#pining john watson

[gregorovitch-adler]

Beloved

"So, she's alive then. How are we feeling about that?" John asked, holding a whiskey glass in his left hand.

He knew he had wrecked everything by not denying Irene's statement: "Well, I am (gay). Look at us both."

How could he? Wasn't that the truth? Sherlock was the person John and Irene Adler had both fallen for, even though he did not comply with the sexual orientation of either of them.

Once she had hit the core of the matter with a few words, John had no option but to remain speechless; much as he would have loved to retort - just to get a one-up over her in a conversation for once.

On the contrary, John had huffed out a short laugh in approval.

What was worse, Sherlock had heard all that. He had been standing right there the whole time, revealing his presence because of that bloody text alert sound.

Meaning: Sherlock now knew how John felt for him.

John gulped down his throat at the horrifying thought.

Sherlock was holding his violin close to his neck, contemplating which tune to play next. Another song for Irene, John thought bitterly.

John had helped Mrs Hudson with her bruises from those anonymous attackers. Sherlock had taken care of those attackers on his own, and now they were probably locked up in Scotland Yard.

The point was that John had tried to approach Sherlock, wanting to clarify everything after whatever happened in the Battersea Power Station. To make things less awkward, if at all that was possible. But he had been interrupted the first time. So, he was giving it a go once more.

"D'you think you'll be seeing her again?" John pressed, unwilling to let go of this subject today, even after Sherlock's lack of response - which had led to a rather pointed silence in the sitting room.

Sherlock walked closer to the window, without even bothering to turn around. "Happy New Year, John," he said over his shoulder and began to play.

John felt physically sick in his stomach. He sipped on his whiskey, wincing at the burning sensation in his mouth. Somehow, even swallowing a sip of alcohol felt like trying to shove a large piece of rock down his throat.

By not replying to John's very direct questions, Sherlock had made it crystal clear where his interests lay. The Woman.

John had fallen for Sherlock a long time ago. He would sometimes scare himself off with the amount of seriousness he felt whenever he thought about his love for Sherlock.

He was John's beloved, in his mind at least.

Now, if Sherlock had fallen for someone else... who was John to get in the way?

John just wanted to see Sherlock happy and stable. If Irene being alive after all made him feel that, then so be it.

John sighed wistfully, looking in Sherlock's direction one last time, before he made his way to the staircase leading to his bedroom.

Subconsciously, he gripped the whiskey glass tight on his way.

***

Prompt Beloved by @onesmallfamily

Tags: @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @gaylilsherlock @lisbeth-kk @keirgreeneyes @missdeliadili @lookingforlifeoutthere @peanitbear @a-victorian-girl @calaisreno @curlyjohnlock .

[earlgreyinpajamas]

Your recs are brilliant. Do you ship any other ships? If yes, any fics that you’ve enjoyed? :)

i shipped johnlock once upon a time, and some of the fics that i remember being really good are:

A Chemical Defect Found (On the Losing Side Remix) by AreteArt

A remix of missselene's "On the Losing Side." After Mary's death, John moves back into Baker Street. He and Sherlock stumble into a relationship, or something of that sort. Sherlock's rather giving when it comes to sex, but that doesn't mean he and John ever talk about it.

~~~

ugh this made me hurt so bad

2. Gordian by fresne (@fresne999)

On any given day, Sherlock might come out of the bathroom smelling like an Alpha on the hunt (Alpha #8) or an Omega in heat (Omega #9), a Beta brooding (Beta #3), or like no gender at all. The last one was his actual scent, which wasn't so much scentless as confusing. At least in an adult. If Sherlock and John were the sort of people to read Mills and Boon novels, they could have said that what occurred was because destiny intervened and set two destined lovers in their one true pairings' path. It was the lasagna.

~~~

the oblivious pining in this fic slaps

3. ranger panties by simplyclockwork (@simplyclockwork)

