#jonksters

[kapitanbank]

Hack and Scholar, famous Jokers of Balatro fame.

[thattangerineorange]

Made this for class! My furby likes it :D

I still haven't found a name for them so I'm open to suggestions! For now I nicknamed them Jonkster or Mr dishwasher because it annoys my sister but I don't plan on keeping those names.

[sandcobangevent]

sea salt and cologne

a miscommunication and some bad wording leads to the obvious. (according to sherlock, at least.)

🐝

“To fifteen-year-old Nadine from Manchester, thank you for your email. I will make sure to give Archie a treat on your behalf. Erm… Oh! To John! Ha! Jonkster, Johnny boy.. No, sorry,” he cleared his throat. “To the listeners, I’m not shouting myself out, obviously, this is another fellow John that listens to the podcast! Isn’t that cool? Well, John-that’s-not-me, thank you very much, and I hope you enjoy your holiday in Brum! It’s.. an interesting place. Ah- no, that’s.. Let’s not say that,” he muttered, pausing the recording with a huff and unconsciously reaching for the mug of tea that was made for him.

He didn’t know how, but on the rare occasions that he decided to, Sherlock consistently made the most impeccable cups of tea. Without fail. John couldn’t even get his own cups of tea right let alone someone else’s.

After taking a large gulp, he leaned back in his swivel chair and gazed at the laptop screen in front of him.

The past forty minutes had consisted of scrolling through fan mail in his bedroom and attempting to complete this week’s shoutouts. There was an overwhelming list of unread emails and he felt awful having to blindly pick out who to respond to. He played the recording back.

“Oh! To John! Ha! Jonkster, Johnny boy.. No, sorry-”

“Ugh,” he scrunched up his face. “Why do I-”

He played it again.

“-John! Ha! Jonkster, Johnny b-”

And again.

“Ha! Jonkster, Johnny boy.. No, sorry–”

“How’s it going?”

He hastily paused the recording and glanced back at the head that had popped in through the gap in the door. “Hey, Mariana,” he dragged, lamely attempting to exit the tab as she peered in.

Having heard the recording, she frowned quizzically.

“Are you.. giving yourself a shoutout?”

“Yeah, that- No, no, I’m..” he shook his head excitedly. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“There’s another John listening to the podcast! Isn’t that awesome? He sent an email. Said he was going to Brum for the summer.”

“Oh, wow,” she stepped into the room, running a hand through her slicked-back curls. She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes at the screen. “I wonder if there’s another Mariana listening somewhere in the world.”

“Yeah, I guess there is! Isn’t that cool?”

Another head of dark curls popped in through the door. “Doubt it.”

“Oi!” he turned to Mariana with an apologetic gaze. “Don’t listen to him, I’m sure there’s loads of Marianas out there.”

“Doubt it.”

He huffed, leaning further back into his chair to see. “And why’s that?”

Sherlock stepped in calmly, bringing his fingers together. His hair was damp against his head, and he carried in a fresh scent of shower gel along with him. “Because no one here is named Mariana, so no one listening to the podcast would feel the need to highlight it should that be their name.”

They rolled their eyes in unison.

He carried on with a sharp intake of air through his teeth, his eyes occasionally glancing at the agonisingly bright laptop screen. “But, taking yourself as an example, I’m almost certain there are at least six other Johns in the vicinity of Baker Street. You’ve a painfully common name,” he finished matter-of-factly.

“Oh thanks, mate,” John ignored the sly smile that tugged at Mariana’s lips. “Well, I apologise for not having a- a rich and pompous name like Sherlock. Yeah, how ridiculous of me. Anything else about me that’s painfully common?”

“Actually, yes. In my free time, I’ve written an essay on both your idiosyncratic and conformate behaviours. Would you like to read it?”

“Well–”

“Hang on, Sherlock, you’ve.. Written an essay about John?” Mariana asked, resting a fist on the back of John’s chair.

“Of course I have,” the detective frowned, absently brushing away a stray curl that fell into and obscured his line of view (John). “In the past year that he and I have been flat-sharing, I’ve come to.. Collect data, if you will.”

“That’s really sweet,” she raised her brows amusedly, fluffy curls bouncing on her shoulder as she tilted her head. “So.. Have you written one about me?”

“Actually, it’s totally reliant on observation and the facts,” he responded sharply, diverting his gaze. “I wouldn’t consider it sweet at all. And no. I have not written one about you.”

“Aw, that’s a shame.”

John pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well, considering he just called me painfully common, I wouldn’t call that a shame.”

“It wasn’t an insult, Watson, it was a fact - yet another inherent trait of yours.”

“What?”

“Taking everything personally.”

“Oi-!”

“See?”

“Mate, we’ve been together for almost a year and all you can say about me is that I’m painfully common?!”

