#I absolutely reckon touch is one of Sherlock’s love languages

[noodles-and-tea]

IM OBSESSED WITH YOUR JOHNLOCK!!! 🥹🥹🥹

THE GUYS!!!

[virtuesmh]

Adlock Songfic - Sweater Weather

All I am is a man

I want the world in my hands

As always, Sherlock Holmes' mind was restless. Even in the midst of 'vacation', it was urgent to keep his thoughts flowing, mostly by using strangers around him as experiment objects. He wouldn't want a jam in the machine inside his head, would he?

I hate the beach

But I stand in California with my toes in the sand

Unlike London's chilly weather, California's weather surprised his body's axiom. Then, his eyes stung in the bright sun, a horrible tan had colored his pale skin, from arms, torso, to legs. He clenched a handful of sand and watched it fall tediously through the gaps between his fingers.

Use the sleeves of my sweater

Let's have an adventure

He had heard the last sentence and it successfully hooked him across the world. Meaningless words, yet when spoken by a particular person, turned into an effective charm.

Head in the clouds but my gravity's centered

Touch my neck and I'll touch yours

You in those little high-waist shorts

Before his head could wander further, a sudden pressure weighted his thigh. Sherlock opened his eyes, revealing Irene Adler herself, seated beside him, one hand on him and the other holding a glass of Moscow Mule on rocks.

A slight smile slipped into his lips, mirroring hers. 

"Didn't bother getting me one?" He asked.

She knows what I think about

And what I think about

"This is yours, dear," She replied, a tad melodious, "I finished mine when you're . . daydreaming."

Sherlock snickered under his breath. His observation frenzy immediately stopped, a more effective focus-gatherer had come. His fast deductions and crippling anxiety would perish in the presence of its queen. His fingers were still wrapped around the cold glass as he glanced to Irene, who had her eyes on the mouthful ocean waves.

Before his mind could tell him what to do, a forcing need pulled him closer to her. Irene turned behind and froze bewildered, yet she didn't move an inch nor looked away. Before their skin could make the slightest brush, Sherlock breathed in sharply and pulled away. Stern and harshness had returned to its place as he gulped the pleasurable beverage down his throat, sending relief to his dried lips and thirst. Yet, it didn't, and nothing ever did answer his questions about the woman and their confusing, out-of-the-world reverie.

One love, two mouths

Then, the sandy beaches, blue oceans and limitless horizon turned into a different sphere.

The bright sun was hidden behind thick, moody clouds. Cold breeze rushed up their spines, signing an imminent winter.

Sherlock shrugged his coat tighter as he left his hotel room. He rushed out of the elevator towards the lobby and stuck his hand out to hail a cab.

Along the ride, Sherlock's heart thumped unfamiliarly. Luckily, the side of city wasn't too crowded as no traffic jam occured, the opposite of London's bright, red lights. 

Vast buildings changed into narrower ones, and gradually into green trees and meadows. Orange and pink clashed into the skies' soft blue as the sun slowly dropped low. An almost impossible giddiness rose within Sherlock as a familiar entrance came into hindsight.

The cab drifted right and dropped the detective off in the concrete pavement. Sherlock went on with his walk.

He paced on a stone path, leading to a well-remembered destination, the last lodge on the rows of residences, just by the lake. 

One love, one house

Soon, he arrived. He halted just by the doorstep and wrapped his fingers around the doorknob tightly. With the other hand, he gave two gentle knocks before entering.

By reflex, he took off his shoes, remembering the last time he didn't, the woman wasn't too pleased. His coat was hung by the door and he was already sprawled on the long couch.

"Hullo!" A voice called from the kitchen.

A grin made its ghostly way into Sherlock's lips as Irene strolled from the kitchen, her long, raven hair tousled in a bun with a few strands falling messily. 

An appealing aroma filled in the air and Irene stood silent, while Sherlock knew exactly what she wanted to hear.

