#notjustamom may prompts

[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 😇

[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!

[calaisreno]

Me: Little fics are fun! 😍

My WIP: *glaring daggers* Who needs fun? Back to work, you!

First Kiss

"What exactly is your problem?" John pants as he runs after Sherlock, cursing Sherlock's long legs that mean John always has to jog to keep up with him.

"Nothing. I don't have a problem," Sherlock grates out between clenched teeth, not turning around, still making his way through the long, empty corridors, past empty classrooms, towards the back exit.

"You nearly bit my head off in there, then you threw your punch glass against the wall and left," John says, still trying to catch up to Sherlock.

Sherlock abruptly whirls around, his overdramatic coat billowing behind him. "I didn't want to come to this stupid dance, and you talked me into it. And then you ditched me for your girlfriend. So I'm going home to spend my evening more productively than watching other teenagers engage in juvenile mating rituals."

"She's not my girlfriend, for fuck's sake, it was one dance!" John points a finger at Sherlock. "Plus, what even is it to you who I dance with? Why do you care?"

"Why do I care? How unbelievably thick can one person be?"

"Well, if it's so obvious, explain it to me, then, genius!" John yells, beyond irritated.

Sherlock huffs in aggravated exasperation, fists his hands into the lapel of John's cheap suit, pulls him in and presses their lips together.

John's brain stops. Sherlock is kissing him. Sherlock, his best friend since he was twelve, is kisisng him. Sherlock, who he's been in love with since he was fourteen and discovered he likes boys just as much as girls, is kissing him.

It's not a very good kiss, since it's the first, and neither of them know what they're doing. It's just a press of lips, really, just a brush. There's no finesse involved, no tongues, no technique. Also, they're both completely frozen in shock because this is monumental, this is a seismic event on an unprecedented scale, it's a continental shift of life-changing proportions. Sherlock Holmes is kissing John Watson, and John Watson is kissing back.

John pulls back and looks at Sherlock, who has a shell-shocked, fuck-what-did-I-just-do expression on his face.

"So apparently I'm a colossal moron," John croaks, voice unsteady and rough.

Sherlock seems to come out of his shock-induced paralysis, blinking once, then giving John a slight smile. "Well. I suppose it would be impolite to agree."

John laughs, a small hysterical giggle that's more tension relief than mirth. "So given that I'm a complete idiot," he says, fisting his hand in the lapel of Sherlock's coat. "Could you maybe explain it to me again?"

Sherlock smiles at him, gentle and soft. "My pleasure," he says as they both move in for another kiss.

A bit of teenlock for the first kiss prompt by @notjustamumj . Apparently, my brain can handle these snippets better than working on my WIP right now. Well, I'm having fun, so who cares, right? Might have to collect these and post them to AO3 one of these days.

Tagging @keirgreeneyes @discordantwords @lisbeth-kk @fluffbyday-smutbynight and anyone else who wants to play.

[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

[lisbeth-kk]

Thanks for the tag @notjustamumj

May 8 prompt: always

Old wisdom

Sherlock loved visiting his grandmother in Sussex. Her garden was a paradise full of flowers and insects. She kept bees, and Sherlock was entranced by them from an early age.

When his cousins or classmates called him weird and freakish, he tried to remember his grandmother’s words when he’d confided in her.

«Bee, you are unique, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Your ability to focus and concentrate on topics you’re fascinated by, is a treasured gift. The way you care for all living things in the garden, the neighbour’s dog, your brother and me, tells a tale of a big heart. You care a lot, perhaps too much at times, but that’s the essence of who you are. Never change that because others can’t stand it or are offended by it. Be your true self. Always.»

It wasn’t easy to live by those words, and he failed many times. Especially after his grandmother’s death and Mycroft leaving home for boarding school. For numerous years he lived by other words.

«Sentiment is never an advantage, brother mine,» Mycroft had told him when Sherlock was devastated by the bullying or the beforementioned dog’s death.

Those words made him strong but also reckless. The drugs were a relief when he was too overwhelmed, and he could always count on Mycroft to pick up the pieces.

He got himself clean after the surprising meeting with a certain police officer, who promised him to call when a case was unsolvable for the Yard’s finest. To Sherlock’s surprise, Greg Lestrade was a man of his words, and finally Sherlock’s life had purpose again.