Sherlock shrugged. “We balance each other out. Like..” he scrunched up his face in thought. “Ying a-and..”

“Yin and Yang.”

“Yes.”

“Thanks, mate. So I’m the brawn to your brain.”

“Yes, exactly.” He paused. “What?”

“Oh, because you’re- you’re so uncommon, aren’t y- Well, you know what, you are.”

“Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, yeah, of course you do. How’s this for a compliment? You can’t even–”

“Hey!” Mariana put her hands between them in a feeble attempt to soften the tension. “I think we’re all getting a bit worked up. John, why don’t you finish.. Whatever you’re doing–”

“Shoutouts,” he sighed, rubbing his face annoyedly. “I was just trying to do the bloody shoutouts.”

“Right,” then she glanced sternly at Sherlock. “And why don’t you get back to your experiment?”

The detective straightened himself, pulling his gaze away from John with a frown. “Which one? I currently have four ongoing experiments.”

“I don’t know, how about the one that required you to use all my conditioner? You owe me, by the way. My hair feels like straw now, feel it,” she tilted her hair forward.

“No.”

“But I see you’ve managed to condition your lovely, lovely locks,” she carried on sarcastically, gesturing to his wet hair and damp skin.

"Thank you,” he replied. “It’s a new one.”

"Yeah, I- I noticed. It’s nice,” said John. His eyes widened. “It smells nice. Obviously. I don’t.. Feel your hair during the night, that’d be weird.”

Sherlock eyes narrowed amusedly. “Is that a fact.”

For God’s sake, John thought to himself. He just called you painfully common and you’re still acting like some fan. He rolled his lips with a stony resolve, forcing himself to keep eye contact.

Sherlock faltered slightly.

Mariana watched. “Hello.”

The detective calmly tore his eyes away at the sound of her voice. “Besides. That.. That experiment was boring. I finished it. Would you like to know the results?”

She glared at him. “Does it have anything to do with human remains?”

“Well. Yes.”

“Then no.” She turned to John. “I thought we could go for a drink. You know, to remind you two why you’re still living together.”

He sat up straight, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he thrummed his fingers against the desk. “Er, yeah, sure, once I finish these shoutouts.”

“Okay, great. We’ll leave in ten minutes. Sherlock, are you coming?”

The detective seemed to debate this offer intensely - his thick brows furrowing, tanned cheeks hollowing and grey eyes slightly narrowing until he finally said, “Of course I would.”

“Perfect,” she replied light-heartedly. “Let’s go.”

As Mariana began to leave the room, Sherlock followed cautiously, still deep in thought. “I can’t strongly recommend this line of work to you if you are unable to converse about human remains, Mrs Hudson.”

“Hey!” she held open the door with her foot and gestured for him to leave first. “My job is to answer emails, help pay the rent and send out the merch. Not to look at, or talk about, human remains..”

Her voice faded as they left the room and the door creaked shut.

John let out a gentle sigh and swivelled back to face his laptop. “Right, let’s see…” he opened up the tab that he had previously tried to hide from Mariana. He frowned. “Hang on. Why’s the footage so long– Oh, shit, I’ve been recording this entire time!”

*

The pub was relatively busy with a constant metronome of the door languidly swaying open and shut and the gentle hum of others’ conversations - cushioned only by the soothing tang of refills that glided down their throats in an attempt to ground.

In the search for a small table, Mariana had left the men upfront to order the drinks.

“Two pints of bitter and a gin and tonic, please,” called John as he leaned over the bar with a squint to tune out the overly repetitive pop music.

“Yeah alright, mate. Be a bit because it’s just me today.”

“No worries. Ta,” he scratched the top of his head and settled back into the stool.

Sherlock wasn’t sitting. In fact, he rather awkwardly stood beside John as they waited for their drinks - his posture perfect, his stance unnervingly still. There was a grim (and awfully heavy) twist in the pit of his stomach. He knew that he had somehow, in some way, upset John, but he couldn’t put a finger on why. He gazed at the doctor as he thrummed his fingers against the countertop, the reflective surface and soft lights casting a warm glow against his skin.

“Well..” he began, his deep voice cutting through the obnoxious music.

John glanced at him. “What?”

Ah, thought Sherlock. He’s still upset. (Angry? Flattered?) “It’s incomplete, but would you like to read it?”

“Do I want to read an essay about how I’m painfully common? Erm, let me think,” he tilted his head sarcastically. “No, I’m alright mate. Besides, if it’s about me, what more could I possibly want to know?”

“Actually, I’m positive that I know more about you than you do.”

“Yeah, you probably do- What? No,” he shook his head annoyedly. “Forget it. I don’t want to read your bloody essay that’s about how I’m- I’m so painfully common.”

Sherlock’s face scrunched up. “Why are you so obsessed over that phrasing?”

