#thank you mike stamford | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

victorianpining · 1 year

Text

The Game is Now

(Well The Game is over a year ago, if you want to be technical about it)

I finally took the time to write up my notes and reactions to the original BBC Sherlock Escape Room Experience! Sorry in advance if things are a little vague at points, we only played through the room once and am mostly running off of iphone notes I wrote 13 months ago. I hope to be able to go back to try out the new Mind of Moriarty room during its run, if this one was anything to go by, it should be a fun time!

My usual disclaimer that while this is a TJLC slanted writeup, I'm just playing The Game for fun at this point, I really am not expecting any of this to lead anywhere. Enjoy your television responsibly, don't idolize television writers, eat your veggies, etc. etc. etc. And spoilers for the room, obviously.

Oh, and huge thank you to @watermotif @betweendoctorsanddetectives and @647763 (and her girlfriend) for playing the room with me! I had a blast suffering with you all <3

The way I'm getting myself to finally actually write this up is by telling myself it's okay if my thoughts are a little informal, especially after this long, so this is going to be written the way I usually structure my outlines in the format of chaotic bullet points. Hopefully it's still readable!

I'm starting my recap of the experience outside of the escape room itself, which was located in what was, for all intents and purposes, a random, abandoned seeming mall in London (it wasn't actually abandoned malls are just like that now)

So imagine you are just walking through what looks exactly like your local, very dead, mall, when there's just this massive wall with dark damask wall paper and the most DFP Sherlock quotes you can conceive of plastered on it. Think "I may be on the side of the angels but don't think for a second I am one of them" "heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them" "I'm a high functioning sociopath" etc. It's already hilarious

You come around the corner from that and there's the gated off "Doyle's Optometrist" office, where you have to page in (I think we had to state our group name, I can't remember exactly how we got in)

Once you're inside the staff helping you are named Stamford. Yes like Mike Stamford. Yes all of them. If you didn't know you were in for psychological torment, you do now

[brief intermission here because some of us arrived early, so they actually let us through to the Mind Palace bar while we waited. It was pretty cool, apart from the guy working there being really pushy about ordering drinks. The bar is Victorian themed with framed pictures from TAB and the biggest one in the room, like by far, was a framed picture of Sherlock and Moriarty's little gun standoff, so you know, that was fun.]

[here we are trying to be normal about it]

[also I went to the bathroom at this point and there was a little sign in the stall which said that the Sherlock theme song was exactly the right length to wash you hands to which was the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen in my life]

Anyway back to the intended order of the experience, Stamford led us back to the optometrist waiting room where we sat calmly while John Watson's voice read out random advertisements. (The only one of these I wrote down was "the eyes are the legs of the face" because it was so random, but there was a set of them)

Also as you will see in the following picture, the posters in here were Bananas

(In case you can't see it since it's small in dash, the purple one behind Mia says "Doyle's Audiographs: for those who hear but don't listen" very evocative of the "I did tell you but did you listen" motif, 0/10 very infuriating)

Stamford came over at this point and brought us back and gave us the rules, which included no photography so photos end here unfortunately

So we were taken to a projector room where John Watson addressed the players, saying that while it says the office belongs to Doyle, this is actually a front for one of Mycroft's plans (ha ha ha (deadpan)) and that he's coopted John into helping. (hah. do you get it? the author and the narrator? hillarious)

It was so clear that Martin did not want to be there. Like yes John in character also doesn't want to be there but Martin literally looked like he was being held at gunpoint. His eyes were dead. Poor guy.

Stamford led us through another room into the 221B living room! Being in here was surreal. Because there are a few groups lumped together at this point, we had a bit of time to look around the room. Rachel found a book about fetishes on the mantle, which was something.

We took our group picture, they let you pick from a few props. I went for the white queen chess piece for Dracula reasons and got bullied into wearing the deerstalker, which was homophobic.

Also the skull was the Yorick version, and I took a moment to stare into ACD's eyes, out of respect, as one does.

At this point the game proper begins! Sherlock's voice comes on (Ben is not on camera other than one brief exception which we will be coming back to later) and starts prepping us for our mission.

I don't remember the context but I think while telling us to be careful in the flat he told us "don't scrape your knees, or do." which was funny considering "the state of her knees"

Mycroft then addresses the audience (hah) only to be interrupted by Moriarty (hah) hacking the TV (hah hah hah)

The mirror above the fireplace? Also turns into a TV that Moriarty hacks. Ha. Ha ha ha ha.

Moriarty informs us that he has kidnapped Mycroft so the point of the game is to save Mycroft from Moriarty (I was fighting the urge to bash my head against the walls of 221b at this point, like I was expecting M Theory but like Come On you're killing me here)

You may be wondering how exactly Moriarty has kidnapped Mycroft considering he is dead. Great question! You don't get an answer apart from Moriarty saying "remember I am definitely dead" in the most sarcastic voice I have ever heard come out of Andrew Scott's mouth. Full psychological warfare at this point. Having a great time. The usual.

Also at this point, while talking about Mycroft, Moriarty compares him to Sherlock, and he definitely listed off a bunch of things but the part that most stood out was he said verbatim "Mycroft is like Sherlock without the fangirls or sex appeal" so uh. Um. Yeah. M Theory Time!!! All Aboard!!! Choo Choo!!!!

We were taken to the first of our three puzzle rooms: the morgue at St. Bart's. Moriarty is introducing the room and jokingly refers to the brief time he spent dating Molly, lets us know that our goal is to break into the computer system (a development which had me thrilled, you know I love the Moriarty as a Virus angle)

Not one full minute after Moriarty joked about Molly being his cover, Molly voice over talks to John (who by the way has a beard at this point, that I had not mentioned) and goes "nice beard!" Hah. Hah.

To get into the computer we needed to put in a date, I don't remember the context for this puzzle but the answer was 2012, the year of Season 2.

The case in the middle of the room then lights up and you're able to see the corpse. On the computer, a database comes in, and in order to get into the server, we need to fill out a series of questions about the identity of the corpse.

One of the filters is the relationship status of the corpse with three options, single, married m/f, and married m/m. I let out the most exhausted sigh of my entire life and hit married m/m without even looking at the corpse. (we briefly removed it because the room was giving us clues out of order that made us think for a moment that this was wrong, it was not, the corpse is gay, you have to not assume he's straight. Do you get it?) (war and strife on the planet earth)

So the clue for that is that the corpse has the name Stephen tattooed on him (really? of all the names? Stephen????) and you're meant to figure out that he wouldn't get a tattoo of his own name. Or just be so mentally exhausted that you intrinsically know the corpse is going to be gay because of course he is.

If that wasn't enough, the corpse was also a member of the Royal Navy who was left handed. Hi John.

At this point my friends in the room with me pointed me up to the TV in the corner, which was showing random news feed but the ticker tap at the bottom was advertising BBC Dracula, which was fun.

When we were finally getting into the cage the server was in, Moriarty kept ominously chanting "let me in"

Again, don't remember the context, but one of the clues in this room was identifying the heart

We discovered the corpse died of a horrific virus (hah) just as Moriarty hacked into the server thanks to us (once again was genuinely enjoying the code stuff, this is a 10/10 from me, makes fadow better for everyone who has done this silly escape room sdhgakjdsg)

The second room was Mycroft's underground office and our task from Moriarty was to locate where his agents were stationed throughout the world and once again send off his virus. I was giggling.

Flipping around with switches on Mycroft's desk, we found that the mirrors on either side of the room were actually windows! Because of course they were!

Sherlock comes in with a clue at this point and lets us know something to the effect of "Mycroft likes to hide clues in photographs" which was uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.... normal.

Those are my only notes for this room and I don't remember literally anything else about it so sorry about that on to....

The final room: The Victorian Operating Theater! Oh boy!!!

Moriarty has been using us to access the genetic code (hah) for a virus (hah) last scene in the Victorian Era (hahahahahahahaa). He literally phrases it as "an old treasure brought into the modern day." Hillarious.

Then the absolute highlight of the experience: there's this giant console thing in the middle of the room that comes to life with all these screens, and on them including Moriarty taunting us and, the absolute 12/10 winner, footage of Sherlock wandering around 221B. This is the only Ben footage you get and not only does it confirm the "Moriarty is always spying on Sherlock" part of M Theory, it's very similar to the wall of monitors I came up with for fadow. Fellow Moriarty fan Mia and I were dying at this as much as we were able to while still trying to solve the room.

Moriarty freed Mycroft but had infected us with the virus (this is why I joke that Moriarty gave me COVID, because I caught it this day and it might as well have been from him)

His plan was to unleash the virus on the world unless we could stop him

This room was more physical puzzles than mental, and we had to cure the brain, the heart, and the lungs respectively. The brain and the heart are obviously big Sherlock meta staples so since then I've been like "why the lungs tho?" My best guess is it has something to do with breathing new life into an old story, but that's just a guess

While we were solving it and making progress Moriarty came on to rant something like "the game was over! You should have known when to give up!" Flames, flames on the side of my face.

When we won, Sherlock insulted us, but Mycroft then came on to compliment our efforts and talents, which was a great way to leave off.

Apparently only 20% of people actually solve the room, and we were in the top 20% of that, all while trying to take in the meta of it all, go League of Furies!!!

Final thoughts: this really was like if watching the show was a thing you could live through in real time. If you've ever wanted to be tormented by Mofftiss in a more visceral way, this room is exactly what you're looking for. Also shoutout to Andrew, who acted his absolute heart out, 15/10 thanks for all the M Theory, it was delicious

Also once again to reiterate, I can't believe James Moriarty gave me COVID, after all I have done for him, rest in pieces except he isn't even dead all the way.

I guess 4 months of not being able to breathe fully was the real lungs meta all along.

Can't wait for the Mind of Moriarty game next though for real, that's gonna be Bonkers, if one of the scenes is a virtual version of the waterfall scene from TAB I think I would combust on the spot

Thanks for reading!!! Sorry this took me forever only to be such a casual writeup in the end, but hopefully this recreation of my mental breakdown in a mall was entertaining.

