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mojavebluez · 5 months ago

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bound by blood - a bbc sherlock / johnlock fanfic

chpt. i

John once said to Sherlock: “I’ve seen people die before. I thought I’d never sleep again. I’ll sleep fine tonight.”

fic summary | John has killed before - but not like this. John would do anything to keep it a secret. To keep his family safe. Sherlock would do anything to solve a case. And he seems to have taken a keen interest in this one.

tags/warnings | BBC Sherlock, johnlock, parentlock, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, semi-slow burn, mild smut, violence/ injury, substance abuse

words | 5.6k

a/n | it’s been a while! I can’t say how long this will be but I’m on my holiday now so I’ll have more time to write. Each chapter will be about 5.6k words I’ll try and get part 2 out asap but I just wanted to see how this was received first. Enjoy :))

ao3 edition

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"You've got to tell him."

"I can't tell him, Mary."

"He would tell you."

Silence. "I know."

"He can help you."

"No one can help me."

—

"Morning, John." Sherlock called from the kitchen as soon as John set foot in the hall.

"Oh, morning, Sherlock." John stifled a yawn and shuffled into the room. He tied his tattered dressing gown around his waist in a lacklustre knot before meeting Sherlock, a regular ritual. No one needed to see his pyjamas - they'd definitely had better days.

"How long have you been awake?" John probed, sweeping a mug of coffee off the table. He gingerly took a sip, but set it back down again after realising it tasted faintly of decomposition.

Sherlock didn't turn around. He was wearing only his pyjama bottoms and a worn pair of slippers. This was nothing new; John had seen Sherlock in various stages of undressed before, even near nudity (in Buckingham palace, where else). So why did he feel the need to avert his eyes when he turned around?

He avoided the sight of Sherlock's bare chest, which filled his vision, instead smiling up at him and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Er, a couple hours, I think?" He whisked back around again without even glancing at him.

John sighed internally. What's wrong with you? It wasn't as if he was naked. He must just be tired still. His thoughts were muddled, nothing made much sense to him right now. Coffee.

"Jesus," he pulled his chair back and walked to the sink, "coffee?"

John didn't know why he bothered asking. Sherlock didn't bother to shake his head in response. "Made some," he carried on clattering about at the counter, "try it."

John cast a sideways glance at the mug. "I did."

Sherlock twisted around, eyes narrowing. "And?" It's like he couldn't help but bring his fingertips together in their signature diamond shape.

"Vile."

"Hmm," Sherlock grunted and eyed John briefly before continuing with whatever he was doing. "I'm not sure why you're surprised, John. I'm always up early."

"Yes, but it's seven. A couple hours ago could mean anything." John glanced at his watch.

Sherlock looked up, seeming to realise something. "Oh, it is seven. Why are you up so early?"

"Sherlock," John let his head fall back in exasperation. "Are you kidding me?"

Sherlock drew his eyebrows together. "Uh, I don't think so."

"Work. I'm going to work. You know, the thing I do three days a week."

Sherlock stared at him like he thought he was lying. His eyes were unfocused, as they usually were when he was working something out. "Oh?"

"Yes, Sherlock. That's where I go all day." At this point, John was leant on the counter, arms folded, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. The smell almost masked the ever-present aroma of Sherlock's failed experiments that coated the air like London smog. John wondered how Sherlock had managed before he came along - his living space must have bordered on uninhabitable.

Not that John tidied that often. In fact, he regularly wondered how the place managed to stay as clean as it was. He suspected Mrs Hudson might have had something to do with it - though she'd only admit it if she was in an argumentative mood with Sherlock. She usually brought up the, 'I do everything around here!' when it suited.

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, peering into a Petri dish. John wasn't sure how he could look at such off putting things at this hour. Sometimes he really wondered if he was human.

The coffee had come to boil and John poured two mugs full of the black stuff. One milky, two sugars, one black, one sugar. He sighed loudly to himself before slipping Sherlock the black mug across the table and leaving to get ready. Sherlock must wonder where all the coffee came from.

John stopped still, suddenly remembering something. He ducked his head back in the doorway, noticing that Sherlock was sipping the coffee, unsuspecting. "Oh, and you can forget me all you like, but just don't forget Rosie. She's asleep upstairs."

Sherlock looked up at that. His jaw had fallen in mock-offence. "John, how dare you."

John smiled and shook his head, walking back out the room as he had before. Sherlock yelled something from the table, along the lines of, "Besides, Rosie is far less forgettable than you."

Sherlock didn't say goodbye that morning. John wasn't offended - he was used to it. Still, he called out his own bellowing farewell from the front door and stepped into the street, peering up at the window of their flat as he turned right.

He wasn't at all surprised to see nothing but the swaying curtains. He wasn't even sure what he expected to see - perhaps the familiar figure of Sherlock, waving him off. Smiling down at him. Who was he kidding? Sherlock had never, ever done that.

John was a little disturbed with himself the whole journey to work. He'd woken up half an hour earlier to give himself enough time to walk there (he had given up on cycling a long time ago, much to Sherlock's amusement), but he wasn't feeling the usual benefits of the walk at all.

He couldn't shake the image of Sherlock, bare chested, holding a vial of something brown, standing over him. Every time he blinked it was there. He was there.

I'm going fucking crazy, John thought to himself, I need to go on Tinder or something.

He nodded at this idea once and pulled his phone out of his coat pocket. He swiped to the final page, searching for the icon. He eventually found it, thumb hovering over the screen. He slowed his walking pace, thoughts ticking, barely registering the people that shoved past him in the usual London manner.

He completely stopped when he realised what he was doing. On the fringes of his mind, reflected on the concrete slabs, he could see Mary, smiling at him, holding their child. He waved it away, not even caring that he looked like a smackhead. In its place, the woman on the bus, Eurus, smirking from across the aisle. John pressed a firm hand to his forehead.

I'm seriously losing the plot now. He hadn't thought of either of them for months, but somehow, the images always appeared one way or another. He knew he couldn't just stop meeting people - not even Mary would want that for him, he knew. But he couldn't allow himself to. Every time the prospect came up, internally or externally, it was like a brick wall slamming down over his mind.

He wasn't sure what it was. Rosie, maybe. The idea alone that she would grow up without her mother was troubling enough. He knew that he didn't want her growing up with a collage of different women in her life - it didn't feel right to him. No, he needed to be stable for her. Steady.

But it wasn't just that. He couldn't connect the dots, not now, in the middle of a busy street. Still, the answer floated somewhere in his headspace, though he couldn't grasp it. He'd mull it over later - at work maybe - if it was quiet.

I need to start waking up later. The whole morning had been a mess. It was Sherlock's fault, entirely, of course. If it wasn't for him, his skin, utterly stupidly smooth, way above him...

Christ. John slapped himself, hard.

—

Work dragged on, as per usual. The waiting list was long, far too long, leaving John no time to search his brain for what he'd been missing earlier.

At half five on the dot, he leapt from his chair and tidied his room up for tomorrow. His phone buzzed from inside his coat pocket and John, unsure what it could be, eyed it from the cupboard. It stopped for a minute or two then buzzed once again.

John exhaled loudly and stalked across the room, several possibilities crossing his mind: Sherlock with a new case, Sherlock with a Rosie crisis, Sherlock with a general anecdote, or his mother.

Instead, he saw: We still on 4 2nite? See u at the Stag if so - M

Then: Gonna get WRECKEDDD

Shit! John had forgotten about that. It was Friday, and he had agreed, in a slightly more motivated moment, to meet a couple of his friends for drinks. And because he'd forgotten (in the chaos of the morning, Sherlock) his wallet at home, he'd have to walk back to Baker Street before he went out.

He stood briefly with his head in his hands, willing any motivation to rise. He really could not picture himself drinking tonight, let alone with a gang of friends he hadn't seen in months. All he wanted was to head home and watch a Sean Connery film with Sherlock, with Rosie dozing off in his lap. That was his usual Friday routine. And he liked it.

