherlock suddenly stuttering? he smiled at him anyways: "hm, yes?"

"i'm your..."

john didn't know where this was going but nodded encouragingly.

"i'm your... i'm your love?", sherlock finally managed to say.

john was surprised. so this was about the pet name?

"sherlock...", john said hesitantly. he stepped closer to his still sitting boyfriend and wrapped his arms around his neck.

"yeah, of course you are. 'course. you are my love.", he said and to emphasize he pecked sherlock's lips once. sherlock was still a beautiful statue of shock and john chuckled.

"can you hand me the salt now, love?", he asked again. this time using the pet name purposefully.

the detective blinked again but finally reached out to grab the seasonings.

"thank you, my heart.", the doctors said with a smirk in his voice. john simply couldn't resist making this utterly brilliant man absolutely speechless with these sweet little words of affection.

to top it off john kissed sherlock's cheek, then - with an enamored smile - turned around and finally finished dinner.

---

yay, fluff! ✨ thanks for reading! 💚 do you see what i did there? *whispers* rEfeReNceS 🤭 i thought these two kinda weren't the typical couple calling each other by pet names. but this scenario seemed likely to me. lmk what you think! i will try to write the part for day 3 today sorry for being already a day late... 🙃

you should check out @timberva's post for day one, which is also based on that prompt list i found up there.

tagging!!! (please tell me if you wanna be added/removed): @catlock-holmes @helloliriels @justanobsessedpan @boredsushi @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

[victoriaholmeswriting]

The Holmes Family

Sherlock x Reader One-Shot

Read it on AO3!

Rating: T

Words: 1445

Summary: When refusing to dress up for Halloween results in an argument with his wife, Sherlock re-evaluates his priorities and tries to make it right.

  “I said, no!” Sherlock huffed, dramatically throwing himself down onto the couch.

  “Why no?” (y/n) demanded, crossing her arms and glaring down at him.

  Sherlock yelled into his hands before dropping them with continued theatrics.  He looked up at his wife, brows furrowed in annoyance.

  “Because it’s boring, pointless, and a complete waste of my time,” he explained, counting off the reasons on his fingers.

  She rolled her eyes.  “Sherlock, this is not only our daughter’s first party, but this is also the first time she has picked out her own Halloween costume.  She picked Wednesday Addams and wants us to match with her.”

  “Then match with her!” he yelled.  “Why do I have to join in on the absolute lunacy of this ridiculous holiday and it’s equally ridiculous traditions?”

  Sherlock instantly knew he’d crossed a line, though he wasn’t quite sure what it was.  His wife’s jaw was clenched hard and he wilted away from her blazing eyes.

  “Besides the fact that you’d be purposefully missing out on an important milestone in your daughter’s life?  A moment you will never get back?” she shouted back,l not caring what Mrs. Hudson will say next time they have tea.  “Because she’s your daughter, Sherlock Holmes.  And that little girl wants her daddy to be a part of a day that she is super excited for.  All she’s fucking asking you to do is to put on a pinstriped suit, slick back you hair, and draw on a mustache!  That’s it.  Now, is it too much to ask for you to do this simple fucking task -- put up with ridiculous traditions for just one bloody night -- AND MAKE YOUR DAUGHTER HAPPY?!”

  Sherlock swallowed hard and looked away, unable able to meet her eyes anymore.

  “Answer me, Sherlock,” she demanded, no longer shouting but nevertheless sounding just as angry and disappointed.

  He steeled himself, closing his eyes to calm himself.  Beyond the anger and disappointment even the neighbor knew he’d caused, the concealed pain in his wife’s voice -- the voice of the only woman he’d ever loved -- was like an iron clamp around his chest.

  “Fine,” he said quietly, trying not to let his voice shake.

  “What?” she asked, completely shocked.  She’d been prepared to fight with about this all night.

  “I said, fine!” he repeated, forcing an annoyed tone.

  His wife knew him too well, however; he could hear the confused battle of emotions going on behind the barrier he was frantically building.

  “But just for her,” he lied.  “And I’m not going to like nor am I going to pretend to like it when she’s not around.”  With that, Sherlock flopped over onto his side so that his back was to her, signalling that he was done with this conversation.

  Still fuming, (y/n) closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  This was the best she was going to get and didn’t want to ruin it by keeping him wound up.

  She grabbed her coat off the hook and walked over the couch.  Crouching down, she laid a gentle hand on his upper arm.

  “I’m going to go pick her up from John and Mary’s,” she told him quietly, caressing his arm with her thumb.  She placed a light kiss on his cheek.  “I love you, Sherlock”

  Sherlock put his hand on hers.  “I love you, too.”

~ ~ ~

  As soon as he heard the door close behind her, Sherlock leapt up from the couch and ran to his wife’s movie shelf.  Strategically positioned by the telly, the two-foot tall, blue shelf was designed to look like a police call box -- which was exactly why the die-hard Whovian just had to have it.  She kept all her favourite films and video games in it.  As many times as she’d seen The Addams Family, Sherlock knew it had to be in there.

  He opened the doors and scanned past the Harry Potter series, various Marvel films, and a few others until he found what he was looking for: an Addams Family Double Feature DVD box.

  After turning on her PlayStation (which, because of his stubbornness, had taken her way too long to teach him how to use) and putting in the first film, he pulled his chair over.  Noting that he only had time for one of the films before his wife and daughter got home, he perched in the chair and steepled his fingers in front of his lips in the exact same fashion as when he saw clients.

  About halfway through the film, Mrs. Hudson brought up freshly baked cookies.  She observed the curious situation with a bemused smile; an expression that was often present on her kind face when she ventured upstairs.

  “What are you doing, dear?” she asked.

  “Research,” he replied bluntly.  He took the cookie she offered him without looking away from the screen.

  She looked between him and the screen, still having no clue what was going on.

  “That’s nice, dear,” she conceded, shaking her head.  She put the plate of cookies on the kitchen table and disappeared back downstairs.

~ ~ ~

  “Josephine,” (y/n) called, pouring a mixed bag of candy into the purple and green bowl Mrs. Hudson was holding, “come show Mrs. Hudson your costume before we leave.”

  “Okaaay!” shouted a small voice from down the hall.

  The pitter-patter of tiny, frantic feet raced towards them until there was a five-year-old in an adorable Wednesday Addams dress wrapped around the loving landlady.  She had her father’s mesmerizing eyes and dark-brown hair (though it was straight like her mother’s).

  (Y/N) giggled and threw out the now empty bag.

  “Why isn’t your hair in braids?” she asked, running her fingers through the thick locks.

  “I couldn’t get them to stay,” Josephine whined.  She looked up at Mrs. Hudson, still holding onto her tight.  “Will you help me?”

  Mrs. Hudson beamed down her.  “Of course, dear! Come on.”

  Grinning, Josephine took her hand and led her back down the hall to her room.

  (Y/N) watched with smile until they disappeared before turning her attention to her own bedroom door.

  Sherlock had sat on the bed, pretending to scroll through his phone for new cases while she got ready for this afternoon.  She said nothing to try to coax him into just getting ready.  That would only have caused several eyerolls and an argument she was beyond not in the mood for.

  However, there were several times that she caught him looking at her fondly as she dressed and applied her make-up.  And there was something else in his eyes.  She couldn’t quite figure out why, but she could have sworn there were hints of mischief and anticipation in them.  To add to the oddness of this behaviour, he’d shut and locked the door the moment she left the room.

  To be honest, she didn’t know if she should be excited or nervous as approached the door and lightly knocked.

  “Sherlock,” she called, “can I come in?”

  There was a moment of silence before she heard him walk towards the door.

  “Promise you won’t laugh?” he called back.

  “What?”

  “Promise me you won’t laugh or I’m taking it off right now!”

  She was definitely nervous now.

  “Alright, I promise!” she replied.  “Just let me in.”

  Sherlock let out a resounding sigh before unlocking the door and taking a step back.

  “Come in, then,” he huffed.  “Let’s get this over with.”

  (Y/N) slowly turned the handle and entered their room.

  Sherlock stood rigid in the middle of the room.  He was decked out in a black, pinstriped suit with a matching bow tie and shoes.  His curly hair was slicked back with a generous amount of shining gel -- save for one stubborn, loose strand by his left temple.  A pencil mustache was expertly drawn on his upper lip in what looked like her liquid eyeliner.  He’d even used some of her eyeshadow to darken under his eyes -- just like in the film.

  “Oh my God, Sherlock!” she exclaimed.  “You look --”  She paused, looking for the best words to describe how she felt about what she was looking at.

  “Ridiculous?” he offered, his cheeks getting warm.

  “So fucking sexy,” she finished breathily.

  Sherlock looked at her in shock for a moment -- but only for a moment -- before recovering.  He quickly strode forward and pulled her into his arms.  Their lips met in a passionate kiss.

  She pulled away, smiling.  “You’re smearing my lipstick.”

  He smirked and raised his eyebrows flirtatiously.  “Perhaps -- tonight -- we can try for a Puglsey?”

  “Oh, Sherlock,” she teased in her best Morticia voice.  “Oui!”

  He chuckled and kissed her again, deeper this time, dipping her as he did.

Tags: @madshelily​ @klinenovakwinchester​ @emmelynecosette​ @josiecarioca​

[thebeethathums]

Observers - 24

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warnings: Manic mess making and fear

You woke up with a sore throat, no doubt courtesy of the cold in your flat, and groaned, rolling over to look for John. He was gone and when you saw the time it was no surprise, like clockwork that man, always up before nine. Pulling yourself out of bed felt like the most difficult thing in the world but you managed to get yourself to your feet. You trudged down the stairs, rubbing your eyes as you came into the living room, only to jump when they found Sherlock in his chair. You snapped your head to face forward and then consciously avoided that area, slipping into the kitchen in search of John. You found him, as usual, making tea and quietly began poking at Sherlock’s science equipment on the table, you’d always been interested in the oddly colored liquids he worked with and wondered briefly what would happen if you mixed two of the vials together. John happened to look up just as you got a wicked smile on your face and picked up a vial with something blue in it, “Put that down.”   You pouted in a slightly hoarse voice, “But it’s so pretty… and it would look prettier mixed with that.” You innocently pointed to a green vial, still holding the blue one in one hand, secretly hoping something cool and/or destructive would happen, and John leveled you with a glare, “Put it down. I already have Sherlock almost blowing up the flat on a regular basis and he knows what he’s doing. I don’t need you causing trouble too.” 

You pursed your lips unhappily, putting the vial back in its place reluctantly just as Sherlock came into the doorway. Your eyes went wide and you ducked behind John as he stepped forward to pick up the vial you’d just been holding, scrutinizing it in the light. 

He turned to say something to you but you were gone, having dashed out the door while he was otherwise distracted, and John just shrugged when he gave him an inquisitive look, “If you want to know how her mind works go ask her ‘cause I haven’t the foggiest.” You were sitting in John’s chair when he came into the living room, your knees pulled up to your chest as you took deep breaths, trying to reassure yourself that it was all just a dream. He could see you tense as he came into your peripheral vision and, instead of demanding you tell him why, he sat down across from you, opting to read you instead. You looked up at him, playing the little staring game that had become common between the two of you since that first day. You didn’t try to hide anything, he would always find out in the end so it was pointless to try and do so, and let your eyes take him in, facing your fears as best you could. He could see that you were afraid and his jaw clenched when he realized it was him the feeling was directed at, he went over his actions over the past couple of days trying to find a source for your fear and, coming up with none, came to the conclusion that he must have made an appearance in your nightmare. Your subconscious was making him a threat, why? What had you seen to make someone like you, uninhibited, brave, and a little crazy, so fearful of someone who just the day before you had shown more trust in than anyone aside from John? He must have triggered something by showing you a little more attention than he normally would. This is why we always run experiments appropriately he thought to himself, if he had kissed you there was no telling what unintended effects it may have had. He was surprised when, for the first time since he’d met you, you purposefully looked away from his gaze, burying your face in your knees with a shaky sigh. That was probably more telling to him than anything else you’d done, coupled with the fact that you jumped when John placed a hand on your back as he walked in, “You ok, Squeak?” You tilted your head to look up at him, “Yeah, Johnny. Just thinking.” “The nightmare again?” You didn’t answer, tucking your head back between your knees, and he sighed, “You can stay in my room while I’m gone if you’d like.” You were up like lightning, bolting towards the door, “Thank you, but no, John. I’ll be downstairs.” He looked after you with a little frown, “Maybe I should stay…” “Why? You can hardly protect her from her mind, John.” He knew Sherlock was right but he still wanted to, he felt so helpless, he hadn’t been able to protect you before and now you were here with him and he still couldn’t. It was aggravating. He took a deep breath to let go of his frustrations, maybe some time away would do the both of you some good. He would be able to process everything that had happened and you could come to terms with the fact you no longer had to hide things. A short while later you saw him off, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek as you promised to at least try and stay out of trouble while he was gone before ducking back into your apartment. You toed some of the mess you’d made in your flat across the floor with a heavy sigh, sometimes your artistic side could be a pain as it was also the part of your personality that threw you into almost frantic fits of destruction when you were upset. You looked around. You’d pulled all your old sketchbooks from their place on one of your two large bookshelves and strewn them about, things you had tucked in them escaping to litter the floor. The corner you had set your easel up in was painfully empty as you had flattened the wooden structure and pushed it against the wall, tearing down the tarps to throw over it so you didn’t have to look at it. Your painting stool was toppled on its side and tubes of paint and brushes were tossed haphazardly on your couch and coffee table. The drafting table you used as a desk was tilted so nothing could sit on its surface and your papers, pens, pencils, and larger drawings were scattered on the floor next to it. You held your head in your hands, trying to get a hold of yourself before you destroyed something you couldn’t replace, and then sank down in your chair, feeling exhausted for some reason. Leaning back into it limply, you tried to go into your creative space to at least come up with a better way to handle your frustrations and uneasiness only to have your concentration rudely jarred as the door to your flat was flung open. You nearly toppled your chair backward as you jumped back, “Bloody hell, Sherlock! If you aren’t going to knock can’t you at least be gentle with the door?” His jaw went slightly slack as he took in the state of your flat and you got up to put the chair in between you and him, instinctively seeking a way to protect yourself. Your tone was slightly hostile as you softly asked, “Are you going to tell me what you want or do I have to guess?” “Tea,” he lied, knowing that at the moment you weren’t likely to call his bluff. Though annoyed you obliged, escaping to the kitchen with a slight sense of relief and leaving him to do what he did best, observe. If he had had any doubt as to your interest in him, it was squelched now as his eyes found not only the large sketches of him that had been stashed away on your drafting table but various drawings of him on things ranging from napkins to cardstock advertisements smattered across the floor. He stopped short of your couch when he spotted your current sketchbook on the coffee table, open to your most recent set of drawings. They were also of him but in a very different light than all the others, his face malevolent and his stance extremely threatening, and a couple had his hand raised in such a way that it was obviously going to make contact with the viewer. If Sherlock had ever felt like he had a heart, it was then as pain wrenched through his chest when he realized what you must have seen in your dream and in turn why you were avoiding him. He stepped over your mess and into the kitchen, watching you tense again as you sensed his presence before you took some deep breaths and mumbled to yourself about reality. You turned to offer him a weak grin and a cup of tea, which he accepted only to set down as he closed the gap between the two of you, trapping you between himself and the counter so you couldn’t dash away again. Your form went rigid as your brain fell back on its instincts for situations like this- you’d learned that fighting back would only cause more pain for you in the end, so you turned your cheek and steeled yourself what should come next. It never came. Instead, a hand gently wove its way into your hair, encouraging you to make eye contact with its owner, which you did, looking up at him through your lashes warily. His eyes looked pained and you tilted your head confusedly, forgetting your own potential pain in favor of wanting to stop whatever was causing his. Your fingers seemed to make their way to his sharp cheeks without your permission, taking his face in your hands as you breathed, “What’s the matter, Sherlock?” In response he brought his other hand up, causing you to flinch and pull your hands away from him as you internally cursed yourself for falling into a false sense of security. He brought his hand to your face cautiously, his touch as gentle and feather-light as he could manage as he shifted his other hand so he could cradle your cheeks, causing you to look up at him again as he said only one word, “Never.” You relaxed and he let his hands fall to his side before grabbing his tea and going back out to the living room to drop down in your chair. Standing there frozen for a few minutes, you recovered and went out to where he was to press a light kiss to his cheek as you murmured, “Thank you, Sherly.” A slight smirk crossed his face at his success and you plopped down on the floor to put everything back where it was supposed to be.

