#notjustamom may prompts

[raina-at]

John Watson has a problem with vows, with promises, with words like "always" and "forever".

Put simply, life has taught him the hard way that, well, shit happens. Your best intentions can come back to bite you in the arse in unexpected and life-derailing ways.

A few examples: His parents' "always" ended in a bitter divorce when he was ten. He thought he would always be in the Army, but a stray bullet ended that, too. He got married, and his wife turned out to be a psycho. That "always" ended very, very quickly when he realised that she shot his best friend through the chest.

All that having been said, there's a few things John Watson is rock-solidly certain about.

One is his daughter. He will love this little girl and protect her with his life for as long as he'll live, which is reasonably the only always he can promise.

The second is his job. He will be a doctor for as long as they let him be one. The work saw him through some rough times, and it's more than a job. It's part of who he is, part of the very core of him.

The last and best thing he's certain about is that he will love Sherlock Holmes until the very second he dies, and if there's an afterlife, he'll continue there. It's just empirical evidence, at this point, because Sherlock put him through the best and worst moments of his life, and he still loves him so much it hurts to breathe through it sometimes. He can't and won't promise that they'll never fight, that he'll never be angry, that they'll never have days or weeks or months where they won't be able to stand the sight of each other (see above, shit happens). But he handed his heart over to Sherlock the moment he first received the keys to 221B, and he has no intention of taking it back.

So that's it, he supposes. He's Dr John Watson, Rosie's father and Sherlock Holmes' husband. And that will always be true.

For the prompt Always by @notjustamumj. I basically wrote this on my phone at a conference today, so I'm sorry for any typos in advance.

@calaisreno @lisbeth-kk @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @the-reading-lemon @7-percent and anyone else who likes to play.

Sorry if this is shit, I'm so tired...

[calaisreno]

Epiphany

Epiphanies are nothing new for Sherlock. His entire career as a consulting detective is built around moments when it all suddenly makes sense, the clues slot into place, and the case is solved. 

He hasn’t solved the case of John Watson. All night, he’s been thinking about it. Dark hours, dark thoughts. He’s made a mistake.

When light is coming through the curtains, he knows.

In the kitchen his flatmate, his conundrum, is making tea. His brilliant flatmate, who’d figured out where Sherlock went, got in a cab and followed him, and shot the cabbie through two panes of glass. 

“Morning.” John puts a cup of tea in front of him, milk and two sugars. (One day, and he already knows how Sherlock takes it?) 

He’s underestimated John Watson. 

“Toast?” John has slept well. He killed a man, giggled over Chinese fortunes, and slept peacefully all night. 

Sherlock makes his way to the table and sits. He feels like a wreck. 

“John, I… I would like to clarify something I said last night.”

John passes him the jam. “You’ve changed your mind.”

“What?”

“You’re rethinking me, as your flatmate.” 

“Yes.”

John looks disappointed, but nods. “It’s fine. I haven’t moved my stuff.”

“No. I mean… I’m not married to my work. I’m unattached. Like you.”

“And you’d rather be...?”

“Your boyfriend.”

Prompt: morning light

Thank you, @notjustamumj ❤️

Tagging: @totallysilvergirl @elwinglyre @meetinginsamarra @raina-at @jrow and anyone else who wants to participate! Tag a few writers!

[topsyturvy-turtely]

Just another day (a 221b)

As soon as Will felt the morning light on his face he was wide awake. Time to meet Victor! Quickly, the eight year old boy grabbed his magnifying glass and three tiny terrariums to meet his best friend and investigate bugs. It was gonna be a good day.

***

The sun tickled in his nose and he heard mummy's knock on his door. With a groan 13 year old Sherlock covered his face with a pillow and yelled. "Go. Away!" It was gonna be a bad day.

***

Sherlock, in his 20s now, looked up from his microscope and squinted at the first sunlight. How was it morning already? Wasn't it just midnight a minute ago? Insomnia, he knew it was. It was gonna be a weary day.

***

Sherlock woke from someone yawning into his ear, a hand tangled into his curls. He shifted, placed a hand on John's waist. Which woke the man. Sleep drunk John pushed himself up, looking alarmed for a second. Then he visibly calmed: his eyes fell almost closed again and smiled. The sun hit his hair and Sherlock couldn't stop himself from saying, "Morning light looks good on you."

John scoffed, then kissed him, tentatively. "Such a romantic in the mornings."

It was gonna be just another day... but John Watson was gonna make it infinitely better.

may 4th prompt: morning light by @notjustamumj

thank you @totallysilvergirl for lmk about this challenge!

[lisbeth-kk]

At the start of May, I was too deep into my travels to have the time to write. As a passenger for miles and miles, I have the perfect excuse to catch up.

May 1 prompt: rain

Making sure

It’s been two months since Sherlock came back from his faked death. He’d thought that John would be happy to see him again, but he wasn’t. Wary, shocked, angry, sad and hesitant were some of the emotions visible on John’s face.

Sherlock knows that John hates his new flat, and he’s asked John to move back home. Back to 221B. Until now, John’s been deflecting whenever Sherlock brings it up. Today however, Sherlock’s determined to get a straight answer. He can’t sleep, and the flat feels empty without John in it.

They meet in Regent’s Park. As of late, John’s posture is rigid. His hands behind his back or buried deep in his jacket pockets. He flinches and almost hyperventilates when he sees Sherlock arriving. When Sherlock greets him, John’s arms automatically falls from behind his back, his fists clenches and he shoves his hands violently into his pockets. Sherlock can’t help but wonder what that means.

«You asked to see me,» John states neutrally.

«I want you to come home, John,» Sherlock says quietly. «Baker Street isn’t the same without you, and you’re clearly not enjoying your new lodgings. It reminds you if that awful bedsit you had when you came back from Afghanistan.»

John rubs his neck and sighs.

«It’s not that easy, Sherlock. I still see you fall almost every night. I…um…may need to…»

He trails off, and the penny drops.

«You’ll need to touch me, take my pulse to make sure I’m alive,» Sherlock states. «I made you go through this, and I don’t mind. Anything you need, John.»

