Omegle Johnlock RP. Angst/Fluff. (Oh my, the feels ;_;)
  • You: Freak. JW
  • Stranger: I'm sorry? SH
  • You: Want me to write it down again? JW
  • Stranger: Obviously you're upset. SH
  • Stranger: Certainly that's a word I've heard before. SH
  • You: Not upset. I've come to a realization. The obvious, and all. You know. JW
  • Stranger: That I'm a freak. SH
  • You: Yeah. JW
  • Stranger: Well. Donovan made that clear the very first night we met. I didn't think you were so slow as to only catch on now. SH
  • You: Well, maybe... Maybe I should have listened to her. JW
  • Stranger: And avoided me. SH
  • You: Of course. JW
  • Stranger: Ah. Well, it was only a matter of time. Luckily for you, you haven't much to pack. SH
  • You: Well, I still need a flatmate. For the rent. JW
  • Stranger: I'm the one with the special rate with Mrs. H. Out by the end of the month, I'll find someone else. SH
  • You: That's a pity. Who would want you for a flatmate? JW
  • Stranger: What brought all this on? SH
  • You: Just you. JW
  • You: I must admit I've been quite a fool myself. I should have realized from the very start. JW
  • Stranger: Just your sudden realisation? A revelation? Bolt from the blue? SH
  • You: Yup. JW
  • Stranger: In any case, I'm on my way back to 221B. Be there in half an hour for your property or I'm chucking it out the window. SH
  • You: Inside Lestrade's office, John was having a serious talk with the DI about one of the latest cases. He suddenly frowned when he noticed he didn't have his mobile phone. « Hm, Greg, have you seen my phone? » He asked, looking around him. Thinking he might have forgotten it somewhere else, he got outside the office and noticed Donovan holding his phone. « Oh, thanks I thought I had lost it, » he said with a soft smile, not noticing that there was actually something wrong. Otherwise, why would the young woman smirk strangely? He took his phone and glanced at it. The messages sent before had been deleted, so he didn't suspect a thing.
  • Back in 10 minutes. Been with Lestrade talking about the case. JW, He sent.
  • Stranger: He'd never let the other man see. He certainly couldn't allow John to know how much the word -- oh, he never let words hurt him. Never ever. Or at least he never let the lash of them show. The ones who called him those names were beneath him, beneath notice; they couldn't hurt him a bit because he had no respect for them or their opinions. He was safe from Donovan, from Anderson, from all the rest. He just wasn't safe from John, who had never thought any of those things. And it was certainly John. It came from his number. He supposed it really had been only a matter of time, illogical as it was. John was bright enough to understand how mad, how toxic Sherlock was. He'd just never thought he'd hear that worst of words come from John Watson. Well. He had no reason to follow any of the old rules anymore. When his phone buzzed again, he stared at it a long moment before responding:
  • Good. We'll see this done quickly, then. SH
  • You: Humming happily, John waved for a cab and quickly got inside it, telling their address to the cabbie. That case had been a nightmare, and of course, Lestrade wanted to have some notes about Sherlock's discoveries and deductions. Something the detective hated to do. So John did it without complaining. It was worth it, wasn't it? Still, he was feeling incredibly exhausted, leaning back against the seat of the car and suppressing a yawn. He was looking forward to be home. /Home/ with his crazy flatmate.
  • When his phone vibrated, he pulled it out and stared at it, frowning deeply, since he didn't understand.
  • See what done quickly? I was just thinking about coming back home and have a good rest. I had to abide Donovan more than you did, you know. It can be incredibly tiring. JW
  • Stranger: This didn't make a damned bit of sense. Sherlock stared at the phone blankly, reading the message over and over. Abide Donovan? When he was parroting her words back at him? A suspicion sang in the back of his mind -- John would never say those things, so what if -- but he banished it. If John came to his senses, he'd certainly say those things. His mouth twitched as he texted back:
  • I don't know what kind of game you're playing at. Doesn't matter. I'll be in my room. Take your belongings and be gone tonight if that's how you feel. SH
  • You: John had to suppress the urge to yell 'What?!', otherwise he was sure the cabbie would have given him a look. He didn't understand a damn thing. He had been at the Yard, actually /working/ for Sherlock, and now the other man was talking about his departure? Why on Earth would he want to leave the flat? It was almost scaring him, to think that maybe, maybe Sherlock had suddenly gone bored and thought he couldn't abide John's presence.
