Would you ever consider making (or asking someone else to make) a Anti Shimeji? If you dont know what it is, its kinda like a mini person (or cat or anything really) walking about your desktop screen, throwing windows around and duplicating itself. They're cool and cute you should maybe look into it. limbo out *smoke bomb*
my publisher @mangakasoldier will probably make one.. if this post gets over 100 reblogs.
“… it’s called Vices & Virtues, and in one way or the other, at least one to 10 virtues or vices are represented in every song… [it’s] little minor things I didn’t know were vices or virtues, until we looked them up. I was like, ‘I don’t know what altruism means, so I’ll look that up.’ Things like logic, pride, vanity — it can go either way. So it was kind of interesting to read about that.”
On February 1st John wakes up to find that Sherlock’s half of the bed is empty, and on his pillow is a single lavender rose. He smiles softly, picks it up, and presses his nose into the petals.
The following day John finds two of the same flower, their stems cut quite short, waiting for him in his favorite mug when he goes to make tea. He doesn’t ask Sherlock about it yet, and Sherlock acts as if nothing is different.
On February 3rd there are three lavender roses waiting for John. One is resting in his left shoe; another is tucked inside his jacket pocket; the third he finds on the doorknob when he’s on his way out. He puts them on his desk at work and thinks about texting Sherlock for an explanation. But he doesn’t. Not yet.
Four roses find their way onto the mantlepiece.
Five are found nestled in John’s chair late in the evening on February 5th.
Six are discovered the following morning, wrapped neatly together with ribbon, in the refrigerator. Still, neither of them say a word.
It isn’t until the 7th of February–when John finds seven lavender roses, cut from their stems, floating in a bowl of water on the kitchen table–that John’s curiosity gets the better of him. He’s not much for computers, but he knows how to use google at least. The results make his head feel light.
Eight roses decorate the sitting room in various spots.
Nine are placed into various beakers and tubes.
Ten litter the surface of the sofa all day on February 10th. They avoid sitting there all day, but neither of them mentions it.
On February 11th there are eleven roses lining the doorframe of Baker Street.
The 12th brings a bouquet to John’s office where he switches them out for the three that have begun to wilt but that he was unwilling to remove.
Thirteen roses hang from the ceiling of their bedroom the following day. John isn’t quite sure how Sherlock managed that without waking him, but he lays there for almost half an hour, just watching them sway back and forth.
John comes home from work on the 14th of February and finds lavender rose petals scattered up and down the seventeen steps of 221B. If he had to guess he would say there were enough petals for fourteen roses. His chest constricts, and he takes the steps slowly, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
He expects to find Sherlock waiting for him, but when he reaches the top he finds the door to the sitting room closed, a note taped to it. Sherlock’s untidy scrawl reads, You know where to find me.
And John does. He’s back down the stairs and out the door in seconds, and for once it seems he’s got Sherlock’s luck on his side as a taxi rolls to a stop when he flings out his hand.
The lab at St. Bart’s hasn’t changed much since the day they met, and it’s a bit like walking into the past when John pushes the door open to find Sherlock waiting for him in the same exact spot he had been when John had first seen him. Only this time John isn’t limping. And this time Sherlock is holding a single lavender rose instead of a pipette, and his gaze is soft and warm as it settles on John.
“Knew you’d get it,” he says, his eyes crinkling with his smile.
John walks toward him, taking his time even though his heart is pounding. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, because they’ve been together for months now. “I’m smarter than I look,” he says, unable to keep from smiling in return. He stops about a foot away, nodding toward the rose in Sherlock’s hand. “Isn’t that cheating?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “You see, but you do not observe,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He steps closer, holding the flower up between them. “There were only thirteen on the steps. This is number fourteen.”
John steps closer and reaches out to touch the petals, letting his hand slip down until his fingers ghost over Sherlock’s. “I looked it up, you know. Lavender rose.”
“I know,” Sherlock says, his smile widening. “On the seventh. I was surprised you held out for so long.”
John can’t help laughing. “I’m not even going to ask how you knew.”