Sherlock reaches out a hand to John, palm up. John only hesitates for a moment before he almost hungrily grabs Sherlock’s wrist and finds his pulse with his thumb. John’s body relaxes visibly and he takes a deep breath. He looks at Sherlock with a serious expression.

«Are you sure about this? It might be a bit…um…intimidating,» John says self consciously.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him.

«I think I can handle it, as long as you come home, John,» Sherlock affirms.

Sherlock loves having John back in the flat. Whenever John passes by him, Sherlock displays one hand for John to touch if he needs to. He always took it the first three days, but of late he seems content with just to touch Sherlock on random places. His shoulders, neck, back, upper arms, and on one memorable occasion threading fingers through his curls.

***

Lestrade calls one cold and rainy night, and minutes later Sherlock and John sit in a cab to their first crime scene since Sherlock’s return. By looking at a photo and some ash on the carpet, Sherlock’s able to deduce where the culprits are.

«Amazing,» John beams at him, and Sherlock feels his eyes prick.

God, he’s missed this!

They end up chasing the two criminals down a narrow alley. The heavy rain makes the cobble stones slippery. The man before John stumbles and falls, and John’s on him like an angry grizzly bear. Donovan’s right behind him, and John leaves it to her to deal with him, and chases after Sherlock and the other man. At the end of the alley, Lestrade and another officer have taken care of the man.

Where the hell is Sherlock?

John freezes when he sees a lanky shape lying motionless on the ground.

«No, no, no,» John growls as he kneels by Sherlock’s side.

He bleeds a bit from his temple, his eyes are closed and his arm’s outstreched. It’s almost a spitting image of him at the pavement outside Bart’s. With desperate fingers John searches for Sherlock’s pulse. At first he can’t find it and starts sobbing and hyperventilating, simultaniously trying to call Sherlock’s name. John thinks he finds a weak pulse, but to be sure he leans over and puts his lips to the pulse point on Sherlock’s neck under his right ear.

«Stay with me, you hear,» John whispers in Sherlock’s ear. «Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.»

Sherlock does and opens his eyes.

«John,» he mutters. «I’m alright. Just a bit dizzy. Take me home. I’m soaked and freezing.»

John releases a shaky breath, helps Sherlock to stand, but doesn’t let go of his hand.

***

When Sherlock comes out from the bathroom, John’s leaning heavily on the kitchen table with his hands. His back shakes, and Sherlock strides over to him. He places both hands on John’s shoulders, slides them down his back and then around his waist, pulling him in, placing his chin on John’s right shoulder. John leans into Sherlock’s chest and entwines their fingers together.

«You’ll need me close tonight,» Sherlock murmurs. «And I you.»

He turns John around to face him, bends down and kisses his forehead tenderly, before he leads John to his bedroom.

Thanks for the prompt @notjustamumj

[lisbeth-kk]

At sea! Good, lord…that’s an adventure I would like to read more about…no pressure 😇

[raina-at]

Tick, Tick, Tick, Boom

Tick, tick, tick.

“I’m sorry.”

Tick, tick, tick.

“What?”

“I can’t… I can’t do it, John. I can’t defuse it. I don’t know how.”

“That’s a load of bullshit if I ever heard one. You’re Sherlock Holmes, you can do anything!”

“You’ve always had too much faith in me, John. I told you, I’m not a hero. I’m not even a good man.”

John turns away, and Sherlock can see his shoulders shake with how tightly he tries to keep his emotions under control. He can also see that he’s beginning to seriously frighten John, and he feels sort of bad about it, but he’s come this far, and he’s committed now. He knows John needs a bit of a shake-up to forgive Sherlock, that he won’t do it as quickly as Sherlock wants to on his own terms. So a bit of adrenaline, a bit of a chase, and a bit of a scare should be enough to bring John’s emotional walls down far enough to admit what they both already know. John has already forgiven him, because that’s what John does.

“I’m sorry,” he says, upping the emotional pressure a bit. It’s the truth, too, which helps. He lets it flow into his voice, enhance his performance, how sorry he truly is, how much he fucked up, how much he misses John. 

John turns around, and the hurt in his eyes, the fury, is difficult to bear. “You don’t mean that,” John whispers. “You’re just trying to get me to say something nice.”

“I do mean it. I am sorry. Please forgive me,” he says, trying to show how much he truly means it. He’s manipulating the circumstances, yes, but he does mean every word he’s saying. 

“I don’t believe you. Why should I believe you? All you ever do is lie.”

“Please, John. Please. I do mean it. I am sorry. Please, forgive me. Please,” Sherlock says, pleading now, still on his knees next to the bomb. 

John doesn’t move. He looks straight at Sherlock, suddenly unafraid. “You want me to forgive you? You want me to believe you? Then I suggest you stop. Fucking. Lying.”

Tick, tick, tick. 

The only sound in the silence is the bomb, ticking down the seconds. John holds his eyes, so much raw emotion there, so much hurt and anger, so much distrust and wariness, all so very justified, and suddenly Sherlock realises what he’s doing. He’s frightening John half to death, he’s lying and cheating and manipulating, and he’s doing it all for one reason, and one reason only: Because he finds John’s continued anger inconvenient. Because actually earning John’s forgiveness is tedious.

What is he doing?

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches over and switches off the bomb. Because John is right. He can’t expect John to believe him if he keeps lying, keeps manipulating. He can’t trick John into forgiving him. He has to earn it.

The silence is absolute now. He holds John’s eyes, wills John to see. 

He swallows hard. “Please forgive me,” he says, finally, quietly, honestly.  “I never meant to hurt you. I know it sounds stupid, but it’s true. I had to jump, otherwise you would have died. I know it doesn’t make it any less awful, but I jumped to save your life. I swear that’s true.”

He can see John gauge his words. “Get up from the floor,” he finally says, hollow and raw and a ghost of his old self, but there’s some echo of John Watson in there, and it gives Sherlock hope. “You look like you’re about to propose. Or be sick. And I can’t deal with either right now.”

Sherlock huffs a laugh and gets off his feet, dusts his trousers and his coat off. 

“Why didn’t you take me with you?” John asks, still watching Sherlock warily. “Don’t you know that I would have gone anywhere with you?” he adds, voice almost breaking with suppressed emotion.