“Because-!” John stopped himself. His lips pursed into a thin line and his eyes softened.

He frowned. The detective tried to use all his innate and learned deductive reasoning to try to understand - he even attempted to reflect on the ‘social etiquette’ intervention he had been forced to have with Mrs Hudson last week. But it was all too much: the torturous music (to which he regretted not having brought his ear defenders), John’s uncharacteristic indifference, his lack of knowledge.

Their intense gaze seemed to make John freeze up, his navy eyes unable to pull away, unable to portray the anger his voice lamely attempted to convey. The warm, soft lights reflected into his eyes, illuminating them into a brighter, saturated tone that made Sherlock forget about the (god-awful) twist in his stomach. They were beautiful, Sherlock thought simply. (He was beautiful.)

“It’s-” he leaned his elbows on the countertop and ran his hands over his flushed face. “It’s fine. Seriously, just forget it, it’s fine.”

Sherlock cautiously opened his mouth to speak. “You don’t–”

“Here you guys go,” the bartender slid forward the three drinks.

“Thanks,” said John politely, juggling the three glasses into his hands without asking for help from the detective, who was watching him with a concerned brow etched deep into his skin. “Sherlock. It’s fine, mate.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he watched John carefully walk through the maze of tables until he found Mariana sitting at the back on her phone. After four seconds of debating with himself, Sherlock turned slightly, pulled out his wallet, silently paid for the drinks and sauntered to the table. (Ignored the churning in his stomach.)

     *

An icy wind had been the final push out of Autumn - it had blown away the rusty coloured leaves until the pavements on Baker Street bore nothing but a thin layer of frost.

It had been five days since Sherlock had (mistakenly) revealed the existence of his essay about John and, according to his knowledge, not much had improved in 221B. The doctor was often tucked away in his room, with the excuse of ‘editing the podcast’ slowly fraying and eventually dissolving into just ‘being tired’. Mariana had taken it upon herself to become an intermediary; she waded through the flood of emotions that had drowned both of the men by attempting to speak to them both privately and also sweetening some (rather bitter) messages that they had for one another before delivering them. Sherlock had, of course, seen right through her considerate attempts at cushioning John’s colourful insults, but he didn’t say anything no matter how uncharacteristic her edits were. (He sometimes wanted to tell her to read the essay he wrote about John so that she could learn how to properly speak on his behalf but, in case he accidentally offended her, he kept those thoughts to himself.)

However, when the orders for the podcast’s merchandise started piling up, Mariana had no choice but to plant her focus on packaging and sending them away. And when that happened, his (dreadful) stomach ache had gotten worse.

The silence was killing him. (John was killing him.)

By midday, Sherlock had curled up into the sofa, his legs tucked close and arms wrapped around his chest with his fingertips pressing against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His eyes were shut and his face was uncomfortably pressed against a pillow, but he didn’t move. (If he did, the texture of the pillow would send a cold shower of shivers through his body.) Instead he resorted to taking deep, levelled breaths - unconsciously counting his heart’s BPM. (Always calculating, moving. Even when he didn’t want to.)

He had successfully managed to tune everyone and everything that made even the slightest of noise. He had been idle like that since 9.17am, so disturbingly still that, after the first hour, Mariana had to check if he was still breathing. He was.

During the forty-second round of unconsciously monitoring his heart’s BPM, an aggressive vibration had interrupted his counting. Sherlock opened his eyes and, for a moment, he stopped breathing.

Tried to ignore it.

Couldn’t.

(Always subconsciously craving the thrill of possibility.)

He unfolded his limbs, pulled his head away from the pillow with a shiver and sat up. His phone vibrated again.

Sherlock leaned over to the coffee table and picked it up.

Lestrade Says You Weren’t Answering Your Phone. Apparently There’s Something You’d Want To See At NSY

Interested?

It was John. (Oh God, John.)

His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Are you?

There was a pause. (Suddenly his BPM was significantly higher than it was 16 seconds ago.)

Maybe

Sherlock was used to the quiet. Most of the time he craved it. A flattened wavelength was his ideal; it opened doors to his thoughts, germinated possibilities and carefully constructed intricate experiments. But this was entirely different:

John never said ‘maybe’ to the possibility of getting to play audience and watch his consulting detective work, to record the perfect material for his podcast and prepare for a rush of adrenaline at any given moment. He never (never) said ‘maybe’ to the idea of working with Sherlock.

The detective switched off his phone, stood up and straightened his jumper.

A gentle string of footsteps told Sherlock that Mariana had walked in. The familiar, .2-second high-pitched creak of a door also told him that she had just left John’s room.

“I assume you were talking about me,” he began plainly, entirely avoiding eye-contact as he strode over to the desk by the window and picked up his ear defenders.

