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thran-duils · 3 years ago

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Total Eclipse (P.1)

Title: Total Eclipse (Part One) Summary: Fem!Reader x Sherlock Holmes (RDJ). Sherlock had an impression on the reader from a formative age but he was always so busy running with cases. Their moments of passions were coveted between the two but they were few and far between. He left with Watson on a case and in that time, her parents found her a suitable man to give her to. Wealthy and accomplished. Sherlock and her have not been able to let go of each other though. Words: 1,816 Warnings (for the whole fic): Angst, infidelity, smut, swearing, substance abuse, non liner storyline, character death, 18+ as always Author’s Note: more warnings may be added for other chapters. As always, 18+. Also, the song inspo is def Total Eclipse of the Heart but its the Blvck Ceiling remix!

Part Two || Masterpost (mobile) || Fanfic masterpost

The carriage came to a stop outside the glove shop in front of you. It matched the description on the note that had mysteriously found its way into your cosmetics bag at home last night. And as the note had said, the gloves you picked up were already paid for. A practical gift from an absurdly practical man. One you could easily explain away to your husband as a gift he had simply given to you that he had forgotten that he had. He gifted items to you so often, it would not be hard to have this small token pass under his radar. Small to him but it was a symbol of a large wedge in your marriage, and it would always be.

The door opened and Sherlock was leaning out, smiling coyly. “May I offer you a ride, ma’am?”

“Do you even know where I am going?”

“Well, no. But if you would tell me…” You kept your face neutral at his toying and told him the address. He smiled broadly and said, “What a coincidence. I am heading that way and it looks like it might rain…” He turned his eyes skyward. It was cloudy. What a coincidence indeed. There was playfulness in his eyes as he pressed, “Ma’am?”

Sighing, you took his hand and let him help you into the carriage. He swung the door closed and tapped the wall behind him. The carriage took off.

“My, I’m pleased I was able to assist you,” Sherlock started cordially. “That is quite a lovely gown. Persian silk, is it not?”

“It is,” you answered stiffly.

You hated the games he played. He was going to pick you apart just for his own amusement now. Comment on all your riches simply because he had such a keen eye for everything with his travels and his intellect. And also because he liked you to remember how intelligent he was; it was something about him that had drawn you in in the first place. It still impressed you but now you knew it was him simply being petty more than anything. He wanted you and he wanted it badly. He was superior to your husband intellectually and always would be, something that would eat away at you. And besides intellect… Sherlock knew how to work your body like a well-tuned clock. This was foreplay for him. Assessing everything that had been going on with you in his absence since your last tussle in the sheets.

“Hmm. What lengths your family or husband must have gone to to acquire that fabric. You must really be special. Or they’re just woefully arrogant about their wealth.”

You shot him a disapproving look and he merely smirked briefly.

“I think it’s the latter personally. But what do I know? I haven’t seen you for four months.”

“Yes. What do you know?” you quipped.

“How is your son?” he returned quickly.

“With the nanny.”

“How aristocratic.”

“You never wanted children,” you told him tightly, getting tired of his questioning.

You knew why you were here. He was jealous still, even more so that you had had a child. And especially a child that was not his. He had been on a case across Europe at the time of conception… leaving no doubt about the father. But he was here now, wanting what he always wanted. A piece of you.

The two of you grasped at whatever pieces of the other you could get to hold close.

“Presumptive. We don’t know each other,” Sherlock replied, shooting you a look. You glared back and he merely simpered in response. “You look tired of the games.”

“I can’t even begin to describe how tired I am.”

The shades were drawn immediately by him, leaving the two of you in almost total darkness.

He was on you in a second and he pulled you close. “And how lonely?”

“Did you really shut yourself inside for four months?” you hissed back at him, as his hands played with the buttons of your bodice. “You are one to talk about loneliness! Watson told me!”

“I was only inside for two,” Sherlock responded lightly, as if that made it any better. “I had a case I did. But… two months inside was nothing. Why are you making such a big deal out of it? And why is Watson tattling to you?”

His hands were running up your sides, holding you close. His breath was hot, and he was coming in quickly. He claimed your mouth with his, the kiss deep and passionate. His tongue slipped past your lips, swirling and you responded in like. The two of you were panting with the intensity, hands grasping tightly on each other.

Sherlock managed to pull you down to the floor of the carriage and you hit him in protest. “My skirts! The dirty floor!”

“Say you fell. Make up a story of a heroic war hero – think of Watson for inspiration – helped you up off the cobble stone. It’ll make a great dinner story,” Sherlock spoke in hushed tones as he turned you around.

Your hands hit the opposite seat, chest planted firmly against it. Your heart was beating loudly in anticipation of the pleasure you were about to engage in. And the excitement that you truly could be caught at any moment if the carriage stopped for any reason.

Sherlock’s lips were at your neck, kissing up earnestly. He sucked deeply and you knew to let him; he knew the rules. He would never suck hard enough to leave a mark. No matter how much he wanted to. He nipped at your ear before circling back down; you turned your head to let him pull you back into a kiss.

He took this distracted opportunity to pull away, leaving you in a haze as he pushed your skirts up. You had done specifically as he liked and he was impressed.

“No undergarments,” Sherlock commented quietly his hands gripping the sides of your ass. “That’s very inappropriate and screams hussy in society. But… it’s very appropriate for me. I’m just delighted.”

“Will you get on with it?” You said impatiently. He always spoke so much and at the most inopportune time.

He chortled at you. “Always rushing. It’s what got you into your marriage in the first place, my love.”

His fingers traced. Running down between your thighs and pressing your legs open as you huffed indignantly at his rude comment. He always had to talk down about the situation you had found yourself in as a woman, no less. He knew why you had given in and still!

“And the fact—oh!” You gasped loudly at the last.

Sherlock’s fingers had dipped into your folds. He laughed quietly and warned you.

“Quiet now, dear. I paid the driver for discretion about who was in the carriage. Not discretion about any gossip he might hear. We should hurry it up though. We’ve taken three turns which means there are only four left. About fifteen minutes.”

Sometimes it paid off how perceptive he was but it still annoyed you right now when all you wanted to do was get off.

“How I wish I could turn around and sink onto you. That would ensure this would be done quickly,” you hissed at him.

You felt him at your entrance immediately and he pushed in. You groaned and he did in turn too. He filled you to the brim and sat stationary for just a moment, seeming to cherish the feeling before pulling out and setting himself a good pace. You pressed back onto him and one of his arms came to hold you tight across your chest. He still laid sloppy kisses along your exposed skin at your neck as he fucked you.

“Another turn,” you said sarcastically, just to rile him up.

And it worked.

He increased his pace in response, driving deeper. You lost your breath, fingers digging into the carriage seat as his teeth sunk in slightly. Bastard. He was pressing the rules just to teach you a lesson to be quiet and let him work.

His hand slipped back down to toy at your nub and your breath quickened.

Sherlock’s hand slapped across your mouth in anticipation. You hated he could read you so damn well. You moaned against his hand, your cunt clenching around his cock. His fingers dug in on your cheek, struggling to hold your pleasure in as you came undone as you were drawing it out of him with your tightness. He grunted loudly, sputtering. And then he was spasming just like you.

The third turn. The two of you felt and you were away from each other in a messy way. You pulled yourself back up onto the seat, touching at your hair. No, that was fine. He was always careful to not mess that up unless you two were spending the night together.

Across from you, Sherlock straightened at his waist coat. “The ball two days from now—” he started to say.

“It’s a masquerade.” You straightened your skirts out and sad back down on the carriage seat opposite him. You pressed them down further and did not miss the amused expression on his face.

“I’m quite aware, darling. Perfect opportunity.”

“For you to greet everyone? Come out of your shell?” you returned.

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Watson told me I should.”

“I’m telling you that you should.”

“And that is enough.”

He had a sincere look in his eyes.

In your tryst, the rain truly had started to fall, a steady beat on the top of the carriage.

You had only been married for less than two years. And god, how you wished it was to him. But that was never to be.

The carriage came to its final turn and your house was so close. Your big… big house. It was so empty. The two of you were locked in a gaze just as the carriage came to a stop.

Swallowing sharply, you grabbed your purse off the bench beside you and said loudly, “Thank you for your courtesy. My husband would have been angry if this silk had been ruined in the rain.”

“You better run quick since there’s no butler here to greet you.”

“Ass,” you snapped, and he smiled again. You hated his smug smile so much, but you cherished seeing it too all the same. You climbed out, reluctantly taking his hand to help.

“You didn’t even say ‘welcome back’.”

He was actually pouting.

“You’ve already made yourself at home, dear,” you quipped.

You slammed the carriage door in his face and heard him chuckle from inside.