When John Watson limped into his life, Sherlock felt relief. Before giving John his adress, Sherlock remembered his grandmother’s wise words, and told John the worst about himself. John didn’t even rise an eyebrow, and Sherlock instantly knew that this remarkable man would be his rescuer in so many ways.

Sherlock’s instincts didn’t fail him. On their wedding day, Sherlock’s vows to John were five words.

«I will love you. Always.»

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

[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

[lisbeth-kk]

May 13 prompt: rest (thanks for the tag @notjustamumj @calaisreno

His dependency

Sherlock’s irritated and rude to everyone at the crime scene. It’s the fourth murder in as many days, and he hasn’t slept, just nodded off in cabs when he was too exhausted to think straight. Lestrade has brought him tea he’s forgotten to drink, and the occasional energy bar, which he at least has nibbled at. His mood won’t lift until John’s back from Scotland. For the life of him, he can’t remember when that is. He doesn’t even know which day it is. 

“John’s coming home tonight,” Lestrade says, as if he’s suddenly become a mind reader.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him, but his shoulders relaxes, and his mind sharpens as if given an injection of a stimulating drug. His dependency of having John at his side when on a particularly difficult or exhausting case, should be ridiculous. Instead Sherlock finds it reassuring and calming. When John’s there, he thinks better, he doesn’t care about the comments from Anderson or Donovan, he’s doing his job to perfection. After the first time John praised him at a crime scene, Sherlock’s been addicted to said praise. It makes him feel appreciated, valued, and respected. Those things have been lacking in his life before John. His phone buzzes.

I’ll be home at six. Will you be there, or running the streets with Greg?

Sherlock beams at his phone, takes a look around the room once more, and suddenly the fog dissipates. He crouches down and looks intently at the carpet with his magnifying glass. 

“Yes!” he shouts triumphantly, before sending off a reply to John.

Going home in a few minutes. Hurry! SH

“Lestrade! You’ll want to look at the dog walker. Those dog hairs are similar to the other crime scenes, but neither of the victims had a dog which they belonged to.”

Without waiting for Lestrade’s complaint and nagging about paperwork, Sherlock heads for the curb outside the house and hails a cab. He sends a text to Angelo, asking for a delivery of some antipasti that evening. After a shower he tries to get some sleep, but he’s too excited. The violin keeps him occupied until he hears familiar steps on the stairs. Seconds later his arms are tightly wrapped around John, and he relaxes completely. His knees buckle and John catches him before he sags to the floor.

“Bedroom,” John orders.

“But John. I’ve ordered food from Angelo’s,” Sherlock protests weakly, but lets John steer him against their bedroom.

He collapses on the bed and John pulls the duvet over him.

“You haven’t slept for days, love. The signs are clear as day. Now you’ll have a good rest, and you can tell me all about how brilliant you’ve been while I was away later, yeah?” John murmurs and kisses his forehead softly.

“Stay for a bit,” Sherlock mutters sleepily.

John strokes his hair, just the way Sherlock loves, and it’s the last thing he remembers before his brain stills.

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

[lisbeth-kk]

May 15 prompt: green (thanks for the tag @calaisreno @raina-at

Cherished moments

The winter’s been horrible for both of them. For Sherlock it started in January. He finally managed to get covid now that the pandemic’s almost over.

Once he’d recovered, it was John’s turn. Working his arse off at the hospital for the last two years without catching the virus, was nothing but a miracle. John’s the world’s worst patient, but luckily it didn’t last as long as Sherlock’s illness. Small blessings.

Not being able to travel or do anything remotely interesting for what feels like decades, Sherlock’s decided to whisk John away for their fifth wedding anniversary. They haven’t celebrated much over the years, just a nice dinner followed by a classical concert. Sherlock always decides where to dine, while John picks the concert. It’s a win-win situation.

***

Sherlock’s sits at the desk when John comes home.

“Ah, John! Just the one,” Sherlock exclaims.

“Hello, gorgeous,” John smiles and kisses the top of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock makes room for John to climb onto his lap for a proper snog.

“What are you up to?” John asks, a bit breathless.

“A surprise. Can you take some days off the week after next? Say Monday until Thursday,” Sherlock inquires.

“A surprise, eh? Well, I’ve worked up some goodwill I think, so that should be fine,” John says, massaging Sherlock’s scalp.