Eventually, by twenty-to, the motivation came. He seized his coat off the hook and walked out of his room, waving bye to his receptionist as quickly as possible to avoid any conversation. She managed to slip out a barrage of questions about his evening, his weekend, his sister (how does she know about Harriet?) despite John shaking his head. He managed to make it out with not a single question answered.

He marched down the street in a manner that resembled his military training. It was fascinating, really, to see the ways those years abroad and in battle shaped him. Sometimes he was truly astounded with himself. Like the way a gun felt in his hand - like it was supposed to be there, like an extension of himself. There was a reason John was the one that carried the gun and Sherlock didn't. He much preferred target practice on Mrs Hudson's walls.

He reached Baker Street in half the time it had taken him this morning. His head was empty of the previous things that had bothered him - though he suspected that would change once he set foot inside. He had no idea what to expect every time he came home.

He only trusted Sherlock with Rosie if Mrs Hudson was in the building. Thankfully, he had created a work schedule that benefited them all and allowed John to work part-time. Working with Sherlock could probably sustain them all, but the consulting industry was temperamental, and John knew the importance of keeping a steady job.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Sherlock, he just got carried away with himself sometimes. For all his supposed hatred for humanity, he was pretty good with kids. John suspected it was because Sherlock acted like one himself most of the time - he knew what to say to them. Especially Rosie.

John was the opposite. He'd never been good with kids. His childhood seemed like a distant thing, something he had no doubt experienced, but a very, very long time ago. Rosie was different. John supposed that was fatherhood - it changed the person you thought you were, and replaced you with something completely different. An imposter. But a welcome one.

John knocked lightly and let himself in, the smell of home washing over him. He was greeted by Mrs Hudson, who was on her way down the stairs with a basket of folded laundry on her hip.

"Oh- I told you not to bother with our washing anymore." John sighed as he wiped his shoes on the welcome mat.

"Well, I don't see either of you washing it. How clean's that shirt? Give it to me when you're done with it."

"We- well, alright. If you insist..." John shrugged off his coat, "how have they been, by the way?"

"Lovely, fine. The things I hear him telling her though, John! Murder and all that. You need to give him a good talking to." She made a disgusted noise in her throat then pottered off to her flat, shutting the door curtly behind her.

John just shook his head. What made Mrs Hudson think Sherlock would listen to him, John wasn't at all sure. In fact, he'd love to hear her reasons.

As John ascended up the stairs, two familiar voices (one distinct, one babbling) became clearer. He stopped halfway and shut his eyes, trying to make out the conversation. He didn't know if they were aware of his presence yet, but he tried to be as quiet as possible.

"...quite short, isn't he?" then, "...obviously he's been off with her...needs to get sacked..."

Once John reached the top of the stairs, he could make out music wafting into the hall out the open door. Familiar music.

"Sherlock! You're letting Rosie watch Top Gun?"

Sherlock didn't turn to look at him, instead waving a hand in his general direction. "Yes, John. You said it was your favourite - I wondered if it might be hereditary."

John scoffed. Rosie turned from the TV, making a pleased noise at the sight of John by the door. She got up to greet him, steadying herself on the arm of John's armchair. Sherlock moved to help her but leant back again when she toddled off by herself.

"She seemed to be enjoying it. Not for me. A bit too..." he made an odd gesture in the air.

"I'm not sure what that," John jabbed at Sherlock, "means, but I'm going to pretend I didn't hear it."

Sherlock just hummed, unable to tear his gaze from the TV. His eyes lingered extensively on Tom Cruise's six pack.

John sighed, holding Rosie's pudgy hand as she looked up at him with wide blue eyes. "Any clients?"

Sherlock nodded, keeping an eye on the TV. "Yes, four."

John raised his eyebrows. "And?"

"Boring, boring," Sherlock stabbed at the air with a slender finger, "okay, and boring."

"What was the okay one?"

Sherlock pressed his fingers together. "Convinced her husband was a goat-man hybrid controlled by the devil, or something or other."

John was slightly stunned. "Well?"

"Carbon monoxide." Sherlock didn't elaborate.

John just widened his eyes and nodded, at a loss for words. Rosie reached up to him, wanting to be picked up, but John made no move to do so. He stared at the TV with his eyes glazed over. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You're going somewhere."

John snapped out of his daze. "Correct."

"You don't want to."

"Also correct."

"Let me guess," Sherlock stood up nimbly out of his armchair, "the pub with Mike."

John nodded, swiping a hand over his face. He had no idea how Sherlock could know, but he wasn't interested in finding out.

"And others." Sherlock frowned slightly, bending down to pick Rosie up. He held her somewhat awkwardly as though he still wasn't used to the gesture, but she didn't seem to mind. She squealed happily in his arms.

"Yeah, a couple guys I haven't seen since the wedding." John's voice cracked a little on the last word. He hoped Sherlock hadn't noticed.

"Well," Sherlock adjusted Rosie, "don't worry about us. It'll be an early night I think." He smiled at her.

John wasn't convinced. "Sure." He paused, looking down at his shoes. "It's not that. They'll ask about Mary, and..."

"And?"

"I really don't want to be hungover this weekend." John frowned at Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed to be considering something. He set Rosie down, who wandered off to watch the end of Top Gun. "Well, I could come with you."

When John pulled a face, he continued quickly to make his point. "Make sure you only consume an acceptable amount, redirect conversation, et cetera..." He watched John's expression carefully.

John worried his lip. Usually, inviting Sherlock to any friendly alcohol-driven setting was not a great idea. Especially considering the last time they had gotten considerably drunk together, they'd ended up in a jail cell by the end of it. Even worse than that, the last time these guys had seen Sherlock was during his rather distracted best man's speech. John winced.

"Well," John began, "I'm not sure. What about Rosie?" He looked over at her. She was standing barely an inch away from the TV, mesmerised.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "We can put her to bed and Mrs Hudson can keep an eye on her. We won't be out all night." He smiled as though he had already won the conversation.

He had. "Alright, Sherlock. You win."

He turned to walk out the door, en route to his bedroom. He couldn't exactly show up to the pub in business-casual. He called behind him, "I don't even know why you want to go. You hate this sort of thing."

"Just looking out for you, John." Sherlock said in an odd tone.

"Hm," John hummed sceptically. He wasn't convinced, but he also didn't have the energy to make Sherlock explain himself. He knew he wouldn't be able to get the reason out of him.

John proceeded up the stairs and began getting himself ready. He picked his usual jeans-and-jumper ensemble and re-combed his hair. Sherlock, of course, decided to wear a suit of sorts - him and Mycroft had that in common, at least. He went for the slightly more casual choice of a partly unbuttoned white shirt, however, which was the closest he could ever get to the concept.

It took them all but twenty minutes, most of it being John contemplating messaging Mike about the new addition. He opened and closed messages about fifty times before deciding against it. Showing up unannounced with Sherlock was not John's smartest idea, but it was better than the alternative of having to deal with an awkward text conversation. No doubt Mike would try to wriggle out of it somehow.

"And you're sure you're okay with it?" John asked Mrs Hudson by the front door.

"Oh of course, don't worry," she assured them, "you boys deserve a date."

Sherlock smiled at the ground, but John intercepted. "It's not- oh, you know what? Never mind." He shook his head at nothing in particular.

Mrs Hudson's faint voice followed them out the door, muttering something about "live and let live". John decided to ignore it.

"I really don't know why you're doing this, Sherlock." John commented.

"Like I said, John," he looked straight ahead, "I'm just looking out for you. That's what friends do." He smiled a strange little smirk that John didn't miss.

"You're so..." John trailed off.

"Thoughtful?"

"Wasn't the word I was going to use, no." John weaved through the crowds, trying not to lose Sherlock.

Sherlock met him again and turned right, John jogging slightly to catch up with his long stride. A sign that indicated the pub, nestled between several terrace-style shops, jutted out from the wall. John stopped suddenly.