[sincerely-chaos]

Inconsequential, part X (ficlet) - ‘pain response‘

Earlier parts on ao3.

Patience has never been something Sherlock's naturally gifted in.

Sherlock briefly wonders if that's something John had taken into consideration when he wound Sherlock up only to leave him there on the floor of their sitting room as John continued going about his day as usual before leaving for an evening shift at the clinic. It must be Wednesday, then, Sherlock observes, remembering in the back of his head that the clinic is only open during evenings on Wednesdays.

Useless data.

Why does he even--

His fingers sore from hours of playing the violin, Sherlock barely feel the keys beneath his fingertips as he types on his laptop.

With a grimace, Sherlock realises that he's reading an article about the occurrence of same-sex attraction in straight men, and that he has fourteen additional tabs with articles about the science of human sexuality open.

So much for not thinking about it, then.

*

Observing oneself and one's own motives is, Sherlock is aware, not generally considered a particularly pleasant activity.

When you are someone who pride yourself with being ruthlessly unsentimental in your observations, while also happening to be one of the most observant people in the country, observing yourself almost becomes an act of self depletion.

By the time John returns home from the clinic, slightly late due to having passed Sainsbury’s to pick up toothpaste on his way, Sherlock is lying curled up at the sofa, facing the sitting room, performing risk-reward analyses on every addiction he's ever had and ending up with results that could best be described as ‘inconclusive’.

Being aware of a bias unfortunately does nothing to cancel out the effect of said bias.

“Anything on?” John asks, sinking into his chair with a sigh.

He looks tired, and very much not like a man who's just about to throw himself into any kind of power play.

Given Sherlock's folded up position on the sofa and his general lack of movement, deducing the answer to that shouldn't be too difficult even for John, and so Sherlock waits for him to reach this conclusion on his own.

“Not talking tonight, then?”

Sherlock's been talking. He's been talking to the skull, or just out into the empty sitting room, his voice tense and frustrated as he examined his own motivations for agreeing to… well; he's not even sure what it is he's agreed to.

But he's getting increasingly clear on why he’s agreeing to it - to why he would even consider taking such a risk.

Because it is a risk. This could make John panic and leave, it could reveal things about himself that he rather not have out in the open, it could-- so many things.

It's a risk. And therein lies the problem.

Sherlock is an addict. One that is painfully aware of just what he's barely managing to escape through his addictions. He doesn't lack awareness, he just lacks any motivation to actually change his behaviour. There's nothing irrational about wanting to avoid what he's been skilfully keeping at bay for more than a decade now. In the end, one might even consider it an act of survival instinct or self-preservation - qualities others seem to think he lacks.

He doesn't.

It's just that ever since he last got sober, the only thing potent enough to even be considered a feasible substitute has any kind of risk taking behaviour.

It's all he's left with.

And he's been slipping, has been feeling the edge of greyness, has felt the pull of--

Sherlock swallows, knowing that the too bright light from the lamp on the low bookcase next to the sofa will undoubtedly allow John to see every shift in his face.

John, in turn, clears his throat.

Straightens up a fraction.

“I don't really need you to talk right now.”

Sherlock is an addict, but what is John's real--

“In fact, you keeping your mouth shut would not be a bad thing at all. All I need you to be able to say is one single word, and I doubt you'll feel the need to use it tonight.”

Oh.

The unsettling feeling of dissonance over being both instantly impatient and instantly annoyed over John’s poor timing must have shown on Sherlock’s face, because a shadow of hesitation flickers over John’s features for just a brief second before the muscles around his mouth shifts marginally and any visible hesitation is once again absent.

“I’m going to take this slow. And don’t - don’t tell me that that’s ‘boring’, or ‘dull’, because honestly, I don’t care. You get to experiment all the time. In this experiment, I’ll… set the pace. I want to take my time and… see just what and how much you’re willing to take. I’ll take my time, and if that's not alright with you, you only need to say one word.”

‘Taking things slowly’ truly doesn't sound very appealing, mostly because Sherlock has very little idea of what that means, but this apparently happening, now, and what does John have in mind, should he--

John eliminates the distance between them with just a few strides, and Sherlock stubbornly remains curled up on his side, not moving a muscle as John moves purposefully towards him. But instead of pulling Sherlock up to his feet or at least attempt to get him into a sitting position, John simply sits down on the sofa on the only space available, right next to where Sherlock's head is resting.

The position makes absolutely no sense.

Then, just as Sherlock realises that John can watch him, but that John is out of his own field of vision, a hand makes contact with his… hair.

Keeping his face void of all reactions, Sherlock feels how John's hand is slowly…

….stroking his hair.

His breath wants to pick up, but he forces himself to pace his breathing, keeping it steady.

He's fairly certain that this is not what they agreed upon. They might have been deliberately vague when discussing it, but if hair-stroking is what John means by starting slow-- No. It doesn't make sense.

Refusing to let himself tense up in protest but also unable to relax into the strange sensation of John's fingers threading into his curls, Sherlock's body remains rigidly still, waiting for something in the situation to shift, to give him a reason to snap, lash out and just leave all this.

Theoretically, Sherlock isn't against humiliation under certain… circumstances, but this is not humiliation, it's…

...pity? ….tenderness? ...petting?

All hateful things.

Something in his face must have given him away, because without letting his hand leave Sherlock's hair, John leans a bit forward to better see his expression.

Sherlock will not meet his gaze. Instead, he keeps staring in front of him without actually observing anything.

“Have something you need to say, Sherlock?”

Amusement.

Ridicule? Mockery? Teasing?

Sherlock knows there are nuances, but it's one of those things he’s never quite managed to learn how to differentiate between.

Challenging?

Stubbornly, he keeps his face blank, his mouth closed and wills his body to relax a fraction more.

John gives him a few seconds, and when he speaks, it's frustratingly matter-of-factly.

“Thought not.”

Against Sherlock's scalp, blunt fingertips creates  patterns of waves, fingers sliding through the curls, occasionally getting stuck where product has made the hair strands stick together.

Saying the word that would make John withdraw his fingers is unthinkable, because Sherlock does know a challenge when he's presented with one, whether he understands the point of it or not. Questioning the way John's chosen to go about this isn’t an option either, because that would involve him actual talking, and Sherlock does not want John to think that this is somehow an effective way to get Sherlock to break his occasional spells of silence.

John’s fingers alternate between sliding through the hair and lightly massaging the scalp, and it's not that it's in any way unpleasant, it's just that it’s… lame. Innocuous. Insipid. The very antithesis of what an addict looks for when in need of a fix.

(There’s no use to be delicate about the reason they’ve ended up here.)

Gradually, Sherlock’s body relaxes into the sensation. It’s no longer light enough to put him on edge the way light touches have an tendency to do, but firmer and more palpable. The more he thinks about it, the more intrigued he is by the fact that this is what John chose.

As his hair grows increasingly tousled and wispy from John’s hands, Sherlock contemplates the only thing not boring about this; the obvious and rather fascinating dissonance between what Sherlock had thought what John would want out of this and what John actually decided to start with.

It takes a few moments for Sherlock to catch on when the movements of John’s hand changes in character.

The increasing pressure has shifted into something more like.... tugging.

Realising that he must have closed his eyes, Sherlock blinks them open and feels the incisive light of the room almost stinging his eyes.

Yes. Definitely tugging. Curls teased between fingers, hands fisting loosely, pulling away from his scalp and--

Not enough, but oh, so much closer to what he craves, what he’s never thought he’d actually experience from any other hand than his own, and Sherlock’s eyes slid close, a quick inhale giving him away--

And then it’s no longer the light that makes his eyes sting, because there’s a burning sensation on his scalp, and one sharp inhale soon turns into a rapidly increasing breathing rate as John alternates between easing the pressure and pulling hard on the strands of hair.

“So that’s how it is, is it?”

John’s words, almost a mumble, coming from above him. John has leaned forward a bit, most likely to be able to better observe Sherlock’s face, and suddenly, Sherlock feels almost painfully exposed.

The pull on the hair just at his nape eases, and for a minute, there’s nothing but endorphins flooding Sherlock’s blood stream as John almost gently cards his fingers through the curls, pain beginning to dissipate.

It’s not unlike the rushes Sherlock’s experienced hundreds of times before, after a temporary pain has stopped and the excess pain-relieving neurotransmitters are yet to be reabsorbed. Experimenting with pain is hardly a new thing for him, but this is slightly more... intense. The vulnerability of it, the flush on his cheeks that can’t be blamed solely on the pain and the contrast between how John’s hands are touching him now - gentle, almost caressing, soothing - and the way they touched him just moments ago.

“Come here.”

Sherlock follows John’s hands, only a bit uncoordinatedly, as they guide his head up until he finds his cheek resting against worn denim, feels the flex of the muscle beneath and the warmth that radiates from it--

A sharp tug, and his body jerks.

Seconds of soothing touches, fingers combing through tousled curls and--

Sherlock loses all focus on where his head is now resting, the rapid and unpredictable alternations between pain and relief making metacognition and even simple observations register as fleeting and peripheral.

It’s-- functional.

Medicinal, in a sense.

And when fingers leave his hair, gently trailing from the base of his skull, along his spine and down to the collar of his shirt, it takes a few seconds to realise that that’s something new.

John’s hand stills, fingers resting against the side of Sherlock’s throat, and there’s no pressure, only presence, a contact area for warm skin.

Laying there, still curled up on his side like he’d been when John had taken a seat next to him, Sherlock finds that his limbs want to curl up even more, enfolding himself in his own arms, seeking out the pressure and the warmth. It’s just biochemical reflexes, but the manifestations are intense enough to be quite interesting to observe as he refuses to give in to them.

Sherlock’s eyes remains shut, closing out the light that surrounds them, and as he becomes more and more aware, it’s mostly tactile sensations that registers.

As he pushes himself up into a sitting position, swaying a bit before his blood pressure readjusts, Sherlock turns to look at John curious about what he might read in his face and unwilling to think about what his own face might look like at this moment.

When he meets John’s eyes, Sherlock finds himself wanting to instantly avert his gaze.

He’s never particularly liked not understanding what he sees in someone’s eyes when they look at him, and the way John’s face--

There’s too much new data, too much hormones still lingering in his blood and it seems likely that things will continue to be awkward afterwards if they’re to do this again.

John’s face is difficult to read at first, but then his features shifts, and he grins, a slightly crooked smile, raising his eyebrows and giving Sherlock that face; the teasing, intrigued expression that seems to communicate the question ‘...really?’ as clear as it had been written on his face, and Sherlock finds himself breaking his silence just to snap back at him.

“Oh, shut up.”

Blame me posting this on tumblr on the persuasive @simpleanddestructivechemistry, and thank @pagimag for some of the undercurrents in this chapter - thanks for reading and brainstorming!

[roleplayingsmyfavorite]

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

You both like demonlock, vamplock, and johnlock.

Stranger: So. Care to explain? JW

You: You'll need to be more specific. There's quite a bit you need explained to you. SH

Stranger: I was referring to when you ran out of the flat like a bloody madman with strange eyes. Is it drugs? JW

You: No. SH

Stranger: No? JW

You: No it is not drugs and no I do not care to explain. SH

Stranger: Why's that? You hiding something? JW

You: How is your hand? You should be more careful with broken glass. SH

Stranger: It's fine. I'm a doctor, remember? I think I know how to patch up a sliced palm. Didn't even need stitches. JW

Stranger: Hold on, what's that got to do with anything? JW

You: You cut yourself and I was concerned. That's all. SH

Stranger: Well... Thanks. For caring. Suits you. JW

You: Sarcasm? SH

Stranger: No, actually. It's nice having you care. JW

You: Oh. SH

Stranger: I mean it. JW

You: Anyway, don't expect me back for a little while. SH

Stranger: Wait, what? Why not? Are you alright? JW

You: Yes, I will be. SH

Stranger: But you're not right now? JW Sherlock, what's wrong. JW

You: Far too complicated a matter to explain. SH

Stranger: Oh, and my puny mind wouldn't be able to understand it? JW

You: I very much doubt you would believe me. SH

Stranger: To be fair, I don't believe half the things that come out of your mouth. JW

Stranger: But I do trust you, Sherlock. JW

You: I've often told you that's a foolish thing to do. SH

Stranger: And I've told you that I don't care. JW

You: You don't believe in monsters. SH

Stranger: I absolutely believe in monsters. I've been to war, and I've seen them. People are some of the biggest monsters. JW

You: Oh, John. Humans can be monstrous, but they're still human. I mean actual monsters. Scary stories. SH

Stranger: What do you mean, like Frankenstein? Ghosts? That sort of thing? JW

You: I was thinking more like Dracula. SH

Stranger: Like... vampires? JW No, I don't believe in vampires. JW

You: It's likely better that way. SH

Stranger: So. We're talking about vampires after I just cut my hand open and you ran from the flat. JW

You: You're searching for drugs, aren't you? SH I'm not high. SH

Stranger: Don't worry, I'll make sure to put your sock index back. JW You're implying you're a bloody vampire, Sherlock. That's... that's not healthy! JW

You: I don't think one's health much matters when their heart stops beating. SH

Stranger: Christ, so you're claiming to be one of the undead now? Seriously, Sherlock? JW

You: Yes. SH

Stranger: This is ridiculous. That's impossible. JW

You: Fine. It's impossible. Forget I said. SH

Stranger: Why would you say something like that? Seems a bit fanciful, even for you. JW

You: Just a joke. SH

Stranger: You never joke. JW

Stranger: Will you come back to the flat? So we can talk about this? JW

Stranger: You never joke. JW

You: I've gone too long without eating. It's dangerous. SH

Stranger: You always go too long without eating, that's nothing new. JW

Stranger: Look, Sherlock, I can't just... believe this. You'd tell me I need evidence and all that. So how about you come give me some evidence. JW

You: After I eat. SH

Stranger: You can come eat at the flat. JW

You: [delay] You don't know what you're saying. SH

Stranger: I mean, I think I do, actually. We've got loads of food here. Anything you like. JW

You: No. SH

Stranger: I promise, it's fine, you can come back. I want you to come back. JW

You: Yes, fine. SH

Stranger: Really? Brilliant. I'll see you soon. JW

You: This was stupid. Really, very stupid and Sherlock was not entirely certain what had driven him to return to the flat (oh he knew of course he knew John always John whatever he wanted). Sherlock still didn't fully have a handle on himself, was half certain he might just jump a random human on the street. Which was ridiculous, he wasn't a fledgling, he had impeccable control... when he wasn't mostly starved. Sherlock hadn't been prepared for the scent of blood either. At a crime scene, he expected it. In the morgue, sure. In the flat, alone with John? It had hit him like a freight train. He near silently slipped into the flat, eyes on the floor. Sherlock was hoping to avoid John as he went to the kitchen, intent on searching the fridge to see if he still had any blood. Cold, stale blood. He grimaced slightly at the thought. Certainly not a tempting meal, but it would do.