Sherlock closes his eyes and purrs with delight.

“Sounds like a jaguar again,” John murmurs and sucks at Sherlock’s bottom lip, which elicits another purr.

John sits back a little, stroking Sherlock’s shoulders and down his arms.

“So, my beautiful husband. Does this surprise has anything to do with our wedding anniversary?”

“My clever husband,” Sherlock smirks.

“Can I decide anything, or is it only you this year?” John inquires.

“Only me. For now,” Sherlock states lazily, reaches out for John and pulls him in for a deep kiss.

***

Despite the tediousness of the last week, it’s all worth it when John realises they’re going on a private plane. Working for Mycroft on occasion has its benefits, Sherlock admits. 

“Gosh, this really is a lovely way to travel,” John sighs contended and reaches out for Sherlock’s hand.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agrees. 

“Are you going to tell me where your taking me, then?” John asks, lacing his fingers with Sherlock’s.

“It has many names. The city of clichés. The city of love. The most romantic city in the world, cover most of it, I think.”

“Are you serious? We’re going to Paris?”

John beams at Sherlock and Sherlock can’t resist the urge to lean in and kiss John softly.

“We are,” he whispers in John’s ear. “I’ve…um…borrowed Mycroft’s card when I made the hotel reservation. Hôtel de l´Abbaye in Saint-Germain-Des-Prés. It’s a suite, obviously, two floors with a balcony overseeing the famous green garden. Looks quite promising on the web site.”

“You are amazing,” John breathes and cups Sherlock’s face, tracing both thumbs over his cheekbones.

Sherlock leans into John’s touch when John moves his hands to pull Sherlock’s hair just the way he loves it. He moans and closes his eyes.

“My marvellous John,” he murmurs.

***

A black car waits on the tarmac. As they descend the stairs from the plane, a chauffeur emerges in full uniform.

“Bonsoir, messieurs,” the man greets them.

John knows Sherlock’s fluent in French, and John knows a few phrases himself, but he’s never got the pronunciation quite right. He’ll lean on Sherlock for that. Besides, he loves hearing Sherlock speaking foreign languages, French in particular.

They sit like besotted teenagers in the back seat of the car, fingers interlaced, thighs pressing against the other, alternately looking out the windows and exchanging soft kisses.

Once they arrive at the hotel, John’s a bit dazed. It’s almost like he’s participating in a romantic film. Sherlock behaves like a proper Frenchman, with gesturing hands, flawless language, bespoke suit and  grace like a dancer. John just stares at him with awe. It’s similar to his behaviour at crime scenes, but also completely different. There’s no one who calls him names or glares at him with contempt.

The photos from the web site didn’t lie. Their suite’s exquisite and luxurious. John walks around to survey the spacious room.

“I’ve ordered room service,” Sherlock calls from downstairs.

“Perfect,” John retorts and opens the door to the balcony.

The temperature is still quite comfortable, and the air smells of lavender. John sighs happily and startles a bit when familiar arms caress him.

“I didn’t mean to spook you, John,” Sherlock says quietly and kisses his temple.

“It’s fine, love. I was just a bit lost in thought. This is…er…I…”

John turns in Sherlock’s arms and looks at him with shiny eyes. Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him, silently asking if everything’s all right.

“Got a bit overwhelmed,” John says sheepishly. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris, you know. You making my dream come through just hit me, and this beautiful place is perfect. Being here with you is perfect. Thank you.”

Their lips meet and John whimpers desperate, grabbing Sherlock’s plush arse while sucking at his bottom lip, then moving his lips to the long neck. 

“How much time do we have before the food arrives,” John asks hoarsely.

“Enough,” Sherlock pants and pulls John tighter.

***

They have breakfast on the balcony. The morning is warm, and it’s partly clouded. A perfect day for exploring the city.

To John’s surprise Sherlock concurs to take a trip with a double decker bus. John wants to see all the famous sites but doesn’t want to spend all day walking long distances or taking the metro. They sit in the back at the top of the bus, which is only half full. Between sites, Sherlock deduces the other passengers to John’s amusement.

A few metres from the bus stop, a familiar car waits for them. John sends Sherlock a quizzical look.

“Patience,” Sherlock mutters, grabs John’s hand and steers him toward the car.