Sherlock swallows. “I can’t lose you.”

They hold each other’s eyes, raw and wary, but finally honest, finally real.

“Why?” John asks, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. “Why me? Why am I so special?”

Now or never, Holmes, he thinks. Be honest. Last chance.

“Because I love you,” he answers.

John looks at him, and Sherlock can see John process what he just said. It’s the longest three seconds of Sherlock’s life before John finally says, in a tone of exhausted exasperation, “You absolute fucking idiot,” and hauls him in for a kiss.

Sherlock’s impressive brain takes a few seconds to respond, then he winds his arms around John and kisses back like his life depends on it. He feels dizzy with relief and adrenaline and the feeling of John’s body against his, John’s lips, his tongue, his hands on Sherlock’s back, the smell of his skin.

The sound of sirens and boots in the distance announce that the Metropolitan police has finally deigned to show up. 

They break apart, but John keeps a hand fisted in the collar of Sherlock’s coat. “You did call the police, you fucking bastard,” he says, but he’s smiling a bit.

Sherlock shrugs. “Of course I did, I’m not a complete idiot.”

“I beg to differ, you’re the biggest moron on the planet,” John says, somewhat between teasing and serious. Sherlock guesses the adrenaline is making John feel as loopy as Sherlock feels. “For the record, if you ever die on me again, I’ll kill you with my bare hands, are we clear?”

Sherlock grins, because that’s the most John Watson sentence he’s ever heard in his life. “Kill me,” he scoffs, “that’s so two years ago.”

John bites down on an undignified, slightly hysterical giggle. “Shut up,” he says, “and kiss me again.”

Sherlock complies, and they kiss and kiss and kiss as the boots and the torchlight and the urgent voices move closer and closer.

“Now people will definitely talk,” Sherlock mutters against John’s lips.

“Let them,” John says, pulling Sherlock back in. “Let them.”

A bit if a TEH fix-it of a scene that always bothered me. Thank you @notjustamumj for the prompt, which was time.

Tagging the usual suspects @calaisreno @meetinginsamarra @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @lisbeth-kk @jrow @peanitbear @catlock-holmes and anyone else who wants to play.

I've written and posted a ficlet for fourteen days straight, hopefully I can keep it up until the end of the month ;-)

[raina-at]

Bu the Blue

When Sherlock opens the door to 221B, he finds the Watsons in a highly uncharacteristic state of agitation. The sitting room looks like a tsunami hit it, and while this is not in and of itself unusual (John always says Sherlock and Rosie together equal a mid-sized hurricane), normally Rosie achieves that chaos while happily playing, but she’s sitting in the midst of the chaos and crying her eyes out. John’s tossing things around the room, obviously frantically searching for something.

When he spies Sherlock, he immediately stops. “Thank Christ you’re home!!” he exclaims, walking over to Sherlock and all but collapsing against him.

“What happened?” Sherlock asks, catching his distraught husband in his arms, while Rosie runs towards him, still crying, and hugs his legs.

“Bu’s gone, Papa, you have to help us!” Rosie yells, holding on to his legs for dear life and wiping her tear-and-snot-streaked face on his coat. 

Oh no, Sherlock thinks. Bu is Rosie’s favourite stuffed animal, a ratty old blue elephant of apparently German origin. She’s had him since she was eighteen months old. John loves to tell the story how she ‘rescued’ him out of a department store toy bin, a bit moth-eaten and slightly disgusting, but she fell in love with him immediately and the saleswomen there were so enamoured of her that they let her keep him. She called him Bu because that was the nearest she came to the word blue at eighteen months and the name stuck. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere,” John adds, gesturing at the sitting room. “He’s not here, not upstairs, or in our room, or at Mrs Hudson’s.”

Sherlock scoops up Rosie and hands her a tissue. “Calm down, Watson, we’ll find him.”

“But, Papa, he’s out there all alone!” Rosie wails.

Sherlock decides it’s time to take charge. He strides into the flat, sets Rosie down into the client chair, gestures for John to sit in his chair, and takes his own place to complete the triangle.

“From the beginning, please. When did you first notice he was missing?”

“When we got to the flat and unpacked the groceries,” John answers.

“And you’re sure you had him when you left daycare?” Sherlock asks Rosie, steeping his fingers under his chin in his classic thinking pose. 

Rosie nods. She’s calmed down considerably, and she’s now sitting up straighter, obviously proud of being treated like a client. 

“Where did you go, Waitrose or Tesco?” Sherlock continues the interrogation.

“Tesco,” Rosie answers. “But I’m sure I had him when we left, I was feeding him a banana.”

“Well, then the answer is obvious. He’s at Speedy’s.”

John and Rosie stare at him, surprised. “How did you know we went to Speedy’s?” Rosie asks, obviously awed.

“Easy. There’s a cocoa stain on your dress, and Daddy’s breath smells of coffee. He never has coffee unless it’s from Speedy’s. You went in to pick up some cupcakes to have after dinner to celebrate my coming home from Glasgow today. You sat down, had a bit of a chat with Mr Chatterjee and left Bu lying on the chair next to you. And if I’m not completely mistaken,” he adds as he walks to the door, “That’s Mr Chatterjee now, hurrying up the stairs with Bu.”

He opens the door, and indeed, there’s Mr Chatterjee, looking surprised, with his hand in the air as if he was about to knock on the door to 221B. His other hand is holding Bu. 

Rosie squeals and runs towards Mr Chatterjee, who hands her the toy and accepts her enthusiastic thanks.

“Brilliant!” 

Sherlock turns around and makes a face at John. “Elementary.”

“Thank you, Papa!” Rosie yells, throwing herself in Sherlock’s arms.

“It was nothing, Watson.”

“You’re a genius, Papa! I’m going to tell all of my friends how you found Bu tomorrow. Now they’ll know who to come to when they lose their toys!”

John grins. “Tell them Papa likes to be paid in ice lollies. Now go wash your face, love, you look all splotchy.”

Rosie runs off, dragging Bu behind her.

Sherlock sags into his chair, suddenly exhausted.

“This one’s going on the blog,” John says as he starts straightening the sitting room. 