Turning, you went up the pathway quickly to the gate and threw it open, not bothering to look back. You knew you would see him again at the ball. The light rain was no bother.

~~~

Marvel tags: @coconutqueen21 @undecidedsworld @holl2712 @agustdowney @biiskuitx @buttercupfangirl

also @mcnegan if you are interested haha!

(THIS IS THE ONLY TIME I’LL USE THE MARVEL TAG, OTHERWISE I’LL TAG SPECIFIC PEOPLE AFTER THIS SINCE IT IS NOT MARVEL, AND JUST AN RDJ CHARACTER! If you wanna be tagged, let me know! :D)

#sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes fic #sherlock holmes x ofc #rdj sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes #my shit

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janeofcakes · 3 years ago

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Soulmates: How John Met Sherlock...Again Chapter 7

Happy Friday, my friends! I'm so sorry for making you all wait so long. It has been a busy week with lots of travel and time with the kids. Parts of me are SO sunburned. Haha! I hope all of you are having as much fun.

This chapter is shorter than some of the others, but it's a good one and I think you'll agree that it moves things in a positive direction. Let me know what you think at the end!

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The fresh produce aisle at Tesco is far too busy for three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. John Watson inches his way in between two older women to grab some apples with a minimum of dirty looks. Once he extracts himself again, he glances down the way and debates on how he’s going to get his hands on some oranges. After a moment of seriously considering bananas instead, a hole clears out in front of the display and he hurries to it. John just slips in before a woman speaking loudly on her mobile can take the spot and she glares at him all the while until John has his bag of oranges. He knows her type - can’t be bothered to wait for anyone else or show any consideration - so he makes sure to take his time and gives her a false friendly grin as he turns to walk away.

John heads to dairy and the refrigerated sections for milk, cheese, yogurt and eggs. He takes a jaunt through frozen foods and catches the bread before starting down the coffee and tea aisle. Plucking two of his favorite kinds of tea off the shelf, he makes his way to the coffee. How he and Gracie managed to run out of so many things at once, he has no idea.

The coffee section is as ridiculously full as fruit and veg was, so John waits off to the side a minute or two until it clears out. His eyes are scanning the shelves for his brand when the corner of a basket pokes him in the side. When he turns his head, he is greeted by the face of the loud woman from before. John can’t stop the frown on his face and she must remember him too because she gives him a sour expression before turning her back on him. John turns back to the coffee and tries to tune out her noisy complaints to the poor bastard on the line.

John just has the coffee he wants in his hand when a basket shoves up against his back again. The woman’s shrill voice still in his ear, John rounds on her with every intention of putting her in her place. He has dealt with more than his fair share of pompous idiots over the years and will not put up with it in bloody Tesco.

“Do you mind?” John demands, every inch of him exuding Captain Watson, but he stops before saying anything more. The rude woman is a good six feet away and heading up the aisle, nearly shouting into her mobile. It couldn’t have been she who bumped into him. To John’s surprise, directly in front of him and holding the offending basket is Greg Lestrade. John blinks once, a movement mirrored on Greg’s face as they stare with slackened jaws.

“John? John Watson?” a grin blooms on Greg’s face in an instant. He moves his basket aside and offers his hand, which John shakes without hesitation. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Hello, Greg,” John greets warmly. “It’s good to see you. It’s been a long time.”

“It’s been bloody years,” Greg exclaims as he shifts right to let a shopper pass by. “How have you been?”

“Well, bit of a rough start, but good. Very good,” John tells him, angling left for a passerby.

“Glad to hear it,” Greg remarks with a nod.

“What about you?” John asks before Greg has the chance to continue. “I heard you got a promotion, Chief Detective Inspector.”

“I did at that,” Greg laughs good-naturedly. “I don’t get out into the field quite as much. Paperwork’s a bitch, but it gives me time to take a day off for shopping. It’s good for my DIs to muddle through on their own every once in a while.”

Greg pauses a moment to let a woman with a pram pass and John mirrors his motions. The aisle seems twice as full as when John set foot in it.

“And you?” Greg asks when they have a bit of room again. “You’re back for good?”

“I am,” John puffs up his chest, genuinely pleased. He had wanted to move back to London as soon as Mary left. “Sort of inherited a practice from an old friend, so here we are. My little girl and I. Gracie. She’s eight now.”

“Fantastic. You’ve settled in and all? Been here a little while then?”

Before John can answer Greg, an irritable man pushes past them and they both find themselves a little off balance and cursing.

“Bloody hell,” John says loudly as the bloke hurries on. When he turns back to Greg, the CDI is holding his basket in the space between them to allow more room for people to pass.

“Look, you’re almost finished, yeah?” Greg begins and John nods once. “So am I. No perishables and you can run yours home. We’ll meet for coffee in an hour. D’you know the Division Cafe?”

“I do,” John replies, relieved for the good fortune of Greg’s picking a place he is familiar with. “Sounds great. I’d like to catch up, but what the hell are you going to do for an hour while I drop this lot?”

“Take a leisurely walk to the cafe,” Greg chuckles as they start for the front of the store to cash out. “It’ll give me a chance to check in on the office.”

“Oh no, don’t do that,” John jokes. “No need to spoil your day off. I don’t want to be responsible for that. How will I sleep tonight?”

“All right then,” Greg tells him wryly. “I’ll just tag along with you. We’ll have plenty of time to get back up to speed before we even get there.”

“If you insist,” John is delighted by the suggestion. He has truly missed the CDI over the last ten years and often considered phoning to talk, but never did follow through. Now with Greg in front of him and plenty of time on his hands since Candace is scheduled to watch Gracie after school, he is loath to refuse his friend anything.

“I do insist,” Greg laughs as he places items on the conveyor belt for checkout, “and I’m buying.”

John grins and shrugs.

“Who am I to refuse?”

The next hour passes quickly as they catch a cab to John’s flat and make their way to the cafe. Not a moment is spent in silence. John tells Greg all about Gracie and their flat in Bath. He touches on Mary and Rosie, but quickly jumps ahead to the move back to London. For his part, Greg fills John in on his biggest cases over the years with an emphasis on those that brought about his promotion. By the time they reach Division and sit down with coffees, Greg has just gotten to the cohabitant Sherlock had mentioned in the park. John has the sneaking suspicion that Greg wanted to wait until he was sitting down before mentioning it, so it should be pretty good.

“I heard you were with someone,” John sips from his mug. “Anyone I know from the old days?”

“Uh, yeah,” Greg answers, running his hand up the back of his own neck and wearing a sheepish smile. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“What?” John’s eyes are wide. His lips remain parted in disbelief as the right corner of his mouth quirks up in a half smirk. Greg shrugs in affirmation. “Now that I did not expect.”

“Five years now. Actually,” Greg hesitates and John can tell he is trying to contain a really brilliant smile, “I asked him to marry me only last Sunday.”

“Oh my god. Congratulations,” John declares. “Greg, that’s fantastic news! Tell me, has he mellowed over the years?”

“He has, actually,” Greg answers, reigning in his laughter. He bites the inside of his cheek and looks John over with trepidation in his eyes. His friend eyes him quizzically from behind his mug. Decision made, the CDI picks up his own cup and brings it to his mouth as he says: “Being a doting uncle helps too.”

John swallows and places his coffee cup on the table between them. His brows arch briefly before falling again.

“It’s hard to imagine,” John says ruefully, not meeting Greg’s knowing gaze.

“No more than his baby brother having a child,” he remarks easily, watching John closely. The doctor shoots him a sharp look and chuckles under his breath as he leans back in his seat. With a sardonic smile, John looks down at where his hands rest on the table with his fingers wrapped around the mug of dark liquid.

“That’s the understatement of the year,” John mutters. He raises his eyes to his friend’s face to see Greg’s lips turned up on one side in a crooked and very amused smirk. John doesn’t say a word, giving him ample time to explain.

“Is it?” is all Greg says, his smirk growing more satisfied. John huffs a quick laugh and shakes his head slightly. Straightening up in his seat and leaning his elbows on the table, John fixes Greg with an incredulous face.

“Come on,” he begins and is unable to keep the touch of a plea from his tone. “You can’t say something like that and not fill in the blanks.”

“What? He didn’t tell you?” Greg replies coyly, turning his cup on the table and picking it up by the handle.

“You damn well know he didn’t,” John huffs again. “We ran into each other at the bloody park after ten years of not speaking.”

“Yeah? And whose fault is that?” Greg mutters grimly.

John stills instantly, lips parted with words that die on his tongue. Greg doesn’t look angry exactly, but he certainly isn’t pleased. Of all the people John expected to hold onto any animosity toward him, Greg Lestrade wasn’t even on the list.

John takes a shaky breath and closes his mouth. How can he even explain? It doesn’t even make sense in his own mind anymore. He swallows audibly, the very beginnings of sweat blooming at his temples. Greg is asking him to do what Sherlock could have in the park. What he still could, but probably never will. Not the Sherlock John knows.

“Mary was done,” John’s voice is choked and quiet. “With London and the surgery, but most of all with Sherlock. Revealing her secrets to me was the last nail in the coffin.”

“Funny you should say that,” Greg leans forward, his eyes ablaze and his voice low. “She shot him, John. She killed him. Stubborn bastard brought himself back from the dead and for what? His best friend to run off with his killer.”

“She was my wife,” John croaks barely above a whisper. “She was carrying my child.”

“You were married for all of two months,” Greg’s brown eyes are hard and bore into John’s very being like a hot poker. “She was a liar from the beginning.”

Greg clenches his teeth as if to stop himself from saying something and John has no doubt the words would cut him to the core. The muscles beneath the skin stretched across Greg’s jaw work constantly as he struggles to keep his cool in the crowded cafe. He sits back ever so slightly, pulling his elbows closer to the edge of the table, his intense gaze pinning John to his seat.

“When she left you,” Greg growls, trying to keep his voice even, “you could’ve called him. Hell, you could’ve done it before that. You knew where he was. You knew his number. He had no idea where you were and it nearly destroyed him.”

Silence hangs heavily in the air between them, even with the noise of the milk steamer and patrons all around. As much as John wants to look away in shame, he cannot break away from his friend’s furious glare. The source of Greg’s ire is suddenly crystal clear. Sherlock may have refused to hear Mycroft’s news of John’s life over the years, but Greg obviously hadn’t and it fueled his anger as time went on. John clears his throat, wincing at the sting of its sudden dryness.

“He started using again?” John’s heart sinks to his feet as he asks it. He had hoped against hope that Sherlock wouldn’t fall into oblivion without him. Greg lets out a mirthless laugh.

“No, he didn’t bloody use,” the words are a sneer and his lips curl. “But he was miserable. He disappeared into the flat for months and looked like hell when he resurfaced. He worked cases, but he was on auto-pilot until he met Jessie.”

“Jessie?” John asks, desperately curious. This, this is what he wants most to know. Olive’s mother. Sherlock’s wife? Where is she? Who is she? How did they meet? John has a thousand questions and now he knows for certain that Greg holds all of the answers. John need only ask, or so he thinks.

“No,” the CDI shakes his head and leans all the way back in his chair. He chews on his lip and puffs out an angry breath. “If you want to know, you’ll have to ask him. I’ll be damned if I give you an easy out.”

“You’re right,” John breathes out his shame in a sigh. “Anything I want to know should come from him.”

He raises his troubled eyes to Greg’s face and sees some of the anger on it has dissipated in favor of irritated approval. John straightens his spine and scrubs his hands through his short, silver-blonde hair. Pressing his lips in on each other, he inhales deeply and shakes his head.

“God, how I failed him, Greg,” John murmurs. Words he has thought often and never actually uttered. “I was so tired and felt betrayed and he kept saying I should stay with Mary. That I should forgive her because she’d actually saved his life by shooting him. It’s such bullshit.”

“He wanted you to keep her close for Rosie’s sake,” Greg tells him. His eyes are softer than they have been since they walked in the coffee shop. “And for yours. He knew you would never live in 221B again, but you and Rosie were worth it. I don’t think he realized Mary would convince you to leave.”

“Her final revenge,” John mutters angrily as Greg sighs.

“Just...don’t make the same mistakes twice, John. Don’t shut him out,” Greg advises sagely, finally raising his coffee cup to his lips again and taking a quick sip. “Olive says she and Gracie want to have a playdate at the flat, but you’re holding them up.”

John watches Greg uneasily. Memories of 221B start skipping through his mind and with them, feelings he has left buried for ten years. John shakes them away and wraps his hands around his own mug.

“I don’t know if I can go back there,” John says.

“It won’t be easy,” Greg tells him, placing his cup on the table. He leans in and fixes John with a very serious gaze. “Stop running, John.”

With those three words, John’s mind clears. The simplicity of it is stunning and utterly heartbreaking. How many years would he and Sherlock have been friends again if John had just faced his fears, accepted responsibility for his mistakes and reached out to the detective? What the hell had happened to him and when had he let go of Captain Watson? John had lost half of himself all these years and never seemed to take notice. Sure, he had thought that Sherlock didn’t care anymore, even after Rosie died, but when had the man’s moods ever stopped him from horning in before? He punched him in the face as a cover, fucking wrestled him to the ground because he was angry with the git. He tried to comfort Sherlock when he thought he was in love with Irene Adler, for Christ sake. John Watson...always by his side and ready to kick the shit out of anyone who would touch him.

Filled with a new resolve, John squares his shoulders and meets Greg’s eyes. His own are determined and set, the decision made. He will accept Sherlock’s invitation and take Gracie to his old home. Maybe he’ll even invite himself in for tea and see if the man who was once his best friend will allow him back into his life. Maybe Sherlock will let him try to repair their friendship. God, John hopes so.

---

All I can say is Greg Motherfucking Lestrade, the dark horse in this story. Hell, yeah!

Thank you so much for all the love and support. I definitely wouldn't be here without all of you! Love, Jane

@johnlock-rocks

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock fanfic #sherlock loves john #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #John loves Sherlock #Mystrade

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onthecrosslook · 3 years ago

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Three Acts

Note: @call-me-moo Here goes nothing…

Epilogue

(From this point onward, the chapters will not be illustrated. I attempted to illustrate them, but it diverges from canon so much that I couldn’t find a single scene that worked. I’m really sorry about it. But still, I hope you enjoy the epilogue…and whatever that entails.)

I’m in a wheelchair at Mary’s funeral. The doctors told John I was too weak to leave the hospital, but I insisted on going. Their concerns were warranted, after all- the last time I left, I nearly bled out in an abandoned building. But having my best friend…

Perhaps maybe more…?

I shake the thought away.

I can’t ruin this.

Being with John is the least I can do, and the most I could ever ask for.

I don’t deserve him.

Everyone that was there to pay their respects have already left- not that many people came to begin with. Most washed their hands of the whole situation when they found out who Mary truly was, and what she had done to us. Only John and I stayed afterwards.

Together. Once again, together.

We remain at the grave, respectively sitting and standing in companionable silence. Neither of us are sure what to say- to each other, or to Mary, I’m not sure. It’s fairly overcast, and I can see the beginnings of storm clouds rolling in above us.

How appropriate.

I exhale and tentatively steal a glance at John. He looks calm, but I can see a range of emotions flashing in his blue eyes as he stares at Mary’s gravestone. One of his hands is balled into a shaking fist, and the other loosely holds a bouquet of white lilies.

“Sherlock,” he murmurs, his voice cracking with emotion and painful, unsaid words. “Sherlock, what…what am I supposed to say…?”

He killed his wife.

I swallow hard. I’m not sure what to say, either, but anything I could do…“Do…would you like me to speak first?”

He killed his wife for me.

John nods stiffly and stands back, before hesitating and pushing my chair a bit closer. He looks as though he wants to say something to me, but he bites back the words and keeps them to himself.

I take a deep, shaky breath. “…Mary. I…I…want you to know that…Even if- if you shot me. Even if you…with Rosie…Even after all that, I- I think…I forgive you. You were selfish. And you- you lied, and you hurt everyone. But…you were also kind. And you were selfless, sometimes. And I saw some of the love you had f-for everyone, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

Where is this coming from? I hated Mary, I hated her, I really did, I hated her smile and her words and her subtle manipulation throughout the entirety of our fabricated friendship-

“Sherlock…” John says softly, urging me to stop getting lost in my mind. It’s funny how he can do that with a single look…

I can’t stop. Not now.

“-And…and I know I should be…the last person who tells you about love, because…because I’ve only truly…truly known what it meant after meeting John.” I don’t look at John. I’m too afraid of how he’ll react. “And…and you. I don’t…believe in the afterlife, you’re aware. But…I- I hope…” I feel hot tears burning my eyes. “I hope you’re at peace, Mary.”

John rests a hand on my shoulder as I choke back tears. I flinch at the sudden contact. He doesn’t say anything further as I take deep breaths to regain my composure.

I shouldn’t be this emotional. I shouldn’t care.

“Sherlock,” he repeats again, the barest trace of a smile on his face. “How- how do I compete with that?”

I laugh and lean into his touch. It feels warm, comforting, loving.

It feels right.

I smile weakly back at him. “Just say what's on your mind. You’ll be all right.” And I mean it. He will be all right.

He sighs and walks forward. A moment passes before he finally builds up the courage to begin speaking- and once he starts, it all rushes out of him like an unblockaded river. “Mary. You were my wife. Once. And…and yes, I shot you. But you shot Sherlock, so I think we’re even. You were a liar. And a killer. But I suppose that’s my type, yeah? I can’t help going for the crazy ones. It’s…it’s my addiction.” He glances towards me, pain in his eyes, before looking back. “I just…I don’t think I could forgive you, normally. But…if…if Sherlock could- if my favourite bloody sociopath could find it in his heart to…I…I think I can, too. Goodbye, Mary. I think I’ll be happier now.”

He deserves it. John Watson has been through far too much heartache, he deserves to have a bit of happiness.

“John, are you all right?”

His expression lightens a bit, as though he’s gotten a lot off of his chest.

I suppose, in a way, he has. Catharsis can be a wonderful thing.

“Yeah, Sherlock. I’m all right. For the first time…in…in a while. Come on. I’ve got to finish moving my stuff back to Baker Street, and I’ll be damned if you use being shot as an excuse not to help.”

I smile softly. “No excuses?”

“None,” he agrees, before leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss against my lips. “I think we’ve been making excuses for far too long.”

I know we have. Things will be different, at first. It’ll take a bit of getting used to. But I think we can do it.

Sherlock Holmes…and John Watson.

¿?MThIeSS?MEnd¿???

“R, sweetheart, do you have eyes on Sherlock Holmes?” A smooth voice- just like honey- creeps into R’s ear like a particularly cunning virus.

R swallows bitterly as her lips curl into a snarl. “Yes, sir. He’s at the grave,” she growls, her American accent feeling much more natural than the British one she had been faking for so many years.

“Excellent,” the voice says, which isn’t the most original comment, considering how many criminal masterminds have said ‘excellent’ in regards to evil plans before. “Ugh, isn’t he boring?”

“Who?” R asks reluctantly.

“John. So plain, so obviously in love- oh, I think he finally kissed his little boytoy! Bravo, John, it only took you five years!” The voice is taunting, emanating energy as though it would never again have a chance to play. “I’m sorry, that’s a bit of a sore spot, isn’t it?”

“Of course not, sir,” R says curtly, ignoring the previous musings. “Would you like me to eliminate them?”

“No, no, no!” the voice shouts viciously, making R flinch. “Don’t you dare touch a single curl on that pretty thing’s head! I want Sherlock to recover and be healthy for our next round.” He says ‘round’ as though it’s such an intimate thing- it’s altogether rather surreal.

As much as R would like to put a bullet in each of their heads, she controls her impulses. God knows what he would do to her if she did. “Yes, sir.”

The voice groans. “Stop with the formalities, Mary. It’s so dull, and you of all people should know how much I despise dull people.” He lowers his tone to something dark and deathly soft. “Refer to me as ‘sir’ one more time, and I will string your bloody corpse up in Regent’s Park for the birds to have at you.”

Mary swallows, her gun shaking violently from her sniper’s post. “With all due respect, Mr. Moriarty, Mary is no longer my name,” she whispers.

“Ah, well, it suits you!” Moriarty exclaims over the comms, his voice back to its regular gusto. “Head back to the car, Mary. We need to discuss your punishment.”

Mary pales. “Punishment, Mr. Moriarty? But- I haven’t-“

He laughs. It sends shivers up her spine. “Mary, Mary, quite the contrary,” he quips. “You nearly killed my favourite pet. Shooting him near the heart- tsk, tsk, I expected better of you. The little joke about saying ‘hi’ to me was clever, too, but I can’t have this go unnoticed. We’re both professionals, I’m sure you understand!”

“But-“

Moriarty interrupts her with a shout. “BUT I suppose I’ll be lenient, just this once.” He seems to be barely holding back deranged giggles. “Instead of taking your hand, I’ll settle for a finger. Off you pop!”

The line cuts off abruptly as Mary feels a needle plunge into her neck, and she suddenly wishes she hadn’t worn a bulletproof vest when confronting Sherlock…

(To Be Continued!)

Act One linked below:

https://benaddicted-linfanuel.tumblr.com/post/656892650818011136/three-acts

Act Two linked below:

https://benaddicted-linfanuel.tumblr.com/post/656968775195934720/three-acts

Act Three linked below:

https://benaddicted-linfanuel.tumblr.com/post/656990419321864192/three-acts

Act Four linked below:

https://benaddicted-linfanuel.tumblr.com/post/657145687996301312/three-acts

#bbc #john watson #sherlock #sherlock holmes #johnlock #jim moriarty #post reichenbach #mary is not good #she’s actually pretty evil #sherlock fanfic #mycroft holmes #miss me #moriartipocalypse 2021 #moriarty is alive #Moriarty was real

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inevitably-johnlocked · 4 years ago

Note

Hi I was wondering if you had any johnlock that centers around the pool scene! I love the work you out into your blog/recs! I wish i could find blogs like yours for good omens and doctor who tbh

Hi Lovely!!!!

Ah, thank you!! Sometimes they’re not really worked hard on unless I know I have to actually re-file a bunch of lists LOL. Like today’s for instance..... here’s everything I have tagged with the Pool Scene for you!! <3 And I’m sure there are blogs like that in the other fandoms :) <3

Hope these help you find something you’re looking for!