  • But I don't want to be gone... What's the matter with you? JW
  • Stranger: Sherlock's face twisted. Contorted. He was angry and humiliated and confused and frustrated, and it made for a very bad combination where Sherlock was concerned. He tapped in his message and tossed the phone out the door to clatter into the living room.
  • Whatever sick game you've decided to play with the freak, I've had enough of it. I'm not answering anything else. SH
  • You: They both really needed to have a serious talk with each other, that was certain. There couldn't have been some misunderstanding, since they hadn't talked to each other for several hours. It only took two minute before the car pulled up by Baker Street, but it felt more like two hours. His heart was pounding inside his chest, and he was imagining all the possible scenarios which would explain those... odd texts.
  • John rushed inside their flat, slamming the door behind him. He didn't even take some time to remove his coat from his shoulder and directly headed towards Sherlock's room. "Sherlock, what's wrong? He asked with a worried tone, knocking at the door.
  • Stranger: When John came into the flat, Sherlock had already shut the door of his bedroom and curled up with his back to the door. He lay there now, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around himself. His head was bowed forward and he was silent, utterly silent except for long thick breaths. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that John could affect him like this. But he'd let the man in, hadn't he? He'd let John make him happy, endlessly happy. He'd been the one person in the world who didn't think Sherlock was a freak, and that had been more than he'd ever expected to find. And now John was leaving or playing some horrible sort of trick that he'd never be able to understand because stupid damned normal people got up to ridiculous things that never made sense. So he made no audible response, just closing his eyes instead and silently willing John to go away.
  • You: /What had gone wrong, seriously?/ John thought, swallowing hard as he knocked at the door again. He was meant to remain always calm and rational, army-like, but now he clearly couldn't. Sherlock had talked about being a freak, and the simple thought made John become angry. Not against his friend, but against the others who kept calling him like that. "I don't understand, Sherlock. I genuinely don't. You talked about being a freak, but you are not, I swear. You never were and never will be." Looking around him for something, anything which would explain the situation (even though it was stupid, as if the answer would just hang around him like a hidden gift), he then rested his forehead against the door. "Let me in. Explain. Just say something."
  • Stranger: The only thing nearby was the fallen mobile -- it bleeped rather sadly to indicate it was low on battery. Sherlock remained silent for a long moment, trying to block out the sound of a voice that had always been so kind, so soothing. It was trying to soothe him again but that was nonsensical. Why would John bother now? Why would John care? There was a sudden rustle from within as Sherlock rose, stalking toward the door and fiddling with the lock. His usually deft hands were having trouble with it, though. He spoke rapidly, leaning his own forehead against the door: "If it's the heads in the fridge -- it is, isn't it? There's just the one. I can end the experiment. The eyes. The... I need the violin, John, but maybe I can find somewhere else for the eyes..." Just don't leave. Just don't leave. More than that, he was desperate for John not to hate him. He just couldn't bear seeing him.
  • You: "The eyes?" John would have laughed if the circumstances had been different. Now he was only staring blankly at the door. "Sherlock, seriously. Hm, I don't have... a /clue/ about what's happening. I mean it. I just send you one text, head back home and you're..." He cleared his throat, trying not to sound dramatic. "You're talking about me, leaving the flat and I... Well, obviously I don't want to... And I don't understand why you... talked about that." The fear and pain he had been trying hide to ignore were back, and it was almost overwhelming. As he looked around him again, - a nervous and desperate move which he couldn't suppress - he noticed Sherlock's phone resting sadly on the floor. On the floor. Why would Sherlock drop his precious iPhone on the floor? It was low on battery and anyway, John never glanced at Sherlock's phone so he just grabbed it so that he could give it back to his friend. "Can I come in?" He asked gently.