The chauffeur, Antoine, clearly knows where they’re headed. John’s too happy to bother pestering Sherlock about their destination. Instead he leans his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock puts an arm around him, and they sit in companionable silence until the car stops.

Sherlock leaps out of the car and heads for the boot. He hands a large blanket to John and takes a picnic basket from Antoine. 

“Merci beaucoup,” Sherlock says and gestures for John to walk into the park.

Square de Batignolles is a peaceful oasis. They find a secluded space in the shadows. John spreads out the blanket on the lawn and Sherlock opens the basket, which is filled to the brim with delicacies. Different cheeses, cured meat, baguettes, marmalade, croissants, fruit, a bottle of red wine, glasses and two pieces of cake. 

They lie down when they’ve devoured the food, and John props himself up on an elbow, looking down at Sherlock.

“You’re eyes are so green today,” John says. 

“Just mirroring the leaves above us, John,” Sherlock explains.

“Nope. They’ve been like that all day,” John retorts stubbornly.

“Well, I’ll have to take you to “Le Train Bleu” tonight just to prove you wrong then,” Sherlock teases.

He reaches for John’s hand and kisses the palm tenderly.

“Happy Anniversary, John.”

“Happy Anniversary, my love,” John says, lifts Sherlock’s hand to his mouth and mirrors Sherlock’s act.  

On this date 24 years ago I got married, so it had to be a wedding anniversary for the boys as well.

@notjustamumj @totallysilvergirl @missdeliadili @topsyturvy-turtely @meetinginsamarra

[lisbeth-kk]

May 14 prompt: time (thanks for the tag @notjustamumj @meetinginsamarra @raina-at

The day we met

Sherlock’s undercover. In Liverpool of all places. Greg’s mentioned something about a football team being the city’s pride and joy. Sherlock’s deleted the rest of that information. Not relevant. What is relevant is the fact that Sherlock’s going to perform on live television. In front of the whole world. Apparently Ukraine won last year’s competition, but due to the war, and the UK coming second, Liverpool is hosting the Eurovision this year. Sherlock’s not totally oblivious, but he’s got no interest in the competition per se. The reason he’s present is that a threat’s been made, and Mrs. Hudson’s asked for Sherlock’s help finding the culprit. Normally he wouldn’t considered this sort of case, but Mrs. Hudson’s niece is the one who’s been threatened and she’s also one of the dancers in the show. Her fiancé is the one who’s narrowed down the number of suspects for some reason. Sherlock almost had an aneurism from mere boredom while Mrs. Hudson told him about the whole charade.

“The things I do for you, Hudders,” Sherlock had said before he kissed her cheek and headed out of Baker Street.

***

So, here he is, all dressed up in a leather outfit in black and purple. According to Alice, the niece, it should’ve been black and red, but as Sherlock’s the only male dancer in this dance number, he went for colours more suited for his skin tone. Mrs. Hudson’s clearly warned Alice about him, because she just shrugs when he explains himself.

A short man with gold and silvery hair approaches them, a clipboard in his hand and an earpiece in his left ear.

“That’s John,” Alice whispers. “He’s the stage manager. You don’t want to mess with him.”

Sherlock gives this John a onceover and smirks. Ex-military most certainly. Sherlock licks his lips in anticipation. Maybe this case won’t be as bad as he feared.

***

As John approaches Alice and this new fellow, he can’t help but cast an appreciative look at the newcomer. He’s tall and slender, pale, flawless skin, the most striking face John’s seen in a while and raven curls, meticulously styled. All of him radiates his posh upbringing. Public school, rich parents, arrogant, spoiled. All the things John despises, but if he does his job properly, John can at least enjoy the look of him while this last. There are ten days until the final, and John decides to make the best of it.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” are the words greeting John.

Normally John’s not one to get startled, but the question, not to mention the voice asking, leaves him amazed.

“Sorry, no time for pleasantries today, I’m afraid,” John says brusquely. “I’m John Watson, stage manager. You are?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man says with a knowing look.

Of course he would have a posh and exquisite name as well.

John feels his face blush. He hasn’t done that since high school.

“Right. Welcome, Sherlock. You’re familiar with this dance?” John inquires as professionally as he can manage.

“Obviously,” Sherlock says and rolls his eyes. “Shall we begin the rehearsal anytime this month?