TGG: POOL SCENE

The Moment When by drekadair (K, 509 w. || TGG Fic, Friendship, First Person POV Sherlock, Introspection, Worried Sherlock) – Sherlock sees John in the pool, and doubts. Set during the end of "The Great Game."

Five Seconds by xXLadyLovelaceXx (K+, 658 w. || Friendship, Introspection, TGG Pool Scene) – In the half-second before Sherlock shoots the jacket, John notices something.

Promises Kept by grannysknitting (K+, 844 w., 1 Ch. || John POV, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship / Pre-Slash, Sherlock’s Violin, Worried Sherlock, John Whump, Post-TGG) – When they were in hospital, Sherlock made a promise to himself. Now he's keeping it. Set after 'Polygamous Marriage' but before 'Back in the Saddle'

Burn Burn by Jenn1984 (K+, 925 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TGG, Angst, Worried / Panicked / Possessive Sherlock) – A week after the events of "The Great Game", Sherlock returns to 221B Baker Street to find it empty.

Wreckage and Rubble by grannysknitting (K+, 1,116 w. || Drama, H/C, Ambiguous Ending) – Lestrade's point of view when he's called to the wreckage of the pool. He doesn't want to deal with the wreckage that would occur if London's newest crime fighting duo are parted from each other.

Idiot by Anesthesiologist (T, 1,229 w., 1 Ch. || Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, TGG AU, BAMF John, Sherlock Whump, Inner Monologue, John Saves Sherlock, POV Sherlock) – What the heck happened? He remembered the pool and Moriarty, but then what? Had he been dying?

I Was Wrong by AllesandraQuartermaine (K, 1,496 w., 1 Ch. || TGG AU, Friendship, Hospitalization / Injury, John’s Self Esteem, Sleepy Sherlock) – Sherlock and John have a conversation a few days after the pool face off with Moriarty. And John hears something quite surprising.

Back in the Saddle by grannysknitting (M, 1,577 w., 1 Ch. || Post TGG AU, Donovan POV, Observation / Introspection, Protective Sherlock, Injured John, Case-ish Fic) – Their first return to solving crime after the pool and the explosion.

Coming Full Circle by KCS (K+, 2,358 w., 1 Ch. || Alternate TGG, Friendship, Drama, Violence/Death References, Drugging/Poisoning, Kidnapping, BAMF John, Moriarty POV, Introspection) – Moriarty had John for almost six hours between his abduction and the showdown at the pool - more than enough time to implement a Plan B for his escape should Sherlock call his bluff with the fake bomb vest.

It's All Fine by AkoyaMizuno (T, 2,459 w. || Post-TGG, Introspection, Mild Angst, Friendship) – Sherlock never asked what happened in the hours between John being kidnapped and the events at the pool. It occurs to him, days after the fact, that he probably should have.

All That I Have by the_arc5 (M, 3,721 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TGG Canon Divergence, Pining Sherlock, John Whump, Anxious / Worried Sherlock, Light Angst) – In the aftermath of the Great Game, Sherlock finds himself with a new weakness. John is both the cause and the cure.

Sink Like a Stone by pennydreadful (T, 4,348 w., 1 Ch. || Angst / Dark, Cuddling/Snuggling) – After defeating Moriarty at the pool, life isn't quite the same around 221B Baker Street...it's more peaceful. And stranger.

The Care and Keeping of Your Mad Genius by Janieshi (T, 4,553 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TGG, Friendship, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Light Humour/Teasing, Alternating POV, Cranky Sherlock) – If he hadn't been so focused on holding the bastard still, John would have laughed aloud. This maniac really thought John was the pet in this dynamic?

The Refining Fire by Arwen Jade Kenobi (T, 5,451 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TGG AU, Angst, Friendship, Alternating POV (Lestrade, Mycroft, Sherlock), Worried Sherlock, Hospital Recovery) – Fire can burn things to ashes, but it can also burn things together.

BANG by ElvendorkInfinity (T, 7,016 w., 3 Ch. || Post-TGG AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Worried / Scared Sherlock, Alternating POV, Whump, Hospital Recovery, Open Ending) – 'I should warn you,' Sherlock says, his voice steady and his eyes fixed on Moriarty. 'You are sadly misinformed.' And he fires. Prequel to M Is For Moriarty

The Hours Before Midnight by Lady Sam Mallory (T, 7,773 w., 1 Ch. || TGG Fic, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Torture / John Whump, Kidnapping, Drugging, Alternating POV, Worried / Protective Sherlock) – Moriarty doesn't play fair. John must deal with hours of torment from Moriarty before going to meet Sherlock at the Pool at the end of the Great Game and Sherlock must deal with the consequences of his boredom.

Victim, Bait, Hero, Friend by KimberlyTheOwl (T, 7,887 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TGG Epilogue, Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Past Kidnapping / Torture / Implied Rape, Panic Attacks, Worried / Possessive Sherlock, Lestrade is a Good Friend) – Some insights into why John was perfectly willing to throw everything away for a chance to kill Moriarty at the pool. Trauma, ugliness, and finally healing. Some nice supporting work by Lestrade as well.

Hope for Heroes by Richefic (K+, 16,887 w., 5 Ch. || Post-TGG Fic, Introspection / Flashbacks, Friendship/Epic Bromance, Hurt/Comfort, Worried/Anxious Sherlock, Sherlock Admires John, BAMF John, John Deduces, Fancy Party, John’s Self Esteem, Domestics) – In the final moments of "The Great Game" Holmes hopes he will have the chance to tell his flatmate that he was wrong. Heroes do exist after all and the one in front of him is called Dr John Watson.

The Heart In The Whole by verityburns (E, 101,650 w., 21 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TGG Canon Divergence, Drama & Angst, H/C, First Time, Blind Sherlock) – Events after ‘The Great Game’ leave Sherlock dependent on his best friend and colleague. But John has a secret of his own…

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #tgg fics #tgg pool scene #pollyismychild

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hypnoticwinter · 3 years ago

Text

The Adventure of the Eidolon Chapter 1

“Bad business, this is, Holmes,” Watson remarks again. Sherlock glances over at him, then returns his gaze to the binoculars.

The weather is awfully nippy this far north, and especially this time of year. Sherlock has bundled up but Watson is seemingly completely unruffled, laying there on the berm in his immaculate maroon suit. Sherlock wonders, briefly, why he’d refused to change into more appropriate attire for the occasion, but he has long since learned not to question these things, for the line of inquiry leads nowhere.

It’s been a solid two or three hours since they set up camp there on the berm, and Sherlock is beginning to get bored. They are just high enough up and at just the right angle so that when the wind comes through it cuts like a knife and chills him straight to the bone. Sherlock looks at the sky, grey and nasty and sleet-hued, and thinks about it for a while, but in the end he drops his gaze back down to the small blot that marks the cave entrance. He doesn’t want to alert anything, not when they have such a good vantage point.

Watson is checking the rifle again. He draws the bolt back, not far enough to eject the cartridge in the chamber, but enough to see the brass gleam dully in the pale, overcast light. Sherlock nudges him. “I don’t think the bullet’s gone anywhere since last you looked,” he remarks, and Watson laughs, a muffled thud of thunder resounding somewhere deep in his chest.

“You can never be too careful,�� he remarks enigmatically, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

Another ten minutes passes without incident.

The smell of the mire from below wafts up to the berm every now and then, and each time it does some instinct makes Sherlock wrinkle his nose, driving pinpricks through his frozen skin. He yawns and then cracks his jaw, working it left and right. Watson glances over at him. “Why don’t we just go down there?” he asks, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“That’s a bad idea,” he tells Watson. “Staying up here is much safer.”

“Yes,” Watson grumbles. “Up here we’re only in danger of dying of boredom.”

“You didn’t have to come with,” Sherlock points out, tugging down the brim of his deerstalker hat just as the wind rolls in yet again. Watson takes it on the chin without complaining.

“And leave you to have all the fun by yourself?” he asks. “Tcha.”

“Fun?” Sherlock asks. “I thought you said this was boring?”

Watson smiles.

The sun is gradually settling lower in the sky, off to the west. Sherlock watches as Watson rubs the bags under his eyes, pulls at the corners of his eyelids, and then settles back down on the rifle. Sherlock checks his watch.

“What do you think they’re having at the inn tonight?” Watson asks.

“I saw the board before we left, it’s beef stew and cornbread.”

Watson grunts. “Could go for a spot of that right about now.”

Sherlock’s stomach grumbles in agreement. He eyes the sun warily, judging the distance between it and the horizon. “If this keeps up,” he remarks, “we might have to come back at night.”

Watson nods. “Won’t be much fun,” he observes.

“We’ll manage,” Sherlock mumbles. A bit of movement at the treeline a few hundred yards away has caught his attention. He shifts the binoculars over and lets out a sigh of relief. “Finally,” he groans. “Watson, do you see the…?”

“Over on the treeline? Yes, I see it,” Watson says, peering through the scope of the rifle. He squints at the dial on the side of the scope. “What would you say the distance to there is?”

“Keep it on the mouth of the cave,” Sherlock says, tracking the figure slowly picking its way across the moor.

“If I take the shot now,” Watson starts, but Sherlock’s voice turns brusque.

“I said keep it on the cave,” he says. “And get ready, it’ll be there in a second.”

“Christ,” Watson mutters, but he nudges the rifle back over to cover the yawning black mouth of the cave.

Just as Sherlock says, the figure make its way to the cave mouth, winding between trees and popping in and out of coppices here and there as it goes. Watching it through the scope, Watson reflects begrudgingly that Sherlock is right, if he’d tried the shot as it moved through the treeline, there’d be no guarantee he’d hit his mark.

The figure pauses at the cave mouth and rears up on two legs, one forelimb planted on the side of the cave, in exactly the same manner as a drunken man leaning on the doorframe to his house, trying to find his balance and his keys.

The rifle cracks and the figure stumbles and howls, and then drags itself inside the cave, a dark smear of ichorous blood staining the pale rock. Sherlock curses. “You couldn’t have shot it in the head?” he asks, and Watson shrugs.

“That was the head,” he says.

“Mm,” Sherlock grunts. “Well, let’s go finish it off.”

“No, you stay here,” Watson says, putting a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock shakes it off immediately and glares at Watson.

They stand there like that for a moment before Watson shakes his head and, leaving the rifle on the berm, starts down the long rocky path to the foot of the moor. Sherlock watches him go for a moment before he shoves his hands into his pockets and, tucking his chin down to keep the wind from biting at it, follows after Watson’s dwindling form into the moor below.

* * *

“Do you hear anything?” Sherlock whispers. Watson, cocking his head intently near the cave’s mouth, shakes his head.

“All quiet,” he murmurs. “Think there might be another exit?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Maybe,” he says, “but I think that even if there was, he wouldn’t want to leave the cave.”

Sherlock rummages around in his jacket for a little bit and then takes out a pistol and hands it to Watson. Watson’s eyebrows raise. “Where the hell did you get that?”

“I’ve always had it,” Sherlock says. “Let’s go in quietly. You go first, I’ll carry the torch.”

“Wouldn’t it be smarter to just wait for it to come out?” Watson asks. “I mean, you saw the size of that thing, we’ll be in close quarters…”

“And if you had just hit it in the head we wouldn’t have to do this the hard way,” Sherlock says. A vein throbs in Watson’s temple.

“I did hit it in the head,” he asserts again. “I know where I shot it and I didn’t miss.”

“Then why is it still alive?” Sherlock asks, a hint of a smirk forming on his thin lips.

“Look,” Watson starts, but from inside the cave there is a distinct shifting of weight, a sound like something moving around on dry packed earth. Watson shoots Sherlock a significant look, and Sherlock sighs.

“It’s hurt,” he whispers. “We’ll just go in and put it down and this whole damn case will be over with. Alright?”

“Alright,” Watson says, checking the pistol. He cocks it and motions for Sherlock to stay behind him, and then they walk into the mouth of the cave and are swallowed by darkness.

The first thing that hits them is the smell. The air inside the cave is rank and warm and wet, like they’ve just walked inside a decaying dog. Sherlock seems unbothered by it but Watson’s eyes have already started to water. He hesitates briefly, but Sherlock puts his hand on Watson’s shoulder and Watson shakes his head and pushes past it.

He’s holding the pistol down low at his hip, ready to bring it up and shoot at a moment’s notice, but for the moment no targets are forthcoming. Sherlock shines his torch along the worn, well-packed earth floor and along the dusty walls of the cave, but whatever had been moving around in there a moment before has now fallen ominously silent.

Watson clenches his jaw and proceeds forward at a slow but regular pace. The mouth of the cave is long and narrow and winding but it gradually opens up to the point that Sherlock and Watson can walk side by side.

There is a sound from ahead and they both stop. Watson glances over at Sherlock and Sherlock raises a finger to his lips, shakes his head.

The cave makes an abrupt left turn and then opens out into a great basin-shaped chamber. The smell is strongest here and Watson again has to take a moment to fight through it, eyes smarting with the sheer weight of the drooling animal stench.

“Watson,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Give me a minute,” Watson says, rubbing at his eyes.

“Watson,” Sherlock repeats, and Watson manages to force his eyes open and peer blearily at the limp, blood-soaked object bathed in Sherlock’s torchlight, laying there pitifully on the floor of the cave.

Sherlock’s eyes are very wide. Watson looks a little green.

“Is that…?” he starts, and Sherlock nods.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s Beryl…or what’s left of her, at least.”

The bloody torso on the floor has clearly been gouged at by massive teeth or claws, and Watson imagines he can see an expression of abject terror frozen on the poor woman’s face.

Sherlock finally takes the beam of the torch away from the corpse and plays it over the rest of the cave, but it seems utterly empty. Watson’s speculation about there being another exit seem to be irrelevant; there’s only the one entrance, and they would have noticed if anything had tried to slip out past them.

Watson clears his throat. “Well,” he says, glancing over at Sherlock, “we should probably call the -“

There is a scuffling sound from the roof of the cave, and Watson’s words catch in his throat. Sherlock whips the torch upwards and for a moment they can see nothing but the crenellated granite ceiling, but then -

“Jesus!” Watson cries.

The thing is enormous, its arms and legs sheathed in tawny fur, its tail like a fat black mop of ragged hair. It inclines its elongated wolfish head towards them and for a moment, just a moment, Watson can see the bullet hole in the side of its skull before its crazed, red-litten eyes fix on him and it releases its hold on the knobbly rock wall and falls directly onto him with an earsplitting howl.

The impact knocks Sherlock back and drives Watson to the floor, sending the torch spinning away and casting crazy shadows all across the cave walls.

Watson is struggling desperately to keep the thing’s teeth and claws out of him. He’s already gotten a nasty scratch across his cheek and his face is flecked with spittle from its jaws, gnashing in frustration just inches from his throat. “Sherlock!” he yells.

Sherlock gets to his feet and stares down at the muscular, furry form of the beast pinning Watson to the ground. Watson is struggling to keep its long, clawed hands away from his face, but it means he has to wriggle and writhe back and forth to dodge the snapping bites it throws his way as well. “Sherlock!” he calls again, a note of desperation in his voice. Their eyes meet and for a long moment, perhaps about a second or so but feeling infinitely longer, Watson thinks that Sherlock is about to turn around and walk out of the cave.

Then, Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and with a curious sense of resignation about him, makes a small gesture with his hand.

For a second nothing happens. The beast rears up and tears its arm free from Watson’s grasp, its claws glinting wickedly. Watson tries to roll out from under it before it comes swinging down like a meteor, but the thing is far too heavy to just throw off. Watson draws in a breath to scream.

The rock floor of the cave erupts and a mass of stone slams into the beast, knocking it clean off of Watson and tossing it up against the cave wall. It tries to rise but before it can the mass of stone slams down onto it again. Watson can hear the thing’s ribs shatter like toothpicks.

It takes four more repeated impacts before it stops moving, four more tooth-rattling, bone-jarring impacts before the creature, little more than a flat disc of matter at this point, stops struggling.

Watson, breathing like he’s just ran a marathon, slowly gets to his feet. The cut on his cheek is bleeding freely and his suit is in tatters, but there doesn’t look to be any harm done. He glances back at Sherlock. “That’s that, I suppose,” he says, but Sherlock shakes his head.

“It’s still alive,” he says. “We have to burn it.”

Watson looks down at the mangled mess by his feet. “It’s still alive?” he asks, dubiously.

“Have you got a match?” Sherlock asks. “Or a lighter or something?”

“I don’t.”

Sherlock mumbles a muffled curse and gestures towards the crushed, furry form on the floor, and it immediately bursts into flames. Watson lets out a surprised yelp and scurries backwards, bumping into the cave wall. The thick, acrid smoke is clawing at his throat and he waves his hand before him, trying to clear the air. “Sherlock?” he calls.

“Come on,” Sherlock says from the entrance. “It’s time to go.”

Watson hesitates. “What about Beryl?” he asks. “We can’t just leave her here.”

Sherlock walks out of the smoke, seemingly unbothered by it, and takes Watson by the arm. “Let’s go,” he repeats, and Watson allows Sherlock to lead him out of the cave. They pass through the curving tunnel quickly, and once they’re out the fetid odor of the moor slams bracingly into Watson and clears the stench of smoke from his nostrils. He takes out a handkerchief from his pocket and blows his nose.

“Christ,” he mutters. Sherlock looks over at him. Watson feels the slender young man’s eyes on him but just clears his throat. “Haven’t had one like that in a while.”

“No,” Sherlock agrees, looking around. The last few slivers of sunlight are spreading across the sky languidly, over to the west. Somewhere close by, a chorus of cicadas are starting up. Watson coughs and then, with nothing more to say, the two of them start to pick their way back through the moor.

They make it to the cliff before Watson speaks. “What are we going to tell Stapleton?”

Sherlock laughs, but there is very little mirth to it. “That was Stapleton.”

“What was?”

Sherlock looks at him, but gives no answer, and after a moment, Watson looks away.

The moon is rising now and the pale light shines down on the two of them, picking their way carefully up the hill. Once they reach the top Watson turns round and looks back, and after a moment Sherlock joins him. Somewhere far off, a wolf howls, and Watson shakes his head.

“Are there many things like that in the world, Sherlock?” he asks.

“Like what?”

“Like that…creature. Whatever it was.”

Sherlock shuts his eyes and makes a minute gesture with his right hand, down low at his hip. Watson’s eyes unfocus slightly. “What creature?” Sherlock says. “Back in the cave? That was Stapleton. The poor man was deranged, clearly. It’s a lucky thing you managed to set him alight or he’d have gutted you for sure with that knife of his.”

Watson is silent for a long while. “Stapleton?” he asks finally.

Sherlock looks over at him. “Yes,” he says. “Don’t you remember?”

Watson shakes his head. “I guess I must have hit my head back in the cave there. Christ, that poor woman…”

Sherlock peers at his watch and sighs. “We’d better go back to the inn and call the police. The inspector isn’t going to be very happy about being woken up but there’s no way around it.”

“Poor him,” Watson says drily, and Sherlock laughs.

And then the two of them turn and begin the hike back down to the car, and from there the drive back to the village.

Down on the moor, the moon shines very brightly, and the howls of the wolves multiply until it sounds as though the entire forest were howling.

* * *

Watson is halfway through his bowl of stew by the time Sherlock gets off the phone with the inspector. He sits down heavily at the table and sighs. “Christ,” Sherlock says, “that man doesn’t know how to shut up.”

Watson laughs and pushes Sherlock’s bowl over to him. “How are the kids?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Marybell finally lost that baby tooth she’d been trying to get rid of for the last week and she’s very excited for the tooth fairy to come tonight, and Kenneth got detention at school for passing notes.”

“Passing notes? Kids still do that these days?”

“Apparently. Amazing how that man is a complete sourpuss at every hour of the day but if you ask him about his kids he transforms into a normal human being for five minutes or so. Oh, this is really good,” Sherlock says, having taken his first spoonful of stew.

“Right? Oh, I got you a beer but I didn’t know if you wanted - “

“I think I’m just going to get some water,” Sherlock says. “Did whatshername -“

“She went to bed already, told me to clean up when we were done.”

Sherlock nods and heads over behind the counter to the sink, then fills up a glass of water for himself. He peers in the freezer for a moment, then makes a face. “Do these people not know about ice trays?”

“The ice maker is broken, she said.”

Sherlock grunts. “I’ll take the beer, then,” he says.

The two of them sit together eating for about half an hour or so before Sherlock announces he will retire and heads up to the room. Watson sits there by himself for a while longer and then gets up, washes the dishes in the sink, tosses the bottles in the recycling container, and heads up as well.

He opens the door to their room very quietly and comes in without making any sound, but Sherlock shifts in bed. “It’s alright,” he says, “I’m still awake.”

Once Watson is in his cot he looks over at Sherlock, or at least where Sherlock would be. His eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness yet so all he can make out is a lumpy outline huddled in the bed across from him. “Will the inspector need us for anything?” he asks.

“No,” Sherlock says. “I gave him the gist of it and he sent a few men down to take a look at the cave, and then when they see the body they’ll get it wrapped up.”

“And Stapleton?”

“The remains are still there. They’ll probably have to go to dental records but he should still be identifiable, I expect.”

Watson grunts. “So that’s it, then,” he says finally.

“What is?”

“Mystery solved, I mean. It was Stapleton all along.”

“It looks that way.”

“And poor Beryl?”

“What about her?”

“Why did he…do what he did to her?”

Sherlock makes a small noise and rearranges his pillow. “Who knows? Perhaps she had finally had enough of lying to him and was going to come tip us off.”

Watson shakes his head. “That poor woman.”

They lay there in silence for a while. The wind has picked up outside and something about the way it howls through the old oak tree in the village square makes Watson feel very mournful indeed.

“Goodnight, Watson,” Sherlock says.

“Goodnight, Holmes,” Watson says.

And then, the sound of the wind still in his ears, Watson rolls over and tries to sleep.

* * *

“Watson, wake up.”

Watson, without opening his eyes, waves a massive hand at where he thinks Sherlock is. “Go away.”

“Watson.”

“Let me sleep in,” he says.

“Watson, they’re here.”

There’s only one ‘they’ Watson knows of that would have Sherlock sounding this concerned. His eyes flash open and he sits bolt upright, staring at Sherlock. “They’re here?” he asks, and Sherlock nods and gestures to the window. Watson goes to it and starts to open the blinds, but Sherlock stops him, shaking his head. “Just peek out,” he tells Watson. “Be careful.”

Watson leans down and peers between the slats of the blind. Down below in the square the Twins’ big black car is parked, hazards flashing, halfway up on the sidewalk. As Watson watches, one of the Twins, the brother, gets out on the passenger side, talking rapidly on a mobile phone. He looks round for a moment before his eyes fix on the inn and his gaze slowly travels upwards. Watson lets go of the blinds and takes a step back. “Did they see you?” Sherlock asks. His eyes are very dark.

Watson shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, but I think they know where we are.”