“Don’t you dare. It’s bad enough that her entire daycare class will now require me to find their sorry belongings. Also, I’ve been home almost fifteen minutes and I’ve yet to get a kiss.”

“Sorry, how absolutely horrid of me,” John says, leaning down for a kiss. “Welcome home, love.”

“Additionally,” Sherlock says, pulling John into his lap, “I don’t accept ice lollies as payment. Ginger nuts or nothing.”

John laughs. “All out of ginger nuts, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll work out an alternative payment plan for you,” Sherlock mutters before pulling John in for a proper welcome home kiss.

“Daddy! Papa! Gross!” Rosie yells as she re-enters the room.

John rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, I know, your parents love each other. Disgusting.” He pecks Sherlock on the lips once more, and Sherlock lets him go reluctantly. “Now let’s see about dinner.”

Sherlock watches the two Watsons bicker good-naturedly about what to make for dinner as he sinks back into his chair and breathes. 

It’s good to be home. 

A bit of parentlock fluff to recover from the angst of yesterday. Did I model the story of how Rosie got Bu after how my son got one of his most beloved stuffed animals? Yes I did.

Also, this one's for the German-speaking world out there, because Bu is, of course, the elephant from Die Sendung mit der Maus.

Here's a picture:

This was written for the May prompts by @notjustamumj, today's prompt was Blue.

I'm tagging the German-speaking crowd I know of, @khorazir @meetinginsamarra @catlock-holmes @the-reading-lemon (i think) (I hope I didn't forget anyone).

And a few non-German speakers as well. Do you have The Mouse outside of Germany and Austria?

@helloliriels @calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @jrow @fluffbyday-smutbynight @peanitbear

[raina-at]

Breaking Dawn

It’s just breaking dawn. London awakens, slowly. Buses increase their frequency, traffic starts to flow into the city. Shutters go up, lights go on in bakeries and supermarkets. As the streetlights go out, the city slowly blinks awake, one window, one street, one person at a time.

Sherlock hasn’t slept, so he doesn’t have to blink himself awake. His eyes have stayed wide open for the entire night, but he’s not tired. Sleep, an unstable companion for most of his life at the best of times, has eluded him even more than usual lately.

A few days ago, he was still “dead”. Now he’s back, and the relentless pulse of the city makes it difficult for him to sleep. He has a hard time readjusting to his life, his clothes, the fact that nobody wants to kill him anymore. Nothing seems to quite fit anymore, from his too-loose shirts to the odd silent unlived-in feeling of their - his - flat.

He thought he’d just slip right back into it. Into his clothes, his bed, his flat, his life. John’s life.

And then he came back and found out that nothing is quite the way it was before.

And he has nobody to blame for this but himself. 

Honestly, his own stupidity surprises him sometimes. Did he honestly think he could make John watch him commit suicide and and then walk back into his life as if nothing happened?

He’ll never forget the look on John’s face when he realised that Sherlock was really there, was really back, had really betrayed him this deeply, this profoundly.

The bruise on Sherlock’s cheek still aches. His nose is still not quite healed. 

But yesterday, over a bomb, Sherlock apologised sincerely for maybe the first time in his entire life. 

And John forgave him. 

Sort of.

Now it’s dawning over the city, and Sherlock sits on the fire escape outside of John’s old room, smoking a cigarette and missing John like a severed limb. 

He’s holding his phone and he’s staring at the open text window, and he wonders. Is John already awake? Is he having breakfast with Mary? Is he already on his way to work?

If he texts John now, will he answer? Or will he ignore Sherlock and go back to his day, his job, his future wife?

Does he have the courage to find out? 

He swallows, stubs out his cigarette and types. Mrs Hudson didn’t do the shopping, I’m out of everything. Does the bakery at Montague St. still have the chocolate thingies? - SH

He pockets his phone to stop himself from staring at it. 

He nearly falls off the fire escape when it vibrates with an answer almost immediately. 

Closed a year ago. But the one round the corner of my surgery has them.

Sherlock’s breath catches. Is this… an invitation? Or just an information? Why does it mean so much, every word out of John’s mouth a small treasure, to be hoarded and held close and examined again and again?

His phone vibrates with another text. I often have breakfast there. 

Sherlock smiles. An invitation then, couched in the careful language of plausible deniability. A tentative olive branch. A toe placed on thin ice. 

With shaking hands, Sherlock texts back. I might drop by later. - SH

As the morning sunlight bathes his city in warmth, Sherlock feels the first stirrings of hope in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, all is not lost. 

It can’t be like it was before, he knows that now. But it can be something. And that’s going to have to be enough.

For the prompt "morning light" by @notjustamumj

Tagging @keirgreeneyes @mydogwatson @meetinginsamarra and whoever else wants to play!

[lisbeth-kk]

Aww! I love Sherlock and his violin. Perfect 👌🏻

Soul Music

for today’s prompt “music” by @notjustamumj

thanks for tagging me @calaisreno

Soul Music

Sherlock had always heard music playing inside his head.

Since he’d taken his first wobbly steps the sound of violins accompanied him when he’d started out to discover the world. Even when it took him two more years to learn what a violin actually was.

He had been delighted to find out that this angelic voice in his head was an instrument, one that he could learn to play if he just practised enough. He had been astonished to find out that he was the only one who permanently heard violin music in his head.

His parents had been afraid that their son might be not normal at first when they heard Sherlock casually talking about hearig the music in his head. But then they bought him his first violin and had realized that Sherlock was a musical genius and everything had been good.

Sherlock mastered the violin and also began composing at an early age.

For Sherlock it was just another form of communication, of expressing himself and portraying feelings that he could not convey otherwise. Music was not only in his head anymore but also had made a home in his heart. Or – like an exceptionally sappy music teacher had once said – in Sherlock’s soul.

Anyway, Sherlock heard the music and wrote it down. Sometimes a piece came to him already complete. Other times, there were bits and pieces, fragments that he knew belonged together but would require some time to fall into their predetermined place.

However, with the passing time some music fragments would remain unplaced. Like a leftover puzzle piece after finishing the main picture. These leftovers accumulated over the decades, much to Sherlock’s growing annoyance.

They were strong and beautiful, full of light and passion but he had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do with them.