“Why do you assume that?” she lightly asked, setting down a pack of diet Cokes on the kitchen table before beginning to gather her fluffy curls up into a high ponytail.

“What else would you talk about?”

“I..” Mariana hummed unconvincingly, shifting her weight from one foot to the next. “We talk about lots of things.”

He grabbed his coat from his armchair and shrugged it on. “Like?”

“Hm?”

“What sort of things do you talk about?”

She glanced down and wrapped her cardigan around herself comfortingly. “Like.. Beer. And Archie. Oh! And lots of podcast stuff, which we know you don’t really enjoy, so–”

“Scotland Yard has called. There’s something that they’d like me to see.”

“Okay,” she smiled. “Yeah, that’s great! You’ve been wanting a case for a while.”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes wandered anywhere but in the direction of Mariana. “Will John be accompanying me? For the podcast stuff. ”

“Er, yeah.”

The voice came from behind Mariana. She took a step to the side to reveal John stepping into the living room with one shoe on his (left) foot and the other in his (right) hand. He bent down and slipped the other one on calmly, his face void of any indifference he had been holding against the detective for the last few days. “Got my mic all charged up,” he patted the small clip-on attached to his shirt. “Just in case.”

Sherlock eyed him carefully. “That’s good.”

It was silent. (His stomach churned.)

“Let us leave,” he said plainly, brushing straight past Mariana and John and ignoring the way their eyes met.

After he left, John sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “See?” he whispered.

Mariana shook her head. “Remember what I said, just–”

“Try again, yeah, I know,” he paused. “Sorry, Mariana- No, yeah, you’re right.”

“I hope so,” she placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him out the living room. “Now go, before he thinks we’re talking about him.”

“Again.”

***

There was a gentle knock on the door.

“Mariana?”

“Yep, it’s me,” she poked her head through with a smile. “Sherlock’s still sleeping on the couch. How are you feeling?”

“Yeah, I’m alright,” John sat up on his bed as she walked in. He politely turned off his phone and focused on her. “What’s up?”

“Three things. One, we’re out of diet Coke.”

“Ah,” John clambered off his bed and pulled open his wardrobe doors. He reached to the bottom, pulled out a pack and handed it to Mariana.

“You keep packs of mini diet Cokes in your wardrobe?” she asked quizzically.

“Don’t tell Sherlock.”

Intrigued, she peered into his wardrobe. “What else do you keep in there?”

“Pop tarts. Only the good ones, though.”

“Huh, I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m locked in the flat by myself,” she joked.

“What was the second thing?”

“Oh, yeah, you know the ‘thank you’ cards for the merch that spelled your name wrong?”

“How could I. Jonk is a pretty big mistake to make,” he deadpanned. “I mean, whose name could possibly be Jonk?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, well, I have finally used them all up in our orders!”

“Finally. But now that means that fifty of our fans have a card that says, ‘Thanks again! From Sherlock, Mariana, Archie and Jonk’.”

“Well, I’ve just ordered another one-hundred cards with the correct spelling of your name.”

“Thanks, Mariana. Honestly though, the guy on the phone was ridiculous, I even spelled my name out for him! Y’know, the same, painfully common name that everyone knows. ”

She glared at him. “John.”

He sighed, running his hands over his face. “I know,” he mumbled. He looked up. “I know.”

“Seriously,” she lowered her voice to a gentle tone. “Why is this bothering you so much?”

“I-” he sighed, closing his wardrobe and trying to change the subject. “What.. Was the third thing you wanted to talk to me about?”

“It was about you still not talking to Sherlock!”

“Ah.”

“So?” she asked firmly.

There was a certainty, an air to Mariana that John had admired since they first crossed paths - always headstrong in her resolutions and cautious enough to ground the men’s often impulsive and derelict decisions. She also always saw right through him. (Both of them.)

John sat down on the edge of his bed. Mariana leaned her back flat against the wall as a nod for him to talk.

“I don’t know, okay? Yes. What he said upset me.”

“He always makes those kinds of comments, though. I mean, to me, as well. You’ve never really reacted this way before,” she commented, hugging the pack of drinks close. “Did he.. Perhaps say something else to you? At the pub?”

“No,” he shook his head. “That’s just the worst bit, isn’t it. That is all he said - painfully common and I just.. Lost it. Like some- Some bloody, stupid.. Stupid child. I don’t know why I did, he’s right, but. What he says means something to me, Mariana. What he thinks. I mean, what makes me different from the other six Johns in the vicinity?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t actually think there are six Johns in Baker Street. We’d definitely know.”

“Yeah, but that’s the thing, isn’t it,” he replied gently. “He’s such a cocky git that you can’t tell if he means half the stuff he says.”

“And yet…”

“And yet.. I still believe him anyway. Always. Why do I do that, Mariana?”

There was a glint in her eyes as she watched the doctor debate with himself. “Are you still ghosting him online?”