"Smells brilliant. I expect it will be a wonderful new year's dinner with-" He breathed deeply, his eyes gleaming in thoughts, "Shrimp scampi with pasta, fried Serrano ham along with fried olive, and-"

He inhaled sharply once more, though this time, he was absolutely uncalled for. In realization, the smile on his lips grew wider and he clapped his hands together.

"Bless cinnamon buns!" He laughed, "How did you even know?"

"Says the man who never accepts complementary food, except anything related to it," Irene said pleasantly, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

"I have flaws, woman," Sherlock said, lowering his tone on a particular word.

"I got you another book," he added.

Sherlock pulled a thick novel from his clasp and put it on a drawer on his left.

"Thank you, dear," Irene shortly said before disappearing into the bathroom.   

With that, Sherlock was left in silence. It gave him no other choice but to wander in the depths of his mind. Invisible information was being presented in an unfathomable speed, hands rested in a prayer, eyes flickering behind shut lids.

No shirt, no blouse

Suddenly, a creak awakened his consciousness. His eyes gradually opened as the water tap stopped running, the bathroom door was slowly opened, steam-coated glass revealed the woman herself, putting on a show through a simple walk to her bedroom. Soon, she stepped out and joined him in the living room. Her wet hair was wrapped with towel and her toned body was hugged a silk purple nightgown.

The points of his lips quirked into a smirk as she sat beside him, legs resting on his lap.

"You don't mind, do you?" She said as she undid the towel wrapped on her wavy, raven hair.

"Oh, I insist."

A fit of chuckle went out from Irene's lips,

"Mr Holmes, you are terrible in disguising sentiment."

Just us, you find out

Sherlock's eyebrows rose to his hairline and a frown formed on his expressionless face,

"I've often been informed I don't feel any."

"But we both know it's not quite true, isn't it?"

"How would we know?" He said with a low hiss, emphasizing the rare use of we.

"Look at where you are now and your decisions for the past two years, look around and make a deduction!" She said, her tone rising in every word. Her thin, rosy lips were shut tightly, the insides bitten hardly, probably wounded and bleeding by then.

Sherlock's heart sunk as he noticed a different glint behind her eyes and a strange tremor racing down her fingers. A familiar yet unknown feeling started filling his chest, disheveling his breathing and pulse.

Irene closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. She fixed her posture and regained control of herself. Bravery, accompanied with a hidden timidness brought back her reserve; a puzzle Sherlock Holmes had never been able to solve.

Nothing that wouldn't wanna tell you about, no

"Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Why do you stay, Sherlock?"

Irene crossed her legs with her arms stretched around them. Sherlock noticed the sudden defensive shift, only making his thoughts run faster and harder to comprehend.

"You need protection from . . past vices."

"I can protect myself," She said with pride, thick in her tone.

"I know."

"Then why?"

"I-"

His lips parted to speak, yet for once, he was baffled. The rocketing atoms inside his head turned out to be fear of the unsolved, for his head was speechless and empty in such dire situation. His breath hitched and became sharper, as if his lungs were overrun by poisonous emotions, taking over the throne of himself.

"I won't leave," Irene suddenly said. Sherlock snapped his head to her, gazing confusedly.

"I won't leave, even when your reason isn't the same as mine."

A weak smile entered her face. She rose from her seat and walked towards the kitchen. Her muscles stiffened as they struggled to walk away. Her fingers clawed against one another in her balled, whitened knuckles.

Sherlock immediately tailed behind, assisting to set up their dinner. This time, it carried a different vibe. Sherlock's lips trembled  silently, the childish annoyance which usually happened was nowhere to be found. Irene's mocking and little games wasn't conducted too, not even her mischievous zeal surfaced. 

Whether they wanted to admit or not, big chances it would probably be their very last dinner. From time to time, domestic life washed away fear of the end. Suddenly, just then, reality would slap hardly and dragged them down, begging for time to go slower and the moon to forget falling away into morning. 