Stranger: John lifted his head from where he was sat on the sofa waiting for Sherlock at the sound of the fridge opening. "Sherlock?" He stood, rubbing at the gauze around his palm unthinkingly. Honestly, his flatmate believing in the existence of vampires, thinking he /was/ one, wasn't the strangest thing to happen in the flat. Of course Sherlock would think himself some immortal, impossibly strong and mysterious being. Of course. "I just boiled the kettle, if you want tea." John stood and poked his head into the kitchen, offering one of his best I'm-a-doctor-and-you're-a-patient-and-I-need-to-keep-you-calm smiles.

You: He pushed aside the milk one way and then the other. No blood. It was quite possible he'd had some and John might have binned it thinking it an old experiment. He straightened at his name and turned just slightly to find John in the doorway. He still avoided John's eyes. Sherlock didn't know if his eyes had faded back to their odd-but-human-looking blue/grey or if they still shined silver. He ran his tongue slowly over his teeth. "No," he brushed off, then crouched to search among John's jams on the refrigerator door. Still nothing. "Don't look at me like that," he muttered, quite certain John thought him mad - well, worse than usual - and was giving him some sort of piteous, annoying, condescending smile. He slammed the fridge shut in frustration. "There's nothing here for me."

Stranger: "What do you mean there's nothing here? I literally just went to the shops yesterday," John argued, getting tired of whatever nonsense was happening right now. With a huff, he stalked forward and reached for the handle to the fridge. "I've got milk, so we can make tea, and there's bread for toast, and I can even get takeaway if you like." Sherlock was certainly in one of his moods, probably cranky from hunger, and John wasn't about to let it continue if there was plenty of perfectly fine food in the flat for the man to eat so he could stop whinging. He yanked open the fridge and snatched the milk from the door, now chest-to-chest with the detective. "See?"

You: Sherlock knew John wasn't being purposefully obtuse. John rarely did it on purpose and especially in this case he had refused to believe Sherlock at all. So it shouldn't have angered him as much as it did. But the closer John got... the wound may have been dressed, but it was still actively bleeding, even now. And John really was so close, radiating heat and trying to look so clever. What a tasty little snack. He hummed softly and pushed the fridge closed again, much more gently, as he stepped forward to back John into it. "I do see." He ran his tongue over his teeth again, not the least surprised to find sharp points. A smile, not the least bit pleasant, bloomed on his face and one hand reached up to pin John in place. He could just rip out that throat and devour.

Stranger: John glanced up when the detective suddenly went from just tall to... well, looming. Before he knew it, John's back was pressed to the cool fridge door and he shuddered, fight or flight instincts kicking. He very nearly swung up the jug of milk to whack Sherlock over the head with it, but some tiny part of his brain reminded him that this was Sherlock, his /friend/, and he wouldn't hurt him. But at the sight of what looked like fangs, another, much larger part of his brain, the part that recognised a predator from years of evolution, suddenly lit up. Sherlock's eyes shone silver like moonlight, yet darkened with a hunger John was pretty sure he wasn't imagining. "Sherlock?" The milk fell from his hand and thumped to the floor. He curled his fists, just in case, as his pulse skyrocketed, sending his heart hammering against his sternum like it was trying to make a break for it. "Sherlock."

You: Fear was a fascinating mechanic in a mammal's body. Fight or flight, filling the animal in question with adrenaline. Some stupid animals would freeze, a third 'F' rarely mentioned because it made the humans feel weak. Small. The heart rate would speed up, pumping that adrenaline through the creature's body, waking it up, making it strong. But a faster heart rate also meant any wound would lose blood faster. Sherlock could already feel the way a puncture to the jugular would burst into his mouth, slide smoothly down his throat. 'Sherlock,' his name echoed from somewhere far away, quiet beneath the rushing of blood and thump of a fearful heart. 'Sherlock,' again, louder. John. Sherlock blinked twice and his smile slowly melted away, those silver eyes suddenly recognizing John's face. He stumbled back and winced against a furious headache and the burn in his throat. "I said-" he bit out, then winced again. "You idiot-" he hissed, though whether directed at himself or John was up to interpretation. His eyes flashed open and he reached for John again, this time taking his wounded hand and ripping off the bandage. "A compromise," he muttered, before putting the sliced palm to his mouth and drinking.

Stranger: Nothing about Sherlock's eyes or teeth or behaviour could be due to drugs or anything of the sort, and John blinked, suddenly realising just what he'd gotten himself into. And when Sherlock fell away, it still did nothing to comfort John, to bring his pulse back to a normal rate. "What--" A gasp scraped John's throat when Sherlock's pale lips closed around the open gash in his hand and he jerked instinctively, his other arm whacking at Sherlock's grip, but the detective wouldn't budge for shit, it seemed. What the /fuck/. Was it drugs? Was Sherlock so high he truly though he was a bloodsucking vampire? But again, drugs wouldn't explain the sight of Sherlock's teeth. Oh, Christ. Unable to fight him off, John stood there, leaning as far away from Sherlock as possible while his chest heaved. His blood pumped sluggishly onto Sherlock's tongue, and the sight had John feeling lightheaded. Or maybe that was the blood loss. Either way, John stumbled, knees quivering as he leaned back against the fridge for support once again and spots danced in his vision. "Sherlock," he gasped, hoping to get through to him again. "Sherlock, you've-- you've got to stop."

You: Were he a romantic, Sherlock might have thought John tasted better because of the connection they had, because of how much Sherlock had longed for him. Sherlock had never been a romantic and understood that John tasted so bloody good because Sherlock had been starving to the point that a massacre had sounded like a good idea. He was faintly aware of his flatmate smacking him, but that would do little to stop him now. /You really shouldn't go so long without feeding, Sherlock,/ a voice that sounded annoyingly like Mycroft's echoed in his head. /Someone might get hurt./ 'I don't care,' Sherlock might have said once upon a time. But John /was/ different, even if he didn't taste that way. And John sounded weak. Sherlock's silver eyes flicked up to where John was against the fridge and he slowly pulled away from John's hand with a wet sound almost like a kiss. His lips were stained red with blood. "I'm so thirsty," he tried to explain, licking across the wound that bubbled with more blood. "It will be alright. I just need more."

Stranger: John dragged his eyes open - when had he closed them? - and met Sherlock's silvery gaze head-on. Sherlock's tongue dragged, wet and smooth, across his palm, and a shiver wracked his frame. Whether from repulsion or something far more opposite than that, he wasn't sure. Sherlock had always been different, in every facet of the word, but John couldn't deny he'd taken a shining to the man from the get go. Intelligent, occasionally funny, handsome, and full of surprises - though this surprise took the cake. Drinking his blood felt so dangerous yet so intimate, it almost had John asking for more. But he was a doctor, and he knew the dangers of bloodloss far too well. And he hated to admit it, but he'd do anything for his flatmate. "Just... Thirty more seconds. That's it. We're cutting it fine, Sherlock, any more and I'm not sure I'll make it." Despite his trembling limbs and hazy vision, John tried his best to sound strong. "Could I just... Could I sit down? I might collapse."

You: Sherlock had been expecting a refusal. He had been certain he'd be taking more without permission, ruining whatever sort of friendship - or more? - he'd built with the strong little human. But John, his surprising and magnificent John, granted him what he wanted. And if all he wanted was more comfort while Sherlock drank, well, that could be arranged. Gracefully, Sherlock scooped up John as though he weighed nothing and carried him from the kitchen to the sitting room and placed John gently into his chair. Sherlock knelt beside him and returned his attentions to John's hand, already feeling much more in control as John's blood filled him. Strong enough, in fact, that thirty seconds later he did actually pull back. He licked his lips, savoring the last bits of blood, before standing and leaving John to rest in his chair. The kettle was freshly boiled. Surely John could do with a cuppa. Sherlock was back in just a minute, the tea still steeping, and set the cup down on the side table. "I..." he slowly dipped into his own chair. "I imagine you must have questions."

Stranger: Were John not currently suffering from blood loss, he might've argued with Sherlock picking him up like that, might've had something to say about his own weakness. But all John could do was loll against the detective's (vampire's) shoulder and do his best to stay awake. He kept his eyes trained on Sherlock as he drank, fascinated, and only let his eyes slip shut when Sherlock moved away. It felt like a blink, but then the other man suddenly sat across from him, a steaming mug at John's side. He coughed a bit, and tried to straighten up in his chair. To be honest, John had no idea what to say. "This isn't some god awful experiment, is it?"

You: Perhaps it would be wiser to let John rest. Sherlock had never been particularly caring towards John's needs, however, and starting now would probably give John the wrong impression. He smirked slightly, feeling more like himself every second as John's blood settled inside of him. It would be like him to pull something like this, wouldn't it? "No," he answered, steepling his fingers. "I assure you, John, what you just experienced is very real. I... didn't mean to lose control like that, but I think it certainly demonstrated to you that I am not joking. Or high."

Stranger: John blinked sluggishly across at him. Colour rose to Sherlock's cheeks, and he looked more alert now than he had at any point in the past week. And suddenly John understood why. "This is... this is mad," he laughed, still trying to catch his breath. He dropped his head back against the chair and stared up at the ceiling. "Absolutely mad." He squeezed his palm then, trying to stop the flow of blood as it dripped down his wrist. Ah, shit. John raised his head again. "Get me a bloody bandage, would you? And a towel while you're at it. And clean yourself up a bit, you've got...'' He trailed off and flapped a hand around his mouth to indicate the crimson staining Sherlock's lips. God, this was all so ridiculous, John was almost certain he could laugh.

You: Sherlock's eyes had slid back to John's hand and he followed the drip of blood as it slid down to his wrist and continued to trickle from there. It really hadn't been enough, not to last him as long as he'd like. It would do, but just barely. His eyes snapped back to John at the command and he nodded once, rising as gracefully as he had sat. No need to slip back into a more human sort of movement now that John knew. He wouldn't need to pretend to breathe or drink tea uselessly. In a way, John knowing could be a very good thing. No more pretending, at least not at home. Sherlock gathered the necessary supplies from the cupboard under the bathroom sink and cleaned himself up in the mirror. He'd been quite pleased when they'd stopped making looking glass with silver. It was nice to see his own face again. Sherlock returned to John and knelt again beside his chair. Much as he was tempted to lick away the blood that had seeped from the room, he didn't want to push his luck or his self-control, and instead wiped it away with the towel. "I tried to warn you," he lectured in a tone that firmly said I-told-you-so.

Stranger: John frowned, and watched Sherlock go. Had Sherlock always been that graceful? That imposing with his presence? Well, he had, but not as much, John supposed. Perhaps it was just his newfound knowledge, but something about Sherlock seemed... different. More predatory. Graceful, but in the way a tiger is graceful. He took a gulp of his tea. When Sherlock returned, John let Sherlock start to dress his wound. He huffed. "Yeah. You told me it was dangerous and expected me to push you away. Either you've entirely forgotten who I am, or you wanted this." He smiled a little and tilted his head. "I think it was the latter. Some part of you wanted this to happen. You wanted me to know." John twisted to grasp Sherlock's wrist. "And... I'm not gonna tell anyone, or leave, by the way. I hope you know that."

You: Sherlock's attention had made the slice worse (surprise) and Sherlock supposed he should feel guilty about that. He didn't. He cleaned the wound and laid down some gauze before wrapping John's hand back up. He managed not to look up at John's accusation, but that didn't stop it from hitting home. John knew him far too well by now, knee what a manipulative bastard he could be. It was almost comforting to realize. But Sherlock /had/ been expecting John to be afraid. This was far beyond what John knew, supernatural and a complete shift to world view. It should terrify him. Of course, it was quite possible it did - John always did get off on adrenaline. "I appreciate that," he answered slowly, fixing the bandage into place. "And things will be much easier now that you know. Though I hardly believe you're staying just for me." He shifted his gaze to the hand grasping his wrist. "You've always been a glutton for danger. You know that I could kill you..." Silver eyes flicked up to meet John's dark blue, "and you like it."

Stranger: As the world edged back into focus, the shock wore off, and John found he actually /was/ pretty frightened. For a second, anyway. Sure, Sherlock could kill him, but he also could have done so at any point in the last few years. And, well, John liked to imagine Sherlock maybe, possibly, actually cared for him. Just a little bit. So, with that perspective, John wasn't really in any danger from the other man. Or so he thought. Sherlock reminded John of a wild animal now, and any animal could return to base instincts and kill. His throat clicked with a swallow. Danger or not, Sherlock was his friend - or more? - and John didn't want to give up any part of him. He enjoyed the cases and sprinting around London and the petty arguments and the way Sherlock brought colour into his world. This new addition, this newly added spark of danger to their lives, didn't make it /worse/ though. In fact, Sherlock may have hit the nail on the head before the doctor even cottoned on himself. John's gaze latched with Sherlock's. "It's... not the /only/ reason I'm staying." Another swallow. "But it may be part of it."

You: John's heartbeat was speeding up again. This close, Sherlock could hear it, and every nervous swallow, too. Slowly, Sherlock stood to lean over John, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. A flash of fang, before they were hidden again. "Good. Then we continue to be mutually beneficial." He slinked around the back of John's chair, resting his elbows on the back of it. "Who knows? This may, in fact, prove to have been a good thing." It meant not having to keep this secret from John. It even felt somewhat intimate, John knowing. Like Sherlock had given John a piece of him. John had certainly given back, if one counted the warmth of blood in Sherlock's belly. He laughed, a low chuckle, and asked, "Do you believe in monsters now, John?"

