"Someone needs to write a ‘the fire alarm went off at 3 am and now the cute guy from the flat next door is standing next to me in his underwear’ AU (x)”

whoops

It’s three in the morning on a Wednesday. Sherlock Holmes has two midterms, one presentation, and one essay due that day. He also has to read two chapters of a textbook that reads like a car manual.

So, naturally, he’s awake dissecting a pair of pig lungs he stole from the biology lab.

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two very important relationships in sherlock’s life are illustrated wonderfully with just a quick look into his mind palace. let’s look at sherlock and mycroft, and sherlock and john, and what each of them means to him and his genius.

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when sherlock first notices john moving things around the cottage he shrugs it off as spring cleaning but it goes on for about a week and he can’t figure out why so he spends one afternoon pondering all the possibilities and when john comes home he barges out to the cab to give him his deductions but he doesn’t even get to say a word because john opens the door and an irish setter pup comes barreling out barking and tripping over its own feet and it runs to sherlock and jumps up and is a wriggling ball of excitement and sherlock just stares in shock because puppyproofing the cottage wasn’t even a possibility in his mind and john smiles and scoops the pup up and hands him to sherlock and tells him happy birthday and even after twenty five years john still surprises him

john with the flu feeling shit and sherlock fluttering around anxiously trying to get him everything he could possibly want and examining the bacteria in his cheeks to find the perfect medication and making him 5 different cups of tea because he isnt sure how strong john wants it and rejecting a triple murder so that he can monitor johns tempetature ughbh

sherlock and john sell honey at the local farmer’s market in summer and become known for it. john dozes off as sherlock rants to a customer about the bee species he thinks create the best honey. he handles the transactions and sherlock provides information, leant back in his sunhat, watching john. sometimes the two of them bicker about the jar arrangement on the table (and almost always snicker when sherlock deduces passersby). two tired grumpy happy old men who make the best honey in the south downs (◡‿◡✿)

when sherlock starts to really go grey john can tell it bothers him even if he just huffs and dismisses john pointing out his pepper hair and later that night when john sees sherlock frowning at his reflection john comes up from behind and runs his fingers through his hair and kisses his neck and calls him dashing and anytime it happens from then on out that’s what john does (and john knows sometimes sherlock does it on purpose just to goad him into affection but he doesn’t mind giving it at all especially if it makes sherlock smile)

Fitting

Okay so gaytectives was talking here about how Sherlock would have reacted to seeing John in his wedding tux for the first time and I was thinking best man usually goes to the tux fitting so…I did a ficlet.

Image of penicillin mold can be found here, if you’re curious.

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“Okay then,” John says from behind him, stepping out of the dressing room. “What do you think?”

Sherlock tugs at a cuff, still grumbling under his breath at the poor, put-upon tailor at his heel as he whirls about to face John.

“I think I’ve had just about enough of this place. Honestly, I don’t know why you wouldn’t just use Mycroft’s…”

Sherlock’s syllables fumble to an uncoordinated halt, his sneer sliding sideways on his face, dangling at the edge of his slightly parted lips before falling away completely. Dimly, Sherlock thinks he hears it shatter on the floor. At any rate, something is breaking, sharp shards of it lodged between his ribs, behind his sternum.

John brushes past him to inspect himself in the mirror. “Well? How does it look?” he asks, flicking at imagined lint on his shoulder, the tips of his socked feet peeking out from too-long trouser legs.

Sherlock’s mind is racing. He’s expected to say something. What does one say? What does one say when he looks like…when he looks like that? He has never quite looked that way before. In silks and tails and waistcoat, still ill-fitting, but cutting pleasing lines across and around his compact frame. 

“John.” The name gets caught in his throat, scrapes out dry and creaking. John is smiling uncertainly at him in the mirror. Sherlock’s mouth is still open. How does it look?

Like Penicillin chrysogenum at a hundred times magnification. The way you’d never know what it was, just looking at the surface. The way it spreads like roots, like tiny flowers reaching for the sun, this ordinary thing that is not ordinary, not at all. This unassuming thing whose whole structure is beautiful, this thing that someone thought was worthless, this thing that will save you, in the end. 

“You look like penicillin mold,” he manages at last.

John’s half-smile flickers, then hardens into his more customary irritated smirk. “Ta,” he says, and resumes fussing with the shoulders of his jacket. “Hope you’re saving some of that poetry for the best man’s speech.”

Sherlock isn’t listening. He watches John’s reflection in the mirror, and he is thinking about beautiful things that grow in secret places, about the shattered glass that fills the space around his heart.

john can see when sherlock’s hands hurt him from pulling trays out of the beehive so he’ll sit him down in the shade and give him a sandwich and massage his joints and listen to him talk about the colony and sometimes john can’t help it he just smiles and says he loves him out of the blue and it always makes sherlock smile and he curls a finger on john’s cheek and john kisses his hands and sherlock finds they don’t hurt so much anymore