“Fuck,” Sherlock snarls, casting his gaze about the room.

Downstairs, the bell rings as somebody enters the inn.

“Sherlock,” Watson says, “we have to do something.”

“I’m thinking,” Sherlock snaps. After a moment he points to the window. “Can that be opened?”

Watson goes to the window and checks it, but shakes his head. “No,” he says. “It locks and we haven’t the key.”

Sherlock curses again.

There is a knock at the door and both of them whip around. Watson looks at Sherlock. Sherlock reaches up and smoothes his messy hair out of his eyes. “Go open it,” he whispers. “But be careful.”

Watson goes to the door and reaches inside his jacket. “Who is it?” he calls.

“It’s Lestrade,” the inspector says, sounding annoyed. “Open up already, I need to talk to Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s face brightens immediately. “Thank god,” he says. “First time I’ve ever been happy to hear that man’s voice. Let him in.”

Watson throws the bolt of the door and opens it. Lestrade glowers up at him, a sallow, rat-faced imp of a man looking already peeved that he had to wait for two minutes at the door. Watson glances down the hall and sees the Twins just reaching the top of the landing. They freeze when they see Lestrade. The brother starts to put his hand inside his pockett, but his sister reaches over and tugs his hand away. She gives Watson a very unpleasant smile and starts forward.

“Come in, inspector, please,” Watson says, flashing the man a smile and moving out of the way. The inspector glowers at him and strides inside without a word, and Watson shuts the door forcefully behind him, and slaps the deadbolt shut. He stands there with his back to the door, listening, while Sherlock, a note of strain in his voice, greets Lestrade. He looks over Lestrade’s head at Watson, who shakes his head and gives Sherlock a significant look.

Next to him, the doorknob turns, very stealthily. Sherlock’s eyes flit down to it and he nods. “Inspector,” he says, grinning at the man, “why don’t you come into the study?”

Watson frowns. The study? There isn’t a study, it’s just the bedroom and an adjoining bathroom, what the devil is he -

When Watson rounds the corner he finds with a shock that there is a new door open right in the middle of the wall, which leads to a rather nice-looking study with a fireplace, a desk, and several chairs. Watson stares; even Lestrade seems a little confused. Watson wonders to himself for a moment how in the world he could have possibly missed the door all this time. Sherlock is busying himself with something at the desk inside the room. “Brandy, Lestrade?” he asks, holding up an elegant glass bottle filled with amber liquid.

“No, thank you,” Lestrade says after a moment. “I’m working. Really, I was just coming to ask what the devil you two did to the perpetrator, we came down to the cave and all that was there - besides the woman’s, er, remains - was a pile of ash and charred bones. What -“

“Inspector, please,” Sherlock says. His voice is pleasant but Watson can see a vein pulse in his temple. “Why don’t we all have a sit down and I’m sure Watson and I will be able to answer any questions you might have.”

Lestrade hesitates. Watson bends down next to the man and, very gently, puts his hand on Lestrade’s shoulder. Lestrade nearly flinches. “Please, inspector,” Watson says, keeping his voice utterly calm, “why don’t you sit down?”

“Well, I - you see, I - yes, alright.”

Watson shuts the door behind them, and before he can lock it he hears a series of clicks from the lock and the bolt and it has already locked itself. Quite a modern innovation for an inn this old, Watson thinks. When he turns round again Sherlock is putting his hand back in his pocket. Lestrade settles into one of the armchairs and glares dubiously up at Sherlock. “Now, inspector,” Sherlock says, “please, what can we assist you with?”

“Well, as I said -“

“Pardon me for a moment. Watson?”

Watson hurries over and leans down next to Sherlock. “Take the other door,” Sherlock says. “And then go and pull the car around. This ought to keep them busy but I don’t know for how long.”

“The other door?”

“Right there, Watson,” he points. Watson gives him a dubious look and starts to say something, but there is a loud crash from the room and Sherlock’s eyes widen. “Hurry!” he whispers.

“What the devil was that?” Lestrade asks, twisting around.

“Er, me, I think,” Watson says. “I was, uh, doing some reading last night and I put my book right on the corner of the nightstand. I guess it must have finally fallen over. If you’ll excuse me -“

“Now, wait just a minute -“

“Inspector, please,” Sherlock says, his voice pacific. “We’re all busy men, surely you have more pressing matters than to investigate books falling off of shelves,” he chuckles.

Lestrade pauses, then settles back into his seat, and Watson opens the other door and slips out.

The door opens, for some strange reason, onto a fire escape. Watson shuts the door softly and then bounds down the stairs, taking them two at a time. It’s the work of a moment to bring the car round, and somewhat to his surprise Watson doesn’t run into the Twins while he’s doing so. The village is still very quiet, although if they get into a fight that’s bound to change fast.

Watson honks the horn and after a moment the door at the top of the fire escape opens and Sherlock pushes a furious-looking Lestrade ahead of him. “Really, inspector, I’m very sorry, but we have to be out of the room so housekeeping can go through it,” he says, hustling Lestrade down the fire exit. At the bottom he seizes Lestrade’s hand and pumps it vigorously, clapping the man on the back. Watson shakes his head, trying to stop himself from grinning. “So very good to see you,” he tells Lestrade, completely ignoring the man’s protests, before spinning him around and pushing him gently off in the direction of the village square. Then Sherlock sprints over to the car and throws the passenger seat open, flinging himself inside. “Drive,” he tells Watson.

The door to the fire escape bursts open and the Twins come bounding down, taking the steps two at a time in their haste. Lestrade boggles at them and yells for them to stop, but they simply bowl him over. Watson throws the car into gear and reverses onto the main road, and then takes off.

“This is going well,” he remarks to Sherlock, who shakes his head, craning his neck round to look out the rear window.

Sherlock glances in the mirror; the Twins are dashing for their car. As he watches, the female Twin dives into the driver’s seat through the open window, and the lights power on just a second later. She kicks the passenger door open and the male Twin, coming up a little behind, catches it just as she starts to peel off and folds himself into the car, slamming the door behind him.

Watson grunts. “Haven’t been in a car chase in a while,” he says, and Sherlock nods.

“It’s too bad the road out of here is just a straight shot,” Sherlock says. “We’ve no opportunity to lose them.”

“We could call the cops,” Watson suggests. “They might not be too keen to do anything with the police watching. Sherlock snorts.

“Lestrade was there and they didn’t much care about him.”

“Maybe they didn’t know who he was?”

“Watson,” Sherlock says, a faint tinge of annoyance coloring his words, “this is the closest they’ve gotten in ages, you really think that calling the police will make them stop?”

Watson shrugs and stays silent, focusing on the road. There is a long gentle curve ahead before the road plunges into the forest. Watson bites his lip. “It’d be really bad if a tree had fallen,” he remarks, and Sherlock curses.

“Don’t jinx us,” he tells Watson. “Look, open the sunroof, would you?”

Watson glances in the rearview. The big black car is gaining on them. Watson is driving as fast as he dares but the twins are only about twenty or thirty feet back and getting closer every minute. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it fast,” he tells Sherlock as he thumbs the button for the sunroof. Sherlock unbuckles his seatbelt and stands up, stepping over so he’s straddling the center console.

“Whatever you do,” Sherlock tells Watson, “don’t crash the car right now.”

“I’ll try,” he mutters, edging over in his seat to give Sherlock more room. What are you -“ Watson glances over and then does a doubletake. “Where the hell did you get a cinderblock?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Sherlock grunts, hefting the cinderblock. Watson watches in the mirror as Sherlock throws the cinderblock at the Twins’ car. The car swerves out of the way and loses a bit of distance, but not much, not enough.

“Sherlock,” Watson says, voice tight, “are you sure -“

“Pass me another,” Sherlock says, in a tone that will brook no disagreement. Watson glances over and then reaches down into the footspace of the passenger side and hands up another cinderblock. Sherlock squeezes one eye shut, tracking the Twins’ car as it weaves back and forth, and then throws it.

Watson watches in the rearview as the Twins swerve in just the wrong direction and the cinderblock crashes into the windshield like a cruise missile, leaving a massive, jagged hole in the tinted glass right in front of the driver’s seat. The car oversteers and then runs off the road and into a ditch, and just like that the pursuit is halted.

Sherlock sits back down heavily and fumbles with his seatbelt, and Watson shuts the sunroof. He slows the car to a bit more manageable of a pace and then glances over at Sherlock; the young man is, as always, smoothing his untidy mop of black hair out of his eyes. “Don’t think they expected that one,” he says, watching the dwindling wreck in the right-side mirror.

“Do you think you killed her?” Watson asks.

“Oh, was Jessica driving? No,” Sherlock shakes his head. “I doubt it. It’d take more than a cinderblock to get rid of her.”

Watson glances over dubiously. “You’re awfully calm about all this,” he observes, and Sherlock sighs.

“You’d prefer it if I was having a panic attack?”

Watson just shakes his head, and then the two of them sit silently, Watson’s eyes fixed on the road and Sherlock’s watching out the window as the trees slip by. Every now and then Sherlock looks in the rearview and watches carefully, waiting for a pair of headlights to appear, but none are forthcoming.

Continue with Chapter 2

Return to Table of Contents

#writing #writeblr #alt lit #sherlock holmes #lovecraft #novel #thriller #mystery

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elisabethvanroseblood · 4 years ago

Text

The Nameless Story

Memories

"Go Go go!!!!! If you were all so lame, the enemy would have defeated us!!!"

A man in uniform yells at the young soldiers who are making a long march.

"HURRY UP!! GO!!!"

He yells and marches 15 meters in front of the group.

The new one from the troop collapses because she cannot breathe properly. The others march on, but one of them stops and hurries to the young girl.

"Hey, are you okay, Richards?"

Says the soldier and helps her up. She points to her breast and indicates that she cannot breathe. He pats her on the back, which makes her cough and gasp.

"Th-Thanks"

She coughs and looks at the soldier with thanks. He smiles.

“No problem, that's what comrades are for. Come on. We have to catch up with the group"

He says, takes her hand and marches on with her.

After a while, the group rested in a forest and pitched their tents for the night.

"Thanks again for helping me"

Says the young woman and smiles gently. Her blue eyes in the night sky shimmer slightly in the light of the campfire while she sits next to the soldier.

"No problem Richa—"

"Sky. Just Sky"

The young woman smiles and eats an apple.

"John"

Said the soldier before sipping his canteen.

The two still eat something and talk about God and the world.

“Tell me, why are you here in the military? This is no place for a pretty young woman like you"

Says the man and looks at the blue-eyed woman, who blushes slightly.

“My father was in the military. He wanted his children to go there too. But I am his only child because my mother, whom he loved very much, passed away after I was born. He didn't want to and couldn't remarry, so he raised me and trained me as best he could. I never minded, I always thought it was cool to have a father who was in the military and supported me. And well....now I am here"

The young woman tells the blonde man and opens her bun, which causes her long, white hair, slightly wavy, to fall over her shoulder. John carefully strokes a strand from her face, which is why it is even redder. He chuckles.

"You are so adorable when you turn red, Sky"

He chuckles before she punched his shoulder and snorted red.

"Pah!"

She says and turned even redder and looked like a tomato.

"You are so stupid!"

She calls before she punched him more, which is why he started laughing more.

"Idiot!"

She snorts and turns away from him, offended.

"Oh come on, Sky"

He laughs lightly and squeezes it.

"I know you don't mean it"

He pouts with dog eyes.

"Oh please stop looking like that, Watson!"

She says and hits him in the chest, which makes him giggle.

The two always did such nonsense and were branded as a married couple by the whole troop, because they only behaved that way and because sometimes they were just fighting. Yes, the two of them sometimes called each other by surname, but only when they were training or on duty. And if not, then they reminded each other to use her name. But sometimes they called themselves by their last name when they weren't in a good mood.

On other days, the two cooed like two freshly in love and on other days....it got loud in a tent of the two of them and the next morning they would be lying in a sleeping bag, hugged tightly. But the two always denied that they were in a relationship.

Always.

But we want to be honest. They are together no matter how many times they would deny it.

The white-haired woman has closed her eyes and is propping herself on the floor with her hands. She is 21 years young and has a temper that others would shake. For that, she coos and chuckles the other half of her time with John, which makes the others just roll their eyes or make a quick exit because it gets too sappy after all.

A gentle breeze blows through the trees, causing the pleasant smell of pine and resin to slowly spread over the square. The young woman's hair is blowing gently in the wind and bobbing back and forth. It was a sight to the gods, and the Doctor slowly melted away. For 1 year they had been in a secret relationship that wasn't so secret because everyone knew it, but they pretended it wasn't. His hand gently strokes hers before he wraps his hand over her bandage. He runs his thumb over the back of her hand and smiles as she sighs contentedly.

"I love you, John Watson..."

The young woman whispers gently and opens her eyes just to look into his.

"I love you too, Sky Richards"

He smiled gently before the two leaned forward for a gentle kiss.

It was short, but warmed up both of them, from the inside wonderfully and gave goose bumps run over their bodies. When they release the kiss, both of them blushed and chuckled.

"Nawwww how cute you are when you blush, Watson"

The young woman grins and giggles.

"I can only answer that, Richards"

He laughs lightly and presses a kiss on her cheek.

Oh the two were such a cute couple.

But the emphasis is on the word were.

The years passed, but something happened...

“John, you slept with her! You can't deny it !!!! She admitted it herself !! God, HOW CAN YOU ONLY!"

the white-haired woman cries in horror and does not look at her boyfriend. It's her birthday. On her birthday of all times, something like that had to come out. Her mood was ruined and her heart was broken.

"I wanted to tell you Sky, really!..."

He tries to explain, but is pushed away from her.

"You know, there are people who at least say" let's break up, I'm no longer happy in our relationship". But SOMETHING LIKE THAT! To do is under all dignity!! I never want to see you again, John! Goodbye!"

She exclaims angry and hurt, with tears in her eyes, and walks the other way.

"SKY PLEASE WAIT!"

He exclaims desperately, hoping she would turn around, but unfortunately it wasn't. It goes on and on. Ignore the voice calling after you.

She sniffs and sits down by a tree before she lets her tears run free.

"Damn it, that asshole!"

She thinks for herself and sniffs hard once.

Footsteps come towards her, but it's not Watson. Two slender arms grab the young woman and press her against a thin body. She hugs the person and starts crying.

"All good, I'm here"

Whispers the person in a soft voice.

"Jackson..."

The young woman whispers, broken and hugs the man.

“Everything will be fine, Sky. He's an idiot if he cheats on you with someone else"

The man whispers and presses her to his warming body.

She takes out all of her frustration and sadness and, in the end, is something broken.

"John?"

A voice called, now for the 10th time. The doctor looks up into the eyes of the detectives.

"Yes?"

The blonde asked, blinking lost in thought.

"You thought about your past again, didn't you?"

Asked the detective.

"Yes..."

The blonde answered and ran his hand over his face.

"About the war and your injury?"

"Hm?....No no.... I...just remembered someone..."

"So? And to whom? "

"...to a colleague..."

"And what is the name of this colleague?"

"...Sky....Sky Richards..."

He said there was sorrow in his voice because he missed her. He had really lost it with her then. And he knew that, unfortunately.

Later at noon, Sherlock and John were walking the streets of London as a murder had occurred. Oh how enthusiastic the detective jumped up and sprinted out, glad that there was finally something to investigate again. Once at the scene of the crime, the evidence was first collected before turning to the corpse. It was a young man. He wore a uniform because he was a soldier. His throat was slit and his eyes were removed. Otherwise, he lay there as if he were lying in a coffin. The hands were on his chest, the legs were together, while the blood soaked his clothes.

"Where is he! Where's dean! Where is my husband!"

An angry young woman called and wanted to see her dead friend. Annoyed, the detective sighed and questioned the distraught woman.

"It's been a long time since we met, John H. Watson."

Said a clear and calm voice, which made the doctor look up.

"No......."

"Aren't you happy to see an old comrade again?"

"II thought you died when there was a shooting in your apartment.....Sky..."

To be continued ;)

<- previous Chapter

Sky

Ao3

Tagging: @cutelock, @peanitbear and @johnlock-and-merthur-4ever

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imagine-by-susu · 5 years ago

Text

Mycroft Holmes x Reader - The Final Problem

A/N: God, is life a bitch right now. Sorry it always takes so long, but trust me people, it is worth it (hopefully). This was a request from anon (God I hope I didn’t mess this one up) Big thanks to my beta reader for correcting my work. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! GIF IS NOT MINE! Fandomlist Wanrings: Mentions of shooting, murder etc. Word Count: 1.738

The room was quiet, splinters of wood laid all around Sherlock as he sat there, eyes glossed over and his fingers twitchingThe room was quiet, splinters of wood laid all around Sherlock as he sat there, eyes glossed over and his fingers twitching.

Eurus knew exactly what to do, her control over her two brothers, Sherlocks best friend and Mycroft’s lover was unpredictable, this both annoyed and impressed Sherlock and Mycroft.

“We need to get going. The little girl still needs our help.” (Y/N) tried to get Sherlock out of his racing mind, but Mycroft stopped her.

John on the other hand pulled his best friend back up to his feet. He, too, wanted to save the little girl and stop Eurus in her crazy plan.

Moriarty’s voice rang through the next room and as everyone entered it Sherlock spoke up, gun in hand.

“Hey, sis, don’t mean to complain but this room is empty. What happened? Did you run out of ideas?” he mocked, knowing that she was listening in.

The TV on the wall turned on and showed the face of the woman who was responsible for all of this mess they were trapped in.

“It’s not empty Sherlock.” came witty comeback as if she knew it better, well, maybe she did know it better after all.

“You still have the gun, haven’t you?” she asked her younger brother. “I told you you’d need it, because only three can play can play the next game. Just two of you go on from here. Your choice.” she explained.

(Y/N) had a bad feeling about it this when Eurus spoke those words and by the looks the three men held on their faces, they knew too what was about to happen.

“It’s make-your-mind-up time. Whose help do you need the most?” she asked Sherlock. “John, Mycroft or (Y/N)?” it was like she was in the room with them when her eyes darted to each person when she named them.

“It’s an elimination round. You choose two and kill the other. You have to choose family or friends. Mycroft, (Y/N) (Y/L/N) or John Watson.” after this the lights turned of before turning red and revealing the face of Moriarty on the TV making the annoying ticking noise.

(Y/N) and Mycroft shared a look while John looked around the room, probably think of a way to get out without killing anyone.

Mycroft pulled his gaze from (Y/N) and with a demanding tone he told her that this was enough.

“Not yet, I think, but nearly.” she answered him. “Remember, there’s a plane in the sky and it’s not going to land.” she reminded them.

Mycroft took a deep breath and stepped a little forward.

“Well…”

“Well, what?” Sherlock asked slightly confused when he turned to his brother.

“Mycroft…?” (Y/N) asked but the man ignored her.

“We are not actually going to discuss this, are we?” he asked simply with his typical stoic expression. How he could be so calm in such a situation was beyond (Y/N).

Sherlock looked at his brother in disbelief while Mycroft now addressed John.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Watson. You are a fine man in many respects. Make your goodbyes and shoot him.”

“No! Absolutely not!” (Y/N) intertwined. “You can’t order your brother to kill his best friend!”

“Shoot him!” Mycroft told his brother while at the same time John returned from his paralyzed state.

“What?” John went to Mycrofts side, looking at Sherlock who looked between them both.

“Shoot Dr. Watson.” Mycroft repeated. (Y/N) looked in horror between them, then it clicked in her mind.

“There’s no questioning who has to continue from here on. It’s us. You, (Y/N) and me. Whatever lies before us requires brainpower, Sherlock.” Mycroft continued on, but (Y/N) stopped him as she walked up to Sherlock.

“No, Sherlock, look at me.” she demanded making the blue eyes man look down on her.

“Shoot me.” she said all three men turned their heads at her.

“No, (Y/N), don’t do this.” Mycroft ordered again and John pulled on (Y/N)s arm.

“We all agree that you live.” the Doctor said, but (Y/N) grabbed Sherlocks hand that held tightly onto the gun and pointed it at her chest, ignoring the men’s pleas.

“Today we are soldiers. Soldiers die for their country. I regret, Dr. Watson, that privilege is now yours.” Mycroft reminded all of them and John turned to the older Holmes, pounding over the said words before sighing.

“Shit.” he turned to Sherlock. “He’s right.” Both (Y/N) and Sherlock turned to both men with shocked expressions.

“He is, in fact, right.” John confirmed at the questioning look of Sherlocks, but (Y/N) shook her head.

“No, Sherlock,” she turned his face back to her. “Listen, Mycroft is your family, he is your brother and John…John is your friend. Your best friend even. Don’t give this up. Shoot me, I am nothing to you. Just the stupid girlfriend of your stupid brother.”

Eurus watched with delight the entire bickering but kept quiet.

“Dear, I would recommend that you stay quiet.” Mycroft warned her but she shook her head again.

“You try to convince Sherlock to shoot you by making yourself look like a prick.” she spat put, tears gathering her eyes.

The gun in Sherlock’s hand slightly shook and Mycroft huffed out a laugh.

“God.” he shook his head and looked down at Sherlock. “I should have expected this. Pathetic. You always were the slow one.”

“Mycroft��stop it.” (Y/N) demanded but the man continued on.

“The Idiot. That’s why I always despised you. You shame us all. You shame the family name. Now for once in your life, do the right thing.”

Before (Y/N) could speak again Sherlock spoke up, his eyes down casted to the ground.

“Stop it.” he muttered.

“Why?” Mycroft asked his little brother.

“Because,” Sherlock started looking back at his brother. “on balance, even your Lady Bracknell was more convincing.” John was confused about all of this before Sherlock turned to him and explained it.

“Ignore everything he just said, he’s being kind. (Y/N) was right, he’s trying to make it easier for me to shoot him. Which is why this is going to be so much harder.” Sherlock pointed the gun at his brother, (Y/N) screaming at him not to do it.

“No, Sherlock! Please, shoot me. I am begging you, choose me.” she tried to convince him.

“Not in the face though. Please. I promised my brain to the Royal Society.” he motioned for John to get (Y/N) out of the way and with a heavy heart the army Doctor hold onto the woman who trashed around, screaming.

“Where would you suggest?” Sherlock asked after he gulped lightly.

Adjusting his tie on the suit Mycroft smiled lightly.

“Well, I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside me. I don’t imagine it’s much of a target, but why don’t we try with that?” he asked in his matter of fact voice.