Stranger: Sherlock's piercing gaze made John's breath catch in his throat, mouth falling open partway. He wet his suddenly dry lips. When Sherlock broke eye contact, moving behind him, he gulped, pulse kicking up the same way it had before, when Sherlock had been a bloodsucking monster on the verge of drinking the life out of him. Oh. Oh, no. He really was a goner. Not daring to look up and behind him, John sucked in a breath and stared across from him, out the window toward where the normal world lay beyond, where normal people were passing by with absolutely no idea about this new and fantastical world John had found himself involved with. And he wouldn't trade it for anything. "I believe in /you/," he whispered, the words slipping free without thought.

You: This was... decidedly intimate. Sherlock was tamping down the desire to give attention to John's neck, to trace the edge of his jaw. It was highly unlikely he'd just suddenly fallen into thrall. One sip of his blood was not enough. Besides, John was... they weren't like that. It was just the pace of John's heart, the high of having just fed. Even if John had been the first human to pull him out of a hunger-induced mad feeding. Even if he'd refused to come home until the moment John had told him he /wanted/ Sherlock to come home. His eyes fell shut at John's words, whispered and yet so powerful. Sherlock was surprised to find himself touched by the sentiment, as well. Sentiment, how vile, how human, how dull. But not when it was John. "Even after all of this? You're addicted to trouble, John." Sherlock had leaned forward, inches from John's neck. "It's one of my favourite things about you."

Stranger: John's eyes fluttered as Sherlock's breath ghosted over the back of his neck, and he was powerless to stop a shiver from racing down his spine. He couldn't see Sherlock, but he could feel the way the other man leaned closer, every hair on the back of his neck standing up, as though wanting to be that much closer to the other man. Mythical monster or not, Sherlock was a fantastic, brilliant man. And John most definitely had never thought about him as anything other than a good mate. Except for all the times he'd thought about how, well... fantastic, and brilliant he was. And attractive. And now, with even more danger thrown into the mix, John found any feelings for Sherlock harder and harder to ignore. "I'm addicted to you," he corrected, lips quirking up as he tried to imagine the expression on Sherlock's face at his admission. "Care to name a few other of your favourite things about me?" Ah, and there John went, flirting like his life depended on it with his flatmate. He'd squashed down any thoughts of doing so after his failed first attempt at Angelo's, but here, now, he could almost imagine things might change.

You: Sherlock had been pushing his luck, trusting that the danger would keep John invested. He knew any moment John could leap away. He was so very touchy about his sexuality, and while that typically meant a man was denying himself, Sherlock could also chalk it up to wishful thinking on his part. But John was always full of charming surprises. Sherlock had learned this about him day one. The shiver was one thing, the raised pulse and fast breath. But words were an entirely different animal. A reveal. He found his mouth had dropped open, eyes going wide with interest. He was flattered. "I suppose," he agreed, one hand experimentally caressing John's arm. "You're very good at surprising me. One of the only people who can." Was this flirting? "You have a protective streak, especially when it comes to me. So anti-violence until someone insults me. Then you're quick with the punches." He ran a finger of his free hand down the top of John's spine until he came to the shirt collar. "I'm also rather fond of your physique." Well, that was that. As blatant as one could get, though it was often necessary with John. "I've always been fond of soldiers."

Stranger: Sherlock's words sparked something in John's chest, something heated and passionate and fond until an amused smirk curled up the corners of his mouth. He may have been flirting, but Sherlock Holmes was flirting right back. And, surprisingly, John rather enjoyed it. He was entirely out of his comfort zone, a bit worried he may throw in the towel at any second, but in the grand scheme of things, this wouldn't be the strangest thing to happen today. So for once, John let himself feel. His eyes flicked down to the long fingers on his arm, and his smile grew. But then the finger on his neck made him stiffen. A flutter of lashes, a soft sound, and another shiver that had John's entire body shuddering. And it wasn't even much, but the fact that it was Sherlock seemed to increase the sensation tenfold. "Fond of soldiers? And /I'm/ the one who likes danger a little too much?" John had to admit, that boosted his confidence quite a bit.

You: Sherlock was relaxing into this, unnatural as flirting was for him. He hadn't been attracted to anyone in, oh, a century? And certainly not as much as John. No one had even captured him like John. And it seemed he was enjoying it... until John stiffened and Sherlock was certain he'd gone too far. He stiffened as well, holding a breath he didn't even need to have besides for speaking. A shiver flashed through John and Sherlock softened again. This was going well. Almost too well. Could he have ensnared John with just one feeding or had the man felt like this for some time? Did it really take Sherlock revealing himself to be a monster to convince John to want him? Sherlock laughed, half at the thought and half at John's words. "It seems we're both guilty of being daredevils." He continued to stroke John's neck, hoping to induce more shivers. All the while the detective wondered if, perhaps, he'd passed out from hunger somewhere and was simply dreaming this. "What sort of risk shall we take next?"

Stranger: John's breath hitched in his throat, and each brush of Sherlock's finger over the grooves in his spine sent shivers through John until his toes curled. His good hand curled into the arm of the chair, gripping it with white knuckles. All this pent up frustration and denied attraction had led to this moment, and now John was /so/ close that it almost hurt. The softest of noises slipped free with his next breath. Finally, he tipped his head back so he could peer at Sherlock upside down through lidded eyes. Fuck, he was gorgeous. The ridiculous thought brought John back to earth a bit, wondering if perhaps vampires had some ability to seduce those they drank from to make it easier for themselves. It would make sense, then, the lore surrounding them. He licked his lips, just slow enough to make sure it caught Sherlock's gaze. Yep, definitely flirting now. "Got anything in mind?"

You: It was fascinating. From this angle, Sherlock could see practically every change in John's body. His hand gripping the chair arm, the shift in his posture as he shivered. Everything but his face. He was just starting to consider moving around to the front of John when the human tipped his head back. Sherlock wasn't sure if it was the fact that John looked so thoroughly randy or if it was the obvious baring of the throat that sent all thoughts of turning back away. There was no going back, and perhaps this was always where they would end up. No, that was too romantic. But, of course, Sherlock didn't believe in coincidence. Long fingers cupped John's face upside-down and his silver eyes most definitely watched that tongue until it retreated back into John's mouth. What a tease. Sherlock smirked slightly, eyes flicking back to John's. What a stupid question. He wouldn't even dignify it with a response. Well, not a verbal one, at least. Instead, Sherlock leaned down to press his lips to the doctor's, soft and almost nervously shy.

Stranger: John could practically see the moment Sherlock decided to kiss him. Let it be said that Sherlock may be some seductive mythical monster with long limbs and excellent hair, but John wasn't exactly innocent to being the seducer himself. His lips curled up before pressing back against Sherlock's, his heart skipping a beat in the cheesiest way possible. Despite the almost predatory confidence Sherlock now exuded, his kiss was almost... nervous? Interesting. In an effort to comfort him, John lifted his good hand and weaved his fingers through the soft curls at the back of Sherlock's head. And now it was John's turn to practice restraint. In the same way Sherlock hadn't wanted to stop drinking his blood, John didn't want to stop kissing him. He wanted to kiss Sherlock until all Sherlock /knew/ was the feel of John's lips and the taste of his tongue. But the vampire was nervous enough as it was, so John slowly drew back after just a moment, flicking his eyes open to study Sherlock's face upside-down. "Alright?"

You: John Watson was kissing him back. This itself wasn't terribly surprising, as he'd practically been begging for it a moment ago. But taking in their history... every 'not gay' 'not a couple'. Every girlfriend. His indignation at being called a confirmed bachelor. That he had wanted it at all was the surprise. Sherlock thought, perhaps, he should pull away. But John's fingers found their way into his hair and Sherlock knew bliss. Sherlock parted his lips in a soft gasp at the feeling. A moment later John pulled away. Sherlock had closed his eyes at some point - he wasn't sure when himself - and now was hesitant to reopen them. Curiosity won out and John did not disappoint. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "More than." Sherlock wanted to kiss John properly, not at these odd angles. He slowly circled the chair, coming to stop in front of John. He leaned forward, kneeling one knee between John's legs. "Shall we try again?"

Stranger: It was only a kiss, yet Sherlock looked almost entirely blissed out, and John's ego grew that much more. "Oh, god yes." With a grin, John reached up once more and curled his fingers in Sherlock's suit lapels to drag him down for another kiss. The rough action stung his palm, but he didn't even care, too engrossed with tasting Sherlock's cupid's bow. A breath, and then he kissed him again. He tipped his head and slotted their mouths together just right, and John let his entire arsenal fire. He was bound and determined to make that big brain of Sherlock's go haywire. With a soft moan, John dragged Sherlock even closer and slid a hand up his back, the push and pull of their lips hypnotic. And oh god, this was Sherlock Holmes. This was the great consulting detective, his best friend, his /flatmate/. And John... didn't mind. He'd spent years denying any romantic involvement with Sherlock, but god, it was so much easier to accept and work with it, he was finding. Not just easier, but /amazing/.

You: Sherlock had been kissed before. While his interest in others was few and far between, one did still find companions over centuries of existence. This kiss, however, was very different. Perhaps it was because he'd never felt for anyone as he did John. Or maybe it was because John seemed quite determined to snog every thought out of Sherlock. The vampire certainly wasn't about to complain. Tugged forward, he had to quickly balance himself by pressing one arm against the back of the chair. His other hand found purchase on John's chest, the strong heartbeat a flutter beneath his pale fingers. Sherlock shifted as John pulled him closer, turning slightly to sit in his lap. He nipped at John's lower lip, drawing it into his mouth and sucking. He'd imagined this for some time, kissing John, but no fantasy could compare to the real thing. It almost seemed to good to be true.

Stranger: Being enveloped in Sherlock's scent and limbs had John reeling. Sure, he'd always denied his interest in this, but here, now, he realised he didn't want anything else. Vampire or not, this was Sherlock - mad, brilliant, and alluring in every single way. And a damn good snogger as well, apparently. John groaned into his mouth as Sherlock sucked on his lower lip. The ebb and flow of their mouths was almost too good to be true, especially for a first kiss. It felt entirely natural, like this was exactly what they should be doing all the time. And maybe that was the idea. John's hands cupped Sherlock's jaw, then slid down along the long, long column of his throat (he'd be a fool if he ever denied admiring Sherlock's neck from afar) and stroked a thumb over his collarbone. His fingers caught on the neckline of Sherlock's button-up and tugged playfully as he savoured the heavy weight of Sherlock in his lap.

You: He hummed softly as John's hands moved from his jaw and down his neck. Those calloused hands, not shaking in the least, though Sherlock felt like any moment he might become a little ninny trembling with want. Oh, he wanted John. Wanted every part of John. He smirked as John pulled on his collar and his hands left John's chest to instead undo his buttons. Sherlock was so focused on John's mouth, he found his hands weren't quite as dexterous as normal. He huffed and pulled back slightly to focus more on his hands, one of his fangs catching on John's lip as he shifted. Sherlock didn't notice straight away, still finishing up with the buttons. He tugged on his sleeves to pull the shirt off his chest. That done, he put his full attention back on snogging John. He leaned further into the kiss, tongue dipping into John's mouth, savoring the taste of him. His nails dug into John's jumper. It was so good. So very good. Sherlock didn't want to stop.

Stranger: John hadn't expected Sherlock to actually remove his shirt, but by god was he glad he did. His pleasant surprise was cut through by the sudden sharp sting in his lip, and John blinked as his gaze caught on the fang poking from Sherlock's parted mouth. Oh. He shuddered, something alighting deep in his core, but he didn't have time to dwell before his eyes landed on pale, smooth skin over a taut chest. Christ, he wanted that. He wanted /Sherlock/. Wanted to mark him and undo all those snarky deductions and sharp thoughts. John moaned into the vampire's mouth at the sudden attack on his lips, but he was John Watson and he would give as good as he got, damnit. His tongue curled with Sherlock's, then slipped past into his mouth, tasting slightly salty, and it took John a moment to realise he was tasting the remnants of his own blood. Which was... pretty weird, but not awful. They kissed and kissed until John's lungs burned, and he had to draw away for air. "Mm, Sher... Sherlock," he mumbled, moving back as his chest heaved. He smiled, fingers wrapped tight around Sherlock's slim ribs, skin cool to the touch. "You alright? I... I want to make sure you don't regret this."

You: John pulled away and Sherlock chased his lips, hungry for more. John was gasping for air and Sherlock blinked twice, trying to clear a very hazy head. Warm fingers burned against his ribs. John's chest heaved beneath his hands. And John was smiling up at him. "I-" He started, still trying to remember how to speak. He licked his lips, considering. "Me?" He finally asked, trying to put together what was happening here. "Why would I...? John, I hardly think I'm the one who would regret this." If he truly sat back to think about this - and Sherlock was still trying to bring his mind back from drowning in John so he needed a moment - didn't it raise a red flag that this was happening immediately after Sherlock had drank from him? Could a human be that susceptible to feeding? He'd never witnessed it himself, but thrall could be a very powerful thing. "What about you? You don't /do/ this, John." His fingers had crept up John's throat, past his chin, to trace those lips he'd just been kissing. "This might be the blood loss."

Stranger: John shivered and gazed up at Sherlock with hooded eyes. "Might be." Sherlock was right. He /didn't/ do this. But a lot of things were changing, right now. And he wasn't just attracted to the vampiric side of his flatmate. Sherlock was a brilliant and enigmatic man who helped John feel a bit less alone in the world. And tonight was a time of revelation. If Sherlock could bare himself to John, then John could do the same. His fingers fluttered up Sherlock's sides. "Sherlock... This isn't my first time with a man, you know." He smirked a little and met his gaze. "And I'm /not/ gay. But... I've never quite taken my eye off of you, either. It feels /good/ to kiss you," he admitted, voice low as his eyes flicked back down to admire Sherlock's chest. He swallowed, throat bobbing. "And you... You don't do this often. If at all. I don't want to frighten you, and...'' His throat tightened. "And lose you."

You: It was hard to stay focused while John smelled of blood, while his fingers played against his sides. A soft keen came low from Sherlock's throat and his cheeks coloured with John's own blood. The detective's eyes sharpened, however, at the next words, his head tilting to the side. "Soldiers away from home will often... experiment. Is that what you...?" He pulled to a stop as John continued, watching as the blond practically drank him in with his eyes. He scoffed slightly. "I'm not a fledgling, John. Do you honestly think, in the hundreds of years I've been alive, I haven't been with someone else?" But he softened moments later and curled into the doctor, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. "I am yours, John. You'd have to do much worse than this to lose me."

Stranger: John very blatantly ignored Sherlock's oh-so-innocent inquiry into his war days, sliding an arm around his bare back to pull him in and cradle him close. His injured hand gently lifted to weave into Sherlock's curls, and he smiled, relief relaxing the line of his shoulders. "That's good to hear. Thank you." His lips found their way to Sherlock's temple. "And, it's not that I think you haven't been with someone, it's just... not something that happens a lot, from what I can gather. And from what Mycroft's implied." John's eyes suddenly flew wide open. "Oh god. Is Mycroft a vampire too?"