While in London on leave, Captain John Watson and a particularly intriguing article of clothing manage to catch the attention of one consulting detective.

~~~

cackled i swear

[noodles-and-tea]

Johnlock but from The Abominable Bride?👀

Watson’s trying his hand at deductions (it’s not going well)

[fogdraws]

When two interests collide...

[topsyturvy-turtely]

turtely's OTP challenge

read day 25 "That Familiarity, That Femininity" on Ao3!

prompt: trying to seduce one another

summary: Sherlock knows just the trick to get John to be more open to dating men. More specifically, dating Sherlock.

T, 894 words, Getting Together. Developing Relationship, Drinking, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Kissing, Mutual Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension

or read it on tumblr:

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Sherlock was laying on the couch, hands steepled underneath his chin. He was thinking. About John Watson – as so often. John went on many dates. He didn’t seem too happy about them. Or, yes he did, but there were never many dates with the same woman, which he then complained about until he found a new woman to go out with.

That’s when Sherlock opened his eyes widely. It was clear as water all of the sudden: John just needed to go out with a man for once. He knew John was bisexual. He never told him that, but the signs were clear. Well, and since it would take a while to find a candidate, he would gladly suggest himself.

He got up to take a shower.

He went to put on fresh clothes… Black shirt, one more button open than necessary. Tight, black trousers, the ones that flattered his arse exceptionally nicely. He styled his hair into a perfect curly mess. He put on cologne and… hesitated. He looked very masculine… maybe if he gave John something familiar – something feminine – John would more easily get over the fact that Sherlock was a man. It didn’t take long to find just what he was looking for. Sherlock smiled cheekily.

***

John was frustrated. Sexually frustrated. He loved sex, hell, he would go so far and say he needed sex. He was grumpy and agitated when he hadn’t had sex in a while. Was it a bad thing to like sex that much, need it, even? John didn’t know and quite frankly didn’t care. He just knew he wanted it.

So today John would go out, take Stamford with him. Wear his best smiles, use his best jokes and get laid. John nodded at himself. As good as done.

When he got home he immediately took a shower. As he walked out of the bathroom, only wearing his towels low on his hips, he noticed Sherlock was laying on the couch. He greeted him, then headed upstairs to change into better clothes.

***

Breathe in (Sherlock breathed in), breathe out (Sherlock breathed out). He didn’t know why he was freaking out, but he was. That wasn’t entirely true: He knew he was freaking out because he saw some skin. That really shouldn’t be that special. He had seen lots of skin before, lots of naked bodies even. However, Sherlock didn’t expect John to come out of the shower showing off that much of naked skin, practically radiating sexual energy at him, as if he was some kind of sex god. Sherlock groaned and sank deeper into the couch, the images rushing into his mind.

Finally he heard John coming down. He wore nothing special really. A button up, dark jeans, his best cologne.

“I am going out. I will go pick up Mike,” John declared.

Sherlock sat up. “There’s no need.”

“How do you-“ John stopped. Stared. Opened his mouth, “What happened to your lips?”

Sherlock wanted to smile, wanted to squeal and jump, when John stared at him. Eyes fixated on Sherlock’s lips. He had him. Right there, that was the familiarity, that femininity John needed. He stood up and walked over to John. “Lipstick, John. Lipstick happened to my lips,” he said. Sherlock scanned John’s face, categorised his reaction. Smirked, “You are going out with me tonight.”
John still glared at his mouth. When he finally realised he had been staring he breathed in deeply, raised his gaze to Sherlock’s eyes. And bravely, like the closeted bisexual, ex-army doctor he was asked, “Where to?”

***

Now, John was sitting at a bar, which name he had already forgotten and glared at the smear of lipstick on Sherlock’s glass. It was stupid, really. But seeing dark red lipstick on Sherlock’s face… he took another gulp from his third drink (or was it the fourth?).

He had tried to look at women, even checked out some guys, but his attention always fell back to his best friend. And that goddamn lipstick. They were talking about… he didn’t even know what. He looked down, surprised. How had his hand landed on Sherlock’s forearm? Didn’t matter. His eyes found Sherlock’s. He surprised himself, when he asked, “Do you want to dance with me?”

Sherlock’s face was full of questions for second. Then he said, “Let’s.”

So John got up, took Sherlock’ hand because hell, he was drunk and he wanted to. When they were on the dance floor John stood there for a second. Then started giggling. “Sherlock, I forgot that I have no idea how to dance!”

Sherlock stepped closer. “I’ll teach you,” his deep voice kindling something inside of John . The detective took John’s hands in his, put them on his shoulders. And as they stood there - John’s arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, the tall man’s lips dark red at John’s eye level – intoxicated as he was, he leaned in. Not to dance, no. To kiss. Immediately Sherlock responded – he stepped closer, put his hand on John’s neck, his thumb caressing the space behind his ear. The kiss was careful at first, but with every second it grew more rough. Leaving almost no room to breathe.

“I think we should take this dance lesson to Baker Street” John groaned between kisses. Sherlock, whose lipstick was now smeared, searched John’s eyes, then nodded.

It was a nice ‘dance lesson’ indeed.

🩷💜💙🩷💜💙🩷💜💙🩷💜💙🩷💜💙🩷💜💙🩷💜💙🩷

comment on ao3!

tag list! (tell me if you wanna be added or removed please 💚) @justanobsessedpan @helloliriels @catlock-holmes @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @so-youre-unattached-like-me @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @francj15 @ladylindaaa @we-r-loonies @mxster-jocale @sherlockcorner @noahspector @our-stars-graveside @jobooksncoffee @baker-street-blog @macgyvershe @myladylyssa @battledress @a-victorian-girl @dreamerofthemeadow @oetkb12 @ohnoesnotagain @mutedsilence @jawnscoffee @raenchaosandcozyadashofmurder @lisbeth-kk @quickslvxrr @compact-and-beautiful @kabubsmagga @startrekker2011

[helloliriels]

When you said... 'married to your work'

Did you mean... 'till death do you part?'

Asking for a friend ...

[blistering-typhoons]

the undercurrent

Watson has not picked a particularly glamorous moment to fall in love with his best friend.

[discreetowl]

JOHNLOCK FIC!

Towards the end of last year (so not that long ago) I began on my first johnlock fic. It’s incredibly OOC but has been so much fun to work on; I wanted to do something different than anything I’d read before. It’s Johnlock with a lovely sprinkle (more like a downpour) of MorMor.

These Unsuitable Pyrotechnics by discreetowl