He plucks the rose from Sherlock’s fingers and sets it gingerly on the counter beside them, removing the delicate barrier between them so that he can step into Sherlock’s space and draw him down for a soft, slow kiss. Sherlock’s hands cup his face, his thumbs stroking along the sharp edges of his jaw, and John clings to fistfuls of Sherlock’s shirt at his waist.
When he pulls away it’s only enough so that he can speak, and his lips brush Sherlock’s with every word. “Love at first sight,” he whispers, and he frees one hand to touch the petals of the lavender rose beside them. “And you always said I was the romantic.”
Sherlock kisses him again, lingering for a long, sweet moment. “I thought you should know the truth. The whole of it. How long I’ve loved you.”
Something in John’s chest aches, and he spends long, drawn-out moments pressing his lips to Sherlock’s, murmuring his I love yous into his mouth, hoping that it will be enough, that Sherlock will understand that he’s been loved since the moment John saw him in this very lab so many years ago.
Later that night–after Sherlock has led them home, after John has pressed him against the sheets, after countless kisses and touches and soft, pleading words–later, they sit together in front of the fire, half-clothed, legs tangled together, and press the single lavender rose in between the pages of a heavy book. And when they’ve finished, John takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him back to bed.
John realises how selflessly Sherlock takes care of Rosie, and it helps him realise that Sherlock is actually a person truly and completely capable of loving. Much more than any other person he has ever known.
John and Rosie have been living back at Baker Street for two months when Rosie starts crying in the middle of the day. John is up to his elbows in soapy water at the sink, trying to clean all the dishes from the mess that was lunch, and Sherlock has been sitting at his microscope for the past hour, hardly moving, working on some experiment or another. John knows better than to attempt to ask him to help with the dishes when he’s so engrossed.
Rosie just sits in the middle of the sitting room, screaming.
John curses and, in his haste, he accidentally drops one of the sippy cups, successfully spilling water all over the floor. He sighs and leans down to pick it up, chucking it back in the sink and throwing a towel down over the spill. He’ll have to clean it up later, after he calms Rosie down. It isn’t until he’s almost got his hands completely dry, however, that he realizes Rosie has stopped yelling.
He looks over and almost drops the towel. Sherlock is standing by the window, Rosie curled up in his arms. He’s got his lips pressed against her head, and he’s murmuring quiet words that John can’t hear. Rosie hiccups and takes deep, shuddering breaths, her fists curled into Sherlock’s robe. After a few minutes, she lays her head down on his shoulder.
John doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at them, and he can’t quite pinpoint why the image of them together like that is making his chest hurt. He’s seen them play together in the past couple of months; he’s seen Sherlock play Rosie the violin; he’s seen Sherlock read to her. John’s eyes slide back to the microscope at the table where Sherlock’s abandoned slides and samples sit.
It wasn’t that he thought Sherlock was selfish enough to ignore a screaming baby in favour of his experiments. But…Sherlock had been known to tune out almost everything when he was working. He’d even tuned out the fire alarm once when Mrs. Hudson had accidentally set her stove on fire. John had had to drag him out of the flat.
But somehow, at the first sign of Rosie’s distress, Sherlock had been pulled from his work. And now, as John watches, he thinks about all of the other times Sherlock has done something like that in the past few months, smaller things that John hadn’t quite taken note of at the time. Ignoring texts from Lestrade; coming home with new nappies when John hadn’t even realized they were almost out; emerging from his mind palace when Rosie climbed up onto the sofa with him. Little things that seemed so small and yet weren’t.
John swallows hard, setting the rag aside, and that’s when Sherlock looks up at him, just the ghost of a smile gracing his features. John smiles back, and his throat feels tight because Sherlock is happy like this. He’s content with John’s child in his arms, rocking her until she’s calm, abandoning his own wants for hers.
Rosie falls asleep in Sherlock’s arms, and he takes her upstairs to put her into her crib. When he comes back down John has made up his mind, and he’s never seen Sherlock look so shocked as when John kisses him right then and there.