You: He leaned into John's touch, finding he rather enjoyed John's fingers in his hair. Vain as he was, he knew they were one of his best physical traits. It seemed John agreed. "No, not often. Only those that prove better than the mundane I so often find myself surrounded by." John stiffened and Sherlock picked up his head to find the human wide eyed. "Must you bring up Mycroft now?" Sherlock groaned, sneering at the mention of his brother. "Yes, unfortunately. I'd rather he retire to a coffin and stay there." It wasn't /entirely/ true. Mycroft could be useful, but more often than not terribly annoying. But Sherlock didn't want to think about his idiotic brother. Except, "Do you and Mycroft often discuss my sex life?"

Stranger: John preened a little at the obvious compliment of having piqued Sherlock's interest. "Sorry," he laughed, shaking his head and finding himself awed by the news. Suddenly he had a thousand questions, but for now... there was a frankly gorgeous consulting detective/vampire in his lap, and John was all too happy to indulge him. He scratched his nails along the back of Sherlock's scalp and neck and turned his head to lightly flick his tongue along the shell of his ear. He snorted. "Christ, no, never. Just... I've heard things in passing."

You: Sherlock shivered at the attention, eyes falling shut. His fingers, meanwhile, played with the edge of John's jumper, before seeking out his warm skin beneath it. John seemed so soft in his wool and yarn, but beneath it was a strong soldier. John had never let himself go. "So you've heard my brother discussing my sex life with others. Much more comforting." Mental note: kill Mycroft later. Not now, of course. Now he was rather occupied with a blond, brilliant human. Someone who knew the depths of him and still wanted him. Yes, John truly was extraordinary. Sherlock pressed another kiss to his jaw, then trailed them down his throat to his clavicle.

Stranger: John rolled his eyes and fought back a sigh, instead choosing to curl his fingers around the back of Sherlock's neck lightly. "You know, I have half a mind to rip off this bandage just to shut you up," he murmured. Any threat in his words was lost, however, the moment he groaned and dropped his head back, pressing his throat closer to Sherlock's talented mouth. And god, it felt so risky arching his throat like that, opening it up completely to the predator in his lap with fangs that could rip through his flesh like a hot knife through butter. Maybe Sherlock was right about John liking danger a bit too much. A soft moan of Sherlock's name gusted from his lips, the fingers on the back of his neck drawing him even closer.

You: "No, you don't," he murmured against John's throat. Something primal moved in him as John bore his throat. A sense of triumph, of victory. He should dig right in - and Sherlock did, in his own way. He lavished John's throat with kisses and nips, stopping to suck hard once or twice to leave angry marks that claimed John as his own. John pulled him even closer and Sherlock obeyed, shifting back onto his knees, hips rolling forward in search of friction. "You're delicious, John."

Stranger: John supposed that, after hundreds of years, you got a lot of practice at this sort of thing, and the proof was right here all along his neck. Sherlock's tongue and teeth were /talented/, garnering moans and gasps from between his lips that John didn't even bother trying to stifle. His nails dragged their way down Sherlock's bare back before sinking into his hips to help with the rhythm. He cursed breathlessly, throbbing with heat and arousal. Sherlock's words brought a flush to John's cheeks and he tore his eyes open to gaze at the man above him with a lazy smirk. "Yeah? You think so?" He was being cheeky now, but the temptation to tease Sherlock - vampire or not - would never grow old.

You: Sherlock added his own moans in harmony, John's nails in his back a new sensation and one he was rather surprised to find he liked. He laughed low, his hands sinking lower, to find the edge of John's jeans. "Oh, yes," he purred, licking a line back up John's throat. "In more ways than one." His silver eyes met John's and he smirked right back. He wondered, for a moment, at the idea of keeping John like this. Of doing something like this, well, forever. What would John say to the idea of losing his humanity? His smirk dipped slightly and Sherlock shook away the thought. Later. That could wait. He was busy giving in to sensation and temptation. His cold hands dipped under denim and Sherlock refocused on the task at hand.

Stranger: "Shit." John shuddered in Sherlock's grasp and let his head fall back once again, hardly able to believe what was happening. They were about to /shag/. Him and Sherlock Holmes, of all people. The army doctor and consulting detective. But everything had led to this moment, hadn't it? Every case, every sprint through London's streets, every shared giggle and every time they caught each other's gazes just a second too long. A ragged gasp escaped him as those long, clever fingers worked into his jeans. "You know, you-- You don't have to hold back," John panted, already losing himself to what was about to happen. Once again, he dragged open his eyes. "Not exactly sure what being a vampire entirely entails, but-- Be you, okay? Don't hold back on my account."

You: Sherlock found the waistband of John's pants and- ah, there it was. His fingers slowly wrapped around John's cock and Sherlock smirked at John's reaction. He was rather pleased to find John was already hard for him, desperate for his touch. Sherlock could commiserate, his own member tight in his trousers. "My, my," he whispered, pleasantly surprised by the girth of it. But he was caught a bit off guard by John's panted words and he frowned slightly. "Of course I do," he murmured, shifting slightly so his other hand could undo John's fly. There was hardly any room to actually move. "I wouldn't dream of hurting you." He had already, in a way, taking so much of John's blood. But, he reasoned, the cut had already been there. Not his fault. Sherlock refocused and slowly started to pump his hand up and down John's length.

Stranger: An embarrassing whine slipped past his lips and John gasped for breath, hips twitching beneath Sherlock's thighs. He cursed again, fingers digging hard enough to bruise into Sherlock's hips. He let his head fall forward, forehead pressed to Sherlock's shoulder as he watched the vampire's hand move through lidded eyes. Ah, fuck. That had to be illegal. "I think I can handle you," he whispered, smirking a bit and using his tight grip to yank Sherlock closer. Then his hands slid around, drifting along Sherlock's chest and stomach until he could start tugging at his belt to unfasten it. Everything grew a bit hazy around the edges, the world slowing and slowing until it stopped completely, like the universe was holding its breath as John wriggled down Sherlock's own fly. Maybe it was because he already didn't have much blood to begin with, but John found himself dizzy with arousal. "I mean it."

You: He thought himself so impressive. And Sherlock had to admire... er, admit, John certainly had many impressive bits to him. But he had no idea what Sherlock was capable of. The vampire hissed slightly as John started on his own fly. Was John even aware of the fact that Sherlock couldn't have gotten hard without having eaten John's blood? "You don't know how small you are," he murmured, not unkindly. Honestly, considering how much John got off on danger, one could count this as pillow talk. "I could break you so easily. Rip out your throat like nothing. This flesh," he sped up his hand, his grip getting just a fraction tighter, "is so flimsy, John."

Stranger: John almost laughed at that, fingers finding their way to wrap around Sherlock's own cock, and... Oh, Christ, he was long. The heavy weight in his hand made John's throat tighten and he groaned, eyes fluttering as he started to move his hand in time with Sherlock's. It was a bit clumsy at first, something he wasn't used to doing on another man, but he got the hang of it quickly, using Sherlock's moans as encouragement. He shuddered, hypnotised by the way their hands moved over one another, and bit hard into his lip to hold back a deep groan. "Shit, Sherlock," he breathed. "What's - ah - what's stopping you?"

You: Sherlock pressed into John's hand, his hips moving with the rhythm in an attempt to guide John who, experienced with men or not, seemed rather clumsy. Sherlock had the feeling he'd talked himself up much the way Sherlock had. Neither of them had much experience in this field, it seemed. He grunted as John found his groove. Sherlock's head tipped forward and he clenched his teeth. He hadn't been given such attention in quite some time. He'd forgotten how incredible it could be. Or perhaps it had never been so incredible in the first place. He pushed John's pants further down and finally got a good look at John's cock. He was gorgeous, all pink and engorged. "I'd like to do this more - unf - more than once, thank you," he whispered. "Oh, John. Oh, my John. Yes." Sherlock's hips bucked again. He didn't need to pant for breath, but he did need air to speak, and it was becoming harder to make himself do it.

Stranger: Something about Sherlock's words, about the promise of more, the promise of a /future/, had John clenching his eyes shut and moaning roughly. The low purr of Sherlock's baritone voice in his ear had shivers coursing down his spine every moment, blending magically with the heat pooling in his gut the more Sherlock worked him. His breath caught. Despite the male voice and male hands and /very/ male prick in his hand, John found himself more aroused than he'd been in a long, long time. But it was just Sherlock, wasn't it? The knowledge that this was the greatest (and only) consulting detective in the world. And a fucking /vampire/ no less. And then John felt himself edging closer, bucking into Sherlock's hand with quivering thighs and movements verging on desperate. Going by the sounds he was pulling from Sherlock's mouth, the other man wasn't far behind. And then John had what was probably the stupidest idea of his entire life. (But, he was nothing if not a lover who doted on his partner's every need.) With his teeth, John ripped the bandage from his wounded hand, the freshly clotted blood stretching and then breaking with the movement until scarlet drops slithered along his wrist. Smiling around a moan, John twisted Sherlock's cock in his grip just so, at the same time he placed his bloodied hand to Sherlock's lips.

You: Sherlock's eyes had slid closed at some point. He was close, so close. How long had he dreamed of John wanting him back, of what they might do together? It didn't compare to the real thing. His John wanted him. Even knowing the full truth, John wanted him. Sherlock was rather determined to have them come together - it would be beautiful and poetic and (christ he was a bit romantic, wasn't he?) that was all he was focused on. Until the scent of blood became stronger. Sherlock's eyes flashed open and then widened as he came into John's hand. He shuddered around the orgasm, but even that couldn't keep him from the bloodied hand placed to his lips. John was forgotten but for his blood. Sherlock didn't even care to finish him off. He lapped at the wound and tore at it with his fangs to make the slice bleed faster. More, yes, more. He growled low and licked a line up John's wrist to collect the beads of blood that had dripped down, before enthusiastically returning to the initial wound, now even worse off than before.

Stranger: John grinned as Sherlock came, soaking up every bit of his expression and committing it to memory, the sight practically pushing him over the edge as well. But then Sherlock's fangs cut through his skin like paper and John hissed with pain, the peak of his near-orgasm fading for a moment because /damn/ that hurt. Sherlock dragged a tongue along the sensitive skin of his wrist, a growl rattling in his chest that made John's entire body throb with arousal, and then just like that he was coming, spilling over his own abdomen. It didn't take long for the high to wear off, pain slicing through pleasure a bit too strongly for his tastes. John gasped for breath, fear sliding along his veins at the ravenous look on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, wait--" He grunted with pain, squeezing his eyes shut as he winced. Gently, he tried to tug his wrist away. "I didn't say you could bloody drink me /dry/."

You: His blood was laced now with endorphins (from the sex) /and/ adrenaline (from the fear) and it was practically a drug all its own. Post-coital feeding seemed to have many advantages over a typical hunt. The part of Sherlock that was still the logical detective filled that away for further use. Sherlock, losing that part of himself, shifted over the hand possessively, nails gripping it tight. He would not lose it again. The hand tried to tug away and Sherlock raised his head just an inch to hiss at John, fangs covered in the other's blood. He looked more animal than man, his mouth absolutely smeared in a red hand print. The vampire returned to his meal, humming softly in pleasure around a mouthful of blood.

Stranger: Oh, god, he hadn't intended this. He'd just wanted Sherlock to have a taste, a /lick/, something to make his orgasm mindblowingly perfect, and now John wasn't entirely sure he'd be alive to go another round like Sherlock had wanted. His flesh really /was/ flimsy. John winced at the sting, like a hundred paper cuts at once. "Sherlock, you've got to stop," he practically begged. John's vision darkened around the edges, his lids struggling to stay open. He'd already lost /so/ much blood today, and he wasn't sure he could afford to lose even another cup. Something primal and frightened reared its head at the sight of Sherlock's mouth smeared with his own blood, and John yanked again, desperately trying to disconnect his hand from Sherlock's mouth. His other hand shoved against the vampire's chest, hard at first, and then weaker as he lost more blood.

You: A voice cut through, far away. It wanted him to stop, but Sherlock very much did not want to. Didn't the voice know he needed this? The hand tugged again, harder, desperate, and hunter reared back. His nails clenched hand so hard they popped through skin. It was fighting like a dying animal and Sherlock smiled. Weaker and weaker, his John. He blinked once. Twice. Oh, god, John. Sherlock's hands released his meal and he tried to rise and take a step back, tripping over his undone trousers. The vampire hit the ground hard and hissed. It wasn't important, couldn't be important now. "John," he choked out, still licking his lips. "No. No, I didn't mean-" He tucked himself back into his pants, if only so he could then move back to John's side. "Tell me what to do." John was the doctor, he knew how to help people with blood loss. Sherlock had never wanted to save a victim before. Had he gone too far? He couldn't even remember what had inspired him to grab John's hand. How had the bandage come off? Had he ripped it off? "Tell me what I can do. Please." The scent of blood was still maddening, but worse was John's pale, desperate face.

Stranger: John gave a sharp yelp as Sherlock's nails dug into his skin, the flash of pain bringing him back to awareness if only for a moment. Almost instinctively, John tugged up his trousers (as if /that/ was important right now) then wound the fingers of his other hand tight around his now shredded palm with a wince. His breath came in quick, shallow pants. Sherlock's voice cut through the fog and John slouched back into the chair, eyelids fluttering as his heart struggled to pump whatever blood remained through his limbs. "Hypovolemic shock," he gasped. The world spun. "Not sure how much blood I've lost. But enough to lower my blood pressure way too much." The room darkened around the edges. "Might be that I just lost it too fast, but if not..." He gasped for breath, limbs trembling and cold as his body fought to keep enough blood in his core so that his heart continued pumping. "I'll need something to replace the blood. Crystalloid, probably." His words slurred. "If I don't wake up in a couple hours... take me to hospital." And then the everything went dark.

You: Why had he started feeding again? Sherlock ran his knuckles across John's cheek. He wanted to apologize, to let John know he hadn't done it on purpose. John, who had firmly stated he believed in Sherlock, even after learning what he was. His John. The words caught in his throat and instead he choked out, "Stay with me." But John was fading fast. Sherlock rose quickly and moved to find a blanket. He'd need to keep John warm and certainly Sherlock couldn't warm him with his lack of body heat. He grabbed the duvet off his bed and tugged it back to the sitting room where he wrapped it around John. Gently, he shifted the man from his chair to the sofa and elevated his feet with a pillow. That done, Sherlock glanced at the clock and began to pace. Take John to hospital, but what would he say had happened with the hand? Not to mention John was covered in his own cum. Christ, Sherlock should probably clean him up. Would they even be able to save him? Or would Sherlock need to step in and demand John remain with him... forever? At this point, all Sherlock could do was clean John up so he could look somewhat more presentable if they did go to hospital. And re-wrap the wound. And wash his own face of John's lifeblood. There was a lot to do. He got moving.