Explicit, Words 100k+, Chapter 21/26

Additional Tags: Sherlock Holmes has feelings, POV John Watson, Jim Moriarty is a little shit, Jim Moriarty has feelings, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Slow Burn, Developing, AU- High School, Smut, Fluff, Friends with benefits, Angst, Mutual pining, Emotionally unavailable John Watson

SUMMARY: “You had all of me that I knew how to give. And if you would ever have me again, I would give you all the rest.”

Or, the one where John is a jaded bastard who has sworn off love completely, Sherlock is a grand romancing photographer/footy coach, whilst Jim and Seb face their own troubling complexities (arson included).

Oh, and Greg is there as well.

—

This is an extremely OOC AU.

Slow burn, updated regularly; sad to happy to infuriating to fucking devastating to somewhat happy again.

Enjoy, and please indulge me with any questions, thoughts, or points of clarification.

[radio-guts]

about to do a tandem interest run

Sherlock & co. X journal 3 + tales of the strange and unexplained X Marcys journal (I need the scrapbook, comic book, and book of Bill,)

wish me luck

[gregorovitch-adler]

Heartfelt

Sherlock,

Where do I even begin? I suppose I should start with an apology.

I'm sorry. Sorry for blaming you for Mary's death. It was her decision and you couldn't have done anything about it.

Sorry for cutting you out of my life and abandoning you when you needed me the most. I was a bloody idiot for ignoring that arsehole Culverton Smith when he talked about taking you to his 'favourite room'. You shouldn't have ended up at that place at all. It was my fault.

Finally, I cannot apologise enough for beating you up and physically assaulting you relentlessly that day. You had done nothing to deserve that. Nothing.

Least of all from someone like me. Me - the guy who ended up having a text affair with some random woman when Mary was alive, and the same guy who can't take care of his own daughter and relapses into alcoholism at any inconvenience in his life? Absolutely not.

I'm a horrible, horrible person who once happened to fall in love with the best and the kindest and the wisest man I'd ever known - you.

Yeah, that's true. I know it would be hard to believe, almost impossible, but it's true.

It is damn time I admitted it. I fell in love with you as soon as we met. And I'm still in love with you. I would like to elaborate more on that in person, but I'll leave it here, right now.

It's unbelievable that you're still kind enough to continue being my friend after that day. Anyone else would have called the police on me, or would have cut me out of their life, and I would've bloody deserved that.

I don't deserve you, that's for sure.

I beg for you to forgive me for real. I don't deserve to be forgiven, but you sure as hell deserve to hear an apology. So, there.

I don't expect you to return my feelings. I just want to be with you in any way you'd have me. It's an honour being your friend. I leave the rest to you.

Your friend (still, I hope),

John.

--

That was the e-mail John had been composing the whole morning - with the interruptions of spilling tears here and there or pressing backspace to delete the draft altogether.

John went through the final one and decided this was good enough as a heartfelt apology. The tone was a bit informal for an e-mail, but he was not applying for a job. It was Sherlock - John hoped he would understand.

John bent over his study table in the sitting room to click on 'send' with his trembling hand and furrowed brows.

Sitting on a wooden chair, he shut the lid of the laptop and swallowed as he wrapped his arms around himself.

Was it good enough? He sincerely hoped it was, even though he knew what he did to Sherlock - the man he was supposedly in love with - was unforgiveable.

***

Sherlock September Challenge.

Prompt: Heartfelt by @onesmallfamily

Tags: @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @gaylilsherlock @lisbeth-kk @keirgreeneyes @missdeliadili @lookingforlifeoutthere @a-victorian-girl @peanitbear @calaisreno @curlyjohnlock @kettykika78 .

[shadyscroller2]

all our years apart (lead us to the one today)

ao3

Posted January 2, 2022 

#First Kiss, #Christmas Fluff, #New Years, #New Year's Eve, #Fluff and Angst, #Angst with a Happy Ending, #Pining Sherlock Holmes, #Pining John Watson, #Jealous Sherlock, #Snow, #Awesome Molly Hooper, #Molly Hooper Appreciation, #Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, #Cute Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, #Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, #Romance

2009

It wasn't that the flat was dingy and small, or that the cot was uncomfortable and hard. Memories of similar living conditions flashed through John's mind, most of it from just months ago, his army uniform cut and pressed, a gun in his hand and gauze in the other. The sound of gunfire echoed in his ears, with John's brain fighting it, attempting to give him reality instead.

John wiped his face hard and looked around at his flat, the sounds fading in his head, slowly being replaced with the deafening silence of the small room before him.

It wasn't the flat. No.

What bit him hard was the loneliness.

John looked over in the corner, where his cane leaned against the wall, waiting to be used. The only sound in the entire flat now was the sound of cheering and excited counting down of the seconds until midnight. The telly was blaring the noise, glaring the light into John's eyes and flooding the room.

After a long moment, John turned it off.

There was no point. John should just get rid of his television - nothing happens in the world anyway.

Nothing happens to him.

/

Somewhere else, Sherlock was running through a back alley in London, clutching a superficial gunshot wound to his side. He pulled his hand away. It wasn't too damp at all. The bullet the criminal shot must have just grazed him.

Good news for brainwork not to die tonight, then.

Snow had already started falling, white flakes falling from the pitch-black night sky above him. Sherlock glanced up, squinting his eyes into the sprinkling snow.

"Sherlock, are you still there?"

Sherlock looked down, his eyes following where the sound was coming from. His mobile phone blinked with Lestrade's name, the call having started almost an hour ago.

"Brilliant," Sherlock told him. "Everything's gone brilliant, Lestrade, come at once to collect your criminal."

"Sherlock, I know heard a gunshot. What happened? Are you bleeding? Are you-"

Sherlock pressed the 'end call' button, then he texted Lestrade his address. Those details can wait for the report.

There was no way that Lestrade would be there anytime soon, but really, that was no problem. In the last few minutes since Sherlock encountered the criminal, he had whipped his head with the barrel of his gun and slammed his head against the dumpster for good measure.

With the final thought, the bell on Big Ben sounded, piercing the midnight air. Sherlock counted. One, twice, three times. Then nine more.

As the residents of the buildings around him started to sing, harmonizing "Auld Lang Syne", Sherlock lit a cigarette, taking a drag, then coughed horrendously.