He could neither place them into a song nor could he forget them. He had tried to delete them, of course. But he had had to learn that a mere attempt at doing so caused him a headache, made his heat stutter frantically and – most annoying of all - felt painful to his soul.

Then came the day he met John Watson in Bart’s lab and suddenly all these random pieces fell together and Sherlock knew that he had always heard John’s Song.

tagging @totallysilvergirl @raina-at and anyone who wants to play

[raina-at]

Breakfast in Bed

Sherlock re-arranges the scones on the tray and pulls the cozy more firmly over the teapot. He adds a jar of his home-made marmalade and a small dollop of clotted cream.

Then he gently pushes the door to their bedroom open and sets the tray down on the nightstand. He opens the curtains to let the sunlight in and watches as John slowly wakes up.

“What time is it?” John mutters as he squints at Sherlock through half-open eyes.

“A bit after three.”

John groans. “Great. A week of nightshifts and my sleep schedule is fucked.”

“I tried to wake you earlier, but you were out like a light.”

“Yeah, I was completely exhausted this morning, the shift was a nightmare,” John says as he slowly sits up. That’s when he notices the tray. “What’s all this then?” 

Sherlock shrugs, suddenly embarrassed, suddenly one hundred percent convinced that John will think this is stupid, that John will expect something else on this day. “Breakfast in bed, John, obviously,” he says, keeping his tone offhand and nonchalant, even slightly dismissive, to hide his uncertainty.

“Well, let’s have some, then,” John says as he reaches for the scones. “Still warm, brilliant.”

Sherlock sits down and pours tea for both of them.

John drinks his tea and closes his eyes in obvious appreciation as the caffeine seems to turn him into a more fully functional human being.

“Not that I’m complaining in the least,” he says, eyes still closed, leaning comfortably against the headrest, “but what’s the occasion?”

Sherlock blinks at John, surprised. “Surely you can’t possibly be serious.”

John opens his eyes and frowns at Sherlock over his coffee cup. “I’m sorry, my brain’s not quite online yet. I’m missing something glaringly obvious, aren’t I?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Sherlock mutters, all nervousness forgotten in his irritation that John doesn’t seem to be aware of the towering significance of today. 

“Be nice,” John chides him, tapping his toes against Sherlock’s shins. “So, it’s not your birthday, or mine,. Excellent scones, by the way,” he muses between sips of tea and bites of scones, “it’s not Christmas or Easter. Neither of us has won anything or been promoted or something, and you’re far, far too calm for a marriage proposal.  Also, I’m pretty sure neither of us is pregnant. So, what have I missed?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Think, John. What day is it today? I know it’s hard, but think.”

John casually flips him off. “Git. What’s so special about September 22nd?”

“It’s our bloody anniversary, for heaven’s sake!” Sherlock all but yells, truly annoyed now. “Today’s the day we first met!”

“No, our anniversary is December 16th,” John says, gesturing at Sherlock with a half-eaten scone. “That was the day of the Bake-Off final when you asked me for dinner.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but he realises that John has a point. They weren’t technically anything other than fuckbuddies before that. Of course, Sherlock was arse over teakettle in love with John before that, but still, technically, John is right.  Partially. “That’s a very arbitrary date to pick,” Sherlock argues. “Just because that’s the day I asked you to dinner doesn’t mean we weren’t in a relationship before that.”

John sighs and puts down his scone. He takes Sherlock’s hands in his and looks at him with a sort of serious, exasperated affection. “Sherlock. Love. That’s the day you let me in. That’s the day you decided you wanted me in your life. That’s the day you chose me. So fuck, yes, I’m going to count that day as special,” he says, pulling Sherlock into a sweet, sticky kiss.

Sherlock’s irritation melts with John’s lovely words and he falls into the kiss head-first. He puts the tray aside and climbs into John’s lap for a proper snog.

“Fine,” he finally mutters against John’s lips. “Fine. You make a good point.”

“You make a good point, too,” John says, smiling at Sherlock, open and fond. “The day we met was highly significant as well.”

“You know why I picked today?” Sherlock asks, drawing back a bit to look at John, who’s rumpled and still a bit bleary-eyed and yet the most beautiful sight Sherlock has ever seen.

“Why?” John asks, running a gentle thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone.

“Because a part of me was sure about you right away. Right the very second we met, when you sponged off me to get the good workstations. I knew right then and there that you’re extraordinary.”

“And then you left me to dangle for three months as the rest of you caught up to your gut instinct, is that it?” John asks, but it’s clear he’s teasing.

But he’s bang on the money, and he knows it, too. “Pretty much,” Sherlock admits.

“I have a compromise suggestion,” John says, pulling Sherlock in again. “This is our breakfast anniversary,” he says, pressing a soft kiss against his lips. “And the December one is our dinner anniversary.”

“Deal,” Sherlock says, catching John’s smiling lips for a lingering kiss.

Have some more soppy, happy Bakers. For the prompt Breakfast by @notjustamumj

I have no idea who's done it already and who's already been tagged, so I'm tagging some people: @jrow @keirgreeneyes @khorazir @inevitably-johnlocked @thetimemoves @catlock-holmes @totallysilvergirl

[raina-at]

Home is where the heart is

Sherlock isn’t glad that Mary is dead. A human has lost her life. Rosie’s mother is dead. Rosie is growing up without a mother, and one day, they will have to explain to her how and why her mother died, and how they both failed to save her. 

So Sherlock isn’t glad that Mary is dead.

Except in all of the ways that he is. 

There’s rational reasons to be relieved that she’s dead. While she was alive, John and Rosie were in danger from her mere existence in the world. And Sherlock himself was always afraid that she’d try to kill him again. So they’re all safer, and Sherlock sleeps more soundly knowing that she’s dead. Also, she made John shatteringly unhappy and abandoned her infant daughter at the first sign of danger to herself, so Sherlock suspects she might not exactly have turned out to be mother of the year. Additionally to that, both he and John always feared that she’d take Rosie and disappear.