"How did you know where we were going?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, sweeping his coat behind him as he stepped into the entrance. He held the door open for John. "After you."

John mumbled his thanks. He braced himself for the sight of his friends, no doubt at the bar, and their reactions to his companion. Once they caught sight of John, they all whooped, moving to greet him with their arms out. Their celebrations faded when their gaze rested upon Sherlock, who stood assertively behind John with his hands in his pockets.

John sighed. The next few hours would be interesting.

—

"So you're telling me you don't know who the queen is?"

Everyone was at least four beers deep now. The pub had gotten busier with each passing hour, and the five of them were piled in a booth, elbow to elbow.

The whole place had a warm glow, the ceiling strung with exposed bulbs and bunting. The feel of the decor was very clearly industrial, every wall being exposed brick or faded red wallpaper. It smelled like overpriced beer.

"No," Sherlock replied to one of John's friends who sat opposite. John was squeezed between Sherlock and another one of his pals. John could feel every word that Sherlock said like a deep vibration, and every breath he took warmed his neck.

John was finding it very hard to concentrate.

Especially because Sherlock's leg was pressed right up against his own, and John couldn't bear to move an inch.

"How can you not know that?" John's friend looked around, baffled, his beer sloshing onto the table. John peeled his coat off the already sticky surface to avoid the backsplash.

"It's not important," Sherlock replied.

The whole evening had gone far better than Sherlock had anticipated - each of his friends had taken a great interest in Sherlock's work, all barraging him with questions. They, of course, also had questions about the wedding and Sherlock's speech, but he had skilfully diverted the conversation. Whether that was for John's sake or his own, John wasn't sure.

In fact, John had barely gotten a word in edgewise. He was grateful for that, though - the beer had made him drowsy rather than buzzed. He had to splash his face a couple times in the bathroom to keep himself awake. Sherlock seemed to notice this.

Sherlock nudged John's foot under the table. John, who had his face in his hand and his eyes half-closed, looked up to see everyone staring at him.

"Oh, sorry," he blinked. "What was that?"

"I said," his friend opposite smirked, "are you seeing anyone?"

John paused, a little stunned. He had no idea when this topic had arisen. Sherlock cleared his throat. "They asked me, but I told them I'm married to my work."

His friends laughed at that, which Sherlock looked quite confused about. "Not at the moment, no," was all John could manage.

John noticed a crease between Sherlock's brows. He didn't say anything, though.

"Really?" Another friend joined in, "have you tried any apps? I met my..."

Their voices dissipated into the noise of the pub. John was barely able to concentrate on the conversation anymore. He could feel Sherlock's body heat rolling off him in waves, warming his whole right side. It made him even more tired. It took all his strength not to close his eyes and let his head fall.

Sherlock made the whole table explode into another round of booming laughter, jolting John awake. He groaned and swiped a hand over his face. No one seemed to take note. Except from Sherlock.

Sherlock stood up suddenly, palms pressed on the table. He thrust a handful of coins onto the table from his coat pocket. "Another round gents?"

They all cheered in response, apart from John. Sherlock seized him under the arm and excused them both to the bar. He swept up the coins and thrust them into John's hand as he dragged him along. John was a little dazed.

"Feeling sleepy?" Sherlock said sarcastically, holding John's shoulder.

"Yes, Sherlock, I am," John looked around at the crowd. He could barely hear Sherlock's voice. "Why, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Why what?"

"Why are you doing all this?" John clenched his jaw. "Switching on the charm?"

"I don't know what you mean," Sherlock said.

"Yes you do," John mumbled. "You hate going out. Every time I introduce you to a friend you insist on making sure they never want to see me again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically. John saw this as a sign to carry on. "And suddenly you're cracking jokes? Trying to impress them?"

He was cut off by Sherlock ordering another round of beers. He shouted over the noise at the bartender. John waited, mouth in a tight line, his first clenched on the bar.

When he was done, John continued. "So what's this about, huh?"

"You're exhausted, John," Sherlock dragged his eyes to meet him. "Imagining things."

"You're kidding, right?" John scoffed. "No, that's not it, is it?" John searched Sherlock's face.

"If you must know! It's for a case," Sherlock hissed through his teeth. He picked up two glasses of beer, gesturing at John to get the others.

John didn't budge. He stood, frozen. "Unbelievable," he watched Sherlock with his mouth agape. "You could have told me. Could have said something."

"Like what?"

"Something!" John pinched his nose bridge. "You barged in on my one meeting with my friends in months! Years! For a case!"

"You didn't want to go anyway. I was doing you a favour." Sherlock moved to walk back to the table, but John grabbed him by his coat sleeve and dragged him back.

"So what is it, then? Huh? Tell me, is one of them a murderer?" He said sarcastically, but his voice held no jest.

Sherlock inclined his head. "Maybe. I'd hardly call them your friends, though, certainly not two out of the three..."

"You know what?" John was barely inches from his face now. He unknowingly still had a fistful of Sherlock's coat. "I don't want to hear it. Keep your deductions to yourself, Sherlock Holmes."

John let him go. Sherlock seemed to be at a loss for words. He was still holding the beer glasses, though a considerable amount was running down his arms.

John spoke for him. "I'm going home." He grabbed a beer glass out of Sherlock's hand and raised it to his mouth, downing it in four gulps. He wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve, eyes shining. "Take your time."

Sherlock called his name as John left the pub, weaving through the groups of people. He let the door slam behind him. The night swallowed him whole as he stomped down the street, his shoes slapping against the pavement.

He had no idea what time it was. The street was empty. He looked up at the black sky, stars like white-hot pinpricks scattered sparsely across. He shrunk back into his jacket once the cold bit into him again.

He could see his breath fogging the air before him, but he couldn't help himself from gasping slightly. He just couldn't believe Sherlock's nerve. He knew that his sudden interest in socialising was odd, anyway. It all seemed to make sense now.

John wasn't even sure why he was surprised. It wasn't as if this was the first time Sherlock had done something like this. Taking off in the night, leaving mid conversation, disappearing for hours with no explanation… the subconscious list went on.

It seemed to be fading as of recently. Sherlock, a man who detested routine, had settled in to 'family' life well. But John couldn't help but notice the way his leg bounced constantly, or the increasing quantity of stabbed paper on the mantelpiece.

John felt guilty, in a way. Sometimes, at night, when he couldn't sleep, his mind wandered to a time when it was just the two of them. Never sleeping, solving one case after the next, leaving whenever.

John had reassured Sherlock that he could still solve cases without him. Sherlock said that was ridiculous. He tried that before, remember? And it ended the same way it had began: Holmes and Watson.

John huffed into his hands in an attempt to warm them. It barely worked. All he could hear was the wind hissing past his ears and his footfall on the pavement.

Until they were accompanied by something else. Someone else's steps, falling in time with his own. John ignored them for a while, his mind still racing with thoughts of Sherlock.

They grew closer, barely six feet behind him now. John glanced back but only saw a figure dressed in black, the hood of their parka pulled over their head. They seemed to be staring at the floor behind John's feet.

John move aside to let them pass despite half the pavement being empty. They didn't make any attempt to move or quicken their pace. John felt an increasing uneasiness in his stomach.

John decided to take a random turn off the main road, wanting to see if the man followed. There was no clear way back to Baker Street now unless he went past the river.

His bad feeling only got worse when John reached a break in the houses. An alleyway bathed in darkness stretched to his left. John was about to break into a run when the person grabbed him by the shoulder and thrust him into the alley.

John slammed against a brick wall. "Hey! The fuck are you doing?" His voice echoed across the empty street, but the person slapped a hand over his mouth.

John couldn't make out the person's face. Their hood cast a shadow over their features, making them indistinguishable. John mumbled, yelling, against his palm, readying his leg to kick out.

"Do you know Mary Watson?" The person hissed. John froze. A gun had been removed from his pocket and was pressed against John's temple. He flattened his hands on the wall.

They threw back their hood. The person holding the gun to John was a young man, barely twenty-five, with a youthful face. His eyes, however, held something dark. He stared at John with a bitter distaste.