The singing drowned out the hacking coughs of Sherlock, who stood alone and thin in a dank alley behind an old flat. Sherlock steadied himself against the wall, and he cleared his throat.

He really ought to start wearing smoking patches.

2010

The lights danced upon the walls of 221B Baker Street, the quietness of the flat pressing down on John like a pressure point, as he stole glances at Sherlock from across the room.

The policemen of Scotland Yard were more than certainly long gone by now. That left just Mrs. Hudson, who had since fully recovered from her fright with the American men and was now one floor below, preparing to issue in the new year.

That just left John and Sherlock, alone, as the clock slowly ticked towards midnight.

John poured himself a drink, the bourbon swirling into the glass held tightly in his hands. John gritted his teeth.

It didn't mean anything.

Irene Adler was wrong. Sherlock is not his. And John should have corrected her.

So why didn't he?

John walked into the sitting room, where Sherlock was picking up his violin. His elegant fingers gripped the back of the instrument, absentmindedly running themselves up and down the strings.

"So, she's alive then." John broke the silence, keeping his voice steady. "How are we feeling about that?"

Sherlock wasn't looking at him. John could only imagine why. He stared at the grace of Sherlock's turned back, posing to start playing.

"Happy New Year, John." Sherlock still wasn't looking at him.

John didn't move his eyes. "Do you think you'll be seeing her again?"

Sherlock finally turned to stare into him, and John watched as he started the first notes to the song. "Auld Lang Syne" wafted through the tense air at 221B Baker Street, where Sherlock and John had lived together for almost a year now. The lights outside were only dimmed by the steady snowfall, with the chiming of the bell continuing to soar through the street.

At this point, John could only sit down in his chair. Thinking to himself, It didn't mean anything.

But Irene Adler's words still played through his head, drowning out the chimes of the clock, drowning out Sherlock's playing.

"I'm not actually gay."

"Well, I am. Look at us both."

John sipped his bourbon, though his throat had become tight.

Irene Adler was wrong.

/

Sherlock looked at John's reflection in the glass in front of him, thinking deeply as he pretended to watch the snow.

All the while thinking to himself: "What did it mean?"

Half an hour later, he picked up his cell phone and texted Irene. After thinking of his message for a moment, he wrote, "Happy New Year."

The game was still on.

2011

John sat alone in Baker Street, boxes with all of his things gathered in the corner. His beard, unkempt and dirty, was becoming far too wild even for John. He really should shave a little. Maybe just leave behind a mustache. Something to make him a handsome bachelor.

"Oh you prat," he said to himself. "You'd never take advantage of it."

John drank the bourbon, and the taste was the same as exactly a year before. Memories flashed in his mind of Sherlock playing the violin right in front of him, for hours and hours, before John had finally turned to bed sleeping fitfully with thoughts of Irene Adler's observations.

Could she have observed that a year later, Sherlock would be dead?

The bell chimed midnight, as it had so many times, so many years before. Texts ignited on John's mobile beside him, the screen lighting up as much as the sky probably is, fireworks booming loudly in the distance.

John took a glance, deadened eyes darting down to look at the screen. One from Lestrade read, "Happy New Year John - let me know if you need anything, mate."

Another text, from Molly this time: "Hi John! Hope you're doing better, know you've got us if you need!"

This one made John smile a little bit. Molly always was a bit of a sweetheart. Always deserved better than hanging onto Sherlock for all that time.

John's smile fell at the thought, his face grimacing. "Yeah, I should talk, shouldn't I?"

He looked up at Sherlock's empty chair, dusty and slowly losing its luster with passed time. John had made it a point not to place even a jacket on it since the Fall. The fewer reasons to look at it, the better.

John still woke up in the middle of the night, watching Sherlock's body plummet through the air, landing with a thud right in front of him on the sidewalk. John always gets there too late to catch him.

And every day, John thought to himself, "this is why. This is why I need to get my own place. Move on with my life."

"Yeah, right," Sherlock scoffed, twiddling his fingers as he stared amusedly at John. "Move on with what life, Watson? I'm gone."

John's head snapped up, and he narrowed his eyes in concealed anger.

"You arsehole," John seethed. "You made me watch you die, you don't get to be snarky with me."

"I'm not being snarky. I'm stating a fact." Sherlock leaned forward. "I'm gone, John. You know I am. There's no bringing me back. And I can't come back. So why do you still see me?"

"You're not really here."

Sherlock smiled at him. Knowingly, cocky. "I always will be, John. Because you'll never stop believing in me."

John looked at him. Tears welled up in his eyes. "Well, I have to now, don't I?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. The chair did not move. "You can try. But I'll always be here. Right there."

Sherlock touched John's forehead tenderly with his finger. A tear fell from John's cheek. "I hope not."

Sherlock got up from his chair and moved to the back of the room.

/

Miles and miles away, Sherlock, the real Sherlock, was crouched down behind a tree with a gun clenched in his hand. He flipped open the revolver, the sound clicking against the silence around him. Blast. Nearly empty.

Sherlock looked around. Not for the first time, he wished John was here to shoot for him. He had already missed more than he should have.

The yelling of his enemies echoed nearby, and Sherlock knew the trees couldn't protect him forever.

A gunshot flew past him and embedded itself in the bark behind him. Sherlock turned to look at it, then faced forward again to meet John's eyes.

"Looks like they're carrying AK-47s. Can't be far," John told him, loading his own gun. "I suggest you get around them, dodge them on the northside, distract them with their own gunfire. Be loud then silent. They'll never see you coming, Sherlock. I can assure it."

"I think you're right, John." Sherlock looked at him. "Follow me closely. This is going to be thin."

Sherlock heard another gunshot, and he ducked his head. He bent low to the ground, then he weaved between the trees. The leaves below his feet crunched loudly, and he heard gunfire shooting the opposite way. Sherlock grinned. John had been right.

The alarm on his watch beeped. Sherlock glanced down.

He looked up, meeting John's eyes again, firm and determined, yet soft and kind. Sherlock smiled. "Happy New Year, John."

Another gunshot. Sherlock ducked again, and when he looked behind him again, John was gone.

2012