But there’s other, darker, more irrational reasons Sherlock is glad Mary is dead. He was, still is to be honest, gripped with an ugly, searing, intense jealousy about the place she held in John’s life, in Rosie’s life. She’s Rosie’s mother, and that’s something he can never be, no matter how many papers they sign, no matter the rings on their fingers, no matter that Rosie calls him Papa and he’s her father in everything but blood. She’s still John’s and Mary’s in a way she’ll never be his, and his and John’s marriage, no matter how much happier, healthier and saner, will always be regarded by society as inferior to John’s first marriage. If Mary hadn’t died…. they’ll always think.

Most of the time, Sherlock doesn’t care. John loves him, more than he ever loved Mary, and Sherlock knows it. He suspects now that Mary knew it, too, and that her reasons for shooting him were a lot more personal than he thought. But more than that, he knows it doesn’t matter, because he’s here and Mary’s dead, and most days, he doesn’t spare her a thought. Most days, if he’s asked about Rosie’s mother, he can summon the right amount of polite regret.

But sometimes, that possessive, dark, intense gladness twists through his chest. 

Like now.

John and Rosie are on the sofa. Rosie’s found some pictures from when she was a baby. John’s explaining the pictures to her.

“Where was this taken?” Rosie says as she squints at the wallpaper in the picture.

“That was our old house, before we moved back home to Papa,” John says, shooting Sherlock an affectionate smile. 

It hits Sherlock, then, that Rosie has never known another home other than 221B Baker Street. She’s never known a second parent other than him. And she never will. Mary is a shadow to her. And if Mary’s still anything to John, then she’s a nightmare, a vague regret, a past mistake. 

He smiles back at John, who’s looking at him with such unguarded affection, and he thinks, deep in his heart of hearts, where he hides the words he’ll never say, You failed, Mary Morstan. They’re mine now. I WON. 

Then he joins his family on the sofa.

That got a bit dark, but who could blame Sherlock, really...

written for the May prompts by @notjustamumj

I'm tagging @catlock-holmes especially, because I saw your tags, and I want to encourage you to DO IT! Don't think about it, just DO IT!

[calaisreno]

Your Face

“I can’t do it. I don’t know how. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

“No, no. This is a trick.”

“Please, John, forgive me ... for all the hurt I caused you.”

“You're just trying to make me say something nice.”

“Not this time.”

Fury wars with grief. “I wanted you not to be dead,” John says. 

Sherlock gives a broken laugh. “Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for.”

“Look, I find it difficult, this sort of stuff.”

There are only minutes left. Sherlock bows his head. 

It’s now or never. John steps towards him, pulls him to his feet. He’s already waited too long. 

Taking Sherlock’s face in his hands, he looks into his eyes. Sherlock stares back at him, eyes wide. 

“Of course I forgive you.” He surges up, lips meeting lips. 

Sherlock makes a surprised huff. Initially it’s clumsy, then desperate, and finally they both surrender to the kiss. John’s grip on Sherlock tightens, and their hearts are hammering together. 

It goes on forever, for a minute and a half, for the rest of their lives. 

John pulls back a millimeter. “Erm. The bomb?”

Sherlock is panting. “Disarmed.”

“We’re good, then?”

 “John. You kissed me.”

“Yeah, good observation.”

“But.” Sherlock’s face looks like his brain is exploding. “Mary.”

“No. This is what I wished for.”

A choked sob. “Me too.”

Prompt: First Kiss (Thank you, @notjustamumj 💕)

221 words; alas, I couldn't find a "B" word for the last without making it weird.

Tagging: @keirgreeneyes @totallysilvergirl @meetinginsamarra @scrub456 @bertytravelsfar @7-percent @helloliriels @momma2boys @jrow @discordantwords and anyone else who's interested.

If you don't want to write, tag some other writers!

[calaisreno]

Candles

For the prompt: Candle Light / May 7 @notjustamumj

The thunder started an hour ago, a storm moving in from the southwest. John has just settled Rosie, grateful that the bedtime battle is over, when a clap of thunder and the sudden pelting of rain on the windows wake her again. 

“Great,” he says, scooping her from the cot. “Okay, Rosebug, let’s go look for the candles.”

The kitchen is the obvious place to look. Mary seems to have prepared them for every possible emergency— well, except for her own death. There is plenty of powdered baby milk and cereal, more tins of soup than John will ever eat, and batteries of every type. First aid kit, multitool, books of matches.

But no candles. 

In the dark, there is no telly to distract them, just the rain and random cracks of thunder, loud enough to shake the bric-a-brac on the shelves. Rosie is exhausted, but each boom rouses her, starts her screaming again. 

“I know,” John mutters, walking her around the room. “I feel like crying myself.”

The letter. The things he wrote to Sherlock, after… He’d been wild with grief, unable to sort out his feelings. What happened was clearly Mary’s fault. It was her choice to go to the aquarium, to shield Sherlock from the bullet that would have killed him. And irrationally, John had blamed it all on Sherlock. 

After Sherlock came back, John had struggled to realign the frayed ends of his life. He had grieved Sherlock for two years, and gradually realised what he felt for his dead friend. But he’d moved on, and wouldn’t have survived without Mary. 

He’d chosen her. He’d married her, and she was having his child. But he was unhappy, and knew it. 

In the darkness, he imagines the familiar shapes of 221B— two chairs, the table where he used to write his blogposts, the tall window where Sherlock would stand, playing his violin. 

Sherlock will never forgive him. The things he wrote in the letter were unforgivable. 

A sudden crack of thunder, and Rosie starts up again. John stands at the window bouncing her, his own tears falling on the soft, blond hair. 

“I know,” he whispers. “I know, love.” 

A knock on the door startles him.

Who would call on such a stormy night? Sometimes neighbours call, in need of a doctor. 

Locks undone, he opens the door. A flash of lightning illuminates his caller like a character in a horror movie. Wet hair, pale face, sharp features. 

“Sherlock.” John is so surprised to see him that he simply stands there, gaping as the rain drips off his coat. 

“John.” Fishing in his pocket, Sherlock pulls out a packet. “Candles.”

“Come inside,” he says. “You’re soaked.”

A brief smile. “Not quite.” 

In the darkness, Sherlock shrugs off his coat. “Do you have baby food jars?”

“Jars?”

“For the candles.” Sherlock takes Rosie from his arms. “So the wax won’t drip on your table.”