“Please, Sherlock stop!” (Y/N) begged. “Mycroft, don’t do this.” she addressed to Mycroft but both men ignored her pleas.

John had a hard time watching this unfold. The crying woman in his arms and his best friend pointing a gun at his brother.

“I won’t allow this.” he than said, Mycroft turned to the Doctor with a risen eyebrow.

“This is my fault.” he pointed out to the Doctor.

“It’s no one’s fault, dear.” (Y/N) said.

“Yes, it is. Moriarty.” he stated and Sherlock looked confused him repeating the name of his archnemesis.

“Her Christmas treat.” Mycroft confessed. “Five minutes’ conversation with Jim Moriarty five years ago.”

In complete disbelief of what he what he just heard he lowered his gun lightly.

“What did they discuss?” he asked his brother.

“Five minutes’ conversation…” Mycroft started, looking down in something people would describe as shame.

“…unsupervised.”

“What have you done….?” (Y/N) whispered in horror. It was clearly written on his face that Mycroft regret this decision he was forced to make all those years ago.

With a sigh he looked back up at his brother with the slightest smile.

“Goodbye brother mine.” (Y/N) screamed while John hold her back to make sure she wouldn’t get into the crossfire.

“No flowers. By request.” he stated, look at (Y/N) for a second before turning his gaze back at his brother.

Sherlock slowly grazed his finger over the trigger but before the trigger could be pulled Eurus finally said something.

“Jim Moriarty thought you’d make this choice.” she told in an impressed voice. “He was so excited.” that was when the lights turned red again and Eurus’ face was replaced with Moriarty’s

“And here we are, the end of the line. Holmes killing Holmes. This is where I get off.” the lights turned white again and Eurus was back on screen, all the while Sherlock and Mycroft held both unreadable expressions.

“Five minutes.” Sherlock muttered through his gritted teeth.

“No, Sherlock…please.” (Y/N) begged again.

“It took her just five minutes to do all of this to us.” Sherlock looked at Mycroft and then to John. He lowered his gun back to his side.

“Well, not on my watch.” Confused Mycroft, John and (Y/N) looked at him and it looked like even Eurus had seen this coming.

“What are you doing?” she asked her brother slight panic in her voice.

“A moment ago, a brave man asked to be remembered. I’m remembering the governor.” the gun rose up to his chin when he started to count from ten upwards.

“No, no, Sherlock.” Eurus called out, but the man continued on.

“Sherlock, no.” (Y/N) said, seeing the panicked eyes of John going from Sherlock to Mycroft.

“You can’t.” Eurus demanded and now even Mycroft was at the loss of words.

“You don’t know about Redbeard, yet.” the female tried to convince her brother but it was like he wasn’t listening to her at all, only concentrating on counting.

“Sherlock!” Eurus called out again.

A sharp pain went through (Y/N) and by the looks of it all men had felt the same. When Sherlock pulled out a little needle from his head he let go of the gun, falling onto his back.

Mycroft looked at (Y/N) stretching his hand out to her before he too fell onto the floor, John following.

(Y/N) took one last glance at Eurus before she, too, fell into the deep abysses of darkness once again.

Oh, if Sherlock had just shot her….

#mycroft holmes #bbc sherlock #mycroft holmes x reader #x reader #mycroft x reader #mycroft holmes imagine #mycroft holmes x reader imagine #sherlock imagine #bbc #the final problem

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ladybugsfanfics · 5 years ago

Text

Shut Up And Kiss Me [10/?] | Tom Hiddleston x reader

pairing: Tom Hiddleston x reader

style: part 10 of ?

wc: 2.8k

warnings: pining, halloween, bad references,

summary: You and Professor Hiddleston have been colleagues for many years now, and through those years the hatred for each other has only grown. Now, as a new school year starts, you’re being told that you have to share a classroom or a class. Neither are happy about the outcome, but knowing you’ll never come to an agreement, you let the class choose for you. Team-teaching is rare in 2019, but it is a lot harder to do when you can’t stand the person you’re doing it with.

A/N: so I have a part this week, but I think I might stop the weekly updates. A lot of things are going on at once and I’m not sure I can get out a part a week. I think I might be able to get out a story or an update of a story each week but I don’t think much more than that and I have so much other shit Im working on that I want so share with you guys. I let you know of my decicion, and i hope you enjoy the part ^_^

If you want to be tagged, please send an ASK ^_^

Previous | Series Masterlist | Part Eleven

Since Friday, Tom’s mind has been set on the kiss. It has been set on the kiss in the bar. The one in the shadows where no one could see them and his heart pounded in his chest. The one where afterwards, so certain that Y/N just wanted to because she wanted to have some recollection of it, he had stood up and walked away as if it meant nothing.

Even though it meant everything.

He can recall every minute of it. Every second of what happened before and after is drilled into his brain after countless reenactments.

The slight fear in her eyes as Benedict smiled and told Tom what he needed to do to jog her memory. The way she downed two shots in a matter of seconds and then shook her head a little as if it would get the taste away. The burn of his hand as she took his in hers, the touch scorching hot. The nervousness that floated in her beautiful eyes as she told him what was going on. The way his gut hurt when his lips met hers. The way his skin heated under her touch. The fireworks that erupted in every part of him, rooted in his stomach but exploded outwards into his veins.

He remembers it all. And it felt just as hurtful as the kiss during the play.

Tom got to kiss her twice, both times with the knowledge that, for her, it wasn’t something with feelings. It was something she had to do, and something she wanted to because she didn’t remember the first time.

---

As Tom rings the doorbell, he vows to kill Benedict when the night is over. Not only does he have to wear a costume, he said yes to going trick or treating with the kids. Kit and Hal will make fun of him, so will Benedict and Sophie.

At least, when the door opens and Y/N stands there in a costume, he feels better about it. She’s wearing a wine red, short dress with gears placed neatly around. The corset accentuates her waist, and the fingerless gloves makes her her arms look longer. Tom’s gaze stops at her legs, where she’s wearing kneehigh boots and flashing a lot of skin.

Tom’s heart drums in his chest and he has to tell himself not to stare. His gaze travels up again, which is when he notices the tophat. Gear-goggles placed neatly atop it, giving the steampunk vibe Tom supposes she’s going for.

“Didn’t know you were coming?” she says and lets him in. “Can’t say I’m surprised, though.”

“The same to you,” he replies, “Benedict didn’t mention it.”

Y/N smiles. “You won’t see much of me though. I’m going trick and treating with the boys.”

“I thought I was going trick or treating with the boys?”

Y/N’s brows crease. She doesn’t reply, only closes the door and walks into the living room. Moments later, Tom hears her annoyed tone as he follows after. She’s standing in front of Benedict, voice low but annoyed. “We agreed. We had an agreement.”

The older man shrugs with a smile. “I can’t recall that. When did we make this?”

Y/N gives Benedict a playful punch in the arm and glares at him. She moves from him, glare still set on Benedict, and sits down by Kit. With one last glance at the kid’s father, a glare Tom is very glad he’s not on the receiving end of, she smiles and turns to Kit.

“I honestly don’t understand how you can actually enjoy having her hate you,” says Benedict when Tom stops next to him.

Tom shrugs. “It’s not too bad.”

His best friend sends him a look.

He sighs. “It wasn’t that bad. Currently I wish things were slightly different.” Tom shakes his head. “When did you ask her to go trick or treating?”

“Saturday?”

“So, same time as you asked me?”

Benedict nods. “One adult per kid.”

Tom pats Benedicts back. “I think we’ll handle it.”

---

They walk down the street listening to Kit chatter. Tom holds Hal’s hand, the boy keeping himself a little ways from his brother’s constant talking. Y/N holds Kit’s hand, listening intently to the words the four year old says and smiling fondly at him. Something about the way she seems to beam whenever he does and replies to his talking as if the boy was her age, it makes a smile creep into Tom’s features.

He tries to push down the extra sense of fluttering in his gut, but it’s hard. He can feel the nerves shoot around, telling him that he needs to be alert and that every minute they spend together is a step further. Yet his mind contradicts this, showing every scenario where she doesn’t like him. There are many.

Yet, seeing her with Kit, he can’t keep his mind from going that way. It shows him pictures of what she would be like with her own kid. It shows him pictures of her smiling and laughing as she holds a baby. It shows him scenarios of dates they go on, or just sitting on the couch cuddling with a movie.

Tom takes a deep breath and diverts his attention back to the two kids running to ring the doorbell of a house. He stands next to Y/N as they watch the kids, racking his brain for some way to start a conversation.

“Did you remember to say thank you?” she asks as the two boys return. He lost his chance.

Kit nods and Hal shakes his head. Y/N smiles and shakes hers, too. “Remember to next house, okay?”

The boys nod, and Kit goes back to his chatter.

Most of the night continues like that. Whenever the kids go away and get some more candy, Tom racks his brain for a conversation starter, but whenever he’s close to one or about to ask her something, the boys return and Kit takes up her attention.

To be honest, Tom doesn’t really know what to do. There’s something he would like to say that he won’t ever say, and there’s something he would like to ignore or have go away as soon as possible. Those are the same things.

Even worse, during classes both on Tuesday and earlier Today, their students kept diverting the subject. They got to teach something, and then as it bordered territory, the students shot out with the questions they wanted to.

It is clear that the kiss during the play did nothing to stop the students from ‘shipping’ them. Rather it made the whole thing even worse. And it hasn’t made Tom’s life any easier.

The clock ticks away, and finally the words come from Y/N. “Okay, last house and then we make our way back, okay?”

Kit looks a little sad at that, but still nods. Hal nod furiously and decides not to join his brother to get some more candy. Instead he turns to Y/N and holds up his arms, clearly asking for her to carry him. With a sad smile, she does. The two year old lies his head down on her shoulder and, if Tom isn’t mistaken, closes his eyes.

“I bet Kit’s just as tired, he just doesn’t want to show it.” Y/N turns to Tom, the smile on her face turned to something less sad and more soft.

Tom nods. “Probably.”

God, he spends so much time trying to come up with a conversation starter and when she does first he can’t even make sure the conversation lasts? He’s an idiot.

Kit comes back with a smile on his face and hops right back into his chatter. Now he seems to include Tom in it. Though Tom only half listens, nodding at the right places and catching Y/N’s soft laughter whenever it slips. He smiles himself whenever her smile brightens. Her eyes sparkling, her lips parting showing off a set of white teeth, her cheeks a tint of red.

And as his eyes travels a little further he remembers that she’s barely wearing clothes. He takes in more of the little things. Like the slight red of her nose, the press of her lips together as if to keep her teeth from clattering, the way she shifts a little as she walks.

He steps around Kit, whos walks between you, and over to your other side. Shifting off his jacket he doesn’t say anything as he moves a sleeping Hal from your shoulder and places him in his own arm, handing you the jacket in the movement. Tom feels the wind on his arms as he’s taken off the warmth, but he also feels it in him that Y/N needs it more.

She gives him a smile and mouths thanks.

“I thought you don’t like each other?”

Kit’s voice startles both of them, and Y/N gives him an amused smile.

“Well, kiddo, sometimes, even if you don’t really like someone, you try to be a decent human being. And either way, we’re making it to friends now. I’d say we’ve gotten there, right?”

The smile and look she sends Tom when she turns her head to see him has his heart beat faster. He wants them to be friends, so of course he nods. But he would like them to, maybe at least try, be more. He makes a silent prayer of that happening in the future.

For now, he takes the friends. “Yes. It’s called making progress.”

---

They arrive back at Benedict’s around nine. Neither Sophie nor Benedict comments on the fact that Y/N has Tom’s jacket on, but if they believe he doesn’t see the look they give each other, then they are very wrong.

During the hours Y/N and Tom went trick or treating with the kids, the two parents have managed to change into costumes themselves. Benedict is dressed as Sherlock Holmes and Sophie as a female version of Watson (at least, that’s what Tom presumes based on the costume contents).

“Babysitters here?” asks Y/N as the two takes their coats.

“Came half an hour ago,” replies Benedict and hands her a coat as well. Something twists in her face for a second and she shrugs out of Tom’s jacket and hands it back to him, taking the coat Benedict hands her without hesitation. Tom supposes the one she puts on is hers.

“Then we’re ready to go, right?”

They nod and walk out into the cold evening air. A taxi waits on the curb and they all get in. Tom in the passenger seat in the front and the three others in the backseats. He finds himself happy with the choice seeing them crammed together. Yet something churns in his gut at the thought of being confined to a crammed space next to Y/N.

He needs to get out of his head.

The trip to the bar takes little time. It’s being rented by one of their mutual friends (work) that decided it was time for a coworker Halloween party.

Music floats in the air when they open the door inside. A bartender stands at the bar, or rather leans against the back. Only one person sits by the counter, but he isn’t ordering anything. There are some people on the dance floor, rocking out to Bohemian Rhapsody.

Tom looks to his friends, notes that Y/N mimes the words to the song and also makes a silent conversation with Benedict about where to go. They find Eddie in the bar, though Tom can’t guess as to who he is.

“Are you dressed as Newt Scamander?” asks Y/N, and when Eddie proudly nods and beams at her and continues the conversation by talking about Harry Potter and everything that has to do with it, Tom slides into a seat with a deep sigh.

He wishes he’d dressed easier. Even with the costume being easily recognizable in what era of time, that doesn’t mean anyone will notice he’s dressed as Hamlet. Apparently, Y/N doesn’t.

“Hey, guys,” says a voice. Tom takes his gaze of the chattering coworkers across from him to look up at the owner of the voice. He meets Emma’s gaze with a smile. Out of their many coworkers, Emma is one of his favorites. They don’t have that much time to talk, but she’s definitely has many ideas and interesting topics to talk about.

Y/N, seeing the younger girl, gets out of her seat and gives Emma a big hug. “It’s been too long since I saw you. How’s the project going?”

The sociology professor smiles and nods. “It’s really good. The students are engaged, I’m engaged and we’re making progress. A lot of progress. Wrote an article not long ago about equality that they posted actually.”

“I’m so happy for you.” Y/N gives her another hug and looks like she just met her number one celebrity. Tom can see why.

“Thank you.” Emma turns to everyone else. “So, I noticed you come in and I have some information about this ‘party’.” She uses air quotations around party. “The bathroom is up the stairs, the dance floor is where you see some dancing and the bar you’ve probably noticed. Fire escape routes are posted on the walls, but just for safety, it’s the door you came in and you can break through the windows. Also a fire escape on the second floor, so if you’re in the bathroom you can still get out. Other than that, there’s one free drink on me. Nothing over ten pounds. I hope you have fun and I love your costumes.”

Emma smiles at them all. Tom takes a minute to check her costume. A cloak of some sorts which hides a black sweater where small peeks of a white shirt pops out, with a red and yellow tie. She wears a skirt and her hair is curly and huge. Tom can’t pinpoint exactly who she’s being.

Y/N can, though. “I love yours, too. Hermione, right?”

“Knew you would get it.” She smiles. “Anyways, I hope you have fun and don’t hesitate to come talk to me through the evening. I brought some other friends and they don’t really know anyone so I’ll probably mostly be with them.”

“Your age, right?” asks Y/N.

Emma nods. “You wanna meet them? Pretty sure you’d get along.”

“If that’s what it takes to catch up with you, of course.” And then the two women walk away, making a detour by the bar before sitting down at a table with three other people.

Neither of the four left at the table say anything, until Sophie breaks the silence by asking anyone if they want to get something to drink. Tom volunteers to join her in getting the drinks.

“So,” says Sophie as they walk, her voice a little lower than for normal conversation. “What’s the deal with you and Y/N?”

Tom rolls his eyes. “There is none.”

“Are you sure? Because Benedict told me about the kiss and that she doesn’t remember it, but he said she wants to.”

He swallows the lump in his throat and ignores the feeling that floods his veins. “They both mentioned it, yes. But I don’t think that has anything to do with it.”

Sophie shrugs. “Seems like there’s more than one reason she wants to if you ask me, but what do I know?”

Tom nods. He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Sophie, but I can tell you that we are making progress into friends.”

She smiles at that. “Appreciate it. Especially thinking of Hal and Kit, they love both of you and after that day you babysat Kit asked questions I would rather avoid.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault.” She waves it away, but Tom still feels a little guilty. He casts a glance Y/N’s way. Her head is thrown back in laughter, a big smile on her face and when she recovers she speaks with glee and enthusiasm. He only notices that when she teaches, mostly other than those times she seems grumpy.

He tries to ignore the stab to his gut, but it’s not easy. Either way, they’re becoming friends. He wants to be her friend. He’s always wanted to be her friend. Finally, he’s making progress.

It only took five years, some hate, and a push from their superiors.

It only took five years to glue the million pieces of his heart together. It’s still not whole, but it’s getting there.

Finally.

permanent tags:@devilbat @adefectivedetective @gamillian

tom tags: @inlovewith3 @bookgirlunicorn @mindlesschicca @justawriterinprogress @wolfsmom1 @loser-alert @satanskatze @timetravelingsociopathicwalker

tags: @plooffairy @just-the-hiddles @jennytwoshoes @lokissidehoe @fruitfly123 @princetale @scorpionchild81 @noplacelikehome77 @winterisakiller @lostsoldieronahill @nonsensicalobsessions @cherrygeek86 @louhpstuff @olyamoriarty @sunshinein17 @kthemarsian @kumikowi @secretcupcakekitty @buckygrantbarnes @josis-teacup @runawaygiirl @januarycalendargirl @funny-fangirl @kinghiddlestonanddixon @scorpiomindfuck @dr-kayleigh-dh @inmyworstlies @twhgirl @maah-chan @florencia93c @i-am-a-mes @o-deya @eyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @cantaloupewatch @carpediem-spero @createdbyanintensenerd @beananacake @lysawayne @nightrose64 @bradfordbantams @feyre-thehighlady @thundermaximoff @lys-syl @beenthroughalot

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston fanfiction #imagine #fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #marvel #loki #slowburn #professor hiddleston #college au #enemies to lovers

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mizjoely · 5 years ago

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Hi all, here is the first part of my extremely belated Sherlolly Secret Santa gift for @theemptyquarto. It’s called A Christmas Wedding and I hope you all enjoy it as it unfolds over the next few days!

Thank you @sherlollysecretsanta for sponsoring this fun fandom swap meet!

A Christmas Wedding

"Lock. Lock. LOCK! Lock-Lock-Lock-Lock-Lock!" Rosie chanted as Sherlock remained deep within his mind palace.

Undeterred by the failure of her verbal attempt at getting her godfather's attention, Rosie resorted to more physical means: she climbed up onto his lap, smooshed his cheeks together with her hands and dropped a moist, noisy smack of a kiss on his nose.

"Hi Unca Lock!" she chirped when he blinked and smiled, once again aware of the world outside his own head. "Aunt Mowwy say dinner now!"

He swooped her into his arms and rolled them off the sofa and onto the floor and from there, amongst her shrieks of laughter, bounced to his feet still holding the toddler close. “Well then, Rose-of-the-world,” he announced once he’d gotten them both vertical, “we shouldn’t make Aunt Mowwy wait another second longer!”

“Not unless you want your goose cooked as well as the one I’m putting on the table now!” ‘Aunt Mowwy’ warbled from the kitchen.

Sherlock smiled over at her and took Rosie over to the sink so they could wash their hands while Molly put the finishing touches on their special Godparents Only dinner, also known as ‘John and Mary’s Anniversary Dinner and Night To Themselves” that said godparents had arranged for them. With Rosie’s new sibling only four months from arriving to add to disrupted nights, hurried meals and overstuffed schedules, Sherlock had no trouble agreeing to babysitting duty...even if it was, technically, his and Molly’s six month anniversary as well.

Six months since Sherrinford. Six months since a forced pair of ‘I love you’s’ had resulted, somehow, in a lifelong commitment and the fervent conversion of cynical, skeptical, hard-hearted Sherlock Holmes into a true believer in the transformative power of love.

However, since it had been the introduction of first John, then Mary, and now Rosie into his life that had allowed him to realize just how important love really was, he supposed he had no reason to complain.

No, he thought as he gazed over at Molly’s beautiful dinner table - and her even more beautiful self - he had nothing to complain about at all.

“Unca Lock! Water!” Rosie commanded, disrupting this thoughts again. Obediently he turned off the water, dried her tiny hands (even tinier next to his own monster digits) and settled her onto her booster seat.

Instead of sitting around her elegant formal dining table, they were seated at the cosy little breakfast nook, a choice Sherlock wholeheartedly approved. If John and Mary were there, then of course the bigger table would have been necessary. But it was nice, just the three of them, him and Rosie and...

“You’re deep into your own head tonight,” Molly teased as she too took her seat opposite his. “Can’t be a case since you’ve been complaining about the laziness of the criminal element at the holidays. Is it the lack of cases that has you so occupied, or something else?”

“Marry me.”

He blurted it out without thought, without even realizing that was what he’d wanted to say to her, and certainly without taking into account just how ridiculous it was to propose to someone whilst babysitting your extremely precocious godchild.

“Mawwy him!” Rosie crowed, clapping her chubby little hands with delight, blue eyes wide and a wide smile showing her dimples to perfection. “Be mawwied to Unca Lock, Aunt Mowwy! Mummy and Daddy like being mawwied, so wiw you! Pwomise!”

Molly, who had flushed a bright pink, bit her lip and slowly lowered her forkful of goose and garlic-mashed potatoes to stare at him. “Really? Marry you? It’s only been six months, are you sure?”

He nodded, feeling a sort of peace flooding over him at the thought of having this domestic side of life moving into a more central and important position in his life. Of having what John and Mary had eventually found, after all the false steps both partners had made - from Mary shooting him and lying about her past to John nearly breaking his wedding vows with (although he hadn’t known it at the time) Sherlock’s own forgotten (and truly psychopathic) sister. Mary’s near death at the hands (well, gun) of Vivian Norbury had been one of the worst times in all their lives; the thought of Rosie growing up without her mother had frightened Sherlock more than he’d have believed possible.

But Mary had lived, although with a long, slow, painful recovery that unfortunately included the discovery that her husband wasn’t quite as perfect as she’d built him up to be in her own mind. Fortunately for them all they’d not only survived these pitfalls, they’d somehow managed to thrive. To grow beyond the missteps and trust issues and become the better people Sherlock had always believed them to be.

Yes, he wanted that for himself. “Not the missteps and the trust issues,” he said aloud, oblivious to the fact that he’d the lead-up had been entirely inside his own mind. “But yes, I want to marry you. The question is, are you willing to put up with me for the rest of your life, Molly Hooper?”