Stranger: The first thing John knew was the raging ache behind his eyes. He winced, brow scrunching. The second was the complete and utter silence that engulfed him. And the third was how utterly heavy his limbs felt. With all of the willpower John had, he dragged his eyes open slowly, blinking up at the ceiling of his and Sherlock's flat. His vision swam, then stabilized, and he sucked in a shuddering breath. What happened? And then the fourth thing John knew was a burning in his palm. He winced as he lifted his hand. Nasty laceration. That'd need stitches. But what had caused it? He blinked. Blinked again. Oh. Right. John inhaled once more and attempted to speak, though the single word he managed was rough against his throat. "Sherlock?" The comfort of unconsciousness was like a siren call, but John resisted.

You: The selfish part of him wanted to sulk. But of course his normal sulking spot was occupied by John, so he'd have to sulk in his chair. Or perhaps he should play. If John did come back to him, the music might help relax him. But Sherlock couldn't risk getting lost in his violin and possibly losing track of time. Besides, he was still trembling. This was entirely his fault. The sound of his name had him up and leaping over the coffee table to get to John. "I'm right here," he said softly, taking John's uninjured hand. "How are you feeling? Would you like to go to hospital?" Sherlock was ready if they had to. He already had Mycroft on call in case they needed a car.

Stranger: John let his eyes fall shut, suddenly finding he didn't want to look at Sherlock's face, remembering how the last time he'd been conscious, it'd been covered in his own blood. He curled his fingers. No numbness. And his toes - no tingling. Blood pumping fine then. He placed two fingers to his wrist, just above where Sherlock's hand was holding. His pulse was weak and fluttery but there. Good. "I think I'll be fine," he murmured. He'd lost a lot of blood, no doubt about that. But his downfall seemed to have been the speed at which he lost it. John swallowed hard and his brow crinkled. "Water. I need water."

You: Sherlock wanted John to just look at him. He could remember John's own words to him, 'I don't want to frighten you and lose you.' They went round circles in his head. "John?" He asked again, wondering if the doctor had slipped back into a state of unconsciousness. Then John shifted to check his own pulse and Sherlock understood. He was taking stock of his own body. And John's final declaration had Sherlock calming, as well. "Good. That's good." He shifted back to sit on his heels, but was hopping up again at John's request. "Just a moment," he responded, darting to the kitchen to get a glass of water. It took Sherlock half a minute and when he returned he pushed the drink into John's good hand. "John, I-" He should say something, but what could he possibly say? "You know that-" He cleared his throat and sat on the coffee table. He was too proud to fully speak his apology. But John would understand.

Stranger: With whatever last bit of strength he had, John managed to push himself up just enough so his head was propped against the arm of the couch and he could sip the water Sherlock gave him gratefully. But he still couldn't quite meet the other man's gaze. He shook his head. "No. It's... don't. It's not your fault." He sucked in a breath and shut his eyes as a wave of dizziness washed over him. "I'm the one who took off the bandage, who put my hand to your mouth. I... Oh, Christ, I forced you to drink from me. It wasn't even /consensual/." John squeezed his eyes shut, sick with guilt or bloodloss or maybe both. "Oh god, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

You: John still wouldn't look at him and Sherlock was certain it was because he'd gone too far. He'd revealed himself to be a monster without any self control. But then John spoke. Sherlock's shame shifted to confusion. Well, that very much explained why Sherlock could not remember removing the bandage. His lips parted in an 'o' but he really wasn't sure what to make of this. Anger bubbled in him. But was it fair to be angry with John when Sherlock had nearly killed him? He shifted slightly and glanced away. "Don't apologize. Were I actually feeding regularly, I wouldn't have lost control. It's my fault for not eating." He waved away the idea of John forcing him. Sherlock hadn't fought. And when he'd taken John's hand earlier today, that had certainly not been consensual, either. They were even now, as far as Sherlock was concerned. "Perhaps now you actually understand that I /am/ dangerous and how idiotic of a move that was."

Stranger: John bit hard at the inside of his cheek and squeezed Sherlock's hand tight. But he still couldn't quite look at him. He sighed. "I didn't mean to make you drink. I just thought... I thought maybe a taste would make things better for you. Because I'm an idiot." Sherlock admitting to not feeding as regularly as he should made John feel a bit better, though he still felt that what he'd done was wrong. "Yeah. I understand." He cleared his throat. "And maybe now you understand that you need to eat more." John finally glanced over at him out of the corner of his eye, smiling a little. "Wanker." With that fond endearment, John slowly pushed himself up into a seated position, pretending like the earth wasn't tilting on its axis as he scooted for and cupped Sherlock's face with his good hand. His touch was feather-light and weak, but there. Slowly, he leaned forward for a soft kiss. "You're not leaving, are you?"

You: Sherlock gently returned the squeeze. They had both made mistakes. This would be a learning process. One that hopefully would not kill John. "You sound like my mother," he groaned, rolling his eyes at John's lecture. He was all business though when John shifted, gently helping him sit up. He froze at the touch to his cheek, his eyes searching John's, until they fluttered shut at the kiss. Ah. Good. They were still doing that, then. "Of course not," he whispered, voice soft as John's touch. He slowly opened his eyes. "Are you?"

Stranger: "No. Never. I could never leave you." John closed his eyes, because by god they were a chore to keep open, and rested their foreheads together tiredly. He knew he should drink more water, replenish the fluids his body had lost, but right now he couldn't bear the thought of pulling away from Sherlock. He swallowed thickly. Christ, they really would have to be more careful in the future.

You: Sherlock shifted his hands to John's waist, before lifting one to cup his chin. "Don't make promises you can't keep," he whispered lightly, almost not meant for John. Because he would leave, someday, either by choice or because someone or something forced him away. Also, there was a very, very small voice that he was trying to ignore that was telling him John was only acting like this because he had quickly fallen into thrall. It would have been ridiculously fast, but it was possible. Sherlock pressed another feather-light kiss to John's lips. "Are you lightheaded? Can I get you anything?"

Stranger: The tiniest of frowns tugged at John's lips. "I'm not," he murmured back. It was true. He couldn't leave. And nothing could ever make him leave, not when he and Sherlock were two of the most stubborn men alive, and not when he'd only just gotten Sherlock in this way. "I've wanted this for longer than tonight," he promised, dragging his eyes open after the soft kiss. It tugged at his heart strings. His pulse fluttered, and he wasn't sure if that was because of Sherlock or the lack of blood pressure after losing so much so quickly. "Yeah, I am. I just need to rest. Let my body replenish the blood I lost," he mumbled, weakly curling a hand in Sherlock's shirt.

You: It was a pitying glance that John received. Of course John would think that, but it couldn't be so. Not unless... But John would never accept the change. Would never give up so much of himself. "Have you?" Sherlock asked, glad for the change of subject. "I have, as well. I never thought you would see me in such a light. Especially now that you know what I am." He wrapped his arms further around John and held him close. "You rest. I'll be right here."

Stranger: John shook his head slightly. "Vampire or not, you're still Sherlock. You're still a mad, brilliant detective with the most gorgeous eyes I've ever seen." He smiled crookedly, almost looking drunk. God, he was so dizzy. He needed to lay back down. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm sorry I took off the bandage." John's eyes drifted shut and he shifted in Sherlock's grip to stretch out along the couch again. He let out a breath, immediately feeling better once he was horizontal. His bed would be more comfortable, but he literally couldn't stomach the idea of going all the way there right now.

You: A shadow crossed Sherlock's face and he glanced away. Even having seen how dangerous and monstrous Sherlock could be, John was still attracted to him. Even though the monster had been directed at John. "I'm sorry I lost control." His arms loosened and he allowed John to shift out of his arms into a stretched position. "I'll feed more often now. Anything to keep you safe." He drew the back of his hand across John's cheek. He was so pale from blood loss still. It wasn't right. He should be put to bed, then. It would help him regain his strength. "My strong soldier," he murmured, lifting John like he weighed nothing. He carried John down the short corridor to his own room, intent on wrapping John in his sheets.

Stranger: "Only if you feed from me," John murmured, not even knowing where the words had come from as he pressed into Sherlock's light touch. But it was true. No more bags, or random donors, or whoever it was Sherlock fed on. John knew now, just how personal and intimate it could be. And he preferred to be Sherlock's only source of blood. It'd work, if Sherlock fed regularly and took smaller amounts of blood at a time. And if Sherlock didn't allow himself to starve into a frenzy. Something firm pressed hard beneath his knees and back, and then he was weightless, lifted into the air. He hummed and blearily opened his eyes as the hall ceiling passed in a blur above him. John didn't exactly appreciate being carried, but it was the second time Sherlock had done so that night. So John figured the detective - /vampire/ - tended to prefer it. As he sank into silky sheets, John hummed and blinked up at Sherlock. "My brilliant detective."

You: Sherlock was both thrilled and alarmed by John's offer. To have just John to feed from, to have John willingly offering to become his sole donor, it made his non-beating heart flip. But John couldn't really understand what he was offering. Couldn't possibly. Doctor or not, he was not in the proper state of mind to properly appreciate the consequences. "We'll discuss it further when you're more coherent," Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand after depositing John in his bed. Sherlock crossed to the other side of the bed and crawled in behind John. He might rest for a while, too. He didn't need to, technically, but he could. And right now he did not want to leave John's side. "Yes, yours," he agreed. "Always yours."

Stranger: John smiled tiredly and turned his head to Sherlock, drinking in the sight of him. He looked better than he had all week, and knowing it was due to John's blood nearly had the human preening. His eyes slipped fully shut again, hand sliding across the sheets to wrap around Sherlock's. "Always mind." He yawned. "Always yours." Though he wasn't entirely aware of his words, John found himself meaning them, knowing he wouldn't take them back for anything. Especially not after tonight, with his very lifeforce inside of Sherlock Holmes. He smiled at the thought as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

You: Sherlock didn't remove his hand from John's. He laid for some time drinking in the sight of his little blond human. He studied every crease and line of his face. The way his eyelashes fanned across his cheeks. The shape of his nose, his lips. The gentle, steady breathing and the even thrum of his heartbeat. Sherlock felt warmed by it and John's very blood that was keeping him going now. As close to two beings being one as one could get. At some point Sherlock drifted off himself for the first time in what felt like years. His hand never left John's, may he wake strong again.

Stranger: It was some hours later before John woke. He blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling above him. Christ, what had happened? He cast his mind back desperately, to the cut on his palm, to Sherlock swirling out of the flat like a hurricane, and to his return, when he'd... John gasped and sat bolt upright in bed, chest heaving as a rush of memories flooded his mind like a broken dam. Oh god. Sherlock was a /vampire/. He glanced around and, realising he was in Sherlock's bedroom, turned to his side. His hand was clutched in Sherlock's grip, the other man slumped against the sheets in a doze. And despite what had happened, despite the bloodloss, John's heart warmed. And then the rest of him warmed too as he remembered the kissing (and more) they'd shared. He swallowed thickly. But it was a harsh reminder of his hand as well so, ever so slowly, John disentangled himself from the vampire and padded away to go rebandage his palm.

You: He had slept. Sherlock never slept. He opened his eyes, frowning, and cast his eyes to the ceiling. His hand was empty and Sherlock curled his fingers in. He'd expected John to be here when he woke, but now that he really thought on it... perhaps John had never laid down next to him at all. If it had been a dream, how much of it? He sat up slowly and ran a hand through his curls, fluffing them up. Well, he was no longer starving, so he had certainly fed. And a quick check of his mobile confirmed that he had messaged Mycroft about possibly bringing John to hospital. So it had happened, at least in some small part. John knew what he was and had not staked him where he lay. "John?" Sherlock called then, gracefully standing from his bed and moving back into the main part of the flat. "John?"

Stranger: "Ah - here!" John called from where he was sat on the sofa with medical supplies splayed out on the coffee table in front of him. He'd managed to undress and clean his hand, but was currently struggling to wrap it tight enough with one hand to staunch the blood that still sluggishly flowed from the wound. He lifted his head. "Hey." A soft smile, and John nodded Sherlock over. "Could you help me with this? It's sort of your fault, after all," he teased.

You: Sherlock paused in the doorway to watch John work a moment. "Good morning," he murmured, returning the smile, though frankly he had no idea what time it was. His smile wilted at the words, much as he knew John was teasing. It was still true. Eyes down, he made his way to the sofa and sat beside John, taking the bandage from him and tightening it in small increments. "Is that too much?"

Stranger: John snorted and glanced pointedly out the window. "It's like, early evening, but alright," he chuckled, clearly in a much better state than he'd been before he'd gone to sleep. Well, passed out more like it. He felt a hundred times better, his body quick to replace the blood it had lost. But suddenly John only had eyes for Sherlock. The detective looked positively downtrodden at John's comment and he sighed softly, lifting his free hand to tilt his chin and get their eyes to meet. "Hey. It's not your fault, I didn't mean it. It's fine." He shook his head. "That's good, thanks."

You: Sherlock secured the bandage and pulled his chin from John's grasp. He pressed a soft kiss to the bandaged palm and placed it back into John's lap. "Early evening is close enough to my morning," he murmured, glancing out into the slowly dimming London streets. "I know," he finally responded. "I know it's fine now." His eyes returned to John, who looked much better than he had before. Colour was returning to his cheeks. "You look better. Do you feel better?"

Stranger: John blinked and frowned when Sherlock pulled away from him, a bit hurt as he lowered his hand. Maybe everything earlier had just been exacerbated by Sherlock's hunger. Maybe he didn't feel for John, /desire/ John, the same way he felt for Sherlock. The thought was like an ice cold bucket of water over his head, despite the kiss Sherlock placed over the bandages.. He lowered his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah I'm fine. Just needed a bit of time, that's all."

You: "Perfectly understandable. I took a large amount of blood from you." He remembered then what John had said about him feeding - something about 'only from me' and thought to bring it up... but perhaps, judging from the look on John's face, he ought to just let it go. Perhaps, now that he was feeling better, John was remembering just how dangerous Sherlock was. Perhaps he was thinking twice about wanting him at all. "I think a bit more time should do it. We'll stay in tonight. You can read or watch telly or whatever it is you do on nights off."

You: ((yes! hope to see you again soon! gnight!))

Stranger: ((goodnight!))

Stranger has disconnected.

[mousedetective]

Never Will I Forget The Deep Shadows, Never Will I Waste The Moon’s Light (1/15 or 16)

So yes, I did not finish it last night. ::hangs head:: I will finish it today, though, mark my words! This is a very Sherlock-centric story, but there is also a ton of Molly (though not Sherlolly...we’ll leave that for a possible sequel, as I wanted to leave this semi-S2 compliant) and an epic magical confrontation with Moriarty and...

Oh. Did I mention that Sherlock is a magician? Because he is.