"Have you ever thought of getting married?" John asked Mary, who was leaning up against his side on the sofa. "I mean, to me?"

"Ooh, only every day, darling," Mary told him, smiling brightly and softly kissing his lips. "Every day you tell me you love me. Every day you're with me, I'm thinking about it."

John grinned and bent down to kiss her. "Brilliant. Best to know."

Mary grinned back. "You are too, love."

John laughed, unconsciously smoothing down his mustache. Mary glanced down at it, her brow wrinkling before it was smoothed out again. "Why do you ask, anyway?"

"I was thinking about it," John replied with a soft smile on his face. "I want to move on, best I can. It's time. It's been almost two years, you know."

Mary's smile turned sympathetic. "That's right. That can't be easy for you."

"No, it's..." John trailed off. "I always knew he was important to me. But losing him...I can't believe how difficult it is for me to say. You were there for me, Mary, and for that, I will forever be thankful just to have met you."

John looked into Mary's eyes, and all he saw was life. Just life. The life he wants for himself. One the opposite of the one he led with Sherlock.

When he looked into Mary's eyes, he didn't see the battlefield. He didn't get that tingle in his spine, the excitement in his heart. Not like he did with Sherlock. With Mary, it was calm. Just quietness. Security. And the promise that everything was going to be ordinary.

John looked up in the seat in front of him, and Sherlock was staring at him again. But this time, he was absolutely silent.

This time, when midnight struck, Mary kissed him, and John felt like everything might work out just averagely. Just the way he needs it to.

/

Sherlock smoked another cigarette, the map before him wrinkled, ripped, and damp. But still readable.

Gashes lined his arms and legs, his back aching from the unhealed whip marks embedded in his skin. Sherlock shook his head, trying not to focus on the immense pain pounding through his body.

Instead, he tried to focus on John's eyes.

"I think if you hit here, here, and here," fake-John told him with certainty. "You can catch them off-guard. Especially if you avoid the back entrance, that's where they'll think to catch you first."

"So where would I have to go in?" Sherlock asked bending forward to look at where his John was pointing. "What other way is there?"

"Right-" John pointed to another point. "-there. It's only watched over by one man. It'll be their downfall not to arm it. It's the only way, I think."

Sherlock looked at John, his own face soft, scarred, and muddy. "I think this could work."

John stared back at him. "I know it will. Long as we stick together. Sherlock, you can't make a mistake here."

"I know. And I won't." Sherlock licked his lips. "Not when I'm so close to seeing you again."

John fell silent, then he smiled and nodded, a soft look igniting in his eyes. It was a look Sherlock had seen several times before. "Happy New Year, Sherlock."

Sherlock checked his watch."Already?"

"You ought to leave now. Midnight on New Year's? Fewer people at the door." John looked at Sherlock knowingly. "Of course I've kept track. Now go. The people of London deserve to see you again. I deserve to see you again. Now go."

Sherlock huffed a laugh. His eyes met John's, full of love, admiration. His stomach flipped. "I'll come back to you. Soon."

John said, "You better, and you better be alive. Now, go."

Sherlock burst out from the door of the half-burned house he was squatting in. The quietness of the area, the woods, was enough to keep his mind calm. The leaves crunched below his boots, the snow around him falling steadily around him, into his wild curly hair and long wild beard.

But it was all worth it. Sherlock will always remember that.

Anything for John Watson.

2013

"Happy New Year, everyone!" Lestrade called out throughout the Baker Street flat. "The clock's counting down!"

John grabbed Mary's hand and tried to match her smile. "Another year, my darling," he said to her evenly. "Although it is much different this time."

Mary glanced up, watching Sherlock moving around the room absentmindedly. She shook her head. "Remember, he must have been through a lot. You said he spent two years abroad, fighting Moriarty's network?"

"Yeah," John sighed heavily. "I never got so many details, but...you can imagine, right? He's never going to talk about it as much as we want him to."

"He's independent," Mary responded. "At least from what I've heard of him. I don't think he's the sort to seek out help."

"No. No, he isn't."

"But, from what I have seen," Mary continued. "he is the sort to answer calls for help. He raced in that fire to save you. I saw it for myself. He will help if you just let him."

"I don't need help, Mary, he does," John told her. "He's back after two years-"

"And he's just come back to his best friend, who's moved on with his life. Who's getting married next summer." John bit the inside of his lip at that. "He should at least help you continue to grow. And if he doesn't, then he's not really a friend, though, is he?"

John looked back at Sherlock, who was standing rod-straight in the corner of the room, speaking with Molly Hooper. Sherlock looked up momentarily, right into John's eyes. Sherlock held his stare for a moment before they both broke away.

John shook his head, trying to focus on his fiancée in front of him.

"No. No, I guess not."

/

"Is he still talking to her?"

Molly looked at John for a moment from across the room, who was grabbing Mary's hand and leading her to the kitchen. She nodded. "Yes, Sherlock, I'm afraid he is."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "They're getting married in May, about to spend the rest of their lives together. Don't they think they have their entire lives to talk?"

Molly looked at Sherlock sympathetically. "Can't imagine how this must be for you. I mean, he just moved out? You haven't seen him for two years, barely at all this past month since you came back."

"John made his choice. And if it's her, that's…"

Sherlock glanced at John at that moment, watching as he kissed his fiancée tenderly on the cheek. Sherlock trailed off, before falling completely silent.

Then Sherlock met John's eyes for a moment, and he purposefully stared right at him. Silently asking him to break away and talk to him instead.

Of course, John didn't read his mind. Instead, he turned back to his fiancée. Sherlock let out a long sigh.

"Sherlock." Molly's brows were wrinkled, her eyes wide with realization. "Are you jealous?"

Sherlock straightened his back. "I'm not. I'm just..."

Molly's eyes widened. "You're not just jealous...you're..."

Sherlock stopped, and he looked down sharply to the ground. He felt the walls fall for just a moment around his one confidant, and his shoulders slumped.

He met Molly's eyes, who returned the gaze with sympathy and sorrow.

"Molly..." Tears came to his eyes.

Molly sighed, placing a palm on Sherlock's cheek. "Oh, Sherlock-"

"Five! Four! Three! Two! One!" Lestrade called with the entire room. "Happy New Year!"

2014