  • Stranger: "One text? You sent -- " The sound of the voice on the other end of the door was desperate, a pained laugh accompanying the words. He could remember every one of them. Every word. "'Freak.' 'Who would want you for a flatmate.' 'I must admit I've been quite a fool myself. I should have realised from the very start.' Any time you wish to start making sense..." Sherlock grabbed the door handle, squeezing it, starting to twist before just unlocking it and whirling away. It was as much invitation as John was going to get, apparently.
  • You: John froze, something snapping inside his mind when he heard the word 'freak'. Maybe it was Sherlock's tone or the quotes which followed, but John found himself enable to say anything, or even make a single move. First, he had never heard his friend sound so... desperate. That pain and higher voice was so unlike his friend. Then finally, his eyes looked down the phone in his hands. He could just try to take a look at it. Well, there was still the battery problem but... It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. "I never sent those texts," John almost whispered, his mouth dry. "Never. I would /never/ tell you such things. I mean... I had an argu-" An argument with Donovan about it. And now it all made sense. The phone, she was holding /his/ phone after he told him to stop calling Sherlock like that.
  • Stranger: A heartbeat. Another. Sherlock jerked the door open suddenly, and his face was... strange. Pale, but simultaneously red-cheeked and red-eyed. His eyes were too bright, too, but his expression was set and intent. He reached out to grab John's shoulders and push him out into the relative brightness of the middle of the front room, staring into the man's face and speaking quickly: "Say that again. Tell me you would never say that. You were at the Yard, you were dealing with the idiots there; you were dealing with -- " He let out a sharp hiss. "Donovan," he growls, breathing heavily. "Did your phone ever leave your possession while you were there?"
  • You: Sherlock's face. It was so... unlike him. Scared, even paler and, Jesus, the man had cried? John was a little taken aback by his reaction and flinched a little when Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulder. "I would never call you freak," John said quietly, clenching his jaw tightly. "I mean, Sherlock, it's obvious. Why would I? You're my best friend." And yet Sherlock had fallen completely into Donovan's trap. Oh, the woman was so... John shook his head, thinking there was no word which would describe his thoughts about that disgusting woman. "She had it. I lost it somehow, and she had it. I just thought... I didn't realize. Sherlock. I--" His eyes were locked on Sherlock's red. "Jesus, I'm sorry."
  • Stranger: "Ah." The word, the sound, did absolutely nothing to express the weight of feeling that passed through the detective. Fury shaded into relief with only tinges of that same outrage pointed at the woman who'd started this in the first place. Anger. Vengeance. But relief washed over all that, and before he knew it Sherlock was grabbing John and wrapping his arms firmly around him. He held the man tight, close, for a long moment totally unwilling to let him go. Deep breath after deep breath followed as he inhaled the scent of John, felt the warmth of him, the height of his head, the breadth of his shoulders, the comforting realness of his short soft hair and honest eyes. His smile was desperate and wide as he pulled away at last, clearing his throat and bobbing his head. "Yes. Well." His voice was thick and he cleared his throat again and swallowed. "Another time, be careful with your belongings. Can't trust anyone at the Yard, apparently. Place is full of cops. I'll just. Yes. Right. That's all sorted." Sensible that unexpected bear-hugs might be considered Inappropriate Flatmate Behaviour, he dropped his arms and raked a hand through his hair. "Think I'll just take a shower," he murmured, turning to return to his bedroom.
  • You: So he did care that much. When he felt those long arms wrapped tightly around him, John remembered that day at the pool when Sherlock thought for one second - one horrible second - that John had been Moriarty all along. The fear and misunderstanding in those eyes. It all seemed like that man, that bloody mad man did care after all. Despite his moods, behaviour, despite claiming he was a sociopath - he cared. That thought had touched John a lot. Well, of course, that feeling had soon been replaced by the adrenaline rushing through his body because of those gun aimed at the both of us. But he could remember. He remembered that Sherlock Holmes cared and this-- this was the ultimate proof. Though, it was unnecessary, because John Watson didn't want his friend to be hurt in any way.