The man moved his hand slightly. John, far too terrified to speak, kept his mouth clamped firmly shut.

The man didn't like that. "I said," he pressed the gun further, bruising John's face, "do you know Mary Watson?" He brought his face so close John could feel his breath.

"She's my wife." John gasped. He fought to get the words out, before realising his mistake.

The man brought a hard fist to the side of John's face. John spluttered, pain clouding his vision. What did this guy want with him? With Mary? This wasn't just a mugging. That punch was personal.

He watched as John rose back up to his full height. John clenched his fist, prepared to throw back his own punch. The man was too quick - he kicked out John's legs from underneath him, causing John to whack his head on the concrete below.

Spots danced across his eyes. He groaned, barely registering the next few kicks to his gut. The man spat out assaults. "It was your bitch wife that did it! I'll kill her!"

John scrambled against the wall. "What do you-" he gasped, trying to rise to his feet, "want?" He finally choked out.

The man smirked. He didn't rush to kick John back down. "Does AGRA ring any bells? Or did she keep that one quiet?"

Just the acronym made John's stomach drop. He hadn't heard that in a very long time. And the emotions he already associated with it, even without the beatings, were bad enough.

"Your wife betrayed them. Betrayed my dad. He was tortured to death because of her."

Through the pain, John fought to recall anything Mary might have said to him before about this. The process was painful enough. Though, there were so many secrets, so many lies, that John couldn't even be sure if her stories were true.

"No? Nothing?" The man drew closer now. The gun was still in his hand, dangling from his palm.

John waited. Slowly, he rose to his feet, using the wall behind him as support. The man just chuckled to himself. This was his first mistake.

John flexed his fingers. Then, rather unexpectedly, his fist connected with the man's jaw. He staggered back but regained his footing, eyes misted with abhorrence. He ran to hold John against the wall, but he moved in time, instead twisting round to grab the man by the back of his neck.

He was strong, but John was stronger. John held him there, cheek against the brick wall. "You're insane."

"You must be," the man spat, "if you married her."

John couldn't help himself. He pulled the man's head back, and smashed it into the wall. He cried out, trying to reach for John, but he couldn't. John pinned his hands behind his back.

"I don't even know who you are!" John yelled in his ear. His vision was hazy, all he could feel was hatred. Hatred for this stranger, who somehow knew all about him, all about his wife. Who wasn't even alive.

"You will," he hissed. "Ask Mary about me. Ask her about my father."

John clenched his jaw. "She's dead."

The man's eyes widened, his black irises twinkling. “Ha!" He gasped.

John tightened his grip on his neck, but the man only winced. He grit his teeth so hard he thought they would shatter. Everything that had been filling his thoughts was gone now - all he could see, all he could register, was this disgusting man.

John wanted to kill him.

The man grinned with bloody teeth. “Though, I wish I could’ve done it myself.”

Something inside of John snapped. His breathing quickened, heart thrumming in his ear.

The man’s head met the wall. Again. And again.

The noises he made filled John’s ears - he hadn’t known, then, that he’d hear those screams for the rest of his life.

John didn’t stop. Not when the wall was splattered with blood, not when a trickle of the slick red stuff tumbled down his face, staining John’s coat. Not when the man went limp in his hand.

John’s chest heaved; his head buzzed with static so loud he couldn’t hear the words the man was spluttering out. John fought to focus, to read his lips:

“I’ll say hi to her in Hell.”

John let go. The man slumped into a bloody heap on the floor, breathing rattling breaths. John tried not to look at what he had done - the man’s nose was a crimson pulp on his fractured face. The wall was stained with John’s actions. His choices.

John once said to Sherlock, a long, long time ago: “I’ve seen men die before. I thought I’d never sleep again—“

John raised his foot, and brought it down, hard, on the man’s face. The heavy breathing ceased. His eyes slowly glazed over, gaping at the scattered-salt sky. John had seen this look before. More times than he could count.

“—I’ll sleep fine tonight.”

END OF CHPT. i

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jobooksncoffee · 2 years ago

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This morning I noticed there are 500 comments on my story “Will You Take Me Home”. That is a personal high! WYTMH is the first story I posted and the baby of my heart! And thank you @missdeliadili for the latest string of comments! It was so much fun to see you going through it all! The spectacular art is a gift from my beta @loveismyrevolution by the fantastic @johix . It depicts a turnaround scene for John. (yes, that is Rosie, and there is a reason why her hair -and Sherlock’s - is so short!) Thank you to all it’s readers and commenters for their amazing, inspiring words and their constant support! ♥️♥️

#WYTMH #johnlock #happy ending #parentlock #ten year old rosie #separation #angst #friends #a dj #Mystrade #the stamfords #molly and?#mrs hudson

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cupidford · 2 years ago

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Indefinite Lines by ArwaMachine

Sherlock and John find themselves faced with a series of seemingly disparate cases, one involving murdered children and one involving ghosties that Rosie tries to help solve. Except the cases are growing increasingly connected, increasingly personal.

This is an amazing, amazing work - I had a whole page of quotes to rec for this. This love letter doesn't do this fic justice. Just such a great and memorable read!

Johnlock Love Letters #2308

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swissmissficrecs · 2 years ago

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Word count: 14,378 Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Characters: John Watson, Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Sherlock never comes back after Reichenbach, Older John and Sherlock, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Divorce, Parenting, Starting Over, Harvard, POV John Watson, Romance, Surprises Summary:

Sherlock Holmes has been gone for twenty long years, time enough for John Watson's daughter to make it all the way to Harvard University.

======

Rec: A highly intriguing premise that doesn’t disappoint for a second. Basically, Sherlock never returned after leaping to his “death,” and John believed him dead, went on to marry Mary, and raised Rosie. The tags already reveal that Mary is now a thing of the past, but as to what happened to Sherlock in the intervening years, I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but it’s probably not what you might think. (It certainly wasn’t my first thought!) I really liked the maturity of this story and how real it felt, a far cry from mind-controlling sisters and secret prisons. Just two men whose lives can never be complete without each other, trying to make the best of what fate dealt them... and maybe a little nudge from someone who can’t help meddling.

#westernredcedar #travel #10k #first time #post-reichenbach #angst #kidfic #parentlock #romance

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a-victorian-girl · 6 months ago

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OMG Lis!! Now you and Cali made my cry!!

May Prompts (22) Night

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 22)

I'm so sorry. Go get those tissues. I've used all of mine.

Summary: Rosie gets devastated news, and all she can think of is how her Papa is coping.

Twenty-Two Years Old

When Dad called with the news, my first thought was quite irrational: oh no, we’re never going to celebrate our twentieth anniversary! The second thought hit me with force and made me breathless: how is Papa doing?

“I’ll hop on the next…”

“No need, sweetheart. A car will pick you up in approximately fifteen minutes,” Dad assured me, and that’s when I started to cry.

***

Uncle Myc stood and waited for me outside the car when I ran to the kerb. His arms opened and I collapsed against him, heartbroken and totally devastated. He didn’t try to comfort me with words of nonsense, like it’s going to be ok, because he knew it would be a long time before any of us would be fine after this sudden and tragic loss.

“She seemed fine yesterday,” I told uncle Myc on the way home.

“Yes, so I have been…informed,” he sighed.

“How is he?” I asked, terrified of the answer.

“As expected.”

“Rock bottom,” I mumbled, and felt my throat tighten painfully from withheld tears.

“Indeed,” uncle agreed gravely.

***

It was worse than I expected. Papa’s loud voice boomed like a signal horn from upstairs when I locked us in.

“How could you not have seen the signs? You’re a bloody doctor, John!”

The words were spit like venom. I couldn’t discern Dad’s reply, but his voice was calm. He knew Papa wasn’t angry at him, but he needed to vent his sorrow, shock and devastation at someone. Luckily for everyone involved, Papa had chosen the right person for such an onslaught.

Before I climbed the stairs, I looked over at Nana’s door.