The following year brought a gunshot, fired from Sherlock's gun and into Magnussen's head. John was still shaking on the inside from the moment it happened. And he couldn't get the tender look in Sherlock's eyes out of his mind.

"Give my love to Mary!" Sherlock had called above the deafening whir of the helicopter blades. "Tell her she's safe now."

The tarmac moment was also forever present in his mind and will be forever. Because John knew there was more than what Sherlock was telling him.

If John's deductions were right, Sherlock had been on his way to his death.

And John had had no idea what to say to him as a final goodbye.

Sherlock had looked at him deep into his eyes, his ungloved and bare hand outstretched to him to shake. "To the very best of times, John," he had said.

And how true it was. Sherlock was the best of his life; that's what John should have said.

That's what he should have said years ago.

Before Mary shot him. Before Mary lied to him. Before he promised his life to her.

Before everything.

The clock was ticking down again. The minutes were going by faster than John had thought, faster than he had ever seen them.

Because as soon as he leaves 221B Baker Street, he's going to have to go back to his wife.

And it scared him how much he didn't want to do that.

/

Sherlock had brought John back to Baker Street on Mycroft's orders, but this was the first of his brother's orders he couldn't help but genuinely want to obey.

This was the first time they'd been alone since the Stag Night. Since they sat together in those two chairs. Since Sherlock felt John drunkenly brush his thumb against his knee. Since Sherlock wanted to blurt out just how much he didn't want John to marry Mary the next week.

He would have chosen to tell John that Mary is a liar. But he didn't. Because he'd never do that to John Watson, never, because he didn't choose Sherlock.

And he never, ever would.

Sherlock glanced at John. "Do you have time for tea, then?"

John gave a heavy sigh. "I wish I did. I really, really do."

"So why don't you?"

Sherlock looked at John, letting the words hang in the air. John paused in his movements, clenching and unclenching his fists. He glanced at Sherlock.

"Because I have a duty to my wife."

Sherlock nodded solemnly. "I understand. John, it's almost midnight. You should be with your wife. You should be…"

You should be with her, not with me. Because you're not married to me. You're married to her. She makes you happy in a way I never will be able to.

Sherlock cleared his throat, forcing those words away from his throat. He said instead, "you should be in your own home."

John nodded. "Yeah. I know. But I don't want to-"

"Then don't."

Sherlock bit down on his tongue. He really shouldn't have said that.

John looked at him. Sadness and exhaustion were in his eyes. "Sherlock, don't you start-"

"So pretend I don't," Sherlock told him firmly. "Pretend I'm too high to think straight. Let me say it. Please don't go home to Mary. Please stay here."

Sherlock stared at John despairingly. The words hung in the air.

Sherlock had never begged for mercy in his life. He has now.

John shifted on his feet, and he wouldn't speak. Deciding what he was going to say.

Then finally, John said, "Sherlock, I wish-"

Then John's phone rang. He looked down, his sentence interrupted. John stared at his phone for a long, long time. He almost let it ring out.

Then he answered it. "Yeah?'

Sherlock looked at John, his heart pounding, so low it was almost to his feet.

And also practically bleeding into John's hands.

John nodded. Made some noncommittal noises. Glanced up at Sherlock once or twice. Then, "Okay. I'll be there soon. I love you."

Sherlock felt his face fall. John looked into his eyes. Apologies were written in the air, all across John's face. But it wasn't ever said aloud.

"It's Mary. Sherlock, I'm sorry, but I have to..."

"Go." Sherlock gestured to the door. "I'll… I'll see you later."

John nodded. His feet didn't move, though, as if they were rooted to the very ground of Baker Street. John looked up at Sherlock, swallowing hard.

Then, after an even longer moment, John turned, and he left the way he came.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room for a long time after that. Even after the clock struck midnight.

2015

It'd been a long, long, long time since Sherlock had felt this happy.

John was in the corner playing with Rosie, wearing a 'Happy New Years' hat too big for his head, with one on Rosie's to match. Mrs. Hudson sat right beside him holding a toy in front of the little girl's face, much to her delight.

Lestrade made his next silly face at her, switching into a bright smile upon the sound of little Rosie's laughter.

Sherlock grinned. How such a beautiful creature came from such a poor and failed marriage was beyond even him.

John's eyes were happy again, his blue eyes alight with mirth and joy, a man unburdened. Even his shoulders were less tense, now holding his daughter the way they should.

"Sherlock?" Molly said. "I'm sorry I haven't been... how are you doing? I know that explosion must have-"

"Molly, what are you talking about?" Sherlock said, turning to her incredulously. "I'm the one who owes you an apology."

"Oh Sherlock, please, we've talked about this before," Molly told him, waving her hand once. "I can't imagine what you had to go through on that dreadful island. I only hope your sister is-"

"Eurus is doing fine," Sherlock replied easily. "Everything is fine. Perfect, actually."

Molly looked at John, then back at Sherlock. "Everything?"

Sherlock looked at John, and their eyes met. John smiled warmly at him, a smile Sherlock hadn't seen in a long time.

One that was genuine. One that was John.

Sherlock nodded. "It's perfect enough."

Then Rosie started crying, with an ensuing of "awwwww!" chorusing throughout the flat.

"Looks like someone might be ready for her nap," Mrs. Hudson announced. John laughed.

"I'll take her," Sherlock volunteered with a soft smile. "I was just heading out anyway."

"Well try to make it back for the New Year, darling," Mrs. Hudson told him kindly. "The bells about to chime, you know."

Lestrade handed Sherlock her rattle, and Mrs. Hudson stood to hand her over, whom Sherlock tenderly took into his arms.

"Be right back."

Sherlock headed into the back room.

John followed right behind him.

/

Sherlock turned around, startled, as the door closed shut behind him.

John stood there, with his hand still hanging from the doorknob. As if, for one second, he thought about leaving entirely. But then his hand slipped away, hanging loosely at his side confidently and with certainty.

John wasn't going anywhere.

"John? What are you-"

"Sherlock, there's something I need to say. And I need to say it now, or it's never going to get said."

Sherlock nodded. He lay Rosie down. "Okay. Is something wrong?"

John looked away. "Look, I… I made the wrong decision. Last year."

"Last year?"

"Well, not just last year. Every time I went home with her. When I knew that wasn't something I wanted to do." John stepped closer. "Every time I knew...that I would rather have been with you. Not her."

Sherlock met his eyes. "John-"