  • But that embrace felt... /right/. It was unexpected for sure, but it didn't matter. He could feel the tension and the desperation of Sherlock, the relief but most of all, the impact of those words. The doctor held him tighter and before he had time to truly realize, Sherlock pulled away and stared at him with a wide smile. He didn't quite get what the man told him, since his mind was only focused on that face. He'd almost never seen a smile like this one on the detective's lips. And again, it was both sad and beautiful. God, really beautiful. "Sherlock, wait." John said quietly when the man retired to his bedroom. "Wait..." He got closer and wrapped his own arms gently around him, pulling him into another hug, a gentle and soothing one. "It's all fine."
  • Stranger: He had never wanted to. Never once. Caring was not an advantage. Caring about people didn't make you more capable of helping them -- it made you less capable, made you less able to divorce their needs from yours, less capable of making logical, correct, accurate decisions. Caring let people in and let them become all too capable of disappointing you in the end. Caring was a liability, and it was one he'd shoved from his heart years ago. He had high self-regard, but he didn't care all that much for even himself. He hadn't planned to care for Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't planned to care for Lestrade. He'd tried not to care for his brother, which was easier given how much of a prat he could be, but he still would have defended the man to the death. And John Watson?
  • When the arms came around him from behind he stiffened for one brief second before he sagged, leaning his flimsy weight backward into John and closing his eyes. A deep breath. Another, and his hands moved to rest over the ones that held him gentle and close. This wasn't all right. Couldn't possibly be all right. And yet it felt more all right than anything he could remember. He turned, pulling his long arms around John and sliding one hand into his hair. Maybe he could be allowed just this once. Maybe he could let his resolve break just this once. "You," he whispered, his voice cracking, "are so, so very important."
  • Stranger: ((Are you still there? Just checking Omegle isn't being bad!))
  • You: (Yeah, I am, sorry. I'm taking a long time, I know. :/)
  • Stranger: ((It's fine! Take your time, I have a while yet))
  • You: Sherlock thought caring wasn't an advantage, something which always made John stiffen a bit. For a man like John Watson who basically tried to understand people, a doctor who wanted to show that he thought every single person mattered, it was a statement that made him feel uncomfortable if not quite sad. Yet, there was some truth in those words. Caring /this/ much for someone couldn't be healthy. It was dangerous, and most of all, it could kill you. Genuinely. Turn you into dust until you can only feel how much it hurts and how much you wish it could stop. And caring /this much/ for people like he and Sherlock could be even more dangerous, because their lives were basically dangerous and there was the possibility of losing the other during a case or something else. The chances were higher but it was worth the risk, wasn't it? It was a risk he was willing to take, just to feel that irrational feeling, the adrenaline when they would both chase criminals, to feel the complicity, the respect they had for each other. And above it all, just to be able to be /home/. Because home wasn't just 221B Baker Street. It was Sherlock. It was the bloody violin at 3 in the morning, it was the bloody eyes in the microwave, the moods, the giggles after a particularly difficult case. And sometimes, Sometimes, it was a tight hug. Home.
  • This time, John took all the time he wanted to enjoy their closeness, to breathe Sherlock's scent and bury his face in his chest. It was meant to soothe Sherlock and yet, it was soothing him as well. The fingers buried in his hair, the long arms around him, holding him tightly and yet tenderly. And the words which made him basically speechless. Knowing it was one thing. Hearing it coming from Sherlock was... incredible. "Thank you," John whispered quietly, exhaling a shaky breath through his lips. "You are important to me too, you know. A lot. Jesus, so much."
  • Stranger: Home, for Sherlock, was something impossible to describe. Amorphous. Intangible. Pointless, he would say, but deep within he knew differently. 'Freak' they'd called him as a boy. 'Freak' in uni. The only one who didn't think he was a freak was Mycroft, and Mycroft eternally saw him as the disappointing younger brother who never could make his way properly in the world. A part of him so, so very much wanted to show Donovan just how much of a freak he could be, but though he'd shut himself off from emotions, from feelings, from words ever causing him harm -- so he'd thought, at least -- he still wasn't a monster. He wasn't what anyone thought he was. And to say that John understood him was perhaps not incorrect, but what John never did, never ever did, was judge him for being different or strange. John accepted him, eyes in the microwave and extended silences and sulks and sheets in the Palace and all.
