i yacht this!!

6

Irene Adler appreciation post. 

In other news, Adlock lives on.

EDIT: I mean, 321 notes?? Like?? The Adlockers are truly alive haha thank you all for liking/reblogging this 

Also, for all you anti’s, please get off my blog if you don’t like Adlock/Irene Adler. I don’t go snooping around yours to spread hate on your ship, so please do me the favor of staying approximately 91056583461829473 billion miles away from me and my fellow Adlockers. Good day.

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Adlock AU - Poison

“If you’re going to play this game, you’d better make damn sure you’re going to win. Because if you lose, she will feast on your remains and laugh while doing it.”

He huffed a short derisive laugh of his own. “Since when have you been prone to exaggeration. Mycroft?”

His brother fixed him with a level look. There was no trace of humor or hyperbole on Mycroft’s face. “I’m not.”


Everything about her spoke of decadence and darkness, her countenance and carriage carefully designed to inspire fear and awed desire.

And yet as she drew near, her scent whispered to him. Lavender with slight notes of honeysuckle and roses. Soft and tranquil, it spoke to him of mornings and fresh fields in Grasse and flowers picked at dawn…

A sharply melodic contrast to the rigid air of bellicose sensuality she presented, it confused and disarmed him for a moment, which was no doubt her intent. She smiled, and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Miss Adler, I presume?”

____________

By SorrowsFlower

“The music.”    [meta/ficlet?]

His sister heard it from the music, of course she did. She’s a Holmes, with her vast intelligence and sharp perception. And despite what fateful series of events had been shaping the thorny paths they both trod, a unique sibling connection unwaveringly prevails.

He was playing himself on the Stradivarius, after all. Whilst his always (almost always, but the ‘positionofthecar’ incoherence was merely a single occasion!) well-guarded words articulate reason and logic for his controlled cerebral mind, his music would subtly nudge open the lock to a different window. His music would take the liberty of expressing The Ungraspable, felt and constrained within his chest.

And he would allow that. He’d composed Irene’s song when he thought he’d lost her, when suddenly there was an unbearable void that was never filled to begin with. He’d poured all the melancholy and devastation and befuddlement and ache into the tunes. Plus the whirlpool of everything he hadn’t realised he’d felt for The Woman, everything that he’d never wanted to feel and even actively steered away from experiencing.

A lot (understatement) has happened since then. In London (Battersea, Baker Street, and Heathrow), in Karachi, in all the places where they’ve misbehaved during and after The Fall. Somewhere in between her resurrection and his, despair was shone through by hope, anger dissolved in understanding, denial abraded with acceptance, and suspicion evolved into trust.

But however much things have changed, there is a constant that remains. Something that had been brewing since before the music was created, since Belgravia or perhaps even Buckingham Palace. It has crystallised from the disorder of emotions, and strengthened with each encounter and separation between him and The Woman, with each minute they have spent together and apart. It marked the beginning of a profound realisation, and diffused into the fundamental definition of who he was. Sherlock Holmes, the heartless machine, no longer, if ever.

It is this constant that the Stradivarius bow was dancing to revisit in Sherrinford, conveying the depth of the sentiment with precise movements, with fervour and intensity. He played Irene’s song in the light of everything that had transpired since the intricate melody first resonated on his violin strings and filled the flat at 221B all those years ago.

Whereas the music was previously simply referred to as “sad” by John, it has come to encompass much, much more. Whereas the audible yearning in the quivering notes had been for an incomprehensible concept, it is now attached to fond memories. Of her, of them, of experiences both physical and beyond. His sister heard all that.

Sherlock considers what his brother’s reaction to the tunes might be, and manages to keep his expression neutral.


To dear fellow adlockers – group hug! x

P.S. Violin music speaking Sherlock’s heart – the scene rather reminded me of Father Holmes Listens, a very short ficlet (indirectly adlock) exploring Sherlock’s relationship with his father..

Hushed Sounds And Open Doors (An Adlock Fanfiction)

(Apparently, since I’m a shitty writer, here’s more of my shitty writing, lol. In my agreement with @dinnerxx that Sherlock and Irene would probably be more embarrassed to be caught being sweet and ‘sentimental’ rather than someone walking in on them having steamy af sex, this fic sprouted. I also inserted some headcanons here, like Irene baking and other callbacks to past fics. I literally almost slipped in the shower when I thought about this… and I feel like my author’s note at every fic is a little too talkative soooo yeah. Dedicating this to my adopted child @realestofgeek too because she’s had a rough day because of some frickin ANON. Anyway, let’s just get on with it.)

Originally posted by wildthingsandcrowns

John looked at his watch, wondering where in the world was Sherlock Holmes. He pursed his lips, thinking that the detective might have forgotten the small celebration they planned with Lestrade for Sherlock’s own birthday, but figured that since his best friend was hesitant about the entire situation in the first place, Greg and himself were purposefully ignored. 

Still, he figured, since they missed much of Sherlock’s past birthdays, they had to at least make an effort to make the incoming ones worth remembering. 