"Sherlock, I know this doesn't make any sense. But...whatever you have to say...please let me tell you this first."

A moment of silence passed before John could continue.

"Sherlock, I have never...regretted anything more than marrying her. I should have-I should have been with you. The whole time. I don't know what I was thinking, and I'm so sorry I…"

John stopped at the shocked look on Sherlock's face. John's face fell. "I really shouldn't be saying this to you."

"No. John-"

"Sherlock-"

"I love you."

Sherlock felt the weight on his chest relieve itself as soon as the words escaped from his mouth. Sherlock couldn't believe how right it felt to finally say it, and for John to finally hear it.

John sighed, and he smiled so softly that even Sherlock felt his heart melt in his chest. John opened and closed his mouth again and again. Trying to find a way to reply.

Then, "I've loved you for longer than you will ever know."

There it was. The words finally said, finally out in the open. Sherlock couldn't look away from John's eyes.

Then the beeping started. Sherlock didn't even have to look down at his watch. Sherlock smiled wide, his face breaking out into a wide grin.

"Happy New Year, John."

John stepped forward, and before Sherlock could even register what was happening, Sherlock grabbed John by the waist and kissed him, softly, and without hesitation.

John huffed a laugh, pulled away, then kissed him again.

Finally. A truly happy new year.

[emma-d-klutz]

"So at this point in the case, I needed a doctor. So I called in my friend. My doctor friend. And he was... Not Watson! Yes, and everyone gasped in awe that I knew this leading specialist. He was a total name drop, this doctor friend who was not Watson. And then he delivered the final diagnosis: that it was ...psychosomatic... due to anxiety... Um, but isn't that surely the most thrilling and unique conclusion to a medical mystery you've ever heard? I'm sure someone regrets missing it, right?"

Sherlock Holmes should never be the narrator. Never ever ever ever ever. For many obvious storytelling and consistency reasons, but also because when he's the one narrating, he loses all his mystique.

"I'm going to tell you a story that was suuuuper interesting but oddly enough Watson never wrote about. Oh, that's right! It's because this happened when he abandoned me for his wife, the only selfish action he's ever taken. Anyway a client walked in with stern, blue eyes and a strong jaw line - I only care for the necessary facts, btw - and he told me all about how much he loves his best friend and he's going to the ends of the Earth to find his best friend--"

Like oh my god SHUT UP you MAJOR LOSER I can't believe I modeled my life after you

[blistering-typhoons]

John Watson's mic keeps turning on.

[jkl-fff]

Watson: 🎵I AM IN MISERY AND THERE AIN'T NOBODY WHO CSN COMFORT ME!🎵

Doodles for THE RED CIRCLE…putting Watson in miserable situations for my own amusement hehe

(this is a part of the Watson's Sketchbook series)

[gregorovitch-adler]

Sock

"John this is ridiculous."

"I know! But it's fun, so let's go for it."

"Aren't we supposed to put the notes in some Christmas stockings?"

"Forgot to buy them," said John, closing his eyes momentarily. "Let's just use a pair of socks instead. They're perfectly clean."

"D'you think Father Christmas is real?" asked Sherlock, picking up a fresh, lone sock from the coffee table. "You think he'd fulfill my wish if I just wrote it on a paper and placed it in this stupid sock?"

"I don't! I realised long ago during my childhood that he isn't real. But Harry and I used to do it anyway. It just became a habitual thing," said John as he tore off a piece of paper from a small notebook and scribbled something on it. He folded that paper and placed it in the other sock - which was of the same pair as Sherlock's.

He looked up at Sherlock with expectation, who was just sitting there on his armchair, looking at the floor with his lips pressed together.

"Go on," said John and passed another piece of paper and a pen to Sherlock across the coffee table.

"If you know your wish isn't going to come true, this whole thing is a waste of time," Sherlock said and picked up the pen paper to write something anyway.

"It's not! Think of it as a type of manifestation." John stretched his legs and yawned.

They didn't have elaborate Christmas celebrations in 221 B, but John was still happy about tomorrow. Any special occasion spent at home - with Sherlock - was a day well spent.

"I don't believe in all that. Whatever's going to happen will happen. No matter how much you manifest."

John shook his head and sighed. "All right. Suit yourself then. I'm off to bed."

John got up from his armchair with the sock in his hand. He walked across the room to the fireplace and hung the sock over it.

His note inside it was short and simple: My Current Life.

He knew it was not a wish, technically, but he did not want any external factors to take Sherlock and his life at 221 B away from him. Again.

He'd had a deep and long talk with Sherlock about the staged suicide, and why Sherlock had to do it. John had finally started to see that incident from Sherlock's perspective too, and he really wished to keep his current life forever.

Besides, John knew that his feelings for Sherlock were unrequited, and things between them were going to be that way. It was not as though he could ask for Sherlock as his partner. He would rather keep his manifestations realistic.

With these thoughts, John went to the staircase leading to his room and started to climb up.

He entered his bedroom, closed the door behind him, and hopped onto the bed immediately. It didn't take him long to doze off.

John's eyes fluttered open in the middle of the night. He was thirsty. He got up and dropped his feet on the floor. After stretching his limbs, he got off the bed and stepped out of the bedroom to go downstairs.

John stopped in the middle of the staircase to take in the whole sitting room. They had decorated the Christmas tree a day before, and despite Sherlock's complaining now and then, it had been a pleasant time.

John noticed a pair of socks hanging above the fireplace - not just his own. He smiled. Sherlock had participated in something just because John had asked him to.

John went to the kitchen to grab a glass from one of the cabinets. He took it to the sink and opened the tap to fill it.

As he began to drink, leaning against the counter, John stared at the socks in the sitting room again.

He and Sherlock were not too dissimilar from a pair of socks, were they? Each completed the other; both were useless on their own.

He did not know about Sherlock, but John knew he was pretty much useless without him.

John closed his eyes and shook his head to get these thoughts out of his head again. He sighed. If only Sherlock felt the same.

Finishing the glass of water, he put it in the sink and wondered: What had Sherlock written in the note inside his sock?

John went to the sitting room and walked to the fireplace to reach for the other sock. He knew he shouldn't be looking into someone else's note - it was prying, and it defeated the purpose - but for some reason, he could not stop himself from doing it that night.