“No. Well, yes, I have been. But I texted him today. Lestrade says there’s something she wants us to see, and I haven’t had much content for the podcast in a while, so…”

“You’re going to go with him.”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause.

Mariana stood up straight. “You need to talk to him, John. He needs you, no matter what he says. Your silence won’t help him understand. Give him another chance.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Mariana.”

They shared a soft, genuine smile and she began to leave the room, only pausing for a moment. “Oh, John.”

He glanced back. “Yeah?”

She seemed to construct her next words carefully. “Try telling him how you feel. I think that’s what he needs. What both of you need.”

John gazed at her, contemplating what she said with a soft frown. He eventually nodded.

***

He kept fiddling with the microphone. He couldn’t help it, the silence was killing him. It had been his intention to heed Mariana’s advice and try to talk to Sherlock but, between the cab ride to NSY and the new case presented to them by DI Lestrade, John hadn’t managed to build the confidence to do so. (He was also still a bit annoyed.)

In the cab back to Baker Street, Sherlock had taken the manilla file of information with him from the station and kept it tucked under his arm the entire ride. 

John didn’t say anything whilst clipping on his seatbelt; instead, he subtly gazed at the muscles in Sherlock’s neck as he craned his head to stare out the window, the tanned skin that pulled taut over a layer of muscle that John never expected him to have. His dark curls were just about matted on one side because of all the time he spent still on the sofa in the morning. His eyes (oh God, his eyes) reflected the murky-green from the park that they drove by, but John knew that Sherlock’s eyes were naturally grey. He knew that from all the times he snuck a glance.

Sherlock’s muscles were naturally sleeping beneath slender limbs, his hair was naturally difficult to tame and his eyes were naturally grey. (He was naturally beautiful.)

Despite the detective’s indifference and now with a profound sense of hope, John bravely clicked on his microphone and swallowed the horrid tang in his mouth (which he decided to blame on the cabbie’s driving). “So,” he began awkwardly. “Do you think Sadelyn Sawyer was right? That her brother hired someone to kill her boyfriend?”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“I mean, the bloke was totally sideways,” he carried on, ignoring the pang in his stomach. “Er, to the listeners, Sadelyn had shown us a few pictures of her half-brother, Frank Sawyer, at the station, and.. Well, just off-vibes straight away. Isn’t it, Sherlock?”

The consulting detective hadn’t pulled his eyes away from the window for even a second.

John cleared his throat annoyedly. “Sorry, guys, Sherlock seems to be in a strange mood today.”

“Stop the cab,” the detective said suddenly, only focused on catching the cabbie’s attention. “Would you stop the cab, please. ”

“Wha-” he watched as they rolled up to the curb of St Barts Hospital. “Sherlock.”

“It’s for the case. Will your fans want to listen?”

John’s eyes darkened. He pressed his tongue into his cheek. “No, they won’t, actually. I’m going back to the flat.” Bubbling with a fresh mixture of anger and hurt, John heard the words leave his mouth before he could properly register them as Sherlock stepped out of the cab. “Yeah. Maybe you’ll find another John, in the hospital, that’ll be a better replacement for you, mate.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. Instead, he calmly handed the cabbie a few folds of cash before walking away into the hospital.

John turned off his microphone soon after.

The faint, lingering scent of a fresh, musky cologne suffocated him and made his heart beat faster until he couldn’t breathe. He leaned forward.

"Could you, er-” his voice cracked. “Can you roll down the windows, please?”

“Too cold, mate.”

“I need to breathe a bit. Can you open mine a little? Please.”

The cabbie glanced up at him through the rearview mirror and sighed. He opened the window.

The rest of the ride was silent.

*

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah, your bloke accidentally gave me too much for the hospital. He’s paid for your ride.”

Your bloke.

He took a deep breath and closed his wallet. “Thanks, then,” he said awkwardly.

“No worries.”

Carefully avoiding the ice creeping up on the curb, he watched the cab drive off Baker Street, let the crisp air fill his lungs and bitter wind nip at his cheeks before entering 221B.

The flat was empty. On the kitchen table, Mariana had left a single mini can of diet Coke at Sherlock’s chair, and a small USB at his. John tread to his chair at the table and picked up the USB. He flipped it around in his fingers until he realised what it was.

The essay.

He wondered how Mariana got it. He thought about reading it but, at the very pit of his stomach, he could still feel the anger and hurt bubbling. So he pushed the USB into his pocket and sat on the sofa. Sank in the silence. (Stuck with the sour tang of guilt in his mouth.)