John rolls his eyes and summons the dancers. They go through the dance a few times. Sherlock’s an excellent dancer and falls into step with the others in record time. His lithe body moving around the stage in the sensual manner the dance requires, makes John’s mouth salivate considerably. 

“Alright. One last time, then you can all take a few hours break and some lunch,” John states.

***

While the other dancers have lunch, Sherlock changes out of his costume and sends a text to Alice’s fiancé, Richard. They meet in Richard’s office, and Sherlock’s shown the little evidence Richard’s got. There are three messages. All of them spelled with cut out letters from The Times.

“How do you know it’s The Times?” Richard asks astounded.

“Please,” Sherlock drawls and rolls his eyes, but doesn’t elaborate.

Richard doesn’t pursue the matter. Mrs Hudson’s done her job at least. She knows he hates pestering and nagging when he states the obvious. The obvious to him, that is.

“Any suspects?” Sherlock asks, not too hopeful.

Richard surprises him. He’s actually quite astute.

“Eleanor, Cindy or Taylor,” he states with confidence.

Sherlock looks attentively at him.

“Eleanor is jealous of Alice getting the job. She was certain she’d get it, but she’s not half as good a dancer as my Alice,” Richard says affectionately.

“Alright. What about the others?” Sherlock prompts impatiently .

“Well, Cindy’s just a bitch on a regular basis, so that’s why I mentioned her. Not lightly her, but you said to be thorough when you texted me earlier.”

“Quite so,” Sherlock agrees.

“Then there’s Taylor. She…um…how shall I put it? She thinks of herself…well at a level above the rest of us. Her name isn’t actually Taylor at all, but she doesn’t respond when she’s called by her birth name, which is Anna, by the way. You see, she’s auditioned for Taylor Swift. It’s a few years back now, but after that, she started calling herself Taylor, and she’s totally weird. Doesn’t have to mean anything, of course.”

Richard trails off when he sees Sherlock’s blank face.

“You know who Taylor Swift is, yes?” he asks cautiously.

“Why would I? Is she, I assume it’s a she, relevant to this case?” Sherlock asks curiously.

“Er…no…I guess not,” Richard stutters.

“Well, then. Where can I find this Eleanor?”

***

“You’ve lost your mind, Watson,” John mutters to himself.

After five days of rehearsal, the show’s looking promising, but John’s predicament is of a more personal matter. He’s totally besotted with Sherlock Holmes, and that’s a bit not good. John’s never been one to hide his feelings very well, and Sherlock seems to notice every tiny glance John cast Sherlock’s way. Not that Sherlock’s been dismissive, the opposite, rather. But it’s highly unprofessional, and John’s a man of principles, so there’s that.

“John,” a familiar baritone purrs in his ear.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John exclaims.

John had been lost in thought and hadn’t been watching where he was going. He had stopped right outside the women’s dressing room and out of nowhere, Sherlock emerged. Not entirely true. He’d actually come out of said room.

“What have you been doing in there?” John asks suspiciously.

“Investigating,” Sherlock mutters while texting rapidly on his phone.

“Invest…”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, John,” Sherlock snaps.

He looks at John with narrowed eyes.

“I’ll explain it to you over dinner, if you’re so inclined. You’re dying to know what I’m up to, and you can finally answer my question from the day we met. Meet me at the entrance at seven.”

And with that Sherlock’s gone, leaving John speechless.

*** 

Waiting for the time to pass, was agony, and John obviously knew time didn’t go slower than normal just because he was eagerly anticipating what might occur during dinner with Sherlock. Nevertheless, time seemed to have stopped momentarily. When he turned up at the entrance, he had to wait another ten minutes before Sherlock showed.

“Shall we?” Sherlock said without apologising for being late.

He was texting at his phone again, in an unfathomable speed. Just as John was about to ask if his company was warranted at all, Sherlock pocketed his phone and stopped outside an Italian restaurant.

“After you, John,” Sherlock said and held the door open for John to enter first. 

It smelled delicious of Italian cuisine and the interior was cosy and not as posh as John had anticipated. They were shown to a secluded table with a chequered table cloth, large wine glasses, and a lit candle. They ordered wine and pasta, and Sherlock asked his question again.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

Instead of answering, John asked a question of his own.

“How did you know?”

Sherlock’s rapid deduction made John gape. Before he could praise the precise analysis, their waiter brought the wine and shortly after the pasta. John was famished, so he decided to eat first and ask further questions later.