After all, what was it that Sherlock wanted in his life so much that he ended up hanging the sock with the note - when he didn't even believe in things like that? John felt like he needed to know.

John ran his fingers over the fabric of that sock, feeling the piece of paper from the outside.

John looked over his shoulder before finally taking out the paper. He swallowed as his heart began to race. He opened the paper carefully with his fingers, and his jaw dropped when he saw what the note said.

John.

Was he dreaming? Had Sherlock written that to mess with John? But no... he wouldn't have expected John to read the note. No, it was real!

Sherlock had wished for John this Christmas. It sounded unrealistic, so John turned around the note this way and that to see if there was more to it.

Nothing. Sherlock had actually wanted John, and that was it. Nothing else.

John couldn't control the huge grin forming on his face. But that grin quickly turned into a rueful smile. If only he had known about it sooner. Then again, John had not done a great job communicating about his feelings to Sherlock either.

Anyway, as he folded the paper to place it back in the sock, John made a decision.

The moment he faced Sherlock again in the morning, he was going to discuss this with him finally. No more misunderstandings. John was going to put an end to this pining tomorrow.

But tonight, he was going to sleep fine - cherishing the memory of Sherlock's note in that sock.

Tagging: @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @gaylilsherlock @lisbeth-kk @keirgreeneyes @missdeliadili @lookingforlifeoutthere @peanitbear @a-victorian-girl @calaisreno @kettykika78

[my-mistake-lets-do-this-again]

I want to make a sequel(?) to this post because I just want to talk about a ton of examples of the brain and heart trope kind of thing and I think that this older post of mine is a good one to refer back to.

Okay, so first of all. I don’t think this is like an “official” trope and yet somehow there isn’t really a name for the kind of trope that seems to be repeated in media of the smart one and who is mostly known for or are their knowledge and the heart who is known for expressing emotions and care for people and things around them. This would apply to many adaptations of Sherlock Holmes and is even true in the book canon.

the obvious example is with holmes and watson

Holmes is primarily known for his brain and despite having his heart and feeling emotions deeply, he does not express them. He is balanced by Watson who has above average intelligence but is truly known for being a caring, reliable, and significantly emotional character. We see him representing emotions for both himself and Holmes while still being able to keep up (sometimes) with Holmes’ intellect. This is true for most of the adaptations as well so I won’t go into to too much detail about things like House MD, BBC, etc

although it exists for poirot and hastings

Poirot where Poirot is the brain who cares about his little grey cells, is capable of human emotion but does not express them if they get in the way, and generally needs someone to balance his intelligence in the form of Hastings or some other. These others are people close to Poirot who get to experience the emotions that Poirot does not show and is the friendly face that people see by Poirot’s side.

raffles and bunny

A.J. Raffles is similar although for crime. Raffles is the brain who plots their robberies and crimes, often being the one to execute them and ensure that they go smoothly. Bunny is more sentimental and resistant to some of it because he still has his morals that frequently conflict somewhat with Raffles’ goals but Bunny would still follow him to the ends of the earth. Bunny has all the care for both of them while Raffles has an eye for the thrill of planning and executing his crimes without being caught. He thrives on it and they end up being a balanced duo.

jeeves and wooster

Jeeves and Wooster/Jeeves stories show us a functionally emotionless Jeeves who follows his orders but helps devise schemes for his more emotional and significantly less intelligent Bertie Wooster. These schemes are generally convoluted but he has the brains for plotting ways to get Bertie out of the clutches of his aunts and forced fiancés while Bertie feels and experiences appreciation, care, and emotions that Jeeves does not. This is one of the times where the Brain and Heart trope honestly does have the heart as the main character who seeks help from the brain rather than giving it.

and a ton of other recent examples from like Anathema and Newton Pulsifer to NOT IN A ROMANTIC WAY Rick and Morty. It’s also the base for Hob Gadling and Morpheus, and even Ford and Stan or Dipper and Mabel from Gravity Falls.

So it’s fairly clear that this trope does exist and I have not even touched on most of the media with this trope. You can look through most detective media and a lot of content with focus on a main duo. What is strange is that nobody to my knowledge has really given it a proper name. I don’t consider the trope to be opposites attract as this is more specific than that.

regardless of how “official” it is, this trope is one of my favorites because of how balanced it ends up being. As I mentioned in my previous post on this, the balance provided by characters who don’t have much in common other than that they help complete the other is just really good. They don’t just exist as the other half, they elevate one another so that both become better people and there is mutual appreciation and understanding between them despite their different temperaments. Each feels heart or known in some way by the other and it results in a chemistry that people aspire to in any fulfilling relationship. They have their differences, their own lives and things they care about but will never let anything happen to their other halves, be them brain or heart.

I have fallen into the pit of Sherlock Holmes inspired characters where one is the brain and the other is the semi-clueless but also mostly normal one whose got a lot of heart and soul and is the viewer’s way of understanding what the hell is happening in the story.

Sherlock Holmes, Poirot, Jeeves and Wooster, and Raffles and Bunny, just to name a few. this character dynamic has me in a chokehold and I NEVER want it to let go.

The stories all work really well because we have that window into characters of such incredible levels of intellect that they NEED another person to make it understandable to the reader and the humanity in the partnership with the other person makes the other character feel more human. It’s a beautiful way to tell a story and I blame Conan Doyle for me entering this rabbit hole.

I’d like to add that this post from @jus-alilcomforblelad is incredibly accurate since I also started with BBC and discovered the other versions of Holmes and have come to truly understand the devices used to make the stories as compelling and interesting as they are. Which then caused my spiral into my current state (which I wouldn’t trade for the world).