#rebs blogging #the game is now #tjlc

177 notes · View notes

inevitably-johnlocked · 6 months

Note

Hi Steph, how are you lovely? Thank you again for everything you do for us! I'm sort of in the mood for fun Johnlock marijuana fics. John and Sherlock accidentally or not so accidentally getting high (and preferably naughty). I just finished lifeonmars' 'Smoke' and itching for more 🤭

Hi Nonny!

AHHHH okay I honestly don't think I HAVE any that I've read? If I do they'll be on one of my Drugs lists:

Self Harm, Danger Nights, and Drugs

Drugs and Drugging Pt 2

Drugs and Drugging Pt 3

I did a quick look on my MFL list and here is what showed up when I did a tag search... I haven't read them so I don't know if the drugs referenced IS pot/weed... If anyone has others that they can or would like to add, please do!

RECREATIONAL DRUG USE (MFLs)

Smoke by lifeonmars (T, 4,827 w., 1 Ch. || Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Fluff, Humour, Rock and Roll) – Sometimes time and space collide to show you something you've been missing. Sherlock's pipe helps.

Better Than by pandoras_chaos (E, 9,869 w. || Marijuana / Drug Use, Oral / Anal Sex, Awkwardness, Pining) – Mrs Hudson looked up at him and started giggling, seemingly unable to help herself as she clutched at her stomach and leaned back into the sofa cushions. Sherlock felt his face twitch, and he tried to contain the rumbling chuckles as they spilled forth from his throat, but it was useless. "The thing about John...?" she prompted after a few minutes of breathless laughter. "Ah! Yes," Sherlock sighed, reaching for the ashtray and collecting the expertly rolled joint, "The thing about John is..." he brought the lighter up to the end of the paper, took a drag and held it for a moment, feeling his chest expand with the fragrant smoke. "He's..." he exhaled long and low. "He's fucking brilliant." Mrs Hudson let loose a bark of high, girlish laughter. "You mean he's brilliant at fucking, dear," she corrected, reaching for the bag of crisps on the table. Sherlock felt his cheeks flush, but his face split into a sly grin. "I wouldn't know, Hudders." He sighed a bit wistfully, "I really wouldn't know."

Sit Pretty For Me by LipstickDaddy (E, 19,502 w., 10 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting Pre-S1, Recreational Drug Use, Light BDSM, Strangers to Lovers, Matchmaker Mike, Light Angst, Happy Ending) – What if John and Sherlock met once before, at an underground sex club, a decade before Mike Stamford introduced them that afternoon at Bart’s?

On Dates, Drugs, and Destiny by squire (T, 20,055 w., 3 Ch. || ASiP Divergence, Romance, Arranged Marriage, Crack, Humour, Fluff, Angst, Misunderstandings, Love Confessions, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Jealousy, Friends to Lovers, Courting, Drugs / Recreational Drug use, Case-Related Drug Use, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Meddling Mycroft) – When Sherlock Holmes and John Watson first meet in the lab at Bart's, it isn't actually for the first time. But why does only one of them know this - and should the other one keep the secret, or will revealing the truth ruin their friendship forever? A story of John being not Sherlock's date, of Sherlock being around way too much drugs, and a Destiny that always has to have the last word.

Heart on a String by AngelSpirit (E, 23,257 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Alternate First Meeting, First Kiss / Time, Infidelity, Angst, Fluff, Kidlock/Teenlock, Mentions of Recreational Drug Use) – John and Sherlock got married with Cracker Jack rings when they were 7 yrs old. It wasn’t official, but for their whole lives they took it very seriously.

Gilded Cages by MaryLouLeach (E, 52,323 w., 21 Ch. || Supernatural Creatures AU || Rape/Non-Con, Graphic Violence, Suicide Attempt, Attempted Murder, Vampires and Werewolves, Blood Drinking, Slavery, Dom/Sub Undertones, Torture, Anal Sex, Turning, Recreational Drug Use, Drug Addiction, Dark Sherlock, Protective Mycroft, Possessive Sherlock, Bonding, War, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Angst, Child Abuse) – The vampire remained motionless in the dark of his prison; his eyes clasped shut as if he were sleeping. However Vampires didn’t sleep, or rather this one did not. Sleeping would bring dreams; dreams were solely a human condition, whereas nightmares, nightmares were what plagued the sleep of the immortal. Sherlock knew he was a monster, and even now in this hellish prison locked in the unfurnished room, he felt the darkness of soul start to fester. Pushing at him and all he wished to do was silence it, he needed his fix needed more. The last addict he fed on wasn’t enough. He needed more, needed to shut out the screaming that plagued him that weighed him down and kept him shackled to his hunger. Part 1 of the GILDED series

Your Many Tendencies Series by apliddell (T, 52,222+ w. across 5 works || WiP || Femlock, POC Characters, Enby Character, Sherlock’s Violin, YouTuber John, UST, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Slow Burn, Domesticity, Fluff, Recreational Drug Use, Friends to Lovers, Sherlock’s Past, First Kiss, Love Confessions, John’s Family, Christmas, Anxious Sherlock, Hurt / Comfort, Institutional Racism) – John Watson returns to London after a long absence, somewhat the worse for wear. She meets Sherlock Holmes, and starts feeling excited about life again.

Save Me or Let Me Drown by GubraithianFire (E, 72,986 w., 16 Ch. || Shameless AU || Dysfunctional Family, Alcoholism, Recreational Drug Use, Angst, Humour, Clubbing, Bipolar Disorder, Custody Battle, Mutual Pining, Family Fluff, Smut, Handcuffs, Anal Sex, Shower Sex, Rimming, Come Shot, Angst With Happy Ending) – How Sherlock escaped from his family, John sacrificed everything to his, and how, together, they built their own. Part 1 of the The Watsons series

Filthy/Gorgeous by MirabileLectu (E, 87,951 w., 12 Ch. || Prostitution, Alternate First Meeting, First Time, Recreational Drug Use, Drugs, Angst, Drama)– Even if this was legal, even if there was nothing technically wrong with what he was doing he knew that if he were caught, or if he were seen by someone he knew, or if he were found out in any way the shame would never, ever die. What would his regiment say? What would his family say? What would anyone say if they discovered that John was currently in a cab on the way to pick up a male prostitute for the evening?

To Light Another's Path by BeautifulFiction (E, 128,654 w., 19 Ch. || Post-TGG, Sick Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Drug Addiction / Recreational Drug Use, First Time / Kiss, Case Fic) – Teaching John to observe seems to be a losing battle, but when Sherlock falls ill and submits himself to John's care, will he realise that there is more to life than the science of deduction? Meanwhile, there is a murder to solve, and John must try and convince Sherlock not to sacrifice his own health for the sake of the case.

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #drugs and drugging fics #drugs cw #recreational drugs fics

20 notes · View notes

helloliriels · 2 years

Text

It's here! My coup de grâce for the Crack Fic challenge! 🎨 🖌

The Picture of Baker Street Gay

by helloliriels (a tribute to Oscar Wilde)

“Stand still! Why-? Haha … Why are you fidgeting?” John couldn’t help laughing, as Sherlock looked almost physically pained to be holding still …

“How much longer?” he asked with a small whine to his voice.

John shared a lingering glance with him. Begging him once more to do this … and lightly tugged on his shirt sleeve … and Sherlock complied. Lifting his chin again to look haughtily at the painter.

“An hour more,” the artist continued his work, intensely focused, “all I should need.”

Sherlock groaned and looked back to John for pity …

“What do you think?”

The painter stepped back and invited John and Sherlock to come and inspect his handiwork, at long last.

Sherlock jumped at the start like a greyhound. Reaching the painting before John could. John tried to gauge the painting’s quality by Sherlock’s response. But Sherlock was … just staring … agape.

“Like it?” John asked, laughing as he danced around Sherlock’s statuesque form to peer at the likeness.

Then he too, froze. Staring.

. It was …

. It was perfect.

They looked happy. Contented.

Like they would be there forever … side-by-side … at Baker Street.

It scratched an itch John didn’t even know he had …

Both boys sighed, audibly.

“You make a fine pair,” the artist’s eyes were knowing. Enjoying the stunned silence of his patrons, “I wish you both very happy. When is the wedding?”

His words took a moment to register.

“We’re not-” John choked on the words -

. “-a couple,” Sherlock finished for him.

Neither could tear their eyes from the image.

“Oh? I assumed this was for an engagement?” the artist asked casually, raising an eyebrow … but kept the rest of his thoughts to himself. He gave them a moment before interrupting the electric silence … Accepting a hastily written and excessively generous check from Sherlock; and a hearty handshake and slap on the back from John; before heading on his way.

Both men stood staring at the painting ... long after the sun faded below the horizon.

(Continued on Ao3 …)

Let me know if you want tagged, anytime! (Full fic posted on Ao3!)

@johnlocky @fluffbyday-smutbynight @chinike @rhasima @masterofhounds @missdeliadili @chriscalledmesweetie @mutedsilence @john-smiths-jawline @topsyturvy-turtely @gaylilsherlock @totallysilvergirl @inevitably-johnlocked @carla-creates @a-different-equation @arwamachine @7-percent @shelleysprometheus @raina-at @kettykika78 @khorazir @keirgreeneyes @eplapourdissant @lovelenivy @simplyclockwork @calaisreno @reveling-in-mayhem @therealsaintscully @annecumberbatch @janetm74 @2smach @mrb488 @randomwordsonpaper @bluebellofbakerstreet @the-reading-lemon @thanks-mike-stamford @impalaparkedat221b @johannadc @forfucksakejohn @heyblinken @sherlockedcarmilla @barrybclout @peanitbear @glows-n-the-dark @myopicmeerkat @meetinginsamarra @pocketwatchofmycroft @angrybagginshieldbakery @safedistancefrombeingsmart

This was the first fic I had in mind when creating the Crack Fic challenge in 2022. So as a Grand Finale to throw down the gauntlet (and you have no idea how long I've been waiting to share this!!!) I present my silly little (master)piece.💋Much love! - Liri

#2022 Year of the Crack Fic #writing challenge #picture of dorian gray #johnlock fan fic #helloliriels #crack fic #oscar wilde #worthy?#*shrug*#full of love?#absolutely!#100% CraCkEd!!!