He unclipped his microphone and placed it on the coffee table before settling back into the sofa. There was a single pillow at the end from where Sherlock had been laying. John ran his hand over it, knowing the texture was something that Sherlock despised. He wished he hadn’t been so stubborn so that he could have helped and replaced the pillow with his own. Replace the sofa with his own bed. (Replace the silence with his own presence.) John pressed a firm fist into the pillow before slowly lowering his head on it. He inhaled the faint scent of sea salt and cologne that had clung onto the pillow after all those hours. He closed his eyes and released a breath that had been holding him hostage.

This silence was a little more bearable.

A few beats could have passed. It might have even been over an hour since he closed his eyes, he couldn’t tell. But a harsh vibration jolted John awake.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, his fingers narrowly missing the USB. The notification was a message from Sherlock. The last week had made it instinct for him to swipe away at the message before even reading it.

So he did.

He blew out a breath and let his head fall back on the pillow. Closed his eyes.

His phone vibrated again.

This time, he didn’t need to look to know who it was. The bitter tang in his mouth worsened. Sherlock never texted twice, not if he could help it, he never cared for it.

Tried to ignore it.

Couldn’t.

(Always subconsciously craving the thrill of possibility.)

He unfolded his limbs, pulled his head away from the pillow with a shiver and sat up. With all his might, he wanted to be angry - to swipe away Sherlock’s texts without reading them and curl back into the sofa. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. He picked up the phone and read the texts.

On my way back to the flat

We will clear the air.

He couldn’t exactly decipher what the last message meant but, by the wording, Sherlock seemed overly confident (as always) that their issue would be resolved when he returned.

As he thought about a reply, his eyes travelled to the laptop sitting on the coffee table. His fingers reached for his pocket. Mariana somehow secretly getting ahold of the essay had once again instilled a fear in John that reminded him she was much more cunning than she let on.

He wondered if she had read it or if she didn’t think it was her place to, only exporting it with nothing but good intentions. He wondered if he wanted to read it. “You’re gonna regret it,” he muttered.

Regardless, he shoved the USB into the laptop and began reading before he could change his mind.

Since it was brought up, John could only assume that the sixteen pages would consist of his common behaviours and uninteresting traits that had been meticulously studied over the last year.

And it was that. It was exactly that.

Except it was also the complete opposite; with every painfully common fact about John, Sherlock had countered it with a carefully-constructed, intricate antipode of his genericism. (Compliments.) There wasn’t a single sentence in the essay that made John feel common at all - not even the paragraphs that described why he placed his toothbrush on the left side of the sink and not the right, or how he stashed food in his wardrobe despite his flatmates having boundaries. In fact, above all the confusion, he felt like the most unique person in the world. Sherlock was right - he did know more about John than he did himself. (He could even make John’s tea better.)

Suddenly he felt awful for saying the things he did.

Sherlock was (undoubtedly) the most luminous soul he had ever met - his confidence unwavering and thoughtfulness so subtly imbedded. The observations he made about the people he cared for were endlessly detailed and never burdening. He did it because he cared. Because he wanted them to know that he had noticed what no else could. John had spent almost a year shamelessly praising his detective’s brilliant mind whenever he overcame an obstacle that everyone else deemed too high - rescuing people, saving innocent lives, preventing overtime bills at Scotland Yard. John never stopped to realise how much he meant to Sherlock.

His mind travelled back to the conversation he had with Mariana.

And yet .. I still believe him anyway. Always. Why do I do that, Mariana?

Now he knew why.

“I woke you up.”

John turned to find the deep voice belonging to Sherlock hovering at the doorway, his eyes glancing at the pillow on the sofa.

“No, it’s, erm-” he turned off the laptop quickly and cleared his throat. “I wasn’t really planning on sleeping, anyway- It’s fine, you.. You didn’t wake me up, Sherlock.”

His eyes were still fixed on the sofa. “It is an awful pillow,” he said plainly.

John glanced at it. “Yeah- erm. Yeah, I don’t know how you did it for so long. It’s terrible to sleep on.” (He’d do it a thousand times again if it meant he’d be wrapped in that scent of sea salt and cologne.)

It was quiet.

“Did you, er, find what you needed? At the hospital.”

Sherlock stepped forward, ignoring him completely and struggling to find his words. “I fear that I may be…” His face was gently scrunched up and facing the floor. He hadn’t bothered to take off his coat since he came in and so, with every pace, the bitter cold wind from outside surrounded him like an armour. John could feel it every time he neared. “John, I am lost.”

“Sherlock–”

“Let me talk,” he met John’s gaze. The harsh, irritated red of his waterline clashed with the tint of blue in his eyes. “Would you give me a moment. Please.”

But the doctor couldn’t watch Sherlock struggle with himself for any longer, the anxiety that emanated from his icy coat getting stronger with every step. “Sherlock, can you- Mate, stop it. It’s okay, I- I…” John pulled the USB out of the laptop and held it up. “I know,” he said softly.

He stopped pacing.

“Mariana gave it to me.”