Her wide, brilliant smile, the glimmer of tears on her eyelashes, and the way she reached out to take both of his hands in hers, was all the answer he needed.

Rosamund Mary Watson, it would seem, had other ideas. “You gotta say yes Aunt Mowwy,” she instructed her godmother.

With a small laugh, Molly squeezed Sherlock’s hands. “Yes,” she said, and the moment was made even more perfect.

#dis is mine #sherlolly #sherlollysecretsanta

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dragon-kazansky · 5 years ago

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A rose in London - Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 12 - He lives evermore

When evening fell, you found yourself on a small boat with the boys and the captain. You were dressed down to a shirt and pants, a skirt would make it far too difficult to move around a factory, plus the skirts rustled every time you moved, someone would here you. Sherlock and yourself were laughing with the captain as the detective steered the boat. John was loading up the coal to keep the engine going. There was a thrill to working with these boys. You really were enjoying yourself.

"My coal, doctor!" The captain called, laughing some more.

Sherlock belted out into laughter and rang the bell.

"That's a good one!" He wheezed. You leaned against him finding it hard to contain your own laughter. It really was infectious.

John had received the short end of the stick and fed up with all the giggling, came up to where the three of you were huddled.

"Glad to see you three are working hard then, and I thought we were trying to be discreet."

"You would not last one day in the Navy." The captain told John.

"Holmes, are you sure there are no other terms of water transportation than that?" John nodded at the old man who hobbled off.

"I guarantee you no one know London's waterways better." Sherlock told him. "He's practically a fish himself."

"He certainly drinks like one."

You chuckled, making John look at you with a grin.

"Oh! You found a sense of humour, doctor. If only just a sense." The old man scoffed. "Better take over here, bit tricky down here." He swapped with Sherlock who helped you down too.

"I've never been on a boat."

"Oh dear. Shame your first one was little dingy thing. I'll take you on a proper boat ride soon." Sherlock told you, smiling. He ignored the whining of the captain, defending his little boat.

"I'd like that."

John was silently looking at the pair of you. You couldn't be more different from each other, yet you both fit so perfectly together. It was strange. The thought that Sherlock did deserve you crossed his mind. Perhaps it was true.

"London is so pretty at night, it's almost a shame we're working." You looked out at the river Thames.

"Yes, quite. Though saying almost makes me believe you're enjoying this."

"I am. If John has no issue with it, perhaps... if the position is open... I could stay?" You asked shyly.

"You want to stay?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Yes. I've never done anything like this before and I'm having quite a bit of fun, despite the seriousness of the crime taken place. I'd like solve crimes with you, Sherlock Holmes."

"I would like that very much."

You smiled at one another.

John smiled too. He was concerned about what would come of Sherlock after he left. He now wished he had introduced you both sooner. The more time you spent with Sherlock, the more of a perfect match you both seemed to make.

Eventually the boat reached the destination. You all had to hop off into the water to run to the shore. John jumped in first, Sherlock followed, waiting to help you get down. You landed safely beside him and held his hand tightly as he helped you through the water and onto dry land. You all sneaked around the corner and Sherlock had a quick peek.

"Come on." John whispered. He took Sherlock's hat and gave it to you. You tucked your hair under it and pulled it down over your eyes. John picked up a clip board and pretended to read it, while Sherlock picked up a barrel and lifted it on his shoulder. You grabbed a small crate and followed the two into a storage house.

"Look familiar?" John asked as you all walked further in.

Sherlock put the barrel down and you put your crate on top of it.

"Yep, all that's missing is a ginger midget."

A long desk ran across the wall in a small room off to the side. It was littered with jars and bottles. Much like the workshop the ginger man worked in. You followed Sherlock into the small room to look at it.

"They cleared something away from here." Sherlock pointed out. Almost everything was covered in dust and dirt, but on the ground was a long drag mark. "Not minutes ago."

"Like what?" John asked, meeting you both on the other side of the room.

"Not sure. Something mechanical."

"Holmes." John had spotted something.

Sherlock cut the tail off a dead rat beside his feet before following you and John into the other room. You felt a little sick seeing the results of a slaughterhouse. John loaded his gun and Sherlock took the lead.

Pig carcass' hung from hooks and pigs heads were sitting on tables and barrels.

You stayed behind John as the three of you slowly walked further into the room. It was eerie.

"One eighteen." John read aloud. On the wall were roman numerals in thick black paint.

"Chapter and verse. Revelations, one eighteen, I am he that liveth, and was dead." Sherlock said.

"And behold, I'm alive for evermore." The voice of Blackwood said. You reached for Sherlock's hand, who pulled you closer to him as he looked around the room. "I warned you, Holmes, that this was beyond your control, beyond what your rational mind could comprehend." There was still not sign of him.

You squeezed Sherlock's hand tightly.

"What a busy after life you're having." Sherlock joked.

"I want you to bare witness. Tomorrow at midday, the world as you know it, will end." Blackwood warned.

"Show me you face and it will be the end of your world right now." John warned back.

"Save a bullet, Watson."

"A gift for you." The voice came from behind you. You all pushed off the wall, you still clinging to Sherlock, and turned around. Sherlock and John shot at the wall, Sherlock shooting more than the once John did. You jumped out of your skin at the sound.

"What was that about saving bullets?" John asked.

Suddenly the machines in the slaughter house came to life. The belt that brought the meat in was moving and attached to it was Irene Adler, gagged and bound to the hook.

"She followed you here, Holmes! You led your lamb to slaughter."

"Holmes." John handed Sherlock a fire blanket, used by staff to protect themselves from the heat. "This game is designed to hurt."

Sherlock let go of your hand.

"Stay here."

"Sherlock!" You looked at him concerned, but he didn't have any time to comfort you. He had to save Adler.

The detective put it around him and ran off towards Irene, enveloping her within the blanket.

"Watson!" He shouted.

John rushed to the wheel and began to turn it aggressively. It was stiff and the doctor was using all his strength to turn it. You grabbed onto it and helped him. Unfortunately that only turned up the heat and the blanket caught fire.

"It's warm in here, Watson!"

John rushed to the other side and grabbed a lever. He pushed it hard. The flames lessened and John was able to pull the blanket off. Sherlock jumped down and the machine came to a stop.

You wanted to rush to his side and check him for injuries, but stopped yourself from doing so. You watched as they helped Irene down.

"Hold on." John told her.

"I can't!"

"Let me take your weight." John moved so she was sitting on his shoulders, allowing her body to rest rather than hang. Sherlock climbed up onto John to reach her height and began to fiddle with the cuffs.

"These German locks always give me trouble." He grunted.

Suddenly something else comes to life. A saw. Used, obviously, for cutting up the meat. You watched as the carcass next to it was cut in half. There were only two more pigs before Irene reached it.

"We have plenty of time!" Sherlock climbed off John and onto the table. He began to hit the chain on the handcuffs, but nothing appeared to be happening. You didn't know what to do. You didn't know how these machines worked. You feared for Irene.

"It's not working!" She cried.

"Keep calm." You called up to her, though calm was something alien to you right now.

The second carcass was cut. One more to go before Irene.

Sherlock spotted the mechanism the machine was working on and picked up a bucket of small chopped chunks of raw pork. He tossed it onto the ground where the gears were turning and they got caught in it. The saw jammed, but it wouldn't last. Sherlock took John's belt.

"Don't get excited, turn off that valve!" Sherlock pointed across the way.

John looked at you. He let go of Irene, you took he legs and held them up, supporting her weight. John ran to the valve and began to turn it. The valve was stiff and took a lot of effort to even turn the slightest.

You let out a little whimper as the machine jutted.

Sherlock looped John's belt around the belt of the machine, hanging from it like Irene was. His back to the saw.

"Sherlock?" You tried to keep Irene steady.

John came back over quickly and the machine broke free of it's temporary jam. The carcass was cut in half, leaving Sherlock to be next. John grabbed the hook Irene was on and hung on the belt, also, behind her. You couldn't hold her any more and had to step back. You were terrified that all three of them were going to die.

"Bounce in three. Two." Sherlock's hair was inches from the saw. "One!"

They bounced. The belt broke and they fell down. Irene lost her balance and almost fell right into the saw. Sherlock caught her by the back of her pants.

John helped her up as Sherlock pulled her away from the saw.

"Thank you." She looked at John.

"I'm going to go after Blackwood." John said, turning away.

Sherlock took one of her hair pins and freed her from the cuffs. When her arms were free she wrapped them around him and hugged him. Your heart sank.

She kissed his cheek. "Thank you."

You had chosen to turn away from the sight, missing the way Sherlock was looking at you from over her shoulder.

"We should help the doctor." Sherlock said, not giving any inkling on how he was feeling right now. You turned away from them both and went off in the direction John went. Sherlock and Irene were right behind you. When you outside John was a little further down from where you came out of. Irene stopped at your side as Sherlock tried to run to John.

"Holmes!"

Time felt like it had slowed down.

You met John's eyes as he looked back at you and then-

Everything exploded.

As the whole wall came down and everything blew up, you grabbed Irene and pulled her down away from the debris as the impact of the explosion pushed you backwards.

John was right in the heart of the explosion.

Sherlock was blown back by the explosion.

Everything was loud. You felt Irene grabbed one of your arms as you curled into each other, trying to shield your faces from the debris. In the next second she was pulling you up and Sherlock was running around the corner. He grabbed onto you both, pulling you to your feet. When Irene was standing he pushed her to run, grabbing onto your arm and pulling you into his side. No one got very far when another explosion went off and you were all blown back down to the ground, you head landed on Sherlock.

All you could think was that you might die here.

There was ringing in your ears as you blacked out, falling limp beside the detective.

The sun was beginning to rise.

Sherlock was conscious. He was laying on the ground. Clark was running. He stopped over Sherlock and picked him up from the ground.

"Sir, we have an order for your arrest."

There was ringing in his ears. Clark gave him a firm shake.

"Lord Coward has issued a warrant for you arrest, sir." Sherlock heard him that time.

Sherlock looked around in a panic, everything came rushing back to him. You were no where in sight and John, oh John! He needed to see. He needed to know.

"Watson's alive. As is Miss Y/L/N, just get out of here, sir, go!" Clark pushed him.

Sherlock ran.

Tags:

@awyr @fandombeehive @charmed-asylum @sigynbandraoi-blog @procrastinatingmurder @madshelily @phantomofhogwarts @photography-to-all

#a rose in london #sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes x reader #chapter 12 #robert downey jr

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notgonnarememberthis · 5 years ago

Text

A Compromising Engagement - Chapter 3

Ho boy was getting to this point a struggle. I had very much intended on sending this chapter out at the beginning of December but when finals hit they hit HARD. I had the great misfortune of taking physics this semester and it was biting off a lot more that I could chew. I ended up having to abandon a lot of things that I wanted to do including getting this chapter finished and participating in Elementary month. I may still throw together some short prompts for that but I needed a long and restful break after finals. But I am back. No idea what I’m doing for the next chapter but that’s a beast for another day.

I’d also like to thank y’all for the massive amount of support for this story. I never would have imagined when mapping this concept out that people would respond so well. Hope y’all enjoy this update and again, thank you. Your kind words mean so much.

Sherlock wakes to the opposite end of his bed dipping violently. Falling asleep in a bed for him is a rarity, however, with a motorcycle settled in the place their couch once was, he had no choice but to retire to his bedroom once sleep threatened to claim him. He opens his eyes to find Watson wild eyed laying next to him. Her cheeks are flushed and chest heaving from effort to catch her breath.

He says nothing, allowing her to explain herself. “Mrs. Hudson let your father inside. They’re coming up the stairs right now.” Surely enough he can hear the amicable chatter of the other woman steadily approaching.

They’d been expecting his father for a week since he sent nothing more than a letter announcing their engagement. It would enrage him enough not to notice the convenient timing of the letter. Her mother, however, had yet to be informed. Hers will take much more planning as this one will be a face to face conversation. They spent the week preparing their story so absolutely no gaps or faults could be spotted and pointed out.

He nods to her, granting permission for whatever she had in mind. She pulls the sheet over herself settling herself next to him. She turns her back to the door allowing her head to rest on his chest. He places an arm over her noting how soft her cardigan feels. No wonder she wears it so much. Once again the smell of her washes over him, lulling him into an odd sense of calm he’s not quite used to. He relaxes into the hold savoring the small moments where they’re alone. Her breathing evens out and she closes her eyes as if she were sleeping all along.

He tracks them across the landing, first going to Watson’s room. He can hear Mrs. Hudson’s confusion at her being missing. She’d spied the ring once before, but said nothing. However, with Watson ‘resting’ on his bare chest, he’s certain she’s going to have enough questions that could rival what Mary could throw at them.

He ponders for a moment why they went to Watson’s room first, was his father planning on seeing her instead? He tenses at the thought but it’s her hand resting on his ribcage that forces him to relax again. His father’s observations could rival his own on matters that he actually cared about. Any sign of discomfort could clue him into their little game.

A swift two knocks announces the presence not waiting before the door swings open. Mrs. Hudson throws an apologetic look, it wasn’t her who had opened it clearly. His father stops in his tracks when he spots the woman in the bed, if Mrs. Hudson is shocked she certainly doesn’t give anything away. Sherlock raises one eyebrow at the two of them challenging any questions to be asked.

“Meet me downstairs.” His father is curt, not caring much for pleasantries. As he walks away Mrs. Hudson mouths an apology before heading after him. Practiced intimacy helps with the weight of her against him. She’d fallen asleep on him only once after a case involving children, so exhausted that she dozed off in the car with her head on his shoulder. He wasn’t that good of a pillow then but it didn’t seem to bother her at the time. Her fake sleeping is so convincing that he momentarily regrets having to move from beneath her, lest he cause her to stir. It’s her head turning ever so slightly that reminds him of the truth, she’s tracking the movement downstairs using Mrs. Hudson’s voice.

“Think he bought it?” She murmurs opening one eye to look up at him.

“I believe so.” She drops her head letting out a breath of relief. “Ready to face the beast?”

“Not as such.” Her soft laugh rumbles against his chest pulling a smile across his lips. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

“We’ve gotten into worse. Wait until we face my mother.” He laughs allowing the short moment to calm him before he faces the monster awaiting just below them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Eventually he has to leave the comforts of the bedroom. Properly dressed he takes the stairs quickly, ready to tear the bandaid off. The quicker he can turn his father from his home, the better. He rounds the corner spying his father on the couch, a cup of tea in hand.

“Your help saw herself out.” Sherlock opens his mouth to correct him that Mrs. Hudson isn’t their ‘help’. His father doesn’t give him a chance however, rolling straight into the questioning. “Will Miss Watson be joining us?”

“She’s still getting ready. She’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“No need. I won’t be here long.” He places the glass on the table pushing aside the case file resting there. “She has your mother’s ring.”

“She does.”

“I was under the impression that the ring was lost over the years.” He rocks on his feet nodding at the statement.

“I found it while transforming the basement into Watson’s own office of sorts.” A lie, but a clever enough one that his father doesn’t push further.

“The ceremony?”

“Small. Watson’s family, her brother’s, Kitty and Archie. I imagine the captain and Detective Bell will be in attendance as well.” He doesn’t bother with an invitation towards him. It would likely be met with an announcement that he was busy and send a lackey in his place. “It is both of our wishes that it be kept a private event.” He can tell the statement bothers his father but the older man doesn’t push. He’d rather not imagine even his fake wedding be used as an excuse for his father to make contact with more criminals and those with questionable morals.

“Very well. The ceremony will be held at my estate.”

“No it shall not. Watson wishes to be married in the same place as her mother and step father. It holds significant meaning to her and I only wish to make her happy.” The lies roll too easily off his tongue. “You’re welcome to fund the wedding but as you can imagine, it’s not needed.”

“I see. Do keep in touch. I wish to hear more in the future but I have a meeting with a very powerful ally. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” The threat comes out softer than he expected. Convinced, even.

When Watson finally descends the steps he’s already gone. She seems relieved but concerned nonetheless. He guides her to the kitchen where he’s already preparing their coffee for the day, his hand brushing her lower back as he fills her in on the conversation.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Where the talk with his father went smoothly, Mary was the opposite. It was to be expected but both of them were uneased and exhausted by the seemingly relentless questioning. Their first date, when it became official, who knows of their relationship, how many dates there had been across the years, and more were tossed at them across the hour with both of them longing for a break and another coffee.

“Joan why don’t you go get us some coffee I wish to speak to Sherlock alone.” They flash each other a concerned glance at each other. This was far from what the two of them planned, but they’d have to honor her wish in order not to raise suspicion. He squeezes Watson’s hand nodding to her that it was okay. She’s still hesitant in leaving, eyes lingering on the two of them even as she goes up to the counter to place their orders.

“Mary-” She places a hand up stopping him mid-sentence.

“Save it. You are hiding something.” Her jaw is set, accusatory. He swallows heavily letting out a sigh. “Why did you propose to my daughter? Joanie told me before how you hate marriage. I won’t be fooled by a simple death threat with the two of you. You’ve seen more than I care to remember.”

His heart sinks caught in the plan. He nods in submission. “Truthfully, I proposed because of my father.” The woman across from him lets out a disapproving noise that feels more painful than any scolding. No wonder Joan is so well put together. “He had a talk with me, not unlike the ones that I imagine you’ve had with your daughter. My brother recently passed and my father is not a young man. He said something that frightened me.” He sucks in a breath. “I don’t wish to be the only Holmes remaining.” He glances over at Watson ordering at the desk. Her hair is swept up and her suit coat unbuttoned. A relaxed polite smile graces her features as she speaks with the cashier. “Watson,” He catches himself using her last name still. “Joan, she’s the only one I’d ever trust to share that with. For so long I thought the name only brought with it death and pain. Yet she stayed and I still can’t piece together why.”

“Good.” Her simple response causes his head to snap towards her. “The ring?”

“My mother’s. It’s the one thing of hers that I managed to keep away from my father. It’s the only thing that felt right.”

“Grandchildren?”

“If Watson wishes I will give my life for the child just as I would for her.” A click of heels announces Watson’s presence again as she hands them each their coffee.

“Well now that the two of you are engaged Sherlock is going to have to start coming to our lunch dates.” The younger Watson shakes her head at the change in tone, shooting a look at him asking silently what he had said. He simply shrugs in response. “Have you told your brother yet?”

Beneath the table her hand slips into his, relief flooding over the both of them that thus far, their ruse was being bought. Not quite willing to look into the future at what challenge awaits them next.

@tamarknott @averageinside

Also a big shoutout to @lilspookydiaz for making this all possible in the first place!

#sherlock holmes x joan watson #sherlock x joan #joanlock #sherlock holmes #joan watson #morland holmes #super ignoring canon #cause i can't remember the timeline of events #Fake marriage au #fake engagement au #a compromising engagement

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alltingfinns · 5 years ago

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A Scandal in Belgravia

So I’m back on this.

The swoosh on some sped up footage in the previously, don’t remember noticing that.

This episode’s start gets so much funnier if you read some of the fic written between this and the previous episode.

Silly song now becomes more dramatic in TRF.

What did Irene offer Jim to get him so riled up? If it’s the plot plane plan that would explain why Sherlock is needed alive. But his emotional reaction... maybe he’s already been trying to get it on his own. Indicates possibly that Jim has been looking for a way to get to Mycroft.

“You’re typing a lot.”

This montage is nicely done.

Arguing about the blog.

The pouncing on the title.

He’s so hurt. He knows ash!

“We do watch the news.”

“You said boring and switched the channel.”

First time where “people” = John.

And the hat.

“It’s time.” I never thought about the waiting period.

Ehh, Hudson called up to the next floor so John’s room? Boys?

Ha cool, a SAAB. An old one too. I’d guess a 900 model from the early nineties.

Lestrade probably makes these calls a lot.

I get Sherlock’s confusion, he’s just in a sheet it’d make sense for him to be humiliated.

Their silent conversation + John’s acceptance of the absurdity.

That was a pretty long look on Sherlock’s lap and then asking about pants.

The Swedish subtitles on Netflix just referred to John as ”kronans gosse” I love it!

John took the queen liking his blog as a point in their argument.

I always like looking at John during the sheet bit.

Mycroft and John conversing in subtext that you need to remember their original conversation from a whole series/three episodes ago. And people think johnlock is too subtextual.

They made “the woman” a work title clearly to explain why Sherlock would refer to her that way. A bit harder to work in the context from ACD canon. It would be weird if Sherlock in modern times went “a credit to your gender” for defeating him.

Sherlock’s reaction Mycroft’s veiled assertion settles the question, I think. He’s making a “damn, he’s got me there” face. Mainly because John’s presence, if we considers his previous statement. If it were just him and Mycroft he’d just say “just because I haven’t done it doesn’t mean I can’t understand it!”

Btw, in case you think my typing speed is phenomenal I am hitting pause when something gets really interesting to me.