85 notes · View notes

a-victorian-girl · 1 year

Text

(...) Oh and... You're welcome.

I think this is, by far, the greatest gift that David Nellist (a.k.a Mike Stamford) could've EVER given to us, the Sherlock's fandom (and Johnlock shippers, of curse).

This was actually a present for Sherlock and John on their wedding day (on Twitter).

We love you David!!! Thank you!!! xxx

(X)

#Mike Stamford #David Nellist #fandom #bbc sherlock #johnlock #sherlock bbc #sherlockbbc #benedict cumberbatch #john watson #sherlock #johnlock shipper

40 notes · View notes

discordantwords · 2 years

Text

wip wednesday!

I was tagged by @7-percent to share some of the WIPs I'm currently working on. Thanks for the tag!

Rules: post the first few lines or the summary of as many WIPs that you care to expose to the reading public. Tag others if you are curious to see what they are working on.

Oooof, I have so many WIPs. A lot of them are little more than ideas that I've jotted down that will never see the light of day. But let me pull out a few of them.

Nothing to Celebrate (currently posting on AO3)

Here are a few lines from the next chapter, which has been slightly delayed as I (and everyone else in my house, this has been a hell of a week ::sob::) recover from Covid, but should be polished up and posted by the end of the week:

It is CCTV footage, grainy, black and white. John and Mary, weaving their way down the street. They look quite cosy, tucked up against each other. In spite of the blurry picture, Mary's dress and coat are unmistakable, as is John's moustache.

Time in a Bottle

This is the next fic in line, a very belated FTH gift for @khorazir, and should start posting once Nothing to Celebrate is wrapped up. Sherlock and John investigate a case tied to an old bottle, and might get the chance to make some wishes.

I have a big chunk of this one drafted already, but I'm playing around with the structure and trying to decide on the best starting point for the story. The timeline is going to get a little twisty and convoluted before the boys get their happy ending.

"First order of business is to find out what you've drugged me with. Though, if you're so inclined, you can save time and simply tell me." She laughed, a startled sound. "Drugged you?" He smiled tightly, set the vial aside. "Tea?" "No, thank you," she said. "Do people frequently break into your flat to drug you?" "On occasion," he said, and flashed another insincere smile. He dug his mobile out of his dressing gown pocket, thumbed out a text to Molly. "As you've just admitted to breaking into my flat, perhaps we can dispense with the pleasantries and skip to the part where you tell me what you're after."

Untitled Amnesia Fic (current working title is Strangers Forever)

This one will get written. I've been picking at it off and on for the last year or so. Set in a world where Sherlock's plane does not turn around at the end of HLV.

Sherlock is undercover doing reconnaissance work for Mycroft in the US. Thanks to what he believes was an accident, but which was actually an intentional procedure, he has no recollection of the last ten years or so of his life. John finds him and things unravel from there.

I'm so excited for this fic, but also intimidated by it, which is why I've been poking at it for so long. It's angsty turned up to 11. Intensely, painfully angsty. And I will warn upfront that there is no miraculous return of memory-- everyone involved must simply find a way to carry on.

Here's an excerpt:

There are ashtrays balanced on nearly every flat surface. He picks one up, sets it back down, surprised at his own nervousness. "I'm—" he starts, and swallows. Tries again. "I'm in the midst of a fascinating study on tobacco ash. Do you have any idea how many variations—?" "Two hundred and forty-three," John says. Sherlock swivels to look at him, delighted. "You know ash?"

And another:

"I think it might be nice to have an arch enemy," Sherlock says idly. He is feeling whimsical, and he lets a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. "I've often thought about it." John does not smile. "You had one. It wasn't nice."

Untitled Harry Wedding Fic

This is another one that I've been poking at for a while. It's meant to be two chapters. I've had the first chapter written for years, but stalled out on the second. Something just feels wrong about it. I hope to figure it out one of these days, because I quite like what's already been written.

Set sometime post S4, John bumps into Mike Stamford again. Mike lets slip that he's attending Harry's wedding that weekend… a wedding John knows nothing about. He's hurt and embarrassed and makes plans to crash the wedding. Sherlock invites himself along.

"This was supposed to be a nice day," Harry said. "Hm. Yeah. Seems perfectly nice." She turned to look at him, lips pressed into a tight white line. He stared back, but his resolve refused to hold. He just felt tired. Tired and sad and sorry. He sighed, looked down. "Harry—" "I'll have them find you a place at one of the tables," she said. Her voice was clipped. "I ought to pitch you out on your arse. But." "Two," he said. "What?" "Two places." "Sorry," she said. "Did I hear you correctly? Not only did you crash my wedding, but you brought a date?" "He's not my date," John said. He cleared his throat, looked away.

Golden Ticket

Yeah, it's a Willy Wonka AU.

"Sherlock Holmes," Mike said. "The genius behind it. Completely mad, of course, but—" "Mad. Genius. Yeah, got it," John said. He vaguely remembered hearing something about Holmes, years ago. Before Holmes Candy had blown up bigger than Cadbury, or Moriarty, or even Hershey over in the states. "Young guy, right?" Mike laughed, but there was no mockery in it. "Oh, you have been out of touch for the last few years, haven't you?" He smiled, shook his head. "Yeah, that was him. Showed up out of nowhere, no formal training, no background in the industry, completely blew the competition out of the water. Every bloody shop in London carries his stuff." "Okay," John said. Mike was right, of course. Holmes Bars, with their purple and gold packaging, were damn near ubiquitous. And he supposed the story of Holmes' out-of-nowhere success had a certain appeal, though why Mike had chosen now to bring it up was more than a bit perplexing. Mike smiled at him, an encouraging smile. John frowned, back, looked down at his cane. "Right. So what's . . . funny about him?" Mike took another sip of his coffee. "Well. He had some kind of nervous breakdown three years ago. Guess all the success went to his head. If you were overseas you might not have heard about it, but—" "Not really the sort of thing I'd have followed, overseas or not," John said, glancing past Mike towards the path once again. He wondered if it would be terribly rude to invent a forgotten appointment. "No, trust me, you'd have noticed," Mike said. "It was bizarre. He put out a string of limited edition candies—I mean—there were these lollies, right? Where each flavor represented a different level of decay—" "What?" John looked away from the path, back at Mike. Mike nodded. "Yeah. Not joking. And if I remember our anatomy classes correctly—and mate, you know as well as I do that's not something I'm likely to forget—he absolutely nailed it." "Why would anyone—?" "They were puzzles, you know? You were supposed to work out by the colour and taste how long the victim had been dead and where they'd been found. There were a few different ones, and eventually all these websites set up where people speculated over it and eventually solved the mystery of what each one was supposed to be." John blinked. "Man buried in shallow ground for a week. Woman floating in salt water for three days. Man in deep freezer for—" "Yeah, all right, I get it," John said. Then he shook his head. "No. I don't get it. He . . . flavored his candy with corpses?" "No, he flavored his candy like corpses. Caused quite a stir! But it was genius, really. A bit mad, but—" "Mad genius. Yeah. So you've said." "Anyway, around the same time that was going on, he started to get paranoid. It was in all the papers. Lots of speculation about drugs. He went on these public tirades about spies in his factory, stealing his recipes. Said Moriarty was out to ruin him." "Sounds like he did a right job of that on his own," John said. Corpse-flavoured candy. Honestly. "Well, he disappeared. Shut down his factory, just like that. Sacked all his staff. Cancelled all of his pending orders" "Shame," John said flatly. "But," Mike said, his eyes lighting up. "Five days ago, the factory started up again. Candy started shipping out worldwide. No one knows how. Or why."

I'll tag @thetimemoves @saki101 @algyswinburne and anyone else who sees this, if you'd like to share some of what you've been working on, consider yourself tagged!

#sherlock #wip wednesday #my wips

20 notes · View notes

sandcobangevent · 5 months

Text

Looking for Love

by emilycare and gurpyman Read the fic and view the art on AO3!

Chapter 1

“Watson, you’re acting oddly.”

“I’m odd? I’m not the one who is standing on their head upside down, waiting until they pass out, mate.”

“We are gathering important information. I’m not simply waiting for unconsciousness. This is a scientific experiment. That is, it would be if you collected the data I requested of you.”

“Right. You want me to time how long it takes for you to get dizzy, fall down and give yourself a concussion. Are we perhaps trying to determine whether a perp would be undone first by being knocked out by loss of blood flow, versus blunt force trauma?”

“Of course not, Watson. We’re seeking information about the challenges faced by the target of a crime. Say they were held upside down during an abduction ”

“Right, right. Sherlock, you’re looking pretty red in the face now. How’re you doing?”

“I’m just fine, Watson. Please take some photos to document my physiological changes. But you didn’t answer my query.”

“What are you on about? Hold still, I won’t use the flash, don’t worry.”

“How can I clarify and also hold still at the same time?”

“You’re making the picture all blurry, talking. Pick one or the other—question me or do your research. Can’t have both. Oh! There’s a good one. It’s just not fair. Even arse over teakettle, you’re still ridiculously good looking. Don’t know how you do it...”

“Are you quite finished?”

“Yeah—oooh, no your ears are turning really pink now, too. Got to capture this. There. Go ahead, ask away.”

“You keep looking at your phone.”

“And….?”

“You’ve looked at your phone an average of five times more than your usual, already rather elevated, rate.”

“You do remember that I am timing you for your little experiment, yeah?”

“Even accounting for that, you’re far more distracted than is typical. And you’re clearly changing from the timer app to another. Your eyes scan up when the notification arrives, and the light on your face increases when you open the other application.”

“Just texting, mate. Nothing to see here.”

“That’s patently untrue. Mike Stamford is away on a business conference—but he will be engaged with social activities by this time of night and would have stopped texting you frequently which he commonly does during boring talks. Your Mother has already texted you this week and she always does so on the weekdays, typically when she is about to drive to an interview with prospective parents who are not yet in birth process, rather than when she is on call or engaged in a time sensitive response.”