Gone. Dead. You’ll never see her again. There’ll be no more Christmas baking. She’ll never scold Papa for being petulant anymore. England has fallen.

The seventeen steps had never been so steep, my body never so heavy, and at the same time it felt hollow.

“Nearly there, Rosamund,” uncle Myc murmured from behind me.

I woke from my daze and realised that the shouting had stopped. In its wake came a sound so heartbreaking, it made tears flow down my cheeks. Before I opened the door, a thought hit me like a battering ram, making me lose my balance for a moment.

If Papa mourned Nana like this, he would be utterly destroyed if Dad died before him. Not even his biological family’s demise could elicit such grief from him.

***

Inside the flat, Papa clung to Dad, and it struck me how small he seemed in that moment. So lost and bereft. This was not a puzzle he could solve, or a culprit he could catch to make everything right again.

“Rosie’s home,” Dad whispered to Papa and reached for me.

I didn’t think Papa would let go of Dad, give me room, or even detect the words, but he did. My name seemed to have a magical effect on him, because he straightened, turned his pained face at me and lifted his arm to indicate that I was welcomed into his and Dad’s cocoon. We held on to each other for what felt like hours. Dad asking if we were alright, Papa muttering something under his breath, and I just clung to my parents, wordless.

Dad, always reliable in a crisis, remembered that there was another person present, and carefully entangled himself after kissing us both, guiding our arms to embrace. Papa mumbled his name questioningly.

“Just give me a few minutes, Sherlock. Take care of Rosie, yeah?”

Papa nodded and pulled me closer, cradling the back of my head, whispering my precious girland I’m so sorry you have to go through this, and she loved you like a granddaughter.

***

The days leading up to the funeral alternated between the three of us sharing memories about the core of 221 Baker Street, what we would miss most about her, and lots and lots of crying.

Dad was our rock in all of this, despite that he grieved his former landlady too. Some nights, Papa was inconsolable, and I thought his heart would literally break. He curled up in bed and sobbed full of despair. Only Dad could hope to console him, coaxing him out of the dark place he had locked himself in.

Both me and Papa agreed that we would honour Martha Hudson on the day of the funeral. Nana’s niece, Deidre, was her only living relative, and uncle Myc assured her that we would arrange everything if she weren’t able. From what Dad told me, she was relieved, having just started her tattoo studio, and she was quite short of money after the investments.

***

Leaving uncle Myc and his minions in charge of the ceremony, proved to be ingenious, as we all expected. Even Nana would’ve been pleased with him, I think.

It all took place at Pembroke Lodge in Richmond Park. The Grade II listed Georgian Mansion is a beautiful and tranquil place, posh, but not over the top.

The pleasantly warm weather allowed us to go dressed without jackets and coats. To honour Nana, all of us wore something purple, her favourite colour. Even uncle Myc acquiesced to leave his black suit at home, and instead he wore a light grey three-piece-suit with a deep purple tie.

Deidre showed up with purple nail polish, her black hair in spikes, the dramatic makeup intact, purple leather trousers, and a matching jacket with a black shirt underneath. Her Doc Martens boots were bright red. She was over the moon about the venue and to what lengths we’d gone to ensure a proper farewell for her aunt.

***

We didn’t know all the mourners, but I think I spotted a few celebrities who wore gigantic sunglasses and hats to hide their identities, which obviously had the opposite effect.

Ginny, who conducted the ceremony was a calming presence throughout, and informed the congregation that there would be one speech apart from her own, and musical elements performed by a pianist and Papa on violin.

Papa held it together through his potpourri of Nana’s favourite classical pieces. He had his eyes closed and lost himself in the music. It was heartbreakingly beautiful. Beside me Dad clasped my hand firmly and never took his eyes off Papa. Admiration, love, sorrow and grief washed over his face in quick succession. He rose when Papa lowered his bow and looked over at the coffin that was decorated with purple lilacs. I saw the moment his knees gave way, but Dad was already at his side holding him close whispering something in his ear. I went over to them to pry the violin and bow out of Papa’s limp hands and let him lean into Dad’s arms.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Dad murmured teary-eyed.

Papa’s sobbing was muffled by his face being buried in Dad’s neck. Dad’s hand cradled the back of Papa’s head like it was a delicate object made of china. Slowly, Dad led Papa back to his seat and he held him tight until it was my turn to honour my beloved Nana.

The night I decided how to do it, Dad and Papa asked if I was sure I would manage it on my own. I retorted that of course I would. I was not a child anymore. What I hadn't considered was that reading a poem out loud in my room was completely different than performing it in front of a crowd, not to mention the emotional impact this performance would have on me.

I got to my feet when Ginny gave the signal and walked over to stand beside the coffin and opened the book on the correct page. Dad and Papa noticed before I did. Something gave me away. Did the book tremble in my hands, did my legs quiver, or did my breathing start to go wild with panic? Whatever it was, they both stood, came over to me, embraced me with their backs to the onlookers to shield me.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this, Bee?” Papa asked with a thick voice filled to the brim with withheld tears.

“You don’t have to, you know. Nobody would…”

I cut Dad off abruptly feeling the soothing effect the closeness of my parents had on me.

“I’m sure. Stay, will you?” I said quietly.

“Of course,” they retorted in unison.

***

I took a deep breath, let go of my parents and we all turned to the other mourners and I started to read with one father on each side, radiating comfort and love.

Warning

When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit. You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickle for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes. But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children. We must have friends to dinner and read the papers. But maybe I ought to practice a little now? So, people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.

Today, I will nudge you in the direction of AO3 and the end notes to give you some context

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @raina-at

More tags in the replies

#may prompts 2024 #may 22: night (metaphorical)#sherlock fandom #bbc sherlock #johnlock #parentlock #angst

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ohwatson · 21 days ago

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Hie!!

Do you have any johnlock fic recs :3

( or parentlock, it consumes me )

Ooh so you want to go down this rabbit hole with me, then!

These are in no particular order, just fics I've read recently or just a handful of the many authors this fandom has to offer whom I respect deeply.

Parentlock has been all I've been reading for the last several weeks, honestly, been on a real kick & need it like oxygen!

I can't reccomend anything by JenTheSweetie on ao3 highly enough - her Parentlock is just deliciously in-character, witty and tangible. instruction manual not included and Immune to Your Consultations (feat. teenage Rosie, which we don't have nearly enough of in my opinion) have been my most recently read and are just *chefs kiss*

@lurikko also has written Ten Years (feat. scheming matchmaker Rosie) and A Weird Place (which is tagged 'Just raising their kid and being confused' and...yeah, succinct, brilliant summary, have re-read this one several times)

@arwamachine has written Indefinite Lines, a gloriously long post-S4 casefic featuring lots of lovely family dynamics between Sherlock, John and Rosie in between (one of the parentlock fics of all time, in my opinion) and I also got done reading Winning the Goat, which is so amazingly witty and comical and just generally wonderfully written.

Swan Dive by @hitlikehammers is 5+1 featuring an emphasis on the relationship between Sherlock and Rosie and is once again, brilliantly characterized and wonderful to read

Keep on Changing by philalethia is a good, spooky post-S4 parentlock fic (read it for Halloween, did not disappoint!)

I know @missdaviswrites has also written heaps wonderful parentlock stories and there are plenty of stories that feature Rosie as a character and lovely domestic/parenthood fluff out there on ao3 that I haven't listed (these are mostly ones I've read recently or that come to mind)

As for general Johnlock fics...! (Most of these, again, are what I've been reading recently or first come to mind)

until we fall asleep by @itsonlytext is set post-TLD and is angsty, tense, realistic, soft, quiet, and in-character all at once and is such a little hidden gem that not nearly enough people are talking about right now!

A Thrill Failed to Deliver by @jbaillier who I know by her dozens of stunning medical realism and angst fics, in my opinion never disappoints. Have never been happier to see an author come back from a hiatus, lol!)