The parallel of checking the pictures have the “obvious” reading of romantic set up. But Sherlock is still learning details of a case he has been given so another reading is that while he’s targeting her she’s targeting him.

My reading is backed up by Sherlock’s immediate demeanor. His interest in her didn’t really appear until he found out she didn’t ask for anything. Blackmailers are a dime a dozen, but someone making a point of threat against the reputation of the BRF without asking for direct compensation? That’s someone with a plan and someone who can give him the kick he feeds of from casework.

John getting the last word in only for Sherlock to get the laterer word in.

Pinching an ashtray from the aforementioned BRF, whom himself mentioned as his first client with a navy, just to make John laugh? Some things are priceless but for everything else there’s MasterCard.

Okay, I had to back up a bit but: I don’t know who’s getting these pictures for Irene, but the last one that makes her smile is focused on John. She sees Sherlock more naked in the pictures where he’s fully clothed in the back of a cab than when he was in just a sheet on the pavement.

More parallels. This is really about their similarities. Could still be considered romantic foreshadowing “they’re made of the same cloth” type.

Ah yes, punch me.

That little dialogue snippet about “punch me” usually being subtext is what got me to first watch this show.

In general I have a lot of issues with how they handled Irene. But I especially don’t think I get the nudity in this scene. It reveals to Sherlock immediately that his ruse was all in vain since she either a) knew he was coming anyway or b) usually greet priests in distress while stark naked and might therefor just be stark raving.

Unflappable John Watson. Oh dear, my flat mate who I just beat up is sitting in front of a naked dominatrix with his vicar collar between her teeth. “I’ve missed something, haven’t I?”

He doesn’t like being a third wheel either. “I had tea too! Just so you know. In case you thought Sherlock got tea at the palace by himself. I was there too. The tea was lovely. Just the right temperature.”

Dammit.

Now I want tea.

Wait wait wait! When did John put his “date” shoes on? Only time it makes sense is when Sherlock was looking through his disguises. (He definitively wouldn’t wear them to traipse around the muddy crime scene.) Maybe they’re part of his “battle uniform”? Also obviously Sherlock can only “deduce” date because he knows what shoes John wears on dates. This isn’t really clothed people are easier to deduce.

How is he not deducing the heck out of her make up and ear piercing? Is it because she’s acting so extraordinary that her indicators become harder to contextualise?

Or is that whole thing just a plot hole?

And her comes her actual opening chess move. Nudity and banter was just setting up the pieces.

“Somebody loves you.” She pressed John’s big red “DO NOT PRESS” button right away. Later she says Jim told her how to play the Holmes brothers, but he definitively gave some pointers on John as well.

There’s something about John’s facial movements when Irene says he knows exactly where to look. Hard to compare with the sheet scene because of the different angles. But yeah, John is bi.

“You do borrow my laptop” with such an angry glare.

Wait are Irene’s shoes those shoes that are expensive because they’re red on the bottom? (I do not care enough to google their names.)

And it’s when John starts to smile that Sherlock does his verbal keysmash. Officially Ben said it was because Irene was paying attention to John instead of him, but she does that a number of times previously and has had quite a moment of getting cosy at John. But up until then John has been a bit standoffish. Of course you can only take so much of a pretty lady flirting with you before your smile reflex gets activated. Also he whips his head immediately at Sherlock in medical concern for his friend and Sherlock can speak clearly again.

Sherlock thinks he knows her game now as he makes his move getting her to confirm that the pictures are in the room.

Imagine the egg on his face if John hadn’t managed the smoke alarm in time.

“Amazing how fire exposes our priorities” should be part of a collection of lines that are only said once but thematically repeated throughout the show.

Some would argue maybe “I really hope you don’t have a baby in there” could be added but I don’t think it could be considered as repeated enough thematically.

Sherlock being his usual demanding self about turning off the fire alarm. The fool! Doesn’t he know how hard fire alarms are to turn off? (Maybe just a problem for me...)

Okay sure, easy enough with a gun, but impractical as a long term solution.

Umm, excuse me why does he go “no disrespect but you were clearly born in the 80s” in an episode from 2012? The most she’d be is 32, so clearly she looks at most like that then. Why would she be insulted by that? Also he earlier called a dude unhealthy, stupid and with bad breath in front of him without clarifying level of respect. So basically he’s needling her by adding that. That’s the most positive spin it can get.

John apologising for not stopping /forewarning about a whole bunch of trained killers sweeping in? That is diehard loyalty.

She’s staring hard at him as fire exposes his priority.

She actually does give him a clue by looking down the moment he looks at her. Never thought of that.

He heard something click wrong, looked at her for additional clue so she looks to the side “get out of the way”.

I love that John’s priority is medically inclined in the action scene, checking the vital signs of the guy that got shot.

“Observant?” “Flattered?” Honestly he shouldn’t be so surprised by the first bit as it was obvious some kind of observation + deduction got Sherlock the code.

As usual Sherlock gives zero fucks about gun safety. I feel John at some point is going to tie him down and lecture him about it. “We do not scratch our heads with the barrel of a gun, and we don’t call for the police by shooting in the air!”

You know if you’re knocking him out cold regardless, you don’t need him to drop the phone first. You just wanted the beating to be literal.

“He’ll be fine. I’ve used it on loads of my friends.” Yeah no, tell the doctor what chemical knockout drug you just put in a former drug addict!!

I wonder how much of dream Adler is actual Adler speaking to a drugged out Sherlock.

Could be nothing with the only real part being “hush now, returning your coat”. Would make sense for a dreaming brain to jumble the two cases together.

Start of series 2 we get to see Sherlock’s bedroom while John’s remain a mystery after 4 series.

John is not on the top of his game this episode. “What woman?”

And so it begins.

Mycroft does not have “shut up Hudson” privilege.

That whole phone noise discussion is punctuated with embarrassment.

Ah the gaping jaw that set the sails for the lestrolly ship.

“Christmas is canceled!” I love when John banters with Sherlock.

Sherlock is mean to Molly, but to be fair she kind of blundered a bit with the others and Sherlock complaining about John being away was clearly something he told in confidence. Telling Greg and John that their loved ones are betraying the trust put in them is general misanthropy, but Sherlock probably feels justified in needling Molly about a crush that he figures none of them know anyway.

Oh John’s look there. Greg clearly knows too what is coming but John has the recognition factor.

“Oh shit. It was me. Still me? She still has a thing for me?”

For a sort of dramatic moment it still has one of John’s absolutely funniest facial journeys. “Wait, you apologised? You know what an apology is? Are you feeling well?”

Obviously Irene’s text signal gets a lot of funny moments, but nothing will beat the timing of this one. And now I am imagining Jim with a pair of binoculars sitting across the street and telling Irene “now, send it now, it’ll be fucking priceless!”

And Greg “wait really?” When you’re not sure what your consultant can do to surprise you next.

I believe I made a post about it earlier but Jeanette’s boyfriend just said he’s been keeping track up till 57 on text messages that his platonic flat mate gets where the signal is a woman moaning.

“Do you ever reply?”

Jeanette starts working on her break up speech about then, I believe.

Molly nervously gulps a drink. Now Molly is everyone’s favorite John mirror. Medical professional with a crush on Sherlock, and whose favored type of outfit involves knitwear. John usually takes a drink at emotionally difficult times. Is this Molly handling her rejection, or showing what John is doing/will do without showing John?

Mycroft. If they passed a new law why would Sherlock know about it before you?

“How did Sherlock recognize her from... not-her-face?”

Mycroft answers with a smile and leaving the room.

“I got plans”

“No” I know you. If it’s a date you’ve probably bungled it already. Regardless if it is or isn’t you’ll still prioritize my brother because you always do.

John really goes for the superconfident strategy when dating, huh? “I always thought I was great.”

“I’ll even walk your dog!”

“I don’t have a dog!”

“No, because that was the last one...”

Always thought you were a great boyfriend, huh?

When even your landlady who got out of her marriage through execution thinks you bungled it, you probably bungled it.

Think I’ll break here and continue the rest of the episode tomorrow.

#rebecka’s sherlock rewatch #johnlock #john watson is bi #john watson is a disaster #jealous john watson

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janeofcakes · 4 years ago

Text

KYFC...: Chapter 12

Hey, y’all! I hope you all had a great week, even in the state of suspense in which I left you. Haha. But seriously, I hope all of you are well and as good as you can be. The story continues. Now we can all see if our intrepid duo is interrupted or if Cakey Jane, evil though she is, surprises you with very exciting and much anticipated intimacy. Only one way to find out! (Also, on a purely ridiculous note, I just noticed when I was typing in the chapter title that the abbreviation is KFC with an extra letter. Lol. Now I feel the need to come up with other words to replace the real ones, like Keep Your Fried Chicken or KY for Comfort. Bwahaha! That’s a good one, if I do say so myself. Sorry. Sometimes I really am still 15 years old. Like when I chuckle every time I hear the movie title “Pacific Rim”. Heehee. I really am very mature, but I do have that Deadpool side too.)

----

I’ve been really tryin’, baby. Tryin’ to hold back the feeling for so long and if you feel like I feel, baby. Then c’mon, oh, c’mon. Let’s get it on. -- Marvin Gaye, Let’s Get It On

Their lips move together, even as their mouths remain closed. Sherlock feels dizzy. He has never felt so good or whole in his life. He finds John’s arms with his hands and holds on gently. John squeezes his shoulders and parts his lips just a crack. Sherlock immediately feels the humidity from his breath and lets out one of his own in a rush, like a moan with no sound. John kisses him with fervor. There are sighs into mouths, and across faces and lips. Though the kiss remains chaste, breathing grows heavier and faster. Motivated by blind desire, Sherlock tightens his grip on John’s arms and takes John’s bottom lip in between his own. He sucks lightly, eliciting a loud moan from John, and he nearly comes in his pants right then and there. Sherlock breaks away quickly, desperate to regain control. He drops his head back against the wall and takes in a shallow breath. John does much the same, leaning his head forward and resting his forehead on Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock swallows hard and then sucks in a harsh breath when he feels John’s gentle, incredibly warm lips on his throat. John is smiling against his skin. He brushes his lips over Sherlock’s Adam’s apple and then straightens his own neck, pulling away from the taller man. Sherlock lifts his head from the wall and looks down at John, into his eyes blown wide with want.

“Christ, Sherlock,” his voice is a hoarse whisper. Both men still breathe heavily, sharing the very air between them. Sherlock finally loosens his grip of John’s arms, releasing one completely to run a hand through his curls. He puffs out a breath and tries to relax. His heart still beats fast.

“Oh, god,” Sherlock exhales, his hand still in his hair. “Oh, shit.”

John’s mouth turns up at the corners and he starts to chuckle. Sherlock furrows his brow and lowers his hand back down, ghosting its way down John’s arm to his hip where it comes to rest.

“Problem?” he asks indignantly. John looks up at him with the most beautiful smile and bites his bottom lip. Sherlock’s stomach flips so significantly that his knees feel weak.

“Sorry, it’s just… I’ve not heard you curse before. I mean, unless you’re angry. It just seems so out of place,” John tells him bashfully. Sherlock smiles his response and they both stand there like grinning idiots.

“John,” Sherlock says the name reverently. It’s like a prayer, a promise. The man in his arms is the most amazing man he has ever met. Sherlock looks into those blue eyes and is ready to scrap everything - his theories on sentiment and avoiding it all together - everything to see those eyes forever.

“John, I…” Sherlock bites his lip hard to keep himself from saying it. He cannot say it now. It’s too soon. It’s too much. John will either run or call him a fool.

“Sherlock?”

Maybe he is a fool. Falling so hard and so fast after his disastrous marriage. He has already thrown it all to the wind for John Watson. Sherlock cannot begin to fathom why he still tries to deny it. He is only lying to himself. God, how he wishes Molly was here to give counsel.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is still breathy, but no longer a whisper. “Are you all right? Is this not okay? We can stop, if you want.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide and John must know he does not want to stop by the sheer look of horror on his face, but that is not why Sherlock panics. John cannot know his true feelings. John cannot have the chance to reason through this because his brilliant mind will figure it out in a split-second and god only knows what would happen then. Frankly, Sherlock is surprised he hasn’t figured it out already. Or maybe he has. Maybe he is now.

Shit. Shit.

Desperately seeking a distraction, Sherlock lurches forward and crashes their lips together. John gets out a curse before Sherlock’s mouth is over his. They pick up where they left off easily as Sherlock grabs John around the waist and twists their bodies to the side, pushing the doctor up against the wall now. John grunts in surprise, but wraps his arms around the coach nonetheless.

After several minutes, the tip of John’s tongue, which has been tracing Sherlock’s lower lip as John gently sucked, dips tentatively into Sherlock’s mouth and then shoots back out again. Sherlock’s mind officially derails and launches itself off a bridge at high speed. John wants to go further and is seeking permission and it is so sweet Sherlock’s heart may burst. As his brain comes back online, his only thought is a resolute ‘God, yes please!’

His hands creep up John’s back as he deftly slides his tongue into John’s mouth, only enough to touch the tip of John’s tongue. Sherlock takes a few seconds to taste him, just a taste. It is all tea and milk and those delectable little cookies John eats and calls biscuits, even though they look nothing like biscuits. And now, all of this with a hint of wine.

Sherlock pulls back to look at John and receives a grumble in response. He lets out a quiet laugh that could never be helped after the noise John made and meets his eyes. The doctor looks completely debauched and disheveled and gloriously perfect. His eyes are even darker than before, his mouth open and breathless, lips kiss swollen and beautiful. Sherlock smiles affectionately, but gives him a pointed look at the same time. Their faces are still very close together and John makes no secret of the shiver that runs through his body when Sherlock’s gentle breath drifts over his lips.

“You don’t really want to go, do you,” Sherlock breathes hotly. It is not a question, but John answers anyway.

“No,” he shakes his head.

His voice and expression are so decisive that neither leaves room for doubt. They stare at one another for a split-second and then crush their lips and bodies together, so close that no air, not a crack of light can get in between. And then it is all lips and tongues and teeth, nipping and sucking and stroking. It is hot and messy and absolutely fantastic. Sherlock’s hands clench at the back of John’s shirt, his fists are full of fabric and he pulls the shirt from where it is tucked in John’s trousers without even realizing it. John’s hands are in his hair, tangling in the strands. He slides his mouth along Sherlock’s jawline, mouthing at the skin all the way and then smearing kisses down his neck to the pulse point there.

“Oh, god,” Sherlock moans when John begins to suck. His head falls back and his mind goes blank. All is John and the two of them and what they are doing, what they could be doing. It snaps his head up and pulls at John’s shirt hard enough to rip. “John. John!”

The doctor stops immediately and looks at Sherlock in worried question. Their bodies are still pressed together tightly, but John releases his curls and drops his hands to Sherlock’s biceps.

“Sherlock?” he asks breathlessly, his voice rife with concern. “Are you okay? Is this...okay?”

“John,” Sherlock begins in a serious tone, but his lips are soon quirking upward and John cannot help but mirror it, “would you mind accompanying me to the bedroom?”

“Not at all,” John answers with a short, relieved laugh.

***

Sherlock drops flat on his back onto the bed. His dressing gown lies on the living room floor, just outside the bedroom door. His pajama shirt came off six paces away from the bed and now he is watching as John drops his own shirt and tee on the floor at the foot of the bed. The doctor climbs on and crawls up Sherlock’s body on all fours. Sherlock licks his lips and watches hungrily as John’s face evens up with his. As he looks into John’s eyes, he takes a moment to wrap his head around the situation. When they embarked on this trip, everything was perfectly normal. Well, as normal as having your best friend live with you can be. His best friend? Can someone you are head over heels in love with be your best friend?

Sherlock rests his hands on the warm skin of John’s sides, his pinkies just touching the waistband of his jeans. He drinks in the sight of this man above him and shivers under the wisp of John’s breath across his lips. John dips down for a gentle kiss. Sherlock keeps his eyes closed when John’s lips kiss the corners of his mouth, his nose, his cheekbones and jawline. When they find Sherlock’s ear, he has lowered himself enough to lie full on Sherlock’s body. They are chest to chest, shoulders to waist of bare skin pressed together and Sherlock gasps loudly, giddy with pleasure. John is not just warm, he is hot. Unbelievably hot in every sense of the word and, my god, where did he learn to do that with his tongue?

“Oh, god, don’t stop. Don’t stop!” Sherlock whines irritably when John pulls away to look at him. “If you ask if this is okay, I cannot be responsible for my actions,” he tells him with an even gaze of impatience.

“All right, all right,” John chuckles his acquiescence. He spreads his legs to drop one on either side of Sherlock’s and straddles his hips. Pushing himself up to sitting, he looks down at the man beneath him. His hands rest on the plains of Sherlock’s chest. The warm, soft palms lying comfortably on his pectorals, the calm desire in John’s eyes - it is like they have done this a hundred times before. Gone are any nerves Sherlock may have had about their first time or of not knowing what John likes. Truthfully, he had not even allowed himself to consider any of these things until the moment John said he did not want to go back to his own room.

He looks up at John with hooded eyes and as he smiles back. God, he is beautiful. His California tan has faded a bit, but his skin is still sunkissed. Sherlock has no idea why John is concerned about his physique. The lines of muscle visible under his skin are well defined and make him want to explore every dip and angle with his mouth. Sherlock’s gaze roves over John’s torso and ends on his peaked nipples. He instantly wants to touch them. So he does.

As he reaches up to press his palms firmly over hardened nipples while John slides his down to rest just above Sherlock’s hips. He begins to stroke and tease and John inhales deeply, tipping his head back and rocking slowly. Within seconds, it is driving Sherlock mad. He sits up suddenly, wrapping his long arms around John and hooking his arms under John’s. With his fingers splayed on John’s back, Sherlock licks a stripe over one nipple and John shudders in his arms. Sherlock smiles against John’s chest and takes the pebbled skin into his mouth, sucking and nibbling, relishing every gasp and whimper.

He moves to the other pectoral and John is rocking again, a bit faster this time. John’s hands are in his hair, his fingertips feel like fire on Sherlock’s scalp. He leans into the touch, caught up in every sensation. With a wicked smirk, he takes John’s nipple in between his teeth and bites just enough to sting.

“Jesus Christ!” John’s jolts up and he stares down at Sherlock, hands on his shoulders. The buck of his hips hits so hard and fast, the friction has the coach nearly coming in his pants. The thread holding him back suddenly snaps. He scrabbles at John’s button and zipper then spreads the jeans apart at his waist, revealing the prominent erection in John’s underpants and the damp spot at its tip. For god sake, it is more than any man can take.

“Off,” he commands. “Now.”

John scrambles off of Sherlock and both men tear off their trousers. John pauses to look at Sherlock, his jeans around his knees as he toes out of his shoes and struggles to keep his balance.

“Pants too?” he asks hesitantly.

“Yes!” Sherlock insists impatiently. “Pants! Pants!”

Both men continue to strip so furiously that it is only when they are back together on the bed that Sherlock realizes John has removed not just his pants, but every article of clothing. Sherlock’s mouth drops open. He is now face to face with John and his much larger than expected penis.

“Holy fuck!” he exclaims and John immediately loses it. He laughs and laughs, and Sherlock joins him rather than feigning indignance. As it dies down to soft giggles, John strokes his jawline and smiles warmly.

“You said pants too,” his mouth quirks in the most adorable way and he looks like a teen who knows he has been naughty, and likes it.

“Yes, pants,” Sherlock corrects. “Not underpants.”

“Underpa…” John throws his head back in laughter, looking back to Sherlock once he recovers a bit. “That’s right. You don’t call them pants here.”

A little burst of laughter pops out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“No. No, we don’t,” he looks at John’s face, memorizing every detail, squeezing his waist where he holds him. “I love watching you laugh.”

John smiles.

“Me too.”

He leans forward and kisses Sherlock softly. Sherlock kisses back. They continue for several minutes as the kisses become more and more heated. John’s hands are on Sherlock’s waist, holding him in counterpoint to his hard rocking and thrusting hips. Sherlock scratches his nails down John’s back and grabs his plush ass, pulling his body against his own even harder.

“Oh, god!” John moans loudly, his body jolting uncontrollably. “Oh, fuck, yes!”

Sherlock can feel himself teetering on the edge and all he can think is more, more, more. As though he can read his mind, John thrusts harder and faster. Sherlock matches him for every one, digging his fingers into John’s ass cheeks hard enough to bruise.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sherlock pants, his voice taking on a harsher and more throaty edge with each repetition. He can barely hold himself together, the pleasure tearing through every inch of his body until. “OH GOD! OH GOD! OHGODOHGODOHGODOHGOD!”

He spurts into his underpants in waves and John onto his belly. It is hot and wet on Sherlock’s skin and he memorizes it all - every sensation and muttered curse as he and John ride it out and come down again.

“Jawwwwwwn,” Sherlock murmurs, wrapping his arms around John’s back and nuzzling his collar bone. He mouths and licks it affectionately. “God, John, I lo…”

“Christ, Sherlock,” he says in a rush, squirming under the man’s touch, “that was amazing.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he pulls away from John, straightening abruptly. He looks at John with panicked eyes. What the fuck was he about to say? What the hell was he thinking? It would have been the single biggest mistake of his life. He can’t say that after one night together. It is a sure fire way to guarantee post-coital awkwardness. His brow wrinkles as he considers that perhaps this will be a one night stand for John. His face flinches with the pain of it.

“Sherlock,” John studies him with concern, his brow furrowing, “are you all right?”

No, he knows more about John than that. John Watson is not a man who has one night stands.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock smiles. He kisses John’s lips softly when his worried look remains. He rests his forehead against John’s and inhales deeply. His nostrils fill with John’s scent, comingled with sex and sweat. It is positively intoxicating. Sherlock feels lightheaded, but he uses John’s touch to ground himself.