“Right. Well. Guess you’ve got a few points there. But it could just be Mariana?”

“Yes, well. Mrs Hudson is a possibility.”

“See, there. Nothing strange after all. Just case prospects from the good old third wheel to our tricycle. The, um, well..”

“I believe the allusion you are looking for might be the ‘Third Musketeer?’ Which is ironic, given that there are in fact four musketeer characters which feature in those novels.”

“Exactly! Our third Musketeer! Oh, mate, you’re looking pretty bad. Let me check your pulse and….yeah, that’s done now.”

“But, I haven’t..I don’t…”

“See, you’re getting confused. Upsy daisy, my friend. There you go. Oh, you’re pretty wobbly—hang onto me.”

“Watson the world is spinning.”

“Don’t worry, it’s all right. Just be still for a moment. I’ve got you.”

“Thank you, Watson.”

“What are you doing? Give that back! Now see, you should sit down. Don’t try to steal my phone. There you go. Just settle back and I’ll get you some water.”

“That would be good, I haven’t drunk anything in 12 hours, to simulate the effects of being mistreated in captivity.”

“What! I can’t believe…”

“Watson. Are you angry with me?”

“No. No, Sherlock. Just worried.”

“Is that why you’re looking at your phone again?”

“Here, let me set this down and take your pulse again. Drink that. Much better.”

“Thank you, Watson.”

“Let’s just forget about my phone for now, and get you set to rights.”

Chapter 2

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson?”

“What are you doing?”

“That should be patently obvious, I should think. Making tea.”

“Yes, but…”

“I do make tea occasionally, despite what John may say. I even know just how you like it. You see, I do observe.”

“Yes… Oh—that is just how I like it. What is that smoky taste?”

“Honey. Of a special pedigree. The bees gathered the nectar from meadow wildflowers in Sussex. Gathered in the summer of 2022, which you may well recall was a particularly dry year. Increased temperatures brought on an extended drought, which in some places due to negligence, in others to malicious action, created a season of wildfires.”

“Wildfires? Oh. Oh, Sherlock. This is so very good.”

“Is it? Excellent. Your response to that cup of Lapsang Souchong tea you drank inadvertently at a restaurant when the orders of our table and the next were swapped led me to believe you would particularly appreciate this vintage of the fruit of the labor of these particular Apis mellifera, from that time and place—”

“Apis—oh, I see! The honeybees made the honey after there were fires and somehow the nectar was made smoky. Sherlock, that is brilliant! I had no idea that was even possible, but it makes this cup of tea, somehow, just—”

“Perfect. Yes. I had thought it might.”

…

“So, you haven’t answered my question, yet.”

“Haven’t I? I thought I had given your question quite a thorough response.”

“No, Sherlock. I know what you are doing, making tea. Oh, and thank you. That is. Mm. Delicious. But why are you doing it here?”

“I do live here.”

“Not here you don’t. You live upstairs. 221b.”

“And our offices are here, in 221a. You spend quite a bit of time up in our flat. Cook dinner, watch television. Do your hair. There are, in fact, three types of hair product on our shelves which are yours. Unless John has begun using Aceite de moska hair oil. Which, if he did, would make him look more like a greased seal than he normally does after coming out of the shower.”

“Ah, okay, I can move my things out of your shower if you like. It’s just—you’re much closer to the hot water tank than I am, and your hot water is really steaming.”

“No, no. There’s no need for that. You don’t need to stop being upstairs so much. I just had thought it meant you thought of this whole place, both flats, as being ours.”

“That’s very sweet, Sherlock. So, here you are, making tea in our flat, for me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, thank you. I appreciate it very much. And for the honey. That was very thoughtful.”

“Yes.”

…

“Sherlock? Do you have something on your mind? You keep drumming your fingers on the table.”

…

“Sherlock? What is it?”

“I want to ask you something. About Watson.”

“About John? What is that?”

“I want to know if you know what he is hiding.”

“Hiding? How could he hide anything from you? You two live in that little flat together.”

“Which we share with you.”

“Yes, we share the flats, as we have discussed. And I mean, there’s little you haven’t seen of John. Parading around half naked after a shower as you said.”

“I said he looked like a seal, I did not refer to his state of undress.”

“Not mentioning his unmentionables? Very good of you.”

…

“Sherlock? Are you blushing?”

“Absolutely not, Mrs Hudson. This tea water is very hot and has caused me to flush.”

“Uh huh. Well, what is it that you think he is hiding?”

“On his phone. There is something to do with his phone.”

“Oh.”

…

“Oh?”

“Mm. Maybe I do have some idea of what is going on with John.”

“What is it, Mrs Hudson?”

“Sherlock, I’m not—oh, whatever. But, no, I’m not at liberty to tell you. But really, Sherlock. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Whyever would I be worried about whatever is occupying John’s attention? Is this something to do with his family? It can’t be a case, you wouldn’t say that is private. That would, in fact, very much concern us all. Is it the military? Is there some issue from his past coming to haunt him? Why wouldn’t he bring that to me? I could certainly help, if, say, he’s been accused of something. Or if someone was blackmailing him about this time in Ukraine. Why on Earth would he come to you about that but not me?”

(laughing) “Sherlock, hold on here. You are going wildly in the wrong direction. When I said it was personal I mean it was, well, a personal matter. A social thing.”

“Social. Oh! You mean, romantic.”

“Yes! Correct.”

“Ah, of course. How foolish of me. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mrs Hudson. I now understand what I saw when I was able to steal a look at his phone. That is indeed something which does not concern me. If Watson wishes to find someone to partner with, that’s his concern. I imagine we can advertise for another subletter. Perhaps we should try to find someone with some of his skillsets? It is rather convenient to have someone with medical knowledge on hand. And combat experience. And his sports background is rather useful when we need to chase after a suspect. I’ll start working on an advertisement… What are you laughing about?”

“You. Both of you. I swear, Sherlock. John is not going anywhere. Really. You do not have to advertise to replace him.”

“Why ever not? Isn’t he placing an ad in some romantic matching service to find a mate? Won’t he need to move from here to conjoin his life with whatever fraulein he finds to—”

“Trust me, Sherlock. Whatever John thinks he is looking for, he already has it. Right here.”

…

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely.”

Chapter 3

“Sherlock, I have something to tell you. I mean, ask you. I mean, I have something to ask of you. A favor. If you will.”

“Watson, you are most welcome to use my body wash. It is hypoallergenic and has a much subtler scent than that thing you replaced your minty product with. And you really shouldn’t mask your own scent when going out with a date, especially first time, how else will they catch that essential scent of y—”

“Oi! Mate. You—wait, you know I’m going on a date?”

“Obviously, Watson. You’ve gone back and forth to the loo 5 times, with different shirt and tie combinations. Your trousers are pressed. You’ve even shined your shoes. I do hate to mention that that pair is not actually intended to be polished. It’s not leather. Imitation.”

“Oh bollocks! I thought that wasn’t looking right. And the more I put on the stranger the color got.”

“Yes, rather. You should just wear your light tan pair, with the cream shirt, no tie.”

“But that one is a bit tight around middle.”

“Mm. Yes. No, I mean it’s properly snug. You always wear things from off the rack, so you don’t actually know what it’s like to wear something properly fitted.”

“That thing feels like a piece of me. Like’s its part of my skin.”

“Exactly, Watson. Your garments should not float about in space, but should be fitted to your own unique dimensions.”

“Ah, thanks, mate. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. I mean, I haven’t properly dated anyone since we, well, since we bunked up together. I mean, since we moved in together. That is, since we found the flat and started the business, and became...friends. And all.”

“Friends. Yes. I understand, Watson. You’ve had a nice time living here, and are ready to move on. It always happens eventually.”

“That is not what I said! I am not ready to move on. I mean, I am not looking to move on. That is, mate, I’m happy. Very happy here. I just, also want, some, well, intimate companionship.”

“Are we not intimate companions? You drooled on my shoulder just yesterday.”

“That was Archie.”

“No, Archie drooled on my chest during his nap two days ago. Prodigious slaver, that dog has. You fell asleep during that fascinating documentary on the interactions between boreal insects. And your head fell on my shoulder. You seemed knackered, so I hadn’t the heart to move you. And so, my shirt had to be laundered yet again.”

“Oh, Christ. I’m very sorry. I don’t remember that.”

“You were sleeping.”

“I was trying to figure out how I ended up in my bed last night.”

“You really aren’t very heavy, Watson. Still need some feeding up, after your time recovering from your war wounds.”

“Hello? Anyone up there? Is there a John Watson here?”

“Yes, you’ve found him. Oh, well. I see. Very sorry Watson. Perhaps your next attempt will go better.”

“What?! Shush, Sherlock. Please, come in. Andrea, is it? It’s a pleasure to meet you. Though you do look just a wee bit different than I’d been imagining.”

“Oh, there are two of you up, here is it? Well, you live up to your description, Doctor Watson. And who is your friend?”

“My friend was just leaving. Didn’t you have that thing, Sherlock?”

“Sherlock! Oh! Then you are that John Watson. I have found your podcast just so fascinating. And please don’t go, Mr Holmes. Please, not on my account.”

“You may take your hand off of my forearm, Ms Currington. I am still not going to take your case.”

“But you must, Mr Holmes! I am certain that my husband is cheating on me. And if you weren’t going to answer my emails, I thought I could just be clever—”

“And stalk my housemate through dating apps, entrap him into setting a date with you, and then infiltrate yourself into our casework via his overactive gonads? I think not.”

“You honey trapped me to get to Sherlock? Oh, I’ve had some dates go wrong, but this…?”

“It’s really not like that, John. I did like your profile. I just stumbled over it, and thought well, why not kill two birds with one stone?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Really? ‘Looking for a brilliant, mysterious, willowy someone. Ideally brunette. Must love danger and okay if you’re pretty much round the twist?’ I mean from listening I rather thought you were gone over Sherlock, but after reading that, I just thought, well, he's pretty up on swinger culture. Maybe he’d be down for a three way, and then we can talk shop and it would all just fall into place. I could get back at my husband for his affair at the same time. Three birds, one stone, even.”