The detective didn’t move. He didn’t respond. His eyes were fixated on the USB.

John realised.

“Christ, no, Sherlock, I-I’m not angry- I’m not upset. The essay is.. It’s really incredible. Seriously, I don’t know how you do it. And it’s incomplete. How is it possibly incomplete, I mean, you’ve pretty much got all that there is about me on there, mate. I think I’ve learnt something about myself after reading that.”

“It’ll remain incomplete for as long as we’re together,” he finally replied, the irritation in his eyes subduing into a calmer gaze. “Of course, except…”

“It’s.. This is my fault. I- I took what you said and blew it out of proportion, and I’m sorry. Really.”

“I apologise, too.”

It was quiet again.

John could hear Mariana in the back of his mind, shouting at him to confess his feelings, telling him that this was the perfect moment to do so. But his stomach still ached and he still couldn’t get rid of the guilt sitting on his tongue. He wanted to speak, desperately. He just didn’t know how to start.

But it seemed that Sherlock had decidedly done that for him.

“The website said that couples may require some space before talking again,” he continued.

“Yeah,” John nodded.

Then he paused.

“Hang on, what? What do you mean, couples? ”

Sherlock eyed him curiously. “I wouldn’t have done this otherwise.” He stood up straight. “That is also why I said you were perfect for me–”

“-You quite literally said the opposite–”

“And we balanced each other out. Like yang and yin.”

“Yin and yang.”

“That’s what I said.”

”You said it yourself; we’ve been together for almost a year,” he recited plainly.

John’s heart was failing. (It must have been.) He couldn’t properly compute what Sherlock was casually insinuating as he stood towering over him. But the detective didn’t seem to realise the weight of his words and so, after shrugging off his coat, he carried on.

“And I make you tea,” he said matter-of-factly.

John blinked. “You-” he gently cleared his throat. “You make them for Mariana as well.”

“No, I don’t. I make them for you.” He paused. “Who’s Mariana?”

“Sherlock!”

It was silent again. But this time, the air wasn’t filled with anger or hurt or guilt.

John pursed his lips and lowered his voice. “Did you really search up what to do?”

“Well. I do admit that this area of sentimentality is a plane I am foreign to and, in an attempt to correct that, I did some research.”

There was a pause. John narrowed his eyes.

“Is that why you made my bed the other day?”

“Yes.” He brought his hands together. “But also because you kept tucking the ends in at the wrong angle and it was annoying me.”

There it was again, thought John. He was a fool for regarding Sherlock’s hypervigilance as a brag. There was nothing he could do but smile. He dipped his head knowingly. “You didn’t accidentally give the cabbie extra money today, did you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I had calculated the precise amount beforehand. Cared for and simultaneously granted you space. That’s what couples do.”

“Yes, but,” he tried to word his thoughts politely. “You can’t just assume you’re in a relationship with someone just because you balance each other out. I mean I agree, thank you. Really, I’m flattered, mate, but.. I think we could have avoided a lot of.. Bad feelings if we just spoke about it, don’t you think? Like I thought you calling me painfully common was because you didn’t hold me any differently than you would a stranger. That leaving me in the cab was because you didn’t care. That- That upset me, I suppose, because I wanted you to care the same way I do. And you do,” he waved the USB. “You really do. Just.. differently than what I’m used to. Which is also my fault and I’m sorry. Mariana sort of put me in my place today.”

Sherlock watched him for a moment. He lowered his voice and softened his brow. “I am lost in you.”

John stood up. He stepped up to Sherlock and held out the USB. “I’d really like for you to finish writing it,” he said gently.

“Finish writing it,” Sherlock repeated, staring deep into his eyes with caution. Then, when he realised what John was trying to say, his eyebrows relaxed. “I’ll get to finish it.”

He nodded. “Yeah. For as long as we’re together. And maybe tonight, you can switch out that awful pillow for mine.”

Sherlock tilted his head.

“It’s a ‘couples’ thing.”

For the first time in a week, the corner of his lips lifted.

“It is a rather awful pillow, isn’t it.”

“Yeah, I think Mariana bought it.”

“Is that the person who lived here before us?”

“Wh.. No. Mariana.”

“Yeah?” A soft voice entered the living room, soon followed by a dog’s tired huffs of air. She walked in wearing a thick, yellow woollen scarf and a leather jacket. She lowered her shopping bags down to the floor and carefully unclipped Archie from his leash. “Are you guys okay?”

John glanced up at Sherlock.

He gave a small, affirmative nod.

“Yeah, we are, Mariana.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unconsciously leaning into the detective.

“So.. You’re talking to each other again?” she asked excitedly as she unwrapped her scarf.