Despite the heaviness of their hearts, not a hint of truthful pain came upon their faces. Sherlock and Irene chatted joyously as they dawned on dinner.

Hours passed by unlikely to their prayers. When the clock struck 11, Sherlock offered his hand to lead her into their last waltz. Another half an hour was spent in warmth and comfort as their cab drove from the country side to metropolitan downtown.

Cause it's too cold 

For you here, and now

The two swayed close as man in megaphone started the new year countdown. Everyone around started cheering in foreign languages they didn't fathom, either correct numbers or drunk, slurred words. Yet Sherlock and Irene put no matter to their surroundings, as if the world itself was made for them only, everyone else was simply irrelevant.

Suddenly, Sherlock circled his arms around her waist. Irene narrowed her eyebrows in confusion, staring into the man's in hope for answers. Even though, she played along. Maybe there was someone suspicious preying on them, or a danger Sherlock had reckoned before her.

Above all probability, sentiment was placed at the very bottom. Irene learnt from her mistake, playing feelings with the detective would turn out just to be delayed disappointment. Yet what she let slip, sentiment wasn't just a reason in her demeanor, but also the things in her unconsciousness; the heaviness to part ways and the chains to stay close to the other, when all she had been doing for her whole life was running away. Sherlock Holmes had turned out to be the anchor she never knew would accept.

5 . . 4

Not a word escaped from Sherlock's mouth. Instead, he pressed his forehead against hers. The bridges of their noses met, breath hitching, pupils dilated, hearts beating rapidly as if they were barging through flesh and ribs. Irene's fingers were clutched tightly to his coat and she lifted her chin high to meet his gaze, as she could initially reach his chest.

"Is there another vatican cameo?" She asked.

A tender smile grew on Sherlock's lips as he shook his head.

"No, we're safe and sound. Just, bear with me."

So let me hold 

Both your hands in the holes of my sweater

3 . . 2

Though they had winter coats up to their necks, with snow falling on top of their heads and Budapest in its coldest state, quiver had struck Irene's lips. The former smile on Sherlock's mouth lifted into an amused grin as his hands moved down to reach hers. Their fingers were entangled tightly, Sherlock's radiating warmth into Irene's.

1, Happy New Year!

Fireworks launched high to the dark skies. Everyone around them cheered, some were dancing, some lifted the bottoms of their cold pints, ready to drink themselves off in the special night.

Yet the two chose to stay silent, communicating through the deep gaze and smiles they shared. It was a decision they had chosen without doubt nor the shortest argument; to start the first chapter of a new year together, in the presence, commitment, and fidelity of each other. Slowly, Sherlock lowered his head to her ears, lips parting to whisper:

"Happy New Year, love."

But before he could back away, Irene's palms cupped his jaw,  holding them in place as she brushed her lips against him. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise before gaining sense of reality again and deepened the caress.

Sherlock Holmes with his posture crooked to reach Irene Adler on her tip toes, people who knew them would drool in disbelief.

It was bizarre enough for hints of domestic growing between them for the past two years. New habits picked up from each other, late night confessions and soothing Sherlock when he got anxious over John and Mrs Hudson over countries, or when Irene would feel a cold blade behind her neck and relive Karachi over again.

Or the subtle panic when the other gets sick, or the fear when they bend over time. Of course, bickering, childish or serious, would occur over the months.

Yet, there they were, the posh boy and the dominatrix, falling deep in their own story about love, their quills were up and ready to write new chapters. However improbable, tedious, malingering, or devilish, they were to face life together, and that was enough. 

Finally, the two parted away with mischief and dissatisfied longing in the look they shared.

"Is that your answer, Mr Holmes?"

"Apparently so," He murmured, a tint of light red coloring his cheeks as his eyes wandered around in embarrassment.

"Glad to know we're on the same page," Irene said with a grin as Sherlock dove his head, letting all the sentiment he had dammed for years into a tender caress on her lips.