Anyway, I’m reposting the existing chapters leading up to the reveal on WIP Big Bang, along with the new chapters, so it’s all starting over on AO3 so new people can discover this story.There is also pretty art by Red Bess Rackham that I will have properly linked on the first chapter hopefully soonish, so please enjoy!

~~~

Never Will I Forget The Deep Shadows, Never Will I Waste The Moon’s Light - The Holmes brothers come from a long line of powerful magic practitioners, but they are forced to keep their skills a secret. When Molly accidentally finds out about Sherlock’s powers and doesn’t turn away from him he slowly realizes that this pleases him, but soon enough he gets careless and is put in a position he would rather not be in, especially when others find out that she knows and attempt to use her as a pawn in their own games and machinations.

Read Chapter 1 @ AO3 | Buy Me A Coffee? | Send Me A Prompt

Mycroft stood regally by the fireplace in his study. ”You know you have to keep it a secret, Sherlock. No mortal can know.”

He was lounging in the chair he favored, his leg over the arm. Only when he really wanted to annoy his brother did he toss all sense of decorum and propriety out the window, especially since the chair wasn’t that comfortable to begin with and the position made it less so. ”Easy enough for you to say. Your assistant who’s tied to you nearly twenty-four hours a day is one of us.”

“Well, that’s what you get for going and getting attached to a mortal army doctor, a mortal pathologist and a mortal inspector at Scotland Yard,” Mycroft said, a hint of snideness in his tone.

“And a mortal housekeeper,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Yes, I know. I set myself up among mortals. I purposefully chose to live among them. It’s my own fault for that. Etcetera, etcetera. You’ve had this tune for years.” He couldn’t stand the position anymore so he put himself to rights and then simply slumped to the side, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and settling his cheek on his knuckles. “At least I didn’t become a hermit like Sherrinford.”

“Sherrinford had no other choice,” Mycroft said quietly, gazing into the fire. “Not after the incident.” He lifted the snifter of brandy in his hand and took a sip. “And if you aren’t careful, Sherlock, with your continued pushing yourself to your absolute limits, you might be next.”

Sherlock bit back a sigh. His brother had always felt himself his keeper, ever since he was young. It appeared that would never change, not in a million years. He wondered when he would ever get out from under his brother’s thumb. Possibly never, he supposed. Perhaps if Sherrinford…no, it didn’t do to dwell on that. No one in the family talked about it. No one admitted that Sherrinford existed, for the most part. He was an afterthought these days, as though he had never really been a part of the family.

He supposed if he wasn’t careful, one day, he might be an afterthought as well.

The world knew he was different. They knew he was a genius, a man who could solve the trickiest of tricky crimes. The ones that were deemed unsolvable by most. His reputation had grown steadily larger as time had gone by, ever since John had come into his life and started keeping the blog. The Detective and the Blogger, the Crime Fighting Duo. Oh, there were so many monikers for them, so many names. He was someone the world thought they knew every fascinating tidbit about, and what they didn’t know they wanted to learn.

But there was one secret they absolutely couldn’t know, as his brother was just now reminding him.

He, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, had been born with the ability to do magic.

Not the cheap parlour tricks that stage magicians could do, the illusions meant to wow and mystify and audience, the type of stuff that could be easily debunked. No, he knew real magic. Old magic. The kind of magic that traveled through bloodlines as old as time immortal, the stuff Druids talked of long ago. He could do almost anything, really. For one as young as he was, for someone who honestly didn’t study ancient texts half as hard as his brothers had or practice anything near as much he was twice as powerful as they were.

He just…didn’t care. It made him different, even more different than he already was. His brilliance had set him apart in many ways; being able to do magic, being something separate than mere mortals had been icing on a cake he had simply not wanted. When he had been a young child he had reveled in it, but when he got older, when Mycroft pressed the importance of hiding his abilities, hiding the truth about himself, when he saw what happened when someone trusted the wrong person…he was more than eager to do so. Being seen as just a cold, egotistical genius was fine by him.

And yet when Donovan had called him a freak he’d hated that term so much. He’d always kept that icy demeanor when she said it but the words hit like a blow to the gut. It was the worst thing to hear, the one insult that actually hurt. When the children he’d been around growing up had called him that, he’d held back tears until he had absolute privacy, then let tears fall. When he’d heard it as a teen, and later in his university years, he’d turned to heroin to numb it all away. By the time he was an adult he’d swallow it down and let it sit there, cutting on the way down, making him hate the world just a little more.

But his friends had healed those bits of him. It was true they didn’t know they whole truth, they could never know the whole truth, but over time, John and Molly and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had made him feel…normal. Or at least more normal than he had ever felt in his life before. He appreciated that more than he could tell them. He wasn’t great at showing it, unfortunately; the Christmas party had made that abundantly clear, but he was willing to try harder. He supposed he could say it was a New Year’s resolution, if he actually believed in that type of twaddle. They had done some good for him; he supposed he should be better at showing them that they were important to him.

Even if they were mortal, and that meant he had to listen to his brother make snide commentary on the fact.

Mycroft turned to him. “You can’t afford to go into withdrawal, Sherlock,” he said. “I do not have the time, energy or resources to bring you out of it without questions being raised.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re worried I’ll get careless and get caught because I’ve surrounded myself with mortals,” he said. “Mycroft, it’s not as though I spend my evenings in the sitting room. I do happen to have a bedroom, which is fitted, if you might recall, with a very good lock. Even you have trouble picking it.”

Mycroft glared slightly. “Still. You have a tendency to be reckless.”

Sherlock shook his head and stood up. “One day, brother dear, you’ll realize I am fully capable of living a life without your constant observation and interference. When that day comes, I’m sure I can have a list handy of other hobbies to catch your interest.” He made his way to the door of Mycroft’s study. “Good night.”

Mycroft said nothing and Sherlock opened the door and let himself out. He glanced at the large clock in the foyer and saw that it was only eleven thirty. So. It was still the old year. At least he didn’t begin the new year listening to his brother berate him for sins of the past and mistakes he’d never be able to fully make up for. That would have been tiresome. Anthea stood by the door with his coat and he took it from her, slipping it on before leaving Mycroft’s fortress and going out into the night.

He was not one for celebrations, not one for good signs and good omens, but the fact that he could start this new year on his own, breathing in the relatively fresh air of the city, taking the essence of London into himself led him to think that, perhaps, 2012 would be better than he had expected. As bad as some of the glimpses of possible futures he’d been given indicated it very well might be, there had been good things as well, images of laughter and love and warmth, and that had given him hope. After all, no one’s future was writ in stone. That was something he had been taught from a very young age, when he first learned about the art of divination. There was always room for interpretation.

And as he had decided at a very young age that no one was going to decide what happened in his life other than himself, he was going to be damn sure that if there were bad things to come, that their impact was far less than the good things.

Mark his words.

[guidetothegaylaxy]

For you to write (if you feel like it): "Hey, let me in. It's so cold out here!" featuring Sherlock, John, and Greg Lestrade GO

“Hey, let me in, it’s cold outside!” (Gary? Goyle?) Lestrade gripes from the other side of the door.

“No!” I call out for the eleventh time. “I told you, I’m doing an experiment that requires absolutely pristine conditions!”

“Downstairs?!”

“Don’t question me!” I snap. Footsteps (John’s) echo from upstairs. “Don’t come down here! I’m busy!”

The door opens. “Sherlock, what the bloody hell is all the screaming- Is that a severed head?!”

“Yes, how observant of you. Keep off the stairs.”

Lestrade pounds the door again. I groan, annoyed by the inconvenience.

John sighs in exasperation. “Let him in!”

“No!” A kick at the door (good, he’s getting bored. Hopefully he’ll go away soon.) John glares at me, before walking down the stairs purposefully, kicking over my experiment and opening the door. Lestrade gives me a smug smile.

“This is your fault, Grey.”

[maggiemay67]

Now see if the BBC had said that the writers didn't intend to/didn't mean to depict it in that manner and they were sorry if people have interpreted it that way/were offended/affected by the joke going too far, then that would be marginally better. However, to show absolutely no remorse for what's happened here.... To say that they (Sherlock and John) have NEVER shown ( on that show....that fucking show we watched with eyes) ANY (as in zero) romantic or sexual interest in each other???What show have they been tuning into?! Though, I don't suppose Sherlock and John ever did really say anything....too busy staring longingly at one another and having dinners with candles (cause it's more romantic that way apparently). I mean in the BBC's defence, it was all the other characters around Sherlock and John actually questioning and discussing their gayness levels for one another ( for seven long years). Gay jokes galore because we all know it's amusing to continuously assume male friends are gay in 2010 -2017.Gay jokes in every episode because it gives everyone a great laugh on a Sunday night, doesn't it?Let's face it, that's all incorporating LGBT discussions in your shows is good for.....to generate a wee chuckle for a heterosexual on a Sunday night. Oh look, Marjorie....Mrs Hudson's made that gay joke about them for the seventh time, isn't it all frightfully amusing? Come quick, Phyllis, the gay/bi villains keep hinting that John fancies Sherlock....that lesbo just asked if they were a couple....what a jolly laugh! Look Bernard, the queers in the pub think Sherlock and Watson are gays as well....that one has just asked Watson if his is a snorer, I'm positively gay with laughter at it all... What a lark, Margaret! Watson's just squeezed Sherlock's knee and told him that he 'doesn't mind'....isn't it all amusing! It's okay though.Cause Mark's gay and he found all of the above hilarious.He found it entirely justifiable and appropriate.He's not offended by it in the slightest.All he has to say about it, is that he maybe took the 'joke' too far.It can't be offensive then, cause he's gay, so he should know.If you're gay and offended, by people who purposefully script gay jokes into Sunday night dramas, for laughs , then you're wrong for feeling that way.You're nuts for complaining, because it's a well known fact that the writers pride themselves on their support of the LGBT community....and they'd never queer bait.....and Mark's gay....and he finds it funny and appropriate...so your feelings on the matter are not valid or important. So say the BBC. They are proud of Sherlock, gay queer baiting jokes and all, so stop complaining!Cause it's the story that those writers wanted to tell ( a story that heavily relied on injecting gay subtext into the narrative at every conceivable opportunity ).How dare you complain ( as a gay person) to the BBC ( that you pay for through your TV licence) because you don't like the fact that one of its shows has consistently used homosexuality to drum up a few laughs between it's male leads. Has consistently used homosexuality to entice and manipulate a certain type of audience to watch it from the beginning.How dare you complain for being offended that all the villains in the show seem to be being portrayed as gay or bi and predatory in nature (Sherlock's sister openly discussed shagging the female guard and Moriarty, after licking a hand gun previously, also heavily suggested that he had shagged his bodyguard). How dare you be annoyed at that!

[youwinoryoudiethatswhatpeopledo]

Solving the Final Problem

Here is a fix-it fic for anyone who was hoping for a little more Johnlock in their lives (also a hint of Mystrade, but little enough that you can hopefully ignore it if it’s not your thing.) Technically canon-compliant, as it takes place after the main events of TFP. 

Written for @xaphaniaas as promised, hastily, as soon as I got home from watching it. I hope you all enjoy

Sherlock Holmes was broken. He was exhausted, his nerve shattered, his heart racing and so so close to falling apart. Pulling John from the well, safe at last, and hearing that his brother was the same brought tears of tired relief to his eyes. He fell to his knees in the mud beside the well, tears rolling down his cheeks to splash on the grass. But his shaking shoulders were stilled by the ever-firm hand of Doctor John Watson, wrapped in a warm blanket and holding him tight. “It’s ok.” Sherlock couldn’t find a gap in the sobs to deny him, but he knew deep down, calmed by a heartbeat, strong and alive, that it would be, soon.

When Euros had been taken away, John was taken back to Rosie and Sherlock himself was driven to Baker Street. He stepped out of the police car and stood on the pavement, staring at the door, its knocker still straight, and the windows of his own flat now replaced by wooden boards. He felt guilty for all of it: Euros, and his betrayal of her; all the innocent people he hadn’t been able to save; Mycroft, almost dying for John – Molly. Molly’s sobs still rang in his ears. The taxi brought him to St. Bart’s with admirable swiftness. It wasn’t the ideal place to reconcile himself with a close friend, but her shift wouldn’t end for hours and he couldn’t leave it a second longer. Sets of double doors crashed open as he ran through the warren of corridors towards her, almost falling through the entrance to the morgue itself. When Molly saw him, she turned away abruptly, aiming to leave as quickly as possible. “Molly!” She only sped up. “Molly, wait, please!” As his voice cracked she spun on her heel to face him again, but her look of anger and pain didn’t last long. For even as she looked at him, she could see how sad he was. “Would you- would you, um, like to get coffee?” She nodded and hung up her coat. The coffee shop turned out to be closed for remodelling, so they bought paper cupfuls from a machine down the hall and stood outside with them, side-by-side. Without hesitation, Sherlock started recounting the tale of the past few days to Molly. From the very beginning with John’s therapist through their own telephone call right up to rescuing John the previous night. She didn’t give anything away as he spoke, not even a flinch at the suggestion she might have been blown up. “I’m so sorry, Molly. You are one of my greatest friends, of course I knew that that would hurt you, and if I’d had any choice at all, any other way-” “I know, Sherlock. I believe you. Something that insane could only happen to you, and only a Holmes could be that cruel.” She sipped her coffee, looking beyond him. “I suppose that’s fair.” He cast his eyes to the ground. They were silent for a few moments, birds singing a lilting melody. “Say it again.” She told him. “I’m sorry, I can never say enough, I know, but-” “No.” She cut him off. “Not that, and not to me.” She finally looked at him, embraced him, before leaving him alone and puzzled.

Soon afterwards, when the renovations of 221B Baker Street had only just begun, he saw Mycroft again. They organised his schedule and clearance to visit Euros, to be something like home for her, as he’d promised. But there was a deep sadness in Mycroft’s eyes as they did so. It would take him a long time to recover from this failure in his most precious duty of protecting his siblings. He was looking thinner as well, unhealthily so, as if he’d simply forgotten to eat. Sherlock wanted to say something to him, anything, but- well, it had been mostly his fault. “How’s John?” He heard, before he could speak. “Well. Healthy. He’s helping me clear up Baker Street, I think he and Rosie are going to move back in, he can’t afford to keep a house anymore.” Not without Mary. “Oh, well, that will be excellent for both of you.” “What makes you say that?” “How is little Rosie?” Mycroft turned, pretending to peruse a bookshelf. “Fully functioning, as you would say. Why would it be excellent?” “Oh, Sherlock. Please don’t let me have almost-died for nothing.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “If you will excuse me, brother dear, I’m expecting someone.” “Someone?” “Someone.” Mycroft replied, trying to shut him up and politely shoo him from the house. Relenting, he opened the front door to see the figure of Lestrade, poised to knock. “Sherlock! What a pleasant surprise.” “What are you doing here, George?” He was shot a poisonous glare. “Well, I said I’d look after him for you, didn’t I? Here I am,” he raised a bag of groceries, “looking after him.” The inspector disappeared past him into the house, closing the door between them. He could have sworn that the packaging of Mycroft’s favourite cake was poking out of the supermarket bag.

The governor of Sherrinford prison and his wife were buried a week afterwards. There was a shadow at the back of their funeral where Sherlock Holmes stood watching the proceedings. The couple were well known and well loved, judging by the eulogies and the tears. As such it took a long time for the last mourner to leave, Sherlock at last able to stand alone before their graves. The loving partners were buried beside each other, festooned in vibrant flowers and the memories they carried. Sherlock himself, of course, had few memories of them, and at that moment he could only recall one. That of the hero, willing to die, willing even to kill himself to save the person he loved most in all the world. It took a great amount of love to make someone so stupid as to pull a trigger, or fall from a rooftop, for someone. He could feel the cold of a pistol against the skin of his own chin once again. There was a slight drizzle over his dark curls.