Sherlock wasn’t much of an eater, so between his nibbling on the garlic bread and rigatoni, he told John about why he’d been inside the women’s dressing room.

“So, if you solve the case before the final, you’ll be heading back to London?” John asks with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Normally yes. The other dancers aren’t dependent on me. However, I have other interests than the case,” Sherlock says.

Suddenly he looks shy, something John didn’t think Sherlock was even capable of. The wine makes John relax and he feels a bit bold, so he reaches over the table for Sherlock’s hand. While stroking Sherlock’s knuckles with his thumb, his eyes meet Sherlock’s and the look in those cerulean eyes, makes John shiver.

“Care to elaborate?” John asks hoarsely.

“Mm, after dessert,” Sherlock answers. 

Decided to pay a little homage to Eurovision from last night, but I've been struggling all day with this after 4 hours of sleep, so go easy on me...

@totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @missdeliadili @topsyturvy-turtely

[lisbeth-kk]

May 11 prompt: stars (Thanks @notjustamumj)

Planned to perfection

It’s their last evening in Sussex before going back to London. Seeing Sherlock relaxed and content, not once bored during the whole week, is still something John marvels in. He wants to make the last hours special. John’s planned a little thing, nothing fancy, but he knows Sherlock will appreciate it.

The garden outside the cottage is fairly large, with a wisteria tree, a few cherry and apple trees, flowers in every colour known to man, small bushes and at the far end, bee hives. That’s were Sherlock currently is. Saying his farewell to these creatures he’s so fascinated by.

John’s lit candles and placed them on the table by the large daybed. A bottle of champagne is cooling in an ice bucket and on a glass platter, chocolatecovered strawberries are waiting to be feasted on.

Sherlock’s approaching John and his eyes blink rapidly. He’s been too spellbound by the bees to have noticed John’s activity.

«John, what’s this?» he asks puzzled.

John looks at him and smiles that radiating smile which makes Sherlock warm with sentiment. He takes Sherlock’s hands, bring them to his lips and kisses every knuckle reverently.

«I just wanted to make our last night a little special. It’s been such a lovely holiday and it deserves a proper finale,» John says.

Sherlock bows his head, grip John’s shoulders and kisses him. Softly at first, then tilting his head slightly to deepen the kiss. His tongue finds John’s mouth open and willing, and when John’s tongue meets his, it sends sparkles down Sherlock’s spine. They’re both a bit breathless when they part.

«I love you,» Sherlock murmurs and places his forehead on John’s.

«I love you too,» John says. «Now, come on. Let’s indulge in the gastronomic treats I’ve prepared.»

John leaves it to Sherlock to open the champagne, which he obviously does impeccably. He fills the flutes, puts the bottle back in the ice bucket and hands one of the flutes to John. The wine is exquisite with small bubbles and a hint of biscuits and slightly citrusy.

«Perfect,» John states, and Sherlock concurs.

They seat themselves comfortably against the cushions and John places the platter with the strawberries between them. With an ardent expression, John picks one up, lifts his hand and leads the treat to Sherlock’s mouth. He parts his lips and takes the offered sweet. Before John withdraws his hand, Sherlock’s tongue licks at John’s fingers, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

«Jesus,» John whispers.

Sherlock reciprocates the favour and John makes good use of his own tongue on those long delicate fingers, which elicits a moan from Sherlock’s throat. He’s reluctant to remove his fingers, but John just pulls away with a grin.

«Later, sweetheart,» he promises and pours some more champagne into their flutes.

It’s getting dark, and just as John hoped, the sky above them is filled with twinkling stars. He scoots closer to Sherlock, the platter’s long gone and the bottle’s almost empty.

«Lie down with me, and look at the stars for a while» John prompts.

They lie hand in hand and revels in the beautiful sky.

«Thank you for this, John,» Sherlock says quietly and squeezes John’s hand.

John props himself up on an elbow, looking down at Sherlock. He brushes away an unruly curl from Sherlock’s forehead and just takes in the sight of the beautiful man. The temptation to bend down to kiss the irresistable neck is suddenly too strong and Sherlock’s evident approval tells John all he needs to know.

«I want to make love to you,» John whispers against Sherlock’s skin.

«God yes, John, please.»

A little precious moment for you lovely people 😘

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