@johnwatso‘s top fics of 2016
these are the best fics i read in all of 2016 (not necessarily written this year):
👌State of Flux by Atiki (E)
John’s marriage is over and he is finally back home (i.e. at Baker Street, where he belongs). Sherlock is awfully insecure and John is awfully hesitant, and they’re both awkward idiots, of course, but they figure it out. Many First Times happen.
👌a good old-fashioned happy ending by darcylindbergh (E)
And Sherlock stands there, in the middle of a Christmas market as John hums along to Silent Night, John’s hand warm in his with fingertips a little gritty from the cinnamon-sugar doused churros they’d shared, and thinks, oh, that’s–that’s an idea, isn’t it? For Christmas this year, Sherlock wants to get John something special: something every fairytale deserves.
👌settling of the dust by thosewhowant (E)
The plastic bag of white powder is an event horizon. Every night he dances around it to the tune of the waltz he wrote for John, and some night Sherlock will tire of dancing and slam the giant Self Destruct button that beckons like an ember in the night.But for tonight he sets the Persian slipper down on the mantel reverently and pours himself another coffee, middle of the night be damned. He stands at the window and imagines that through the smog he can see Venus, Cygnus, Andromeda. That maybe, just maybe, John is doing the same.The idea that John may be in the Southern Hemisphere, looking at a different sky, hurts so much that he thinks it may kill him. After the inevitable confrontation with Moriarty, John leaves.
👌Offensive by ConsultingPurplePants (E)
John’s hands are currently pressed against his shoulder blades, under his shirt. His left hand is splayed across the remaining hard lines of three whip scars, while his right rests atop a smattering of rounded, raised, cigarette burns.Seconds tick by as he realizes he has no idea what to say. Moriarty is back.
👌A Brand of Gold by aquabelacqua (M)
What am I doing? he wondered. The answer came back at once: Flirting. He sank deeper into the pillows, let the mist and blur of the wine settle around him, let it shore up his nerves and dim the warning signals that flashed dully in the back of his mind. He let the rest of the disappointment about Lucy and his strange accommodations and about the weekend as a whole fade into obscurity. He let the vital, missing piece snap into place as surely and as cleanly as if it had always been there. He was flirting with Sherlock Holmes.