  • "You have become vital," Sherlock whispered. "Invaluable. Necessary to my mental well-being. I... live every day in the quiet fear that you will come to your senses and go find some flatmate who doesn't put you into hellish danger. That something or someone will take you away and I need you, John. It..." He bit his lips, tilting his head back to look down into John's with a pained smile. His hand moved from John's hair to cup his cheek, running the pad of his thumb along the shorter man's cheekbone. "May not be altogether healthy for you. You may have noticed that I tend to obsess."
  • You: "Come to my sense?" John asked with a serious look, faking a surprised tone. "Hang on... You mean realizing that I ought to live a boring life, totally mundane, where I just basically go to work, come back home, eat, go to sleep, wake up at seven in the morning in stead of three? Yes, right. It sounds like a brilliant idea." His face cracked into a bright smile and he chuckled softly, the warmness of his eyes even stronger than before. "Seriously, Sherlock. How can you possibly imagine I would want to stay away from danger, and most of all, live with someone who is... well, not you." He found himself leaning into the delicate touch, his eyes closing lazily as he allowed himself to sigh. "As for the obsession. Well, hm. I don't know what you're talking about," He chuckled once more, his own mind becoming obsessed by the stroking of Sherlock's thumb along his cheekbone. "Seriously, though. There is nothing healthy for the both of us. This relationship, it's... Jesus, it's clearly not a relationship shared by two flatmates. But I know for sure that I..." He cleared his throat, pressing his lips together hesitantly. "I need you as much as you need me. In fact, I wonder if it's not more. I-I owe you... so much. Everything." His arms around Sherlock's waist tightened a little and he gave him an even brighter smile, his eyes twinkling. "And Jesus, how could you possibly become obsessed over someone like me? I am boring, for God's sake."
  • Stranger: This was becoming more, so very much more than he ever expected. Sherlock laughed softly when John did, tilting his head and murmuring: "Well. Most normal people would, but you are not normal." He listened as John went on, blinking in surprise. Warmth touched his own eyes, growing more and more the more he heard. His hand continued to stroke the side of his flatmate's face, fingertips curling around the ridge of his ear, drifting down the line of his neck and the line of his jaw. It was as if he was mapping John's skull, his face, stroking those places where the razor had shaved less well, where the five o'clock shadow was beginning to set in. "You are extraordinary," he whispered. "Who ever called you boring? Nobody with a mind. No one with eyes. You are my conscience, John. You are my heart. You are everything there is of me that isn't cold logic and rationality and reason. I don't know about healthy. I don't know about wise. But I know I need you with me and I don't know what I would ever do without you." He leaned forward then, pressing his lips to John's brow, kissing his forehead, then his eyelids, then his cheek. "You are as brilliant to me as any cut diamond. You are /mine/, John Watson, and I will give you up for nothing and no one."
  • You: John was about to reply 'Well, then I neither have a mind, nor eyes, then,' since he called himself boring ; but he let the other man finish talking first. In the end, he was speechless for the second time that day. He was staring at that breathtaking man, who was telling him how much John mattered to him. How could anything actually go wrong? It was such a candid and childish thought and yet, he really meant it. That infuriating smart and beautiful man was letting John see inside his heart completely. See how pure and honest it was. Now, the doctor wondered how so many people were able to miss something as precious and fragile as this.
  • When Sherlock leaned forward and pressed kisses on his face, he didn't say anything, didn't flinch or even move. Because this time he didn't mind. Hell, people could talk as much as they wanted. Nothing - No one would ever, /ever/ have the opportunity to hurt him again. He made the promise he would never see that painful look on Sherlock's face. It wasn't right. It was... heartbreaking, yes. Even more. It made him vulnerable. And before he had time to think about it even more, he was hypnotized by those grey eyes. Not cold, this time. Warm, and twinkling. "Jesus, you are breathtaking," John murmured. He leaned forward and he could give the complete description of those irises. It was all too late now. But it was fine, wasn't it? Perfect.