An Ounce of Cure by @bakertumblings is another great medical realism fic, this time with John as the one getting hit with all the angst and whump

What it Can Be by @naefelldaurk is a spin on the end of TLD and offers a much more satisfying end, brilliantly in character and wonderfully paced.

@calaisreno just finished When Harry Met Mary which follows the events of S3/4 through Harry Watson's POV (brilliant fic for those who are sick of Harry getting reduced to nothing more than John's alcoholic sister; her role in this is brilliant, developed and enjoyable). Also read Déjà Vu which is part of her genius Off-Axis series (frankly in love with all of her AUs)

The Fallen series by @engazed is one I've started just recently but has already hooked me!

Thirst by @holmesianpose is another one I've just started, so not too far in, yet, but still wonderfully written thus far!

@gaylilsherlock wrote Cutting Out the Middle Man recently (along with the several other Johnlock fics they've been putting out at admirable speeds), featuring getting-together between John and Sherlock and Greg Lestrade as a wingman and the delicious Watson & Lestrade pub scene!

Double or Nothing by @crowson75 is a study in John's bisexuality, gripping casefic, wonderfully smutty and realistically characterized, post-S4 and finally sees these two idiots figuring themselves out.

Not a Johnlock fic (there is background Johnlock, though!) but instead it’s a Mystrade one, is The Habits of a Lifetime by @out-there-tmblr and is definitely a Greg x Mycroft story but also a beautiful and realistic 54k words of a Mycroft character study and is just too much of a favorite of mine for me not to put on a rec list.

I also highly reccomend anything written by @totallysilvergirl, @the-reading-lemon, @weeesi, and @7-percent.

Realizing so many of these are post S4 or S4 compliant but I just love some good fix-its, I suppose. Hope some of these are to your liking, as they are all certainly to mine :)

#fic recs #i always feel weird doing rec lists because there's just TOO many fics for me to list in one go #but these are all fairly recently written or currently being updated or just authors i really do adore and have done since before being on #hope you enjoy! (and hopefully one day i'll be able to self-rec as i've got my own parentlock fic on the way!)#ask #my rambles #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes #john watson #johnlock #parentlock #rosie watson

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inevitably-johnlocked · 1 month ago

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Five Fics Friday: October 25/24

Happy Friday everyone! Let's get into the weekend with some fantastic new fics to read! Hope y'all enjoy!!

SIGNAL BOOSTING

A Crinkle In Space by GloomyLight (M, 19,829+ w., 7/? Ch. || Omegaverse / Prime Universe Crossover || Omega Sherlock, Alpha John, Crossing Universes, Angst, Humour, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort) – After being struck by lightning, Sherlock wakes up in a different body in a different London. What's an 'Omega' and why do people keep calling him one? And how does he get back? What if in 'A Fold In The Universe' not John but Sherlock had ended up in the Omegaverse?

RECENT MFLs

Slightly Spooky Johnlock Storybook by ChrisCalledMeSweetie (T, 7,628 w., 8 Ch. || Halloween, Spooky, Fluff, Humour, One-Off Stories) – If you like your Johnlock heavy on the fluff and humor, with a light sprinkling of spookiness, these tales are for you.

All of the Things I Need by thalialunacy (E, 10,337 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Parentlock with Rosie, Romance, Friends to Lovers, Big Brother / Uncle Mycroft, Frottage, Anal, First Kiss, First Time, Only One Bed, "Straight" John) – In which John has to be shoved into moving forward, Sherlock actually manages to be surprised, and Mycroft turns out to be an A+ uncle. (And they all live happily ever after, of course.)

The First Trip by Phyona (E, 29,384 w., 9 Ch. || Developing Relationship, Holiday Fic, Witty Banter, Victor Trevor is In this Fic, Miscommunication, Jealousy, Humour, Intense Conversations, Sexy Times, Fluff and Angst) – Sherlock and John go on holiday. Part 3 of The First and Last Trilogy

Trick or Treat by Accident and holmesian_love (M, 26,894+ w., 2/8 Ch. || Halloween, Costume Parties / Masquerade, Love Confessions, Only One Bed, Injured John, Three Continents Watson, One Night Stand, Case Fic, Jealousy, Greg and John Relationship, Caring Mycroft, Ghosts) – Sherlock has a new case. One that John is unlikely to get on board with, so it's going to take some convincing. Little does he know that John is discovering new feelings and this whole adventure may unravel more than just a killer.

#johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #five fics friday

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dontasktherain · 3 months ago

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Rosie (and some parentlock) angst pt.2!!

Though I think its slightly less angsty than the first part

- As a teenager, shes a menace. When she got to the s3/4 part of Johns blog, she started writing little "did you miss me?" on walls or sticky notes in diffrent parts of the house. Both John and Sherlock were finding them for over a month every day.

- Shes quiet. Whatever she is doing, she knows how to do it as silently as possible. It's useful when one of your parents needs just a small hint to know exactly what you're doing.

- She has trouble with defining relationships. I think we all know why.

- Imagine little Rosie having family tree assignment at school. At first it was all fun, drawing the tree, herself, John and... Mary? But she never even got the chance to meet her. She was nothing more than the person who gave birth to her. Even dad didn't seem to miss her that much over time...

- ... So she drew dad and Sherlock. She actually never met any of her grandparents, so she just drew mrs. Hudson above them. Then she drew aunt Molly and uncle Lestrade and uncle Mycroft, connected to Sherlock. Done :)

- People had a lot of questions about the family tree. Teachers tried to be nice to her, but they didn't seem to understand. Rosie herself didn't get it. People have mommies and daddies, some have two daddies, others have only one mommy, but why does she have a daddy and Sherlock?

- Kids weren't as nice tho. They asked too many questions and little Rosamund had no answers. Dad didn't tell her much. He tried at first, but gave up quickly. With time Rosie realized it might be just as difficult for him to describe their family as it is for her.

- After some time she learned the word "gay" and that dad definitely wasn't that word. Why is he so mad about that?

- Sherlock never realized that kids don't take being called an idiot after every inconvenience as well as the adults.

- When Rosie's hurt, John overreacts and Sherlock brushes it off. She doesn't expect much, but it feels like John only cares when there's a chance he'll lose her and Sherlock just never does.

- Female rage is when Rosie discovers who and how treated was Eurus.

- Sherlock visits his sister a lot after s4. Rosie feels a little less hatred for him when he offers to start bringing her along.

- Everyone in this household has trust issues.

- Everyone in this household also has an unhealthy relationship with eating, sleep, themself, diffrent substances and people around them.

Would anyone be interested in teenage Rosie fanfics? I'm so obssesed with this angsty kid that I might actually write something

#rosamund watson #bbc sherlock #rosie angst #rosie watson #sherlock holmes #john watson #johnlock #parentlock

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gregorovitch-adler · 11 months ago

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😍😍😍

(Rosie's) Elephant in the Room

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Words: 4491 (on ao3)

Summary: John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson. John Watson’s daughter loves her giant elephant plushie.

This is the story how the two men finally jump over their shadows and confess their feelings. All because of an elephant plushie.

---

Rosamund Mary Watson owned one thing she was incredibly proud of: her gigantic elephant plushie.

Name: Ellie Phant Astic

Gender: female

Age: 1 year 24 weeks and 5 days

Material: very soft fabric

Strengths: very good at hugging and listening. The best plushie in the whole wide world.

Weaknesses: shy, not talkative (only talks to Rosie Watson).

“Hi, Rosie, sweetie. What are you writing down?”, her dad (John Watson) asked, as he dropped his bag to the floor after he came home from work.

“Key data of Ellie Phant Astic. Look!”, proudly the girl showed off her scrawly handwriting to her dad, who squated down to kiss his daughter’s top of the head and review her professional plush toy data. Seven years old, exceedingly smart and good at social interactions as long as it only includes herself, her way too big elephant plushie and family, Rosie reminded John more of Sherlock than of himself. Writing down key data of a plush toy? Definitely a thing Sherlock did as a kid!