…

“So, what do you two think of my offer?”

“Shall I see her to the door?”

“Most grateful, mate.”

Chapter 4

“Sherlock! Albóndigas?! This is my favorite dish. My mother always made them when I came home from school. They smell delicious. How…?”

“I am afraid they are not strictly authentic, Mrs Hudson. The recipe calls for pork and veal. However, Watson frowns on veal. I’ve stopped eating it, and I found that when I called for the food delivery service to bring the ingredients to make this I could not—”

“You made this? Oh, my mouth is drooling. The herbs and vegetables seem just right. Oh that broth! Do you mind if I try it? I actually was just thinking about what to have for dinner, and…”

“Of course. That is why I brought them to you, now. Watson is out, and you typically cook for yourself or come up to see if we want to eat with you. But you know I’ve been eating tomato pasta this past week.”

“Oh, muy sabrosa! This is delicious, Sherlock. And very thoughtful. Would you like some as well?”

“No. No, the thought of eating meat turns my stomach right now, actually. But I thought you could perhaps join me in some penne pasta on the side.”

“Sit, let me get you a glass of water. Please.”

…

“So, Watson…”

“Sherlock, did you bring me a dish to get me to talk about John, again?”

“People seem to relax when they eat. I thought this might be an acceptable way to bring up a difficult topic.”

“Well, I am not complaining. But you don’t have to do this. I appreciate it greatly. And when your stomach is doing better, I would love to do more Spanish cooking with you. I think you have a talent.”

“Cooking is simply a matter of following directions, much like chemistry. I’ve always found it simple. Just un-necessary for my own needs, generally.”

“John would appreciate it too, if you made some of his favorite dishes.”

“No. That won’t be necessary. He’s gone on another date, and I am sure that he’ll soon be moving out.”

“No, Sherlock. He won’t.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Sherlock, have you looked at his profile?”

“I’m sure that would be a breach of his privacy.”

“There is nothing more public than a dating profile! He is literally posting information about what he wants, for the entire world to see.”

“But he told me he didn’t want me to look at his phone.”

“Well, you can look on your own phone.”

“I refuse to download that kind of ridiculous application.”

“Uh huh. Well, I’ve got it on mine. Come and see.”

…

“I shouldn’t.”

“Oh, he’s updated it again. Very interesting…”

“What...what does it say now?”

“You could just come and see.”

“I really shouldn’t.”

“Trust me, Sherlock. If there is anyone in this world that should be looking at this, it is you.”

“So I can help find John—I mean, Watson, when he’s gotten trapped by yet another scurrilous respondent, this time a criminal who will also recognize him and kidnap him to get to me?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You really have got to stop letting your imagination run away with you. No. You should see it because it is entirely obvious to me that when he is describing his dream person, it is you.”

“Dream girl you mean. And it can’t be. Couldn’t. He’s interested in women. I sometimes wondered if he would throw himself at you. For example.”

“John has always been a gentleman with me. And a very good friend. I’ll always be grateful that he thought of having our business take on my Visa.”

“Yes. He’s very kind. Thoughtful.”

“Smart and fun to be around, too, right? And handsome?”

“Watson’s looks are…acceptable.”

“Right. That’s why I catch you watching him when he falls asleep on the couch, right? To make sure that he still looks ‘acceptable.’”

“I believe Watson may have sleep apnea. I’m just watching out of concern.”

“Well, with how he snores, you may have something there. But why would you sketch him then?”

“What are you talking about?”

“In your notebook. I was going through to make sure that I’d gathered all the receipts, since I know you use them as bookmarks for your notes on cases. And I saw right there, several absolutely lovely drawings of John. One was of him sleeping. In another, I think he was feeding ducks? And in another…”

“Fine. Right. Yes. I was merely attempting to improve my life drawing skills. I am around Watson quite a bit. He seemed a useful enough subject.”

“Uh huh. Well. Okay, Sherlock. Have it your way. But you still need not worry.”

“Well, that’s fine. Because I am very much not worried. If Watson wants to find a woman and leave that is very much his own affair. But, you said he might not be with a woman, why do you say so?”

“Well, because on this dating profile, he has indicated that he is open to both women and men to date.”

“Let me see that!”

Chapter 5

“Sherlock?”

….

“Sherly—Sherlock? Um, hello?”

“Watson. What is it? Why are you waking me up? Is there case? A client?”

“No—(hic). No case. Mind if I sit down here for a mo?”

“John, you are on my bed.”

“Mmm hmm. Yupsy dupsy. That I am. Shove over will you?”

“Watson. John! What are you doing?”

“Mmmmm…cuddling. I think this is called cuddling. At least it was last time I was with someone. Have they changed what they call that to something else now? Kids are always saying something else.”

“Erm, John. No, I think the best term for what you’re engaging in now would be cuddling, if you were with someone with whom you were intimately involved. But with me, I am really not sure what the right word is.”

“Mmmm… You’re warm. And soft. I kind of hoped you’d be. You look all kind of angly, so tall and all elbows and knees. But here you’re soft. And your skin…”

“John! That tickles. Stop touching my belly. And my arms… Oh. That feels rather nice when you touch the back of my neck that way. Mm. Yes. Could you scratch the base of my skull? No, not that hard. Mm. Yes. Oh, lovely. Now just pull slightly—wait, John. Get out of my bed, right now. You are inebriated and you are going to regret all of this in the morning.”

“Whoa! Oi—what am I doing on the floor? Ouch.”

“Are you alright, John?”

“Oh, I think so. But I wonder if you could maybe make the world stop spinning?”

“Sit here. I’m going to go get you some water now.”

“Mmm. Soft sheets. Comfy pillow. You have the best bed, Sherlock.”

“I am rather fond of it. Here, Watson. Drink up.”

“Watson, is it now? I’ve been demoted from John?”

“I was worried about you. You crawled into my bed. And now you’ve done it again.”

“Missing something though now. Come back in here, Sherlock. Please?”

“John…”

“Mmm…promoted back up to John! This night may not be a total waste then.”

“Waste? Ah, your date. A loss?”

“Total. Entire. Complete. Disaster.”

“Did someone die? Was it a murder? No, then you’d be bringing me back to solve the case. And this would be far from a wasted evening.”

“No, mate, no murders. Kinda wish there had been one.”

“Agreed. Work on that, Watson.”

(Sigh) “Ah well. Guess it was all for nothing then, after all.”

“John, lay back down. You are far too wobbly to get up. There, that’s right. I’ve got you.”

“Do you? You know you do, don’t you?”

“Watson, what are you talking about. You need to sleep this off. Let me get the light.”

“First time I’ve been on a date with a fella. He was so sweet. And clever. And fit.”

“Your…date? It was a man?”

“Yup. He wanted to kiss me, too.”

“Did you let him?”

“No…It wouldn’t have felt right.”

“Why not, John?”

“Because the whole night, I’m with this wonderful fellow, who’s interested in me, and charming, and rather brilliant—he talked my ear off about geopolitics, in a good way.”

“Did he?”

“Yes.”

“So, why, Watson, if you’ve suddenly had a revelation that you are in fact attracted to men, and found one who was attractive to you and was in turn attracted to you, did you not let him kiss you?”

“Because, mate, I spent the entire night thinking, ‘I wish it was Sherlock with me right now.’”

“Did you? Really? You missed me, on your date?”

“Yes. Really. And no, I didn’t miss you on my date, I missed you not being my date.”

“What?”

“I mean, I wished it was you, you utter numpty.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“You wished it was me on your date?”

“Yes.”

“You wished it was me that you were dating?”

“Yup. Correcto. Super duper exacto free fall, head over heel, tremendo on the nosey.”

“John.”

“Sherlock?”

“I am going to turn off the light now. You are going to go to sleep.”

“In your bed?”

“Yes, right where you are.”

“And?”

“And then in the morning, if you still say any of these things and mean them.”

“Which I will mate. The bulb has lit.”

“If you still feel this way in the morning, we will have a little discussion about appropriate consent. Then I shall ask you to kiss me.”

(A thump and a cry)

“John!”

“I’m here on the floor. Fell. Um. I think I am the numpty. Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Please keep rubbing my head like that.”

“Certainly, my dear Watson.”

“Sherlock, if I promise you that I will in fact definitely still feel this way in the morning, sober, would you let me give you a teensy tiny little kiss right now?”

…

“Sherlock?”

“Perhaps. Just a tiny one.”

…

“Sherlock?”

“Perhaps just one more.”

#submission #sherlock & co #sherlock and co #event #fanart #fanfiction #flash bang #creative collaboration #john watson #mariana ametxazurra #sherlock holmes

4 notes · View notes

canirove · 2 years

Text

Professor Rice | Chapter 8

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Masterlist

Declan’s POV

“I can’t believe you told her that you like her'' Mason said. He was suspended for today’s match, so I was going to go with him to watch it from the stands.

“Me neither, but I just couldn’t stand seeing her looking so sad and knowing it was all my fault.”

“And you were hoping she would like you back even if you can’t really act on those feelings now, right?” he smirked.

“Maybe…” we both laughed.

As we walked to our gate, I thought I saw a redhead walking in the opposite direction. And that meant I was going crazy. There are more redheads in the world, Declan. And she doesn’t like football, so why would she be here wearing a Chelsea scarf?

Veronica’s POV

I couldn’t believe I let Mike bring me to a football match. But here we are, Jo, Mike and I wearing our Chelsea scarfs (well, Mike was wearing the entire store. Who has Chelsea socks and wears them in public?) and heading to our gate. I was told there was good food. I really hoped that wasn’t a lie.

When we sat down in our seats, I looked at the players who were warming up. As per Jo’s requests, we went to the Chelsea-Everton match, and I could see that Jo was staring at Calvert-Lewin. I couldn’t blame her, but I was too busy trying to find where Mason Mount was.