Jars, he has in abundance. Rosie is a good eater who has never met a baby food she won’t eat. He rinses six jars and sets them on the table. 

Sherlock is explaining thunder to Rosie. “In the clouds, there’s a lot of static. The atmosphere insulates it, but it builds up until it has to go somewhere and— boom! It sends lightning to the ground.” 

The thunder booms, Sherlock says boom again, and Rosie giggles. 

John burns his finger on a match. Sherlock finds his lighter and offers it to John, who lights each candle, letting it drip into the jar, then sticking the base into the wax. Rosie watches, rapt. 

“Boo,” she says, reaching for the light. 

“Boom!” Sherlock picks up one of the candles. “Let there be light!”

They move the candles into the sitting room and settle themselves on the sofa. 

“It’s her teeth,” John says. 

“It’s fine.” 

“You live thirty minutes away,” John points out. “And yet you arrived right after the storm started.”

“Weather report.”

“And you deduced I didn’t have candles?”

“Lucky guess.”

“You never guess.”

Sherlock smiles. In the candle light, his features soften. His pale skin glows golden. He’s beautiful. 

John bites his lip. Why is Sherlock here? The letter—

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Nothing I can say will ever excuse…” He looks down, feels tears splash on his hands. 

“Didn’t read it.”

“What?”

“You were angry. If I’d read it, that would have stood between us. I didn’t want that. So, I burned it.”

Rosie’s asleep now. Sherlock carries her to her room, John leading the way with a candle. Laid in her cot, she sighs, finding her thumb.

Downstairs, John says, “No electricity. I’m afraid tea is out of the question.” 

“It’s fine.” Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket, produces a bottle. “This will warm us up.”

 It does. In the flickering glow of the candles, they drink in silence.

“I’m sorry,” John says. 

“You don’t need to apologise. I’m the one who’s sorry— and I haven’t properly said so.” He holds his glass, staring into the amber depths. “I miscalculated, and I deeply regret that.”

“Miscalculated?”

“I didn’t realise how much I mattered to you. Or how much you mattered to me. I’m sorry for making you think it was all a joke. Can we…?”

“Be friends again?”

“I would like that.” His eyes are some indescribable colour in the candle light. He looks at John, searching. 

“Maybe,” John says. He shakes his head. “Maybe we could be more.”

Sherlock sighs, rubs his eyes. “I was afraid. I thought you hated me.”

“I did.” He smiles at the look Sherlock gives him now. “If I hadn’t cared for you— if I hadn’t loved you before, I wouldn’t have been so angry with you.”

“You loved me?”

“I love you. I’ll be your friend. But if you want—”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes shine with tears. “Yes, I do want. I love you too.”

Years from now, John will remember Sherlock’s face, radiant, his hair red-gold in the candle light. He’ll remember that first kiss. 

1000 words this time: flash fiction

💕 Thank you for reading/reblogging!

Tagging: @elwinglyre @helloliriels @raina-at @keirgreeneyes @totallysilvergirl @meetinginsamarra @jrow @peanitbear @bertytravelsfar @momma2boys @lisbeth-kk @mydogwatson @eterne-locked @thegildedbee @sarahthecoat

[calaisreno]

Always Two

May 8 prompt: Always

“I’m afraid I’m always going to disappoint you, John.”

“You’re planning it already?”

“I mean, it’s my nature to disappoint.”

“If you mean that it’s your nature to end up locked in refrigerated warehouses—”

“I did tell you. Well, you knew my location.”

“You ought to tell me before you’re abducted. Then there’d be no warehouse.”

“John, I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again. In any case, you’ve been abducted far more times than I have.”

“Not on purpose.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Who ever gets abducted on purpose? I wasn’t planning on spending an hour in a refrigerated warehouse with Lestrade, you know. But you’ve still got yourself abducted more times—”

“You make it sound like I’m begging for it.”

“You are an appealing target, John. Smaller, less threatening. They underestimate you, of course. But of the two of us, you are by far more abductable.”

“That’s not even a word. And are you counting the Chinese gang? Because that wasn’t technically a kidnapping. They just held us against our will.”

“False imprisonment. Okay, we won’t count that. But you’re forgetting the Rivers gang. That tiara thingy.”

“Fair enough. But we have to count the Cunningham case. The mad wife with the cleaver. I’ve still got a scar from that one. But I got there before the police. Oh, and that case where you were disguised as an old woman and they made you get on a bus for the elder hostel and wouldn’t let you leave until I pretended to be your devoted nephew.”

“Unintentional abduction. And you didn’t get me out that time, remember. They had you arrested for attempted kidnapping. Lestrade got us both out.”

“After he finished laughing. Wonderful to be such a source of amusement for the Yard. At any rate, I think it’s clear that we both have a penchant for being abducted.”

“It’s hopeless, then. We’re always going to be like this.”

“Maybe so. It just means that we both need to become better at forgiving.”

“Or always stay together.”

“Not very practical, that. If you’re always at my side, how will I ever surprise you?”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“If I wanted to buy you a present.”

“I can always predict your presents, John.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Almost can.”

“Can you predict what’s in my pocket now?”

“A suturing kit, your gun, and a tire iron.”

“Besides all that. No? Are you stumped? Here—”

“A box?”

“Just open it.”

“A ring. John, are you asking me…?”

“Yes, I am.” Long pause. “Say something, Sherlock. That’s getting a bit scary now.”

“So, in fact… You mean…”

“Yes. Will you?”

“Always, John.”

“Brilliant.”

Thanks for the prompt @notjustamumj ❤️❤️

This is a double 221B: 442 words!

Tagging: @elwinglyre @bertytravelsfar @lisbeth-kk @totallysilvergirl @raina-at @helloliriels @mydogwatson @meetinginsamarra @bertytravelsfar @peanitbear @jrow @momma2boys and anyone else who wants to join in!

[lisbeth-kk]

May 7 prompt: candlelight

Thanks for the tag @notjustamumj @calaisreno

Welcome home

Sherlock had prepared John’s return impeccably. Chinese takeaway from their favourite place, a thorough shower, dressing up in his black suit trousers and the purple shirt. As he heard the keys in the door downstairs, Sherlock stood from his chair and went to stand in the open doorway.