“Wow, that’s truly elephant-astic”, John joked and winked. Rosie giggled.

“I believe you call that a dad-joke, John”, Sherlock said leaning in the door frame, dressing gown over his sweatpants and a white T-shirt and a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Well,” John stood up and his spine made a clicking noise. “I am a dad, so I am allowed to make those.” John smiles. “How was your day with the little one?”

“Oh, it was quite ‘elephant-astic’, wouldn’t you agree, Watson?”, he said, making air-quotes when saying the really not that funny word.

Enthusiastically Rosie nodded her head. “Yessss! Phantie and Lock and me went to the pond in the park and fed the ducks and then we came home and played Cluedo and then I had to go down to Granny, because Lock was angry, because he wasn’t playing according to the rules but that’s okay because Phantie, Granny and I made cookies and they were delicious and I ate soooo much!”

“That sounds like quite a busy day, Rosie. But, I suggest you don’t play Cluedo with Lock anymore, he is extremely bad at it.”, the doctor said with a smirk directed at his flatmate.

Rosie laughed, looked at the tall detective, then at the 3 foot stuffed animal and finally whispered into John’s ear, “Phantie agrees.”

Knowing full well his Watsons were whispering and giggling over him, Sherlock countered, “I am not bad at Cluedo. This game is simply illogical.”

“Yeah, sure it is, Sherlock.”, John said and Rosie fell into a giggling fit. With a pout, Sherlock turned around and walked back into the kitchen.

Still smiling, John turned to Rosie. “I’ll be taking a shower and be right down. Will you be alright with Mr. Pouty-Face over there?”

Giggling, Rosie nodded and pointed at the giant elephant next to her, “Phantie and I can handle him.”

“Probably even better than I can, sweetheart.”, John said, gave Rosie another kiss and left to take a shower.

Upstairs John was overwhelmed by the chaotic mess of a room screaming at him. He used to have a very tidy room, apart from the occasional pants or jumper laying one day too long on the floor. That had changed when Rosie came and Mary had died. John had moved back in with Sherlock and was since then sharing his room with a little girl: Plushies everywhere, pirate costumes over his bed, a magnifying glass with a bunch of sheets with a kid’s colourful handwriting, on and around the desk. The closet door wide open, half of the clothes falling out.

This room was getting definitely too small for a little girl living her wildest dreams. Let alone a little girl and her father. Said girl wasn’t even that little anymore. They had two small singles now, instead of the queen sized bed, because Rosie was kicking like crazy in her sleep. John’s nightmares had gotten better with her close to him, but on bad nights he had to sleep on the couch downstairs, as to not disturb her. Or blankly stare onto the ceiling hoping sleep would make John its slave at some point. Thankfully Rosie slept like a stone most days.

And as much as it pained him and would for sure pain his daughter: John would have to move out soon, if he ever wanted to live like a grown man again. If he ever wanted Rosie to become not dependent on her father. They both needed their own space. For their own sakes.

John sighed, grabbed some fresh clothes and left the messy room to take a shower. Tomorrow. He would tell Sherlock they’d move out tomorrow.

Continue on Ao3 ;)

#turtely writes #(rosie's) elephant in the room #parentlock #lots of fluff #a tiny bit of angst but nothing severe i promise #idiots in love #love confessions #johnlock #johnlock ficlet #bbc sherlock #sherlock bbc #sherlock x john #john watson #sherlock holmes #rosie watson #mrs. hudson #johnlock fic on ao3

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weeesi · 6 months ago

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Self-Rec Thingy

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love ❤

Thank you @calaisreno for tagging me!

The Edge of the Sea (fair warning -> WIP, 14/20 chapters, but the whole thing is drafted): Sherlock jumps and John is devastated. John spends the next two years alone, Sherlock doesn't (aka Victor Trevor tags along). Jealous!John, slow burn, complicated relationships, not really a casefic, the focus is more on...agony?

2. Hello You: John helps Sherlock get out of an awkward situation in a pub by pretending to be his boyfriend. Shenanigans ensue. Rom-com vibes, fake relationship, first kiss, the usual antics, funny fluff.

3. Come What May: Thanks to @calaisreno and the May Prompt series, these little 221Bs cover the whole gamut: pining, angst, fluff, parentlock, smutty stuff, etc. MCD in two, cw in the chapter notes.

4. Midnight Plowboy: Sherlock has a secret stash of vintage gay erotica. John finds it and helps him act out his favourite, the eponymous Midnight Plowboy, lol. This is one of...nine? ten? short-ish PWPs I've written that are kinda funny and hopefully kinda hot and are perfect little bonbons for when you need a quick fix.

5. The Forest and The Riddle: Patrochilles forever!!! Any Madeline Miller fans out there?? I read The Song of Achilles in two days and wrote these immediately afterward whilst still sobbing, pretty much.

Tagging five: @keirgreeneyes @raina-at @copperplatebeech @totallysilvergirl @discordantwords and anyone else who would like to self-rec their works!

#tag game #my writing #self recs

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jolieblack · 6 months ago

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A Dark and Stormy Night

is now posting on AO3 in a standard narrative, non-interactive version, too!

Thank you to the people who told me honestly but kindly that the Choose Your Own Adventure format was not for them, but they still wanted to read the story. Your wish is my command!

Nine year old Rosie Watson lives a sheltered life, raised by her loving Dad and their little village at 221B Baker Street, and enjoying a safe and comfortable routine of school, play and family time. Until one day, out of nowhere, safe and comfortable is over.

As Rosie navigates the perils of the streets of London, and of growing up, her village races against time, against the forces of nature and against the powers of evil to bring her home.

AO3 tags: Drama, Action, Adventure, Casefic, Angst, Emotional H/C, Friendship, Found Family, Parentlock, Growing up

Let me know if you want to be tagged (or untagged) for updates on this version.

Part 3 (The Ghost) of the Choose Your Own Adventure version is up now, too!

#bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock fanfiction #jolie writes #a dark and stormy night #parentlock

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strawberrywinter4 · 8 months ago

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i saw your post about prompts!

and ooo maybe something related to sherlock's growing/settling relationship with rosie as she grows into a teen and john realising that she's much more alike mary than she thinks when she gets upset that she can't remember much about her mother. the men help her see that.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Relationship: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosie Watson

Rating: General Audience

Tags: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Post Season/Series 04, Father-Daughter Relationship, Rosie is a teenager, Teen attitude, Parentlock, Post Mary Morstan, Angst, Fluff

Thank you so, so much for this prompt, anon! I’m so sorry I didn’t get to it sooner and you were one of my first people to send in prompts. I hope this is to your liking❤️❤️

*•*•*•*

Something’s different about Rosie today, John can tell.

Maybe it’s the unsaid sense of a father or maybe it’s because the teen has displayed a frown since the moment she woke up.

John remembers wishing Rosie a good day at school when he dropped her off, students hurrying to get to their first class.

Rosie, however, only stared at the ground, ignoring John. Her blue eyes were blank, her jaw tense.

John blinked, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Hey.”

Rosie’s eyelashes fluttered as she turned to John. “Yeah?”

“You alright?”

She shrugged, and John was only happy it wasn’t an eye roll as well, a pair of gestures that the teen had acquired as the years went on. “M’fine, Dad,” she dismissed, carrying her bag and leaving John’s side before John could say anything else.

“Her menstrual cycle, maybe?” Sherlock had suggested back at 221B when John voiced his concerns. “Did she seem irate?”

“No,” John had said. “Well—god, I don’t even know. Maybe? Just… down, I guess.”

Sherlock came up behind John and soothed a loose hair on the doctor’s head. “Ask her when she gets home, then.”

John snorted. “You know how to deal with her best. You ask her.”

“John,” Sherlock said, sending him a pointed look. “Talk to her.”

The conversation replays in John’s head as he and Rosie walk home, their steps in sync.