“Hey Mike, which one is Mount?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s not playing today, he’s suspended.”

Huh, well, that was a bummer.

When the match started, I tried to look at the player’s names on their shirts. Number 21, Chilwell, was kinda cute, not gonna lie. But it was Kanté that Mike always praised, so I tried to find him.

The match ended with a 2-1 win to Chelsea. The Kanté guy Mike loves didn’t score, but everyone kept on talking about how amazing he was. Football is weird.

Mike also wanted to show me the ground, so we walked around while he explained everything to me. I loved seeing him so excited about things. If I had known me coming to a match was going to make him this happy, I would have done it years ago.

By the time we were done, most people were already gone, so we were about to head to the tube when I heard my name being called.

I think I know that voice…

Mason’s POV

“Veronica?” I yelled again. That’s her, right? Or am I just yelling at a random redhead?

Both she and her friends turned around to look at me, but it was the guy she was with who reacted first.

“Oh my God, it’s Mason Mount!”

“Mason, hi!” Veronica said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“You didn’t expect to see me at Stamford Bridge? Where the team I play for was playing today?” That was a bit mean, but I couldn’t help it. Veronica blushed and her friends laughed. “I’m here with Declan” I said.

“Declan?” her friend asked, Veronica looking at me with an expression that showed me this guy had no idea about what was going on.

“Yes, babe” her other friend, the guy’s girlfriend I guessed, said. “Declan is Veronica’s professor. The one who is friends with Mount.”

“Right, that makes sense. So... can I take a picture with you? You’re my favourite Chelsea player” he said to me.

“Of course.”

“I thought your favourite was Kan… Ouch.“ He elbowed Veronica so she couldn’t finish her sentence.

After I took a picture with Mike and Josephine, who was actually really cute, I saw Veronica staring at me.

“Do you want a picture too?” I asked, knowing that wasn’t what she wanted from me.

“Um... no, thanks. I was just wondering where Declan was?” Of course you were, darling.

“He’ll be back here in a sec. We met some old friends from our time in the Academy and he’s talking to them.”

She nodded, and I had to take this opportunity to help my best friend. “Hey guys, why don’t we go to have a coffee or something once Dec is back?”

Veronica’s face was hilarious. But she knew her friend Mike wasn’t going to allow her to say no. Mike was saying that, of course, they wanted to do that, while Josephine whispered something in Veronica's ear. She nodded to her friend.

I turned to see Declan walking towards me and realizing who had joined me. He looked exactly like Veronica did when I offered them to go to have a drink. Soulmates!

“Look who I’ve found!” I said to him with the biggest grin on my face.

“Veronica, hi! And... Josephine, right? Good to see you again.”

“Hi. Yeah, good to see you too” Josephine said to him. “This is Mike, my boyfriend. Mike, this is Declan, Veronica’s professor.”

Dec shook hands with Mike. “Hi, mate. You alright?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Ok” I said to get their attention. “There is this place around here where we can go have a drink. Should we get going?”

“Yes!” Mike said enthusiastically. And so we were on the move.

“Oh look!” Josephine said. “A squirrel!”

“It kind of looks like you, Mase” Declan said to me.

“Shut up” I said, pushing him.

“Squirrels are kind of cute” Veronica added.

“You think so?” I asked her, and she nodded. “Then thanks for the compliment, bro. It seems that Veronica thinks I’m cute.”

“I didn’t say…” But I couldn’t hear what she was saying because Declan slapped the back of my head, which made me laugh.

They are perfect for each other, and I won’t stop until they get together.

#declan rice #declan rice fanfic #declan rice imagine #football imagine #football fanfic

21 notes · View notes

datauthorress · 2 years

Text

Free Fall [Chapter 1: Sherlock Holmes]

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes / Original Female Character

Summary: After moving to London to begin a fresh start and a new journey, Shelby has found it incredibly difficult to find a flat that will take animals, despite hers being a service dog. Upon meeting a fan of her work, she’s introduced to her new flat-mate, Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world. Having read his blog, Shelby knows she’s in for an adventure as she becomes Sherlock Holmes’ roommate.

Rating: E

We apologize that this may be an inconvenience to you, but despite the paperwork of your service animal, we cannot allow you to rent with us because of liability issues…

Shelby sighed heavily as she read through the email that had arrived in her inbox earlier in the morning. With chagrin, she discarded the email and sent it to the trash before closing out of the tab and shutting her laptop. Beside her, Panzer whined softly and laid his head on her thigh, knowing she was upset with the news.

She had prepared immensely before coming to London.

She had prepared a PO Box, had prepared her passport and visas and made sure everything had been switched over before moving to London, but she was still having trouble finding a place that would allow her to rent with them. Money wasn’t an issue. She had money, and plenty of it. But because she had a service dog, she couldn’t find a place.

Panzer had been loyal to her for the last four years of her life. She had another service dog before Panzer, a beautiful golden retriever that had gotten sick with stomach cancer and had passed away at the age of seven. Shelby had been devastated and it had taken her two months to begin looking for a new service dog. Her insurance was, and still is, so good to her with everything she had gone through. The accident that made her a cripple with a bad leg and she had to walk using a cane, taking medications to manage the immense pain. Her heart condition, which she was always careful and took care of herself and the mental trauma that had come with everything since the age of 14-years old.

The hotel room that she had been staying in for the last week was messy and disorganized, which caused her OCD to peak and her anxiety to rise. She needed to find a place, and fast, because she knew she was technically homeless.

“Damnit,” Shelby muttered.

She needed fresh air.

Shelby took a quick shower and dressed in her usual attire, a pair of jeans that hugged her legs with a tee shirt and her worn, but still in good condition, leather jacket and boots that only reached just above her ankles. She searched through her shoulder bag to make sure she had everything and got Panzer ready, then headed out.

The park that was near the motel was absolutely gorgeous and Shelby saw people walking about, enjoying the nicer weather. It was June, so it wasn’t too warm, decent enough, but bring a jacket once it cooled down at night.

As Shelby walked down the sidewalk, she suddenly heard someone calling her by her last name.

“Miss O’viere!”

Shelby turned around to see a man approaching her, wearing a tan trenchcoat and carrying a briefcase. She arched an eyebrow, as she didn’t recognize the man before her. “Do I know you?”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” the man said sheepishly. “I apologize. My name is Mike Stamford, and I’m a fan of your novels, especially Careless Whisper.”

Ah. One of her shorter books. It had revolved around a doctor seeking revenge after his boyfriend had been killed by a gang. Nothing in her usual supernatural or fantasy style, but something that she had wanted to write with a bit of realism.

“Oh, thank you.” Shelby smiled kindly. “I appreciate that.”

“Would you mind signing? It’s not every day I meet one of my favorite authors.” Mike asked politely, bringing out the short book from his briefcase.

“Absolutely,” she smiled, grabbing a pen out of her bag and turning to the first page, before signing her name in neat-calligraphy style. “Here you go,”

“Thank you so much.” He beamed. “Coffee?”

30 MINUTES LATER

“So you’re struggling to find a place due to having a service animal?”

“Yeah, and I get it, I do.” Shelby replied with a sigh, taking a sip of her coffee from the plastic cup. “But I need a place fast. I’m going crazy staying in that hotel room.”

“Well,” Mike began. “I might be able to help you with that. A friend of mine is looking for a flat mate to share a flat with.”

“Oh?” she asked, glancing over to him. “Well…..I would really appreciate that.”

“Great! Let’s go, I know where he’s at right now.”

Fifteen minutes later, Shelby stepped out of the cab that had stopped in front of a building that she easily recognized as the hospital. Mike led her inside and around a series of hallways, before they walked through a set of doors and into a laboratory, where Shelby saw a man sitting at the table, looking through a microscope. He appeared to be tall and lanky, with curly black hair and wearing plain, but decent clothes.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? No signal on mine.” The man asked without looking up from the microscope.

“What’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asked.

“I’d rather text.”

“Sorry, other coat.”

“Oh, um, here.” Shelby spoke, bringing out her cell phone (which was a Samsung 22 Galaxy Ultra). “You can use mine.”

“Oh, thank you.” The man said and stood – to which Shelby noticed he was tall, nearly a whole head taller than her – before walking over to her and taking her phone, before pulling up her messaging app to start a text. “Afghanistan, or Iraq?”

Shelby furrowed her brow, confused. Was he talking to her? She glanced over to Mike, who gestured his head back to the other man. “Um, I’m sorry?”

“Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man said, finally turning his attention to Shelby and she was startled by the pair of sapphire blue eyes he held.

“Um, none.” Shelby replied, shaking her head.

“Really? You strike me as the type.”

“I was never in the military.”

The man arched an eyebrow, before handing her phone back to her. “Car accident, quite deadly, I’m afraid.” He said, and Shelby’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “They tried surgery, tried many different things, but you grew tired of your leg being operated on, so you chose to live with the crippling pain and take pain medications for it.”

“W-wait, wait.” Shelby stammered, putting a hand up. “How do you-?”

Before Shelby could finish, a woman with her brunette hair tied back came into the room, holding a fresh cup of coffee. “Coffee!” the man exclaimed, reaching around Shelby to take it. “Thank you, Molly. Wait, what happened to the lipstick?”

“It…...wasn’t working for me.” The woman, Molly, replied.

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement – mouth’s too small now.”

Shelby gaped at the tall man, who sipped his coffee as if nothing was absolutely wrong. She glanced over to Mike again, who just shook his head at her. Molly said a meekly ‘okay’ before leaving the room.

“How do you feel about the violin?” the man asked, turning his attention to Shelby.

“Um, just fine. I play violin once in a while.” Shelby replied.

“Oh. Excellent!” the man said gleefully. “I play the violin when I’m thinking, and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end – would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other.”

Shelby was extremely confused. She glanced at Mike. “I thought…...you never told him about me?”

“I’ve never met you until today,” Mike stated. “I haven’t said a word.”

“Okay,” she muttered before turning her attention back to the other man. “Who said anything about flat mates?”