“I can put my pants back on, if you like,” John suggests. “Maybe this was too much.”

Sherlock jerks back to meet his eyes. His brow knitted, donning an appalled expression.

“Absolutely not,” he announces disdainfully. John smiles immediately, squinting his eyes closed for a few seconds in silent laughter.

“You do know which kind of pants I mean, yeah?” he jokes.

“Of course I do!” Sherlock replies indignantly and then adds with a cheeky grin. “Now.”

John cannot resist a chuckle.

“Well, as long as that’s clear,” he looks at Sherlock fondly and brushes a curl off his forehead. They stay this way for a few long minutes, but not nearly long enough. Forever would not be long enough. They do not speak, but watch one another, periodically stroking with thumbs and fingertips. Sherlock feels warm and safer than he ever has in his life. He could stay here in John’s arms until the end of his days and never get bored. He lets out a long, slow sigh. John echoes it, but then glances between them.

“We’d best get cleaned up, yeah?”

Sherlock wants to say no. He wants to clutch John to his body possessively and keep him by his side as long as he can, but instead he loosens his grip and lets John rise. He kisses Sherlock’s knuckles before letting go. Sherlock watches John’s gorgeous bare ass as he walks to the bathroom. John looks back at him and smiles before closing the door.

Sherlock sighs and flops back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. John was right. That was absolutely amazing. Mind-blowing. Sherlock has never experienced anything like it. He has never felt this way about anyone in his life. Like a puzzle piece he could not find and now it is right in front of him, teasing him by slipping into place every so often. He sighs again, a wide grin spreading over his face.

The bathroom door opens and John steps out, his body clean. Sherlock sits up and smiles as John walks to the bed. He leans into John’s touch when he cups his cheek.

“The bathroom’s yours,” he tells him.

Sherlock nods and rises to his feet. His hand skims down John’s arm and their fingers lace together. As he studies John’s shining face, a spark of doubt needles at his mind. His head tilts a fraction and he searches John’s eyes for the answer. John smiles and squeezes his fingers as if he knows Sherlock’s every thought.

“I’ll be right here when you come out,” he assures him.

Sherlock smiles again and nods. Their fingers slip away and separate as he goes to the bathroom. Once inside, he relieves himself and cleans up. He removes his ruined underpants and tosses them in the corner. Leaning over the sink, he turns on the water and splashes it on his face. Sherlock places a hand on either side of the sink and stares at his own face in the mirror. He looks different. His eyes seem brighter and his features lighter. He looks happy. He looks like he’s in love. Shit. He’ll give himself away like this. John will know the minute he sees him. Maybe he knows already, but then why hasn’t he said anything? Or simply run for the hills? Shit.

Sherlock towels off and goes for the door, but stops with his hand on the knob. He looks to the corner and then down his own body. All of his clothes are outside in the room with John. He looks to the towels and wraps one around his waist. Best to air on the side of modesty. To his surprise, John is standing in the bedroom fully clothed when Sherlock steps out of the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” he asks in shock, his stomach dropping to the floor.

“I’m going back to my room,” he says plainly. “We have a bout tomorrow.”

“What?” Sherlock repeats and it is not until John turns toward the bedroom door that Sherlock snaps out of the trance and walks to him in three long strides. He catches John’s hand with his own and holds him steady.

“Sherlock..”

“Stay, John,” he blurts, not bothering to keep the desperation from his voice. “Please.”

“But, Sherlock..”

“I don’t want you to go, if that’s what you think,” he says in a rush. “I don’t want that.”

“No?” John asks hopefully, biting his lip.

“No,” Sherlock confirms softly.

John rests his hands on Sherlock’s slim waist and faces him fully.

“Ok.”

***

Sherlock opens his heavy eyelids at what the clock on the bedside table claims is 7:30. He only squints a moment because the room is fairly dim, having no windows and lit by only a lamp on the same table. His sleep fogged mind tries to determine what woke him when it dawns on him that someone is in the bed with him. Warm arms enclose his waist, one hand resting on his belly. Sherlock turns to look over his shoulder to see John Watson snuggled up against his back, his warmth radiating into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock gazes at his sleeping face fondly, his lips parted and the beginnings of a quiet snore every few breaths. He looks so innocent and young and...absolutely adorable.

Sherlock presses a hand to his chest gently and smiles. He wants to stay just like this and watch John sleep, brush the hair from his forehead and kiss him awake. He wants to spend the whole day in bed with this man, the man who holds his heart. However, a few loud bangs on the door to his suite tell him that there are other matters that need seeing to.

He looks at John one last time and slips out of his arms. He quickly grabs underpants from a drawer and pulls them on, along with pajama bottoms. The shirt matching his pajamas is on his shoulders once he heads out into the living room, doing up the buttons and closing the bedroom door behind. He does not suppose John will want everyone to know he spent the night with Sherlock. Not that any of the ladies or staff would give a damn, but he and John should really discuss the relationship before making it public knowledge. Sherlock stops a few feet from the suite door, frozen in the act of pulling on his dressing gown. Is this a relationship now? Does John even want that? If not, will they go back to being friends? Can Sherlock do that? Does he want that? God, no. Sherlock wants it all, everything John will give him. He wants to be John’s boyfriend. As ridiculous as the word is, Sherlock would shout it from the rooftops and tell every damn reporter in Detroit that he loves John Watson. So why doesn’t he tell the man himself?

Another series of loud banging has Sherlock tying his dressing gown and finishing his path to the door.

“They’re both gone,” he can hear Harry HardOn’s muffled, but still loud voice. “What the fuck is going on?”

“He has to be in there. Knock again. Here, let me.”

Sherlock opens the door just as Clara Hell on Wheels raises her fist to pound on its surface. Her eyes widen upon coming face to face with the coach and she lowers her hand with a timid smile.

“Good morning, Coach,” she greets with a smirk. “Sleep well?”

“Until a group of noisy juveniles started beating down my door,” he quips. “What’s going on?”

He looks out into the hall and sees Sally Trixie Belt’em, Anthea Witch Hazel, Janine Ginger Smacks and Bloody Mary are with them. Harry pushes into his line of vision and declares loudly.

“We can’t find Ph.D. Either he sleeps like a fucking rock or he’s not in his room.”

“Is one of you in need of medical attention?” he raises a brow, already knowing the answer.

“No,” Harry answers simply with no intention of offering more.

“We’ve been going to breakfast together on aways,” Clara explains, rolling her eyes at Harry. “It just sorta happened our first time out and we kind of made a thing of it.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums. “Perhaps he went for an early swim with The Woman.”

“Not with what she wears in a pool,” Sally snorts.

“I’m sure John wouldn’t mind. He is a doctor, after all.”

“Did you even check the gym or anything?” Mary asks Harry, who shakes her head. “Well, Jesus, HardOn. He could be anywhere, but you panic and run straight to Coach?”

“I wasn’t panicking,” Harry defends. “I just thought he might know where to find him.”

She turns to Sherlock abruptly.

“Did he tell you if he was going anywhere this morning?”

“He’s probably down there already, hiding the chocolate frosteds before you can take them all,” Anthea says quietly, looking up from her phone with a grin.

“She has a point there,” Janine adds with a playful look and a laugh in her tone. “Y’do fight over them.”

“Come on,” Mary jerks her head in the direction of the elevator. “Let’s go. I want a blueberry muffin and our very delicious doctor might beat me to it.”

“Okay, but we have to find him if he’s not there,” Harry tells her.

“Jesus, HardOn! Why are you so hot on finding him?” Mary demands, getting up into her personal space.

“I’ll tell you why,” she pushes in, nose to nose with the taller woman. “We haven’t lost a single away since Ph.D. started eating breakfast with us. We. Can’t. Break. The Streak.”

“All right, all right,” Sherlock pushes them apart. “Just cool it. Go look for John in the pool and gym. I’ll get dressed and join the search.”

Everyone seems satisfied with the plan and the ladies head for the elevator. Harry and Mary continue glaring at each other all the way. Sherlock rolls his eyes as they all disappear and turns back into the suite. He closes the door behind and makes a stop in the kitchenette to start coffee before entering the bedroom. He stops cold just inside to savor the scene.

John has rolled onto the side of the bed Sherlock had been on. The blankets still cover his legs and waist, but his torso is out in the open air. His arms are wrapped around Sherlock’s pillow, his face snuggled down into the cotton pillowcase. He looks peaceful with a small smile on his lips. It is nothing less than adorable and Sherlock’s heart melts. He parts his lips to suck in a gulp of air, feeling as though it has been knocked from his lungs. Sherlock never wants to be without this man again. He wants to wake with him every morning and fall asleep in his arms each night.

Sherlock shrugs out of his dressing gown and tosses it onto the bed. He crawls up behind John, spooning against his back and pulling him into his arms. He presses a kiss to John’s ear and whispers quietly because he has to say this. He has to let it out before his heart explodes right out of his chest.

“I love you, John.”

Sherlock smiles at first, feeling calm and completely happy. A warmth fills his body, relaxing every muscle. Then he freezes as John begins to stir. Oh, shit. Did he wake John after all? Did he hear what Sherlock said? Sherlock remains frozen as John turns in his arms and pecks his lips that are parted in horror. John snuggles against him, looking very comfortable indeed. He inhales deeply and opens his eyes as he exhales. Eyes focusing on Sherlock, his smile grows wider as the sleep clears from his gaze.

“Hi,” he says almost shyly. Sherlock cups his warm cheek with one hand and studies his face. John looks happy and...embarrassed. Sherlock’s blood runs cold. What if this was a mistake? What if John grows to regret this?

“Stop,” John tells him, suddenly very serious and firm. “Stop what you’re doing. I can hear you worrying.”

John reaches down and pulls Sherlock’s hands to their chests. He rubs his thumbs over Sherlock’s knuckles and looks at him earnestly.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop. This will never be a mistake to me,” John pauses. “It was wonderful. Perfect.”

Sherlock finds himself blushing and grinning from ear to ear like a fool. He kisses John’s thumbs, warmth starting at his lips and running through his body all the way to his fingers and toes. He loves this. Everything. All of it.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he says, pressing his mouth to John’s softly and moving his lips just so. John obliges and, in a moment, they are smiling at one another contentedly. “Much as I would like to stay this way all day, we need to get up. The ladies are looking for you.”

“What?” John is startled right out of the mood and into doctor mode. “Why? Is one of them hurt?”

“No. Everything’s fine,” Sherlock assures him. “Harry says they have to eat with you to maintain our winning streak.”

“Really?” John laughs. “I didn’t realize she was so superstitious. That explains why she’s been so keen on waking me up for it though.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock says, though he had not noticed she was doing it. Has he really become so distracted as to not notice the simplest of things? “Next she will try to make everyone sit in the same arrangement.”

“No,” John looks at him in disbelief. “You’re having me on.”

“I am… I’m what?” Sherlock laughs and places a hand on John’s shoulder. “Is that another Britishism or pure John Watson?”

“Shut up,” John says with a smile. Sherlock laughs again and begins tracing patterns on John’s shoulder with his thumb. Soon his other hand is on the opposite shoulder, tracing the mirror image of the other hand’s work.

“Are there any other odd phrases I should be aware of?” Sherlock asks with a playful glint in his eye. John watches him with an amused expression on his face.

“Well, there’s pavement instead of sidewalk,” he plays along, puckering his lips and looking toward the ceiling in mock consideration. “Bobbie in place of police, lift rather than elevator.”

“Oh, I’ve heard you use that one,” Sherlock says in an excited tone.

“I’m sure you have,” John does his best to look stern, but still cannot stop a grin when Sherlock starts nodding with an exaggerated look of agreement on his face.

“Stop it, you tosser,” John snorts and lightly shoves Sherlock away. This only serves as impetus for Sherlock to fold his arm around the doctor and pull him closer.

“Oh, tosser. I haven’t heard that one yet. You have to explain what that means,” he nips at John’s jaw. John squirms, but cannot free himself from the other man’s grasp. Not that he is really trying.

“You have a brilliant mind. Surely you can figure it out,” John grins, wrapping his own arms around Sherlock and hugging him close. He kisses at a cheekbone and growls. It is a deep rumble that lights a fire in Sherlock’s belly. He flexes his fingers on John’s bare back and gently digs his fingertips into the skin before laying them flat. He wants John Watson. More than he has wanted anyone or anything in his life.

“I’m going to snog you within an inch of your life,” John says in a low, menacing voice that is more of a promise than a threat. But what does it mean?

Sherlock is just parting his lips to ask when John swoops in. He pushes Sherlock onto his back and lies astride him, kissing his lips hard. Then it is like a dam breaking, the water rushing through and flooding all in its path. There is kissing, nipping, mouthing, licking, biting, exploring and enjoying. Sherlock works his way along John’s jawline and down his neck. He groans in response, clutching at the back of Sherlock’s neck and arching his own spine. John is delicious. His skin is so soft with only a trace of rough stubble for not having shaved yet. The taste of his skin and salt of his sweat is pure delight.

The truth of his desire to spend his life with John consumes his mind and he pushes it away fitfully. He cannot think about it now. He can’t think about anything now and deposits it in a filing cabinet in John’s wing for further study. Another door opens in a rush and unwelcome memories of his life with Victor flood his mind with the many reasons he gave up sentiment. Leaving the filing cabinet, he desperately turns to the door and tries to push Victor back. When he succeeds at last, his back is against the door and he slides down to sit in front of it with his arms folded over his knees and his face buried in them.

“Sherlock?”

Hearing his own name and the concern in John’s voice, Sherlock opens his eyes and pulls away from John to look at him. His blue eyes are full of worry once again. Sherlock must have shut down. He strokes his hands up and down John’s biceps in a comforting motion, wishing to ward away the look on his face.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

He runs his hands up and down once more and shakes his head. He cannot talk about this now. He has to work through it on his own in the mind palace before it will make any sense to anyone. And he needs an outside observer who knows his feelings and mind. Sherlock needs to talk to Molly Hooper.

“I’m fine. I just…” he looks away, his mind struggling to find some sort of diversion. He has found it in a moment and his lips quirk up. “What was it you said? Snogging? What the hell is that?”

John is hesitant at first, unwilling to let Sherlock change the subject without explaining himself. It is a battle he loses and soon the two men are laughing in each other’s arms.

“Snogging, right,” John is saying. “It’s what we did last night. The kissing and touching.”

“The touching?” Sherlock asks in a dangerous tone. John shifts in his arms with a groan.

“Your voice should be illegal. You can do things with it that no man should be capable of.”

“You did say the touching,” he says in that voice again and feels John shiver.

“Not that touching,” the doctor answers in a husky tone, trying to collect himself. “The kissing and...like we did just now.”

“Oh, making out. Why didn’t you just say so?”

John stares for a moment with a grin frozen on his face. He hoots a laugh and throws his head back.

“Making out!”

Sherlock watches him laugh, knowing he deserves it. Still, he tries to look annoyed, but it is no use. John looks absolutely glorious when he laughs, especially this kind. A deep belly laugh that shakes his whole body.

“Oh my god. That is the most ridiculous…” he dissolved into laughter again. Sherlock puts his hands on his hips, even from his position on the bed and looks up at John. He raises a brow and gives John a look he usually reserves for Harry HardOn’s shenanigans.

“Come now, John,” he begins and John starts to quell his laughter behind a mischievous smirk. “You lived in California for how long and with hockey players, no less. How have you not picked up on the term ‘making out’?”

“Never had the opportunity to learn, I suppose.”

“What were you some sort of monk?” Sherlock quips. John sobers in a split second. He fixes the man with angry eyes that nearly disguise the hurt and Sherlock immediately regrets his careless words.

“I told you I wasn’t interested in a relationship,” he says defensively.

His voice is tinged with pain and, for once, Sherlock can read John as easily as words on paper. More and more reveals itself as he looks at the doctor and Sherlock cannot stop himself. Being able to actually deduce John is overwhelming and so tempting. Energy rushes through his veins as he takes everything in and he can see it. There is something there. Something John is not telling him, that he does not want him to know and Sherlock has never been able to back away from anything so deliberately hidden from him. So he makes the fateful choice to chase the mystery and push John toward a confession.

“Because something happened,” he begins. “Something in London.”

“Stop it, Sherlock.”

The clues are coming in readily like apples falling from a tree, tempting Sherlock with their juicy details. He cannot resist the puzzle that is falling into place as he watches John’s expression change in ways no one else would see. His own grey eyes sparkle as he deduces more and more.

“A woman.”

“Stop.”

“She hurt you.”

“Sherlock.”

“A baby?”

“STOP IT!” John shouts into the quiet room, bringing all things to a halt.

Sherlock looks at him in shock and then his face falls as realization kicks in. John couldn’t hide it because of the pain at its memory. It overwhelmed him as much as the ability to deduce did Sherlock and he took advantage of that, knowing that he should not. He is a complete and utter asshole.

John is off of his body and the bed in a flash. Sherlock sits up and looks at him with pleading eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, to apologize, but no words come. John gazes at Sherlock for a moment, pain and profound hurt in his eyes. Sherlock’s heart breaks in two and bleeds in his chest, causing an ache he cannot bear.

“I thought you didn’t deduce the team,” John says quietly, anger filling every crack in his voice.

“John, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Sherlock swivels his body so he can face John again. His legs hang over the side of the bed, his feet on the floor. One of his big toes just grazes John’s and the man steps back as if burned. The pain in Sherlock’s chest strengthens and he feels like he cannot breathe.

“Stop,” John snaps. “Just shut up.”

John shifts his weight and crosses his arms over his chest. He still looks furious, but also hesitant and regretful. Sherlock tilts his head in confusion, having no idea what to expect as John looks away and shakes his head. He puffs out an angry breath and looks back to Sherlock.

“You...you’ve told me so much and shared your life with me, and I…” he inhales deeply as if centering himself and looks at Sherlock with a meaningful gaze. “It’s not fair for me to…”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” Sherlock rushes to say, wishing he could reach out and touch John, just touch him and make this all go away, but John is too far away and has no interest in closing the gap.

“I told you I’ve not been close to marriage. I’ve never even considered it. I’ve never been in love like that,” John interrupts. His voice is still angry, but also sad now. This is part of his life he would prefer to forget. God, Sherlock is a stupid, stupid man.

“She didn’t… She wanted more of a commitment than I could give,” John drops his hands to his sides in defeat. “So she lied. She said she was pregnant.”

Sherlock is an ass.

“John, don’t,” he raises a hand to him, palm out in the universal signal for stop.

“Why not?” John is angry now, only angry. The hurt is but a memory and his hands are clenched at his sides. His face twists in a sneer. “It’s what you want to know, isn’t it? What you deduced?”

“No.”

“I still wouldn’t marry her.”

“John.”

“It wouldn’t have been fair to her or the baby, but she said I was just being selfish.”

“I’m sorry.”

Miraculously, John is silenced by those two words. He looks at Sherlock with hard eyes, his hands still clenching. And then all of the fury drains from his body. Right down his legs and out through his feet. It pools around him like blood on the floor.

John blinks his eyes and seems to sag. He is vulnerable and full of regret. Sherlock presses his lips together in a tight line and scolds himself silently. John had wanted to tell him this in his own time, when he was comfortable with Sherlock knowing and that time is not now, not today. Sherlock curses himself for being so careless and infantile, never once considering John’s feelings and only thinking of the mystery.

“Me too,” John mutters.

A moment passes in silence and then another until John finally sighs and begins collecting his clothing. A pang of fear bursts in Sherlock’s chest. He has ruined it. He loves John with all his heart and he has ruined it in the span of one night. He had everything and it has slipped right through his fingers like water in a sieve.

“John,” he croaks quietly, trying to find his voice. The doctor does not stop even to look at him.

“Best get to my room for a clean up and changes of clothes before Harry tears down the hotel looking for me,” he feigns levity.

With that, he closes himself up in the bathroom. Sherlock is gutted. He does not know what to do or say. He has no idea how to fix this or if it even can be, but he must try. He has to. John is his life, wholly and completely, for better or worse, and doesn’t even know it.

Sherlock rises, pulls on his dressing gown and leaves the room. He is in the kitchenette pouring coffee on auto-pilot, his mind spinning. What can he say to John? What should he say and what can he do? Taking a sip of the scalding liquid and trying desperately to think, a favorite song comes out of the shadows of his mind palace as if to taunt him.

I’ve grown accustomed to his face. He almost makes the day begin. I’ve grown accustomed to the tune he whistles night and noon. His smiles, his frowns, his ups, his downs are second nature to me now. Like breathing out and breathing in. I was serenely independent and content before we met. Surely I could always be that way again, and yet… I’ve grown accustomed to his look, accustomed to his voice, accustomed to his face.

John interrupts the tune when he comes bustling into the room and stops suddenly. He watches Sherlock for a moment with wide eyes as though he has been caught trying to escape.

“Coffee?” Sherlock offers and nearly face palms at the idiocy of it.

“Uh, thanks, no,” John darts across the room to the door. “Best be off to breakfast.”

And he is gone.

Sherlock can only stare at the closed door, the last trace of hope fading away.

-----

KYFC can stand for something else?? How about Oh My Fucking God, Jane?!?! WTF are you doing?? Yes, I reward your patience with adorable togetherness, cute joking and hot sex only to crush your hopes. Why can’t Sherlock leave well enough alone? Curiosity kills the cat and this man wants to know everything he can about John Watson. Poor man stumbled right into it and now there’s no turning back. So what’s gonna happen now, Jane? How will you fix this? You’d better fix this! You’ll have to tune in next week to see if chapter 13 turns out to be unlucky or lucky 13. In the meantime, stay safe, everyone. I love you all. Jane

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#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock loves john #sherlock fanfic #sherlock au #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #sherlock roller derby

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