Rosie has just turned 14, and her attitude certainly shows it. John finds that his daughter has obtained his obvious anger issues. That can cause some arguments to take place, as much as John wishes it didn’t. Or maybe it’s because she’s around the snarky detective, catching on to his sass.

John sighs through his nose. He hopes not.

Before they enter the flat, John stops her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Rosie, wait.”

Rosie stops, turning to him with a stiff shrug. “Yeah?”

John turns his head. “You sure you’re alright, darling?”

Rosie’s still for too long, her eyes never leaving John’s. “I told you, I’m fine,” she says.

“Right, well, you say that, but you don’t seem like it.”

Rosie scoffs. “Well, I don’t know what you want me to do about it. This is how I act.”

John grits his teeth. “Not usually. Usually you don’t give me an attitude.”

“I’m not giving you an attitude. I’m talking.”

John laughs humorlessly. “Rosie, this isn’t talking. This is starting an argument.”

This time, Rosie rolls her eyes. “God, I can’t get anything through with you!”

And to John’s great surprise, she barges through the door and practically stomps up the stars. John waits for another moment and soon, he registers a door slamming.

John sighs in frustration and heads up to 221B as well in a much calmer fashion. Once he steps into the living room to the flat, Sherlock turns to him where he’s conducting an experiment on the kitchen counter.

“Not good, then?” the detective asks with a quirk of a brow.

John runs a hand over his face. “No. No, not good.”

“She doesn’t like when you’re snarky back,” Sherlock murmurs, flicking a glass tube with his fingers to allow more water flow.

“I wasn’t- look, she has to learn how to dial down that attitude,” John says, leaning on the frame of the entrance to the kitchen. “I swear, it’s almost like arguing with you.”

“No. It’s like arguing with you,” Sherlock corrects. “Or Mary. Really, I can see both of you in her quite clearly.”

John grits his teeth at the comment. He looks up at the bedroom, the shut door displaying unwelcomeness. John steps forward. “Maybe I should-”

“Don’t,” Sherlock says, his eyes still on the tube. “Give her time. Allow her to cool off.”

John clenches his jaw, then nods curtly. “Yeah. Right, erm-”

In a swift movement, Sherlock turns on the stool, taking John’s sides and bringing him closer so that he’s able to stand between his legs. John releases a quiet sigh of relief at the feel of Sherlock’s hands at his sides, soothing him.

“In the research I’ve done, teenagers are prone to get angry easier,” Sherlock says.

“You’ve done research?”

“Shut up. What I’m saying is, just… be patient with her, I suppose. If you two keep bickering back and forth, it will be to no end.”

John stares at Sherlock, unable to take his eyes off this wonderful, brilliant man in front of him. “I love you,” John breathes.

Sherlock grins. “I know.”

___

Two hours pass, maybe three. John is jittering in his chair, and Sherlock is browsing his (John’s) computer leisurely for a case.

John nods, making a decision. “Right. I’m gonna go talk to her.” He stands and Sherlock’s deep voice catches him.

“Calmly,” Sherlock warns, not looking up from the screen.

John opens his mouth to say something, then decides to simply settle for a nod.

Two steps at a time, he heads up the stairs. For a while, he just stands there, fist hesitantly nearing the wooden door.

He takes a deep breath, then knocks.

Nothing.

He knocks again.

John can hear an annoyed breath from the other end of the room. Soon, Rosie opens the door, her eyes expectant. “Yes?” she asks.

John gestures into the room. “May I come in, your majesty?”

Rosie fights a grin, but quickly hides it as she steps aside. “If you want.”

John comes in and briefly admires Rosie’s room. The design has changed over the years. It used to be John’s old room and it was quite bland, but as Rosie’s gotten older, John has encouraged her to decorate it how she pleases. Now there are a few posters of celebrities (that Sherlock rolls his eyes at) and John catches that there’s even a poster of James Bond.

John’s heart swells. He made sure to introduce Rosie to the Bond films at an early age and, together, they’ve made it a tradition to have a movie night at least once a year to binge watch the films. At first, Sherlock refused to partake in it. But when Rosie gave him her big blue eyes, silently pleading that he join them, Sherlock sighed in defeat, taking a seat next to them on the sofa.

John sucks in a breath, breaking his thoughts. He turns to Rosie, his eyes now filling with concern. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong now?”

Rosie looks down, fiddling her fingers. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Rosie,” John says gently. “Come on. You don’t have to lie about this.”

Rosie stares at him, then seems to make a decision. She goes across the room, opening a drawer and pulling out a deck of photographs.

John doesn’t have to see them to know what they are.

“I didn’t mean to snoop,” Rosie claims nervously, stepping forward as she looks down at the pictures of her mother on her wedding day. “But… I mean- I saw the photo album in the corner of your room and- and I couldn’t help but look… keep them. I promise I’ll put them all back, but I just wanted to look, and-”

“Rosie,” John says. He sighs, putting a hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright, darling. It- I knew you’d be curious someday.”

Rosie released a trembling breath. John’s heart breaks. “Why don’t we talk about Mum?” she asks.

John bites down hard on his inner cheek. “You know it’s a sensitive subject. You know how she died.”

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t talk about her,” Rosie counters, her voice cracking.

John squeezes her shoulder, then leads them both to sit on the bed. “I know,” he says. “I know and I’m… so sorry. I just- there’s so much about your mother that- that’s not… I just don’t want you to see her in a bad light.”

“Then… at least tell me if- if I’m like her,” Rosie pleads.

“Oh, darling, of course you are,” John reassures. “You’re a spitting image of her.”

“Could you just- tell me about her? Tell me what she’s like?”

“Well, she was-”

“I want Sherlock to be here,” Rosie interrupts, her eyes desperate.

John pauses. He quickly recovers and nods. “Yeah… yeah, ‘course.”

Just then, Sherlock opens the door. He sniffs and John frowns. “You summoned me,” Sherlock says as he shuts the door behind him.

“Sherlock, how many times do I have to remind you not to listen in on conversations?” John says with gritted teeth as Rose laughs.

“You can hardly blame me, John,” Sherlock defends as he sits on the other side of Rosie.

“I can and I most certainly will.”

Sherlock’s eyes focus on Rosie. “What would you like to know?”

Rosie looks down as she thinks. “It’s selfish.”

“Bee,” Sherlock says in the soft voice he only reserves for Rosie and John. “Nothing you can say is selfish. You have every right to know. I was wondering when you’d bring the topic up.”

Rosie sighs. “Anything, really. I want… I want to know if I’m like her at all or- just anything.”

John can’t help but give a small smile. “You have her stubbornness,” he says. “I think that’s the main thing. I swear, sometimes you talk just like her.”

“You have her energy,” Sherlock continues, and John wants to kiss the man for being such a wonderful sport. He knows Sherlock still feels inexplicable guilt, even as they’ve progressed their relationship into a couple. He knows Sherlock has a difficult time talking about the subject, but the fact that he talks about it like it’s the easiest thing in the world when someone brings Mary up… John loves him. “She was quite the lively woman.”

“You’re clever,” John says, his voice now a whisper. “She was intelligent, could always see through a lie and had a lense of reality.”

Rosie looks like she’s on the verge of tears. Sherlock rubs her back. “What is it?” the detective asks.

“No, no, it’s just…” She lets out a long breath. “Everyone at school always talks about their mothers. And- And that made me more upset that I couldn’t relate to them.” A small smile forms on Rosie’s lips. “I’m glad I can… that I can learn about Mum. And just knowing that I’m somewhat like her-” Rosie sniffles, smiling through her tears. “It makes me so happy.”

John pulls Rosie in for a tight hug, striving not to shed tears himself. He kisses her blonde curls. “You’re a lot more like her than you think. She’ll always be a part of you and I want you to never forget that.”

Sherlock seems hesitant on joining in on the affection, but Rosie huffs and pulls him in by his arm sleeve. “‘Lock, get in here.”

Sherlock chuckles at the nickname and joins in, wrapping his long arms around the both of them.

They stay like that for a while, just the three of them.

*•*•*•*

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