The redecoration of the flat was all but finished, John’s belongings almost all boxed up for moving. The first thing to greet him on his return home was Mrs. Hudson’s worried expression. “Back at last, dear, oh I do wish you’d bring an umbrella with you in this rain. Surely your brother won’t miss one.” He hung up his coat and scarf with a fond smirk. “I’m convinced he loves them more than his own parents, Mrs. Hudson. I borrowed one once as a teenager, for an experiment, and lets just say he proved his relation to my sister that day.” She smiled warmly at him. “You know, John was just telling me he’s packed and ready to move in.” “I believe so.” He approached the stairs to his flat. “It’ll be so nice to have the two of you back again. Oh, but what can we do about a nursery for Rosie?” He tried to keep his voice even as he replied: “I’m hoping we’ll have enough rooms to accommodate one all of her own.” Mrs. Hudson gasped as Sherlock began ascending the stairs again. He just caught sight of her grin as she marched purposefully towards what he presumed to be the telephone and a long, high-pitched conversation with Mrs. Turner, next-door.

When he nervously pushed open the door with a shaking left hand, he immediately saw John, standing with Rosie in his arms in a room which looked just the same as when John had first moved in all those years ago. Sherlock’s heart swelled as he watched the soldier wave a small flower around in front of her as she tried in vain to reach out and grab it from him. Rosie gurgled happily when she saw him in the doorway and gave him an upside-down grin. John at last looked up, equally happy, it seemed, to see him. “There you are! Here, there’s a case for us. A client came while you were out, and brought – this.” With his free hand, he pointed towards a granite statue of an elephant, spattered with blood and what appeared to be ink. “Fascinating.” He said, stepping forward to offer his fingers to Rosie’s eager fists. The two entertained her for a while in near silence, broken only by some of John’s endearing baby talk. “Look, John, can I talk to you?” His voice was shaking, he fought to bring it under control. “Yeah, of course.” The other man looked up at him. He adored the smile on his face, had done ever since that first delighted exclamation at his brilliance, the first person not to run from his deductions. “John, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you for… a very long time.” He began, interrupted by a yawn from Rosie. John began to rock her gently in his arms. “You mean a lot to me. Ever since we met, you’ve been special to me, unique, constantly there for me at my side. I told you as much at your wedding, that you were the best man I’d ever met and, of course, you still are.” He fiddled with his cuffs as he forced himself to continue. “When you told me I was your best friend, I was surprised. I never expected that anyone would ever call me that, let alone that it be true.” The expression on John’s face suggested he very much wanted to tell him to get to the point. “But at – at the wedding, I also told you that I loved you, more than anything in the world and, what I’m trying to say, what I’ve come to realise is…” it took a lot of courage to look back into John’s eyes, “that it’s true. I mean, I do – love you, that is – I… I love you.” “Yeah, I know.” John replied with a half-amused smile. “No, no, you don’t. Please, John, you have to understand.” He began to panic, he couldn’t do this wrong, not now. “I really love you, I love the way you make tea, the way you talk to Rosie. I love that you don’t get annoyed at my playing, even when I’m so frustrated I’m practically torturing the poor instrument. I love your bravery, and your cleverness,” John snorted, “yes, John, you may not see how good you’ve become during our cases, but I have. You’re far from just my blogger, now, I couldn’t solve half of them without you. I love that you will face up to the most dangerous people in the world, that you’ll punch senior police officers in the face, for me. I love when you stay up with me sometimes when I’m thinking.” His eyes widened. He knew John thought he didn’t notice him there, but he always did. “I – god, I loved your terrible moustache because you liked it, and I love your smile, and your laugh, and I just – I love you, John. Please, please, tell me that you understand.” “Of course I do, you idiot. Even Mary did, that’s why she – why-” he cleared his throat. “She knew how I felt about you before even I did, maybe she guessed from the very beginning.” Sherlock’s brain had stalled in the middle of the sentence. “What?” “Well, you must-? Don’t tell me you don’t know I feel the same?” He looked concerned. “I had… hopes, but I didn’t ever know for certain.” “That great deductive mind, defeated by love once again. You take after your brother.” He thought about the inspector, and the cake. “I really think I do.” “Well anyway, you know now, yes, that’s- that.” John knew what he was avoiding. His soldier’s nerve steeled, and he couldn’t help recalling a moment not so long ago, in the grand scheme of things, when he stood before a gravestone and begged for just one thing. He matched the detective’s gaze. “I love you, Sherlock.” Sherlock smiled, more out of relief than anything else. And John smiled back, heavy with years of newly-recognised affection. “Of course, you know what this means.” John said casually. “What?” His brow furrowed in puzzlement. “You have to change Rosie.” He smirked as tears began to form in the hitherto-silent baby’s eyes and she began to cry obscenely loudly.

He pulled Sherlock down into a kiss, just a brief taste of every day and every year they would spend together, and he pressed their baby into his arms.

[trashlocking]

John is...so soft with sherlock. Like when he's being purposefully difficult john gets annoyed, but if sherlock is ever genuinely overwhelmed or stressed or hurt john will be so gentle with him

[m1ssc0mmun1cat10n]

Final Thoughts on The Final Problem (& S4)

There is no secret fourth episode. This is it.

Someone on Reddit had a name for it: final episode syndrome. And I agree. The writers wanted to go off big time, and they kinda just went off track. If you loved this episode, that's great! For a lot of us who didn't, the general feeling is that it wasn't a Sherlock episode as much as it was just an episode from a show and they decided to make the main protagonist Sherlock this time. It was too tonally different from the rest of the series.

This entire series, we seem to have followed the journey of Sherlock Holmes from a great man to a good man, and the journey of John Watson from a reasonably good man to a considerably less good one. Which is a bit of a let down.

The over-hyping of the final episode was an issue. I mean, anything hyped-up is going to disappoint, just by virtue of expectation vs. reality. They said 'groundbreaking' and 'history-making' and what we got was neither of those things. I'm sure the 'groundbreaking' was supposed to be in regards to Euros. Honestly, the whole series is groundbreaking television in terms of visual style, but that last episode was nothing special.

The final 'villain' was built up to be almost god-like, far beyond the powers of Moriarty, whose ability to get what he want came down to threats of death, connections and money. Euros was played to be unhinged, with apparently no understanding of emotions but the ability to control them in others. Her convoluted ‘game’ came to an abrupt end when Sherlock solved the puzzle she set up as a child, and the answer turned out to basically be ‘I am lonely in my room come and tell me you love me’. Therefore, rather than the usual thrill of solving the puzzle it was more of an ‘oh, that’s it I guess?’. It was anticlimactic.

Throughout this entire series, there has been a pretty consistent tone: a puzzle being solved in a very clever, visually engaging fashion, and our characters and how they relate with each other being dissected and developed. This is true even for action-packed episodes; even The Abominable Bride fit this tone. The last episode was different in visual style, had a different set-up and different focus. In this last episode, despite all these powerful actors and well-developed characters, we got an action-driven narrative that sidelined characters in favour of forced drama with a new and all-powerful antagonist. And every moment of ‘character development’ was obvious and jarring. Each development had actually already been clearly communicated to us in the episodes leading up to this. (Lestrade telling us Sherlock was a good man was done in a very hand-holding, ‘let me explain it to you’ kind of way that just annoyed me. It could have been said in so many ways and I feel like that was just a really lazy decision. Personally, I found it cheesy yet condescending.)

Sex, or lack-thereof, is set up as this huge important thing for Sherlock. It’s a recurring theme, but it usually fits the narrative, to a point. In The Blind Banker, it’s the humour of Sherlock’s apparent obliviousness to John wanting to ‘get a leg over’ with Sarah. With Irene Adler, her entire life revolved around sex. It was her job, and she used it as a means of control, and it was a consistent theme in the episode. Jabs toward Sherlock’s apparent virginity have largely come from villains, and Euros does not break this mould. However, even with Sherlock playing some notes from Irene Adler’s theme, Euros’ ‘have you had sex?’ came out of nowhere. After which we learn that she raped someone, and apparently cut them up badly enough that you couldn’t tell their gender anymore. Then we just move on from that, and it’s never mentioned again.

We finish, as always, in Baker Street. The resolution to all cases and, well, everything, is Baker Street. The showrunners have always made sure we got that ‘back at home with Sherlock and John’ comfort. After Reichenbach, we got to be with John in 221B, alone, with an empty chair and silence. ‘We are at home, but it is empty now’. 221B is pretty much a character in this show, and is often used as a place for us to ground the characters amidst the chaos. It’s a domesticity that we are included in. But this ending was very different. They showed us our protagonists back in 221B but we weren’t a part of it. We didn’t get that ‘ah, back to normal’ comfort of just being there with them. Instead, we got a time-lapse peek that did a good job of separating us from the action. That entire last montage, by nature of being a montage, pushes the audience away to a very obvious place of ‘you are watching from a distance’. This is compounded by the choice to have it narrated - we are so not-involved we’re actually listening to a story, at this point. I have never once felt like I was watching this show from a distance, until that final sequence.

I could actually probably come up with more points until the proverbial cows come home, but I feel like these are the ones that most stand-out to me. I have purposefully ignored anything shippy, because there is a lot of contention going around about that being the only reason anyone complains, and honestly I never expected anything but ambiguity for any ships and that’s what I got. I’ve also ignored a lot of details in favour of just some overall points, and I feel it’s important to note that these points are made without going into the nitty-gritty. I do not watch a show to analyse it. These things stood out to me without me really looking to notice.

Please feel free to add commentary :)

[thebeethathums]

Observers - 25

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warnings: None... Unsupervised Science?

The silence was comfortable as you worked and Sherlock drank his tea and, when your sketchbooks were sorted, you arched your back and threw your arms above your head in an attempt to get rid of the stiffness that came with sitting on the floor for an extended period of time. This elicited an interesting response from Sherlock as he watched your shirt ride up and found himself chewing on his lower lip as his breath caught in his throat. His hand came up to confirm his actions, pressing against his lips for a moment before he decided it was time for another experiment. He set his cup down purposefully and reached down to pull you up off the floor, “I need you for an experiment.” You cocked a wary eyebrow at him, “John told me never to do experiments with you because there was an astronomically high likelihood that I would end up the subject.” He gave you a mischievous smirk, “And since when do you listen to John?” You broke out into a wide grin, “Lead on, Mr. Holmes. For science!”

This is what he liked to see from you, your lopsided grin and willingness to do even the impossible with a sense of enthusiasm, confidence, and, as always, curiosity. You bounded up the stairs, beating him to the top and then fidgeting impatiently as you waited for him, looking over his equipment and vials as you told yourself not to touch. 

He couldn’t help but give a small grin as just as he walked through the door your resolve broke and you took up the same blue vial you had earlier, “Why that one?” You went slightly pink, “It’s not necessary about this one per se.” He joined you, taking the vial as he offered his extra set of gloves and safety glasses, which you quickly tugged on and pressed on to your face. “Then what, pray tell, is it about?” he asked, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice. You paused for a second and then responded, “Two things. One: the color… that particular shade of blue mixed with that,” you pointed to the other vial from that morning, “particular shade of green in those exact amounts- two parts green and one part blue- makes the most wonderful shade of teal and two: the probability of something fairly interesting happening when one is poured into the other is very high.” He couldn’t stop a chuckle from escaping his lips and you looked up at him, “Alright genius, what do you need me to do?” Knowing that your brain wasn’t going to let you focus on anything else until you had done it, he handed you the blue vial and pointed to the green one, “Obviously I need you to pour this into that.” Your eyes went wide, “Really?” “Yes, ‘really,’ ” He mocked, rolling his eyes, “Keep up.” You didn’t even bother to sass him back, quickly mixing the vials together before he could change his mind, and a wide grin spread across your face at what happened. The substance didn’t turn teal like you’d hoped but you didn’t care as you gleefully watched it go a bright orange and then turn to a foam of the same color that came spilling out of the vial and over the table. You dropped to a crouch to get a better look at it as you breathed, “That is so wicked awesome.” Sherlock watched your reaction carefully and you twisted to look up at him, “I don’t understand. Why did it turn orange?” He arched an eyebrow at you, “Science is not art, (F/n). Color theory does not apply.” You pouted at him before turning back to the foam, “Can I touch it?” He sighed, his tone slightly annoyed, “Knowing your tendencies, would I have let you make something you couldn’t touch?”   You gave a thoughtful nod in acceptance of that fact and then poked at the foam with your finger, “I like science…“ “I take it you won’t protest to helping me with some more then?” You stood to level him with a quizzical look, “I’m surprised at you, Sherlock, surely the answer to that is so obvious even John could have caught it.” He smirked slightly, “Indeed it was but I had to be sure. Now hand me that vial there.” Over the next hour or so he found you were a fairly good assistant and that, as he expected, your ability to read him came in particularly handy as you seemed to know what he wanted even before he fully did. You didn’t annoy him with endless questions about the science that you didn’t really understand, but patiently observed his every move and every result, occasionally asking some non-related question about his previous work on cases or his opinion on some random thing. It was simple enough that it wasn’t distracting but also spurred a conversation that was fairly enjoyable. After a few hours, the experiment came to a close and he gave you a final task to keep you preoccupied while he went over the results in his head. This had been about more than science, though with you he had actually gotten some work done, it was about how you interacted with him and him with you in what was a normal situation for him. He found that you trusted him enough to not question what he was doing, he could tolerate your presence while he worked, enjoyed it even, and your ability to read him was indispensable. He counted it as a resounding success and, in addition, he’d discovered your affinity for teal, a fact he stored away for later use. You poked his side to get his attention, “Are we done?” He gave you a curt nod and you pulled off your gloves and glasses before going to collapse on the couch with a huff and a small yawn. Your stomach growled and you sighed, wondering if you had anything other than ramen noodles down in your flat as you knew there wasn’t anything in the boys’ kitchen. It had been a while since you’d gone shopping as groceries were expensive and you were coming to the end of your savings, you had enough to pay rent for the next two months but not much more. Since you couldn't paint, it was time to start looking for a job. Running over some options in your head, you remembered you had a friend who ran a small French-style café across town, you’d have to call her in the morning to see if you could interview for a waitress position. You pulled yourself off the couch and moved to leave in search of food when Sherlock sharply stated, “Where are you going?” You froze, “I thought we were done.” “With the experiment, yes, but I have a theory to test that I’m going to need you for.” You turned to tilt your head at him, you were tired and hungry but still intrigued, “Ok. Do I get to be privy to what this theory is or…?” He waved a dismissive hand at you, “Go put on something nice. We’re going out.” You nodded, knowing you weren’t going to get anything more out of him, and turned to leave, pausing again when he added, “Pick something presentable. I can’t have you looking like a tart. Draws too much attention.” You sighed, rolling your eyes as your patience for his brusque manner wore thin, “Oh for heaven’s- Don’t dress like a pro. Got it.”