“I did. I said to Mike this morning, that I was a difficult man to find a flat mate for.” The man replied. “Now he turns up after lunch with a woman who clearly just moved to London and is having trouble finding a flat due to having a service dog, which you have due to your leg and possibly other issues.”

“Why….did you ask if I was in the military?” Shelby asked, letting out a light sigh.

“Your leg and the service dog,” he answered. “But you were clearly not in the military after you said so, so a car accident was the second most likely reason.”

The man walked around the table and pulled on a long coat, as well as a blue scarf to wrap around his neck. “I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central London – together we could afford it. Although money doesn’t seem to be an issue for you. We’ll meet their tomorrow evening, 5 o’clock. Sorry, got to dash – I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

“So that’s it?”

“Is what it?”

“I just met you not five minutes ago and we’re going to go and look at a flat.” Shelby said.

“Problem?”

“We don’t know a thing about each other! I don’t even know where we’re meeting!”

The man locked his gaze on her and a tiny smile caressed his handsome features. “I know you were in a car accident that took the use of your leg and now you walk with a cane. You have mental trauma and physical trauma because you have a service dog. You’re originally from America, due to your Mid-Western accent. You’ve got a large family, whom of which didn’t approve your move to London and all are extremely worried about you. You moved to London for a fresh start and need a place that I know will have no trouble taking in your service animal.”

Shelby’s jaw slightly dropped in utter astonishment. What……what was going on here?

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon.” The man told her, before sending a wink her way and leaving the laboratory.

Shelby turned to Mike with an expression of immense surprise.

“Yeah, he’s always like that.” Mike chuckled.

“What the hell just happened?” Shelby asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Trust me, you’ll get used to it.” Mike said.

“Fuck me,” Shelby muttered.

#fic: free fall #sherlock holmes [bbc]#;relationships [sherlock/shelby]#sherlock bbc

2 notes · View notes

musingsofmyown · 2 years

Text

I posted 7,664 times in 2022

That's 7,664 more posts than 2021!

636 posts created (8%)

7,028 posts reblogged (92%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@britsgovernmentmh

@loki-lock

@tjlcarchives

@december-rains

@helloliriels

I tagged 5,713 of my posts in 2022

Only 25% of my posts had no tags

#bbc sherlock - 336 posts

#sherlock holmes - 318 posts

#john watson - 301 posts

#johnlock - 215 posts

#yes - 157 posts

#mystrade - 142 posts

#mycroft holmes - 140 posts

#greg lestrade - 116 posts

#sherlock - 103 posts

#sherlock fanart - 87 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#i get so obnoxious and i've had someone say ''i never hear you talk and i love that you're finally talking. but please take it down a notch

My Top Posts in 2022:

'Emergency meeting: Landing Pub 7:45 tonight. Leave Sherlock at the flat'

"Oh boy-"

"Text from Lestrade? Is it a case?"

John handed his phone to Sherlock,"No but he used correct punctuation, grammar and capitalisation. He's serious."

"Why can't I go?"

"I don't know-" He took the device back,"Guess I'll find out later tonight?"

______

At the pub-

______

"Hey Greg, is everything alright mate?"

They shook hands,"I just really, really need to talk to someone about this and you're quite possibly the only one who can understand my situation."

"This calls for the strong stuff," He flagged the barkeep down,"Two fingers of whiskey neat for me and three for him on the rocks."

See the full post

202 notes - Posted June 22, 2022

I've had a wonderful idea for a crack fic:

Sherlock breaks into Mycroft's house with John. Reason: they have a case question that needs to be answered and Mycroft isn't answering his phone or email.

They make their way to Mycrofts room, flipping the light on and Sherlock yelling,"Brother! Good morning!" it is, in fact, 4:10 in the morning.

Instead of just Mycroft sitting up and glaring at Sherlock, but Lestrade also sits up and they both look like caught teenagers.

John looks at Greg,"Mate, we need to go out for a pint and you better spill everything am I clear?" He was just as surprised as Sherlock, who was now frozen in his tracks,"I'm taking him home to recover, Mycroft answer your bloody phone."

chaos ensues

224 notes - Posted June 4, 2022

Genuine

"Sherlock," John locked eyes with the detective,"you are bloody gorgeous."

A very prominent blush crept up the other's neck,"I-I erm…"

"And adorable, look at that,"He leaned forward and smiled. John knew for a fact that he was one of the few people who existed that could actually catch him off guard, and by god this had to be the best way to get those gears in the detective’s head to stop.

Sherlock broke eye contact and tapped nervously on the table,"You're getting too direct with your flirting."

"So you've noticed?"

He nodded and looked around the room, still refusing to look at John,"So- uh, what,” Sherlock cleared his throat, the telltale signs of embarrassment peeking through,”what brought this up?"

"It's just been eating me up for a bit,"He propped his head up on his hands,"And I'd… I’d like to kiss you."

Those few words caused Sherlock's entire system to malfunction, a small sound of shock barely escaped his lips. For a moment, John found it rather endearing that his friend was an actual blushing virgin, but as soon as the spell broke, he wondered what the consultant's response would be,"Me..?"

"Yes, you."

See the full post

242 notes - Posted July 1, 2022

What if- and hear me out on this one- John and Sherlock knew each other from school, but met again years later when Mike Stamford introduced them?

And the moment John entered the room he goes "Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes is that you?"

Hearing his name called by the familiar voice, he looks up,"Oh! John-" he takes a second to do his little deduction thing,"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Bloody hell you still do the thing after all these years,"He goes to hug Sherlock, which he kindly takes,"and it was Afghanistan, you git."

"Thank you for finding a flatmate, Mike, I think we'll get along splendid."

As the two start reconnecting, Lestrade comes to the flat to give Sherlock a case- but he's both delighted and confused as to why the typically isolated consultant was laughing, with another person in the room. It was a real laugh too, not like the fake ones he's heard the brunet use when talking to suspects/wittnesses.

He knocks on the door and Sherlock opens it, smile still on his face,"Ah, Lestrade, case?"

"Ya, erm, who's your friend,"He grinned and looked to the blond man sitting in the armchair across from Sherlock's

"Oh," he let the DI in,"Lestrade, this is John, John Watson."

John stands to shake his hands,"Sherlock told me about you, and how he's working with the police on the tougher cases. I'm impressed by how much progress he's made since I last saw him."

"You two... know each other?" Greg, baffled by the connection.

"We're old friends-"

"Ex-partners actually,"John corrected, making a slight blush creep up the taller man's neck and cheeks.

"Lestrade! Case, please-"

"Right,"He chuckles.

Oh this would be an amazing fic-

I think I should write this one sometime

363 notes - Posted May 29, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Rupert Graves as Greg Lestrade is arguably the best choice of cast next to Benedict and Martin

fight me

he's perfect

437 notes - Posted May 21, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

2 notes · View notes

john-dontsayhamish-watson · 22 days

Text

strange thing happened today

so im at the shops, right? im looking for a new brand of litter for suzie because my therapist told me that if i got a biodegradable type i could put it in my green bins for recycling so yeah im on a cat litter quest, minding my business when i get poked in the shoulder. low and behold; mikey stamford.

mike was one of my friends back in uni, we were quite close, lost touch when i went and got shot at in war like the absolute moron (and monarchist bootlicker) i am (why???? did i do that? well i know but still, it feels so stupid now). he’s all chipper with me, asking me what im up to, since when have i moved back in london, it goes a bit like this;

"johnny! i really thought you’d go back to scotland after coming back from that hell, mate!"

(dear reader, yes, im a scottish lad, i know, you couldn’t tell the accent reading me but it’s a whole affair)

"yeah but see mikey, going back home means facing my mother and i’d rather live in poverty than get a lecture from donna watson. "

(laughing, he thinks im joking. im not)

"well, where do you live now, mate?"

"[gives him my full address which im not dumb enough to write down on tumblr thank you very much]"

and here, dear reader, my friend mikey GRIMACES. a full flinch, full disgusted face.

"wow, mikey tell me what you really feel."

"no, it’s just… god, john, that place SUCKS."

"oh i agree but i looked for flatmates online and found nobody who was interested to share a place with a destitute veteran."

he snorts, i raise an eyebrow.

"sorry, it’s just that i had someone else today tell me he was looking for a flatmate."

dear reader, this is when it gets a lot more weird but it’ll be for another post.

i’ll see you around!

#john watson rp #john watson roleplay #johnlock rp #johnlock roleplay #sherlock holmes rp #sherlock holmes roleplay

0 notes

lisbeth-kk · 1 year

Text

Truth

Thanks for the prompt @calaisreno

I'll put a warning here. There's mentioning of suicidal thoughts in this fic. If that triggers you, feel free to skip reading.

Falling apart

The truth is, he never expected to meet anyone like Sherlock Holmes. To instantly know there was a connection there. A bond. An unbreakable one, he’d once thought. They were everything to each other apart from lovers. Flatmates, friends, partners. The closest thing to family without being biologically related.

The truth is, John had decided to end his life that night. There was nothing left to live for. He couldn’t work as a surgeon after Afghanistan. The small army pension barely kept his head above water. He had to move out of London, but London was his home. Not that he had any friends there, but still, he loved the city with all his heart.

On a whim John had decided to go through the park that day. Meeting Mike Stamford had been an awkward affair. Meeting Sherlock Holmes had altered John’s life from miserable to exhilarating in a few hours. Chasing a cab through the streets instantly cured John’s limp, and he’d felt properly alive.

Years had passed and his life was still fulfilling and gave John the action he craved and occasionally the full attention from the most brilliant man John’s ever encountered. A man that captured and held John’s heart in his large, delicate hands from day one. If the amazing man knew this, John would never know. What John knew was that the same man broke his heart into a million pieces the day he jumped off a building to his death. John could literally feel it break, no matter what physics said about the matter. To John it was the utmost truth.

John’s back in the park where he met Mike. It didn’t feel right to end it inside their beloved home, and he refused to let Mrs. Hudson be forced to find him like that. She’s just recovered after Sherlock’s death. He won’t add to her burden. At least he’ll spare her the sight of a John Watson dead in his chair. After all, John knows far too well how it feels to see a loved one like that.