“Yes, we…” he scratched his head in embarrassment, her wording making him feel as if he were a teenager with silly school drama. “Actually, we.. We have some news. Good news, obviously.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah…” he glanced up at the detective. “Yeah. Sherlock and I.. We- We’re, erm—“

“We have cleared the air and are continuing our healthy relationship,” he interrupted casually, throwing them both off guard. He turned his head to John. “Did I say that right?”

“I- You said it perfectly, mate.”

The same glint that John had seen earlier in Mariana’s eyes was back again. (She had always known.) “I’m so happy for the two of you! Congratulations,” she grinned.

“You knew,” he said.

“Only a little bit.” She tilted her head. “Okay, yes. But it was so obvious!”

Sherlock raised his brows at him. “See. Even Mrs Hudson knew it.”

For once, John wasn’t in the slightest bit upset. He let a smile adorn his face and lovingly pressed his arms into the detective’s. The scent of his cologne rubbing against his clothes satiated the bubbling in his stomach and made the (god-awful) tang of guilt in his mouth subside. “Guess I was just too painfully common to see it.”

It went silent.

Mariana hesitated. Sherlock stiffened.

John alarmingly stood up straight. “That- God, that was a joke. Don’t worry.”

He could feel Sherlock’s muscles relaxing and hear Mariana’s sigh of relief. Her smile had come back. “Oh, we should totally go for drinks. To celebrate.”

“Aw, that’s a great idea, Mariana. Yeah, we’ll do that. Sherlock, you okay with that?”

They both glanced at the consulting detective, whose brows were furrowed deep. “But we already did that,” he began plainly.

He turned. “What? When?”

“Last week. When Mrs Hudson took us to the pub to remind us why we were still together.”

“Oh, for God’s—“

🐝

give it up for the brilliant and incredibly talented samuel for being my other half in this project; his artwork was perfect down to the T and i couldn’t have asked for a better and funnier partner. (also, try finding the sh&co logo in the picture! it’s such a good detail.)

thank you to eardefenders for creating this flashbang event! it was lots of fun.

[the-joker-of-musicals]

The Joker of Musicals / Musical Tumblrman Bracket !!!!!

round one is now live! find all the polls here

faq:

q: what does "the joker of musicals" mean?

a: I got the phrase from this post, I take "the joker of [x]" to mean characters with a type of anti-hero type energy that people relate to and root for, sort of like the classic definition of "tumblr sexyman" but without the explicit inclusion of sex appeal. I'm using that + "musical tumblrman" because a lot of the characters iconic to this genre are minors and I'm an adult so I am Not going to be calling them sexymen, but I want to go for a label that's as close to the original spirit as possible. mostly the jonkler of musicals is just a silly phrase that I enjoy, you don't have to take it very seriously. a true jonkster would never take anything seriously.

q: how should I choose for whom to vote?

a: personally, I'm voting based on level of iconicness, not which characters I like most, but really it's up to you. vote with ur heart. check with your horoscope. do a tarot spread. run some scientific calculations. let your cat paw at the screen. so on and so forth.

[annabelle--cane]

thank god squip got through to the second round. celebrating because it is the jonkster of my soul

you would not believe how mad people got in the notes of that one. I blocked the most extreme offenders so the comments are gone, but good god.

[dorianthey]

so i’ve been rewatching batman: the animated series... jonkster gay

[the-joker-of-musicals]

hey jonkster gang I get that it's probably hyperbole for effect but please don't say you're going to harm yourself if any of these don't turn out a certain way. if you genuinely feel like your emotional state is that contingent on this, from the bottom of my heart: block me as self-care.

[the-joker-of-musicals]

Just out of curiosity, what defines a Jokner?

okie, so I mainly got the concept "the jonkster for/of [blank]" from this post

and I take it to mean characters with anti-hero type vibes and distinctive swagger that fans cheer on, admire, and relate to, sort of like the classic model for sexymen but without explicit inclusion of sex appeal.

of course, you don't have to submit characters that fit this exact criteria (after all, cecil palmer is much less villainous than the archetypal idea of a sexyman and yet he was democratically elected the most tumblr sexyman of all time), but I use the term as a jumping off point nonetheless.

[the-joker-of-musicals]

is this supposed to be for the best musical sexyman or for the joker of musicals???? its very different categories

from the faq in my pinned

q: what does "the joker of musicals" mean? a: I got the phrase from this post, I take "the joker of [x]" to mean characters with a type of anti-hero type energy that people relate to and root for, sort of like the classic definition of "tumblr sexyman" but without the explicit inclusion of sex appeal. I'm using that + "musical tumblrman" because a lot of the characters iconic to this genre are minors and I'm an adult so I am Not going to be calling them sexymen, but I want to go for a label that's as close to the original spirit as possible. mostly the jonkler of musicals is just a silly phrase that I enjoy, you don't have to take it very seriously. a true jonkster would never take anything seriously.