  • You: (Ah, Blimey, I wrote then two times... >.<)
  • Stranger: (I think I can forgive you!)
  • You: (Aw, thank you :3)
  • Stranger: So precious. So necessary. And there was nothing now that would separate them. His eyes were warm, yes. Warm and twinkling, but there was something almost predatory in them as well. No -- not predatory, not exactly. Possessive. John was his. Would be his. He'd never leave, and it was good he'd never want to leave because Sherlock doubted he'd ever be able to allow him to go. The light in his bedroom was low, and as he sniffed one more time to get rid of the remnants of the tears he'd quite shamefully shed, Sherlock glanced to the side ever so briefly. Bed? ...Maybe not. Maybe that wasn't right. Though as John called him breathtaking, Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly before narrowing in the briefest confusion. And again, confusion might not have been the right word. It was simply that Sherlock wasn't completely certain what to do. The mind that could work its way through a thousand puzzles was nevertheless incapable of puzzling out what to do when holding John in his arms.
  • "I am devoted to you," he whispered, backing the man up toward the wall. "Entirely. And you are -- you have no idea, do you, how attractive you are? How vital? You have created entirely new definitions. I have deleted /worlds/ for you. Histories, biographies, the stars in their courses, all emptying room to try to define you and I still fail so utterly in understanding you. How can you be so magnificently frustrating?"
  • And John was leaning forward, and Sherlock... oh, he threw his caution and his soul to the wind and leaned forward himself, remembering only an instant before to moisten his lips. He pressed them against John's, trying to stop himself from shaking. Everything he was, everything he felt, poured into that kiss and left him almost gasping. Need and possessiveness and relief and joy and hunger and affection and love, love, love. Inexperienced, perhaps. Loving as unconditionally as a child, maybe. But no less strong for that.
  • You: Sherlock's lips felt warm and wonderful against his. It was different from kissing a woman, but no less tender, or gentle. It was... clearly possessive, but also full of emotions, full of... love, as strange as it sounded, since he used to be convinced Sherlock could not love. Not because he was a sociopath - to him, he had never been one. But because he was too... scared and maybe in a way too intelligent to fall for something so irrational, so complicated and dangerous. But it was Sherlock Holmes, the bloody detective with the funny hat, always full of surprises and outstanding. Despite being hesitant, overwhelmed by the emotions through him, he still managed to be brilliant and clever at this, at expressing his love. Whereas John, as caring and attached to emotion as he was, didn't find the /right/ words which would tell precisely how he felt. He was not gay, and yet he had clearly fallen for him. He had killed men, waited for several years for this man, his /miracle/ to come back. He kept trusting him, believing in him no matter what happened. All his world revolved around him.
  • Their kiss was both desperate and gentle. There was the pain, the longing which they had both felt for so long, and the unconditional love. It could be childish, but it remained strong and honest. True love. "As always," John started after he pulled back for air, panting a little, "You can't help but sound extraordinary at everything, can you?" He smiled a little, pressing their forehead together. "I... I might not be as good as you with words... But it's obvious, isn't it?" There was something in his tone, which sounded like Sherlock. "You managed to become a great part of my life. Very quickly. Until you became my life. My world. Every single bit of you. I would never want to change you, because I... I like hearing the violin at 3 am, I like complaining about you experiments..." He paused, lifting his hand to stroke Sherlock's brow with the back of it. "I know that when you left me, I missed your sulks, your moods. Just you. As a whole." His words seemed so less powerful that Sherlock's. Sherlock who could say it perfectly, just by explaining how it worked in his mind palace. John actually wondered how much time Sherlock had spent collecting data about him. /How did it actually work inside that great mind?/
Green Beer (Happy St. Patty's Day! Unfinished)

You’re now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

You both like Sherlock RP, Superwholock, Johnlock, and Superlock.

You: I’m not going. SH

Stranger: You promised, Sherlock. JW

Stranger: I need you there. JW

You: Then I recant my promise. If I wanted to surround myself with drunken idiots I’d work for Scotland Yard. SH

Stranger: To be fair, you sort of do. JW

You: Shut up. SH

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