«Welcome home, John,» he said.

John beamed at him, dropped his bag and almost fell into Sherlock’s embrace. Their lips met in a frantic and desperate kiss.

«I’ve missed you,» John murmured between the passionate kisses.

«Ditto,» Sherlock rumbled and cupped John’s face, rubbing his thumbs over his cheeks.

When the kissing subsided, Sherlock prompted John to come into the kitchen to eat.

«I’m starving,» John exclaimed when he saw the food displayed on the table.

«Good. Let’s eat, then you’ll have a thorough shower before…»

Sherlock trailed off, cocking an eyebrow at John.

«Do you have plans for me, love?» John asked innocently.

«Obviously, Sherlock said and rolled his eyes.

***

When John came into the bedroom after his shower, Sherlock lay stark naked on the bed. On each bedside table where lit candles and the candlelight made his skin look like polished marble.

«Jesus,» John breathed. «Look at you, you gorgeous thing.»

***

Now, Sherlock lies panting and totally spent after his third orgasm in a row. John emerges from the bathroom with a wet flannel to clean him, and blows out the candles before climbing into bed.

«You really missed me, didn’t you?» Sherlock inquires when John’s back in his arms again.

«I did. Being away from you is my least favourite thing. That said, I loved the way you welcomed me,» John says and kisses Sherlock’s jaw.

«I thought you might,» Sherlock smirks.

«Of course you did, my genius husband. I should go away more often, John teases.

«Bite your tongue, John,» Sherlock’s growls and tightens his grip around the love of his life.

@totallysilvergirl @topsyturvy-turtely @meetinginsamarra @raina-at

[lisbeth-kk]

May 12 prompt: blue. (Thanks for the tag @notjustamum @calaisreno

Bluebell

When Rosie Watson was old enough to decide which clothes to buy or wear, she always chose Sherlock’s favourite colour. Not that she knew it, but she was somehow drawn to it, nevertheless. Dresses, jumpers, t-shirts, trousers, skirts, jackets, even socks gifted in the wrong colour had to be brought back to the shop and changed. She could go along with the other colours if there were bees on the fabric, which Molly tried her best to find as to brighten up the little girl’s wardrobe.

Sherlock loved to see all the different shades of blue on his little girl. It made her eyes look even more blue than they originally were. He also liked to see his John in blue. John and Rosie’s eyes were so similar, although Rosie’s were a tiny bit lighter than John’s. 

Sherlock never stopped using his chosen pet name on Rosie. John had prepared him that once she started school, or at least in her teens, she would oppose him to use the pet name further. To John’s astonishment and Sherlock’s relief, it never happened. Rosie loved that her Papa called her Bluebell and occasionally Bee, but mostly it was the former.

***

John feared for Sherlock’s sanity when Rosie told them she was going abroad for her studies. He was careful not to show his distress to Rosie herself, but whenever he and John were alone at Baker Street in those days, he suffered terribly.

“What if she never comes back to England, John. Sydney’s so far away. She’s going to forget us, isn’t she? I don’t want her to go, John! I know I’m being foolish, but to not have her here regularly is an unbearable thought. She…”

“Shush now, my love,” John had murmured, holding Sherlock tight while stroking his hair. “I know it’s hard for you. It is for me too, but we have to let her go. Let her form her own life. We can’t keep her locked up here forever. And of course she won’t forget us, silly. We’re her parents, and you know she loves us. She shows us that every day, doesn’t she?”

“I know, John. I know, but it’s so hard. The hardest thing I’ve ever done. Well…almost.”

Sherlock had buried his face in John’s neck and cried. It was a rare occurrence that Sherlock broke down like this, and John had a hard time preventing his own tears from welling over. He held his husband, soothed him, murmuring sweet words and reassurances in his ear, and finally Sherlock had gathered himself. His eyes were red rimmed, and John kissed away the tears on his cheeks.

“We’ll go visit her, you know,” John said, and Sherlock nodded.

“Of course. If she…”

“Sherlock, please. She’ll want us to come visit. You know that.”

“Yes, John. It’s just…when it comes to the two of you. The thought of losing…”

“I know, sweetheart. We feel the same way. That’s what undying love does to you,” John said and kissed Sherlock tenderly.

***

As Rosie’s departure came closer, Sherlock had been less fragile. When there wasn’t a case or experiment to devote his time to, he read all about Rosie’s university, and the city itself. Afterwards he knew more about the subject than Rosie herself, which surprised no one.

“It looks really promising, Bluebell,” Sherlock stated over dinner a few weeks before Rosie’s exodus, as Sherlock called it. “You’ll like it there, I think.”

“I’m sure I will, Papa. Sylvia knows a couple of students there, and they’re over the moon,” Rosie retorted and extended a hand to squeeze Sherlock’s hand.

John had to blink hard and bite his inner cheek not to burst into tears when he saw their daughter soothing Sherlock. She was so aware of his emotions. A Watson thing, John thought to himself and smiled at his beloved husband who cocked an eye brow at him, silently asking, “you alright?” John just nudged his foot reassuring him, and Sherlock went back to the conversation with his Bluebell.

***

A serious amount of tears were spilled at Heathrow airport when Rosie clung to her parents, suddenly realising that she wouldn’t be able to hug them for months. John was a mess to, and it was in situations like these, Sherlock found his aptitude to be strong for all of them. He murmured soothing words to them both, wrapping them up in his arms, letting them cry, while he kissed them tenderly.

“Be in touch as often as you see fit, Bee,” Sherlock said softly while cradling Rosie’s face. “I won’t hesitate to call in a favour from uncle Myc if necessary.”

Rosie beamed up at her Papa with blurry eyes and smiled, then giggled as she pictured her uncle receiving said call.

After one last group hug, Rosie walked away from them to her future. John grabbed Sherlock’s hand tight and when Rosie had disappeared in the crowd, Sherlock pulled a shaky John to his chest and kissed the top of his head.

“She’ll be fine, John. She’s a Watson, after all.”

“A Holmes Watson in fact,” John said, lifted his head and kissed Sherlock’s lips.

@totallysilvergirl @missdeliadili @meetinginsamarra @topsyturvy-turtely @raina-at