The park’s deserted at this hour. John’s alone with the familiar companion, his gun. The gun he’s used to protect Sherlock from harm’s way right from the very start. The gun Lestrade’s tried to get his hands on for ages, but an interfering big brother has somehow managed to prevent that from happening. John guesses he should be grateful for that now. Mycroft may not have known it at the time, but he literally wrote John’s death sentence when he time and time again returned the gun to 221B.

John knows he’s got limited time. He can’t hesitate for much longer. There are cameras all over the place, and Mycroft has more than one eye pointed at John. That’s also one reason why John wants to end his life right here. Mycroft’s minions will take care of the mess before the press gets their stained fingers on this. They’ve done enough damage with their character assassination regarding Sherlock’s work. Claiming him to be a fraud.

He's been holding it together up until now, but reaching his destination, John’s falling apart. Once collapsed on a bench he starts sobbing, muttering Sherlock’s name like a mantra, begging him not to be dead. After a while he takes several deep breaths and reaches around his back for his gun. He weighs it in his hand, caresses it, thinks back to all the times he’s used it to protect Sherlock. It’s never failed him, but what does it matter now. In the end, John wasn’t able to save Sherlock from dying. His eyes fill with tears again and he wipes them away angrily. Time’s up.

Hurried steps in the gravel makes him panic. He’s used too much time! Mycroft’s minions are here to save him, but John doesn’t want to be saved. He wants peace from the constant pain of having lost the one person that matters more to him than his own life. With a steady hand he lifts his arm, pointing the gun at his temple, when someone calls his name.

“John! Don’t. Please.”

That voice! No, it can’t be. He’s dead, for fuck’s sake! It’s just his mind playing tricks on him.

In his peripheral sight he sees something black swirling, a familiar movement, a coat he would know anywhere, and he’s only seen one man wearing it. John lifts his head, lowers his gun and seconds later Sherlock’s kneeling in front of him, burying his face into John’s belly.

John drops the gun, rakes through unruly curls with one hand, the other covers his mouth to stop him from screaming. There’s no stopping the tears streaming down his cheeks, though. He still can’t believe what’s happening. When Sherlock withdraws and looks up at him with redrimmed eyes, they tell a story much similar to John’s own.

“I’ve missed you,” John whispers hoarsely and strokes Sherlock’s cheekbones with his thumbs.

Sherlock seems to have lost his ability to speak. He just holds on to John for dear life, unable to stop crying or shaking.

“Let’s go home, Sherlock,” John says softly.

This is what happens when I listen to beautiful music with sad lyrics.

@totallysilvergirl @raina-at @missdeliadili @keirgreeneyes @meetinginsamarra @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear @gaylilsherlock @catlock-holmes

#sherlock fandom #johnlock #sherlock #sherlock fanfic #john watson #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes #ao3 fanfic #may prompts #truth #suicidal thoughts

50 notes · View notes

john-smiths-jawline · 2 years

Text

Oh Good God, Let Me Give You My Life

Summary: John doesn’t believe in gods. From Mycroft, the god of government, to Sherlock, the guide of detectives, John thinks he knows better. Until said god of detectives appears in the living room of his Hawaiian vacation house.

In which Sherlock is a god, John is a human, and they make it work. Don’t they always?

Oh Good God, Let Me Give You My Life

Hawaii. It’s exactly what John needed. The house he was staying at was perfect for him, with a huge open floor plan, and one of those ultra-modern and fancy…everythings. Whoever owned this place must be rich. The one thing he wasn’t expecting, however, was the huge shrine in the living room. Dedicated to Sherlock, the god of detectives. Guide of the police, they often prayed to him for help on tough cases. Any case solved seemingly by magic was said to be blessed by Sherlock. John thought that was an utter load of shit. Gods aren’t real, and if they are, he would like to have a heavy word with them about letting his life become this bad. Even more strange was the list of instructions for said shrine. When to exchange the offerings out, that the best things were dead bodies, be it human or animal, but if that couldn’t be achieved, then cups of tea (black, two sugars) would suffice. There was no way John would sacrifice perfectly good cups of tea (he refused to even think about the dead bodies) for an illusion. Even an admittedly beautiful illusion, John thought as he saw an illustration of the detective god. Cheekbones that could cut you, unblemished pale skin, unruly raven curls, and eyes a swirling mixture of blue-grey-green that John wanted to lose himself in. He shook his head. He would not develop a crush on a fever dream designed by people in need of a higher power to do everything for them. He absolutely would not.

Three days later, and all John had did to the shrine was remove the cups of tea because he was tripping on them, and lingered by the poster, staring into the infinite depths of blue-grey-green, a smile touching his lips. Dear god (quite literally), he was falling for a figment of someone’s overimagination. In the afternoon, John was laying in his room reading a book when he heard footsteps in the house. He started to panic a bit, because no one else was supposed to be there. He slowly walked down to the living room and, sure enough, there was someone standing in the room. He squinted in confusion when he saw John.

“You’re not Stamford.” John blinked in surprise. Impossibly high cheekbones, raven curls, and those eyes, the ones John wanted more than anything to stare into forever? This… this was Sherlock. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was Sherlock. The god. He was real. And he was less than three feet from John. A god was less tan three feet away from him. What…why…how…

“N-no. I’m not Mike. I’m John. John Watson,” He managed to stutter out. He must look ridiculous right now.

“Oh, do stop gaping, John Watson. As refreshing as your reverence is, it is also rather surprising, considering the state of my shrine,” Was that…a bit of a pout in his voice? Well, whatever it was, it was cute.

“I, I didn’t do anything to the shrine, because I thought—” Sherlock cut him off.

“You thought I didn’t exist,” True, but time to backtrack. Probably a good idea to be nice to the god who was in his living room.

“Well, uhm, it seemed a tad unlikely…” Sherlock nodded sagely.

“Were I not an embodiment of religion, I would refuse to believe in me too. But, now that we have that settled…can I have tea, please? Or dead bodies. I’m not picky, but just in this house I see an over abundance of tea and zero dead bodies,” Well, he wasn’t wrong. By the time John had returned with two cups of tea, Sherlock had sat down in the chair opposite John’s, lines in his body blurring so he looked less like a human and more of a vaguely recognizable oval of light. He accepted the tea with grunt of thanks and dipped a finger into the steaming cup. Instantly, the tea disappeared and the lines of his body seemed to relax even more for a fraction of a second, before returning to their semi-formed state. John slowly sipped his own cup and watched the display, part (okay, most) of his brain refusing to acknowledge what was happening.

“You made it right.” Sherlock said, breaking the silence. John looked up from where he was tracing the lines of Sherlock’s lean body.

“Hmm?”

“The tea,” Sherlock clarified, vaguely gesturing at the empty cup. “You made it right. Black, two sugars.” John made a noise of understanding, setting his own, mostly empty, cup on the table with a gentle clink.

“I looked at the poster,” he shrugged.

“So, John, Afghanistan or Iraq?” John almost spit out his tea.

And that was how most of their interactions went. Sherlock came round asking for a cup of tea, and John obliged him, and they’d sit and talk while John drank, and maybe a little bit later. Just a little bit. John told him stories of Afghanistan, and his life both before and after. Sherlock talked of cases, the science of deduction, and his annoying older brother, Mycroft, who was the god of government. Sherlock thought he was an annoying prick. John was slightly scared of him, ever since he came by right after Sherlock’s first visit and made John promise to not leave the god of detectives. John agreed, and Mycroft stopped force-choking him. Although, he’s not certain he can keep his promise. His time in Hawaii is running out, and he doesn’t think Sherlock will want to visit him in his dingy bedsit. The time ticks down like a giant clock is hanging over his head. Although, all things considered, a ticking time bomb might be a more appropriate metaphor. On his last day (had it only been a month since John first lay eyes on this beautiful god?) Sherlock stayed longer than usual.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I need to pack,” John excuses himself, standing up from his chair that he and Sherlock were currently sharing, bodies pressed close as they watched something or other on the telly. Sherlock makes a noise, waved his hand, and pushes John back down onto the chair.

“There. All done.” Now John was even closer to Sherlock, their bodies almost merging. The same feeling John had felt ever since he first saw that picture washed over him again, like a tsunami over an unsuspecting citizen trying to enjoy a day out on the beach. Infatuation. Love, if you will. But Sherlock was a literal god. John couldn’t name a being more out of his league if there was a gun to his head.

“John,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“What?”

“You’ve kissed people,” Sherlock stated, almost making it sound like an accusation.

“Yes,” John was confused as to where this was going.

“But you’ve never kissed a god,” Sherlock stated again.

“Nope,” John confirmed, popping the ‘p’ in a way he knew annoyed Sherlock to no end. And sure enough, there it was, the crease of annoyance in between his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. There was a pause of silence Sherlock fidgeted, and John was even more aware of how close they were, of Sherlock’s breath on John’s neck.

“Can I- Can I be the first?” The god of detectives looked nervous. Over him. John would have laughed, had he not been overwhelmed with emotion. Damn tsunami kept getting bigger. John leaned in even closer, until their noses were touching. Sherlock’s eyes were never so enticing, and John thought those lips were the most beautiful things to ever grace this earth.

“Sherlock,” John whispered directly into the detective’s ear. “I’d like nothing more.” And then they kissed. The god and the human. Sherlock and John.

It went without saying that Sherlock went with John into his dingy little bedsit, and then into a bigger one, at 221b Baker Street, when Sherlock saw exactly how dingy John’s bedsit was, and decided instantly that it simply wouldn’t do for the love of a god’s eternal life to live in such a place.

Years later, a song played on the radio. John and Sherlock listened, bodies pressed together on the same chair, so similar to that time so long ago. And they laughed, and kissed, and listened. And the god of detectives and his loyal, immortal, blogger lived happily ever after.

Take me to church, I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies I’ll tell you my sins, and you can sharpen your knife Offer me that deathless death Oh good god, let me give you my life

here's the ao3:

#bees fanfic #johnlock #original posting date: 4/10/22

0 notes