Sighing as he looked at his phone with no reply from Sherlock, he sent a quick text to Lestrade to let him know that plans are still a go, and he would be in 221B to get the detective himself. 

Arriving at the flat, he went in to greet Mrs. Hudson. 

“Is Sherlock here? He’s been ignoring my messages all day.” John asked. 

“You do know it’s his birthday?” Mrs. Hudson quipped back, looking at him questioningly.

“Ah, yes. That’s why I’m here. To get him… Celebrate. Cake and go to the pub.” John explained, confused. 

To his surprise, Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Oh, silly! He wouldn’t want to celebrate his birthday with you.

John’s eyebrows raised, looking for an explanation, but Mrs. Hudson was too amused that she left him by himself at the hall, astounded, saying something about creaking floorboards in between her fits of laughter.

The doctor decided to head up to the flat, surprised that Sherlock was still nowhere to be found in the living room. Seeing that light was coming from his friend’s ajar bedroom, he walked over and was about to call out to him when he heard a familiar voice. 

“Don’t you think you should at least tell them you’re not interested in coming?” he heard none other than Irene Adler say, almost making him gasp. 

It may be a ridiculous idea, but the doctor decided to sneak a peek at the door’s slight opening, wanting to have visual evidence that it was in fact her.

At that, he was met with an intriguing sight, with Sherlock lying on Irene’s lap, the detective holding The Woman’s hand rather delicately, while she glides her fingers through his hair. It was a scene that looked out-of-place if you know the two parties involved, but judging by their soft expressions, it was something that was already bordering on habit.

John can’t help but be amused. So, this is what Mrs. Hudson was talking about? Moreover, Mrs. Hudson knew about this? 

He saw Sherlock roll his eyes, still gently playing with Irene’s fingers. “I already told them once. They should have known better.”

John grinned, shaking his head. This bloody moron, he thought. 

He saw his friend’s expression change to somewhat of curious frustration, now examining Irene’s hand unlike the simple caressing he was giving it earlier. 

Sherlock looked up to her, eyes full of concern. “What happened to this?” 

Irene shushed him. “Nothing. I… It was nothing really.”

The detective eyed her, rubbing her fingers softly. Irene sighed, and John could swear she was flustered. Irene Adler, the dominatrix who almost brought the nation to its knees, is blushing

“I wanted to bake you a cake, just like the chocolate one you loved when we were in Paris. It didn’t turn out nice, so after a couple of tries, I just gave up on the idea.” she told him, trying to sound nonchalant to mask her embarrassment at the admittance. 

John jerked his head to the side, an incredulous expression on his face. Irene Adler baking? Paris? What in the world–? And more so, why is he still here? 

He smiled to himself. Probably because he was happy that Sherlock finally took his advice? That his best friend was happy? Oh, how he wish… 

How he wish Mary could have seen this. She would’ve been happy for him, too.

He looked up just in time when Sherlock stopped laughing at Irene’s confession, the detective reaching for The Woman to plant a kiss on her forehead. Sherlock then reached for her hand and planted soft kisses on her fingers, and John observed how Irene was looking at his friend with all the affection in the world. Without a doubt, the two have been this familiar for years.

John took one last look, amused and somehow relieved. He forgot all the annoyance he was feeling for having been ignored by Sherlock, figuring that the detective got the gift he wanted for this special day. The doctor can’t help but smile even more. 

This was far more different, definitely more real than the display he saw with Janine. And somehow, it felt more sure because it is with the Irene Adler.

He was about to turn away to leave them to their business when he was greeted by Lestrade, the Detective Inspector hovering at the flat’s door and shooting him a questioning glance. 

“John, what’s taking so long?” Greg asked, voice loud enough for Sherlock to hear. 

The doctor waved his hands extensively, telling Greg to shush, but it was already too late. 

“Sherlock, dear, what is it?” 

John turned to see Sherlock, followed by Irene, both standing by the door frame, evidently alarmed upon seeing him and Lestrade. 

Greg couldn’t hide his own amusement and surprise, eyes immediate boring into Irene Adler. 

“Graeme, didn’t you mother tell you it’s rude to gawk.” Sherlock snapped, before turning to John. “How… How long have you been here?” 

John gave a nervous laugh. “Not long…. Erm… So… You two…?”

Irene scoffed. “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’? Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?” the doctor couldn’t hide his amusement. 

“Ms. Adler was just visiting… For a case I needed help with.” Sherlock retorted, and Irene gave a proud nod. 

“What? In your bedroom?” Lestrade noted, smirking.

“And what case? I wasn’t aware we have a… case?” John added, fighting the urge to laugh at his friend’s flustered expression. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

John straightened his jacket and turned to Lestrade almost comically. “Well, I guess we’ll just leave you to your business then.”

Lestrade was still smirking, nodding at John. “Yeah, catch you later, Sherlock. Erm… Happy birthday.”

Greg headed out the door first, letting out a laugh as soon as he was out of sight, and John was about to follow him when he remembered Mrs. Hudson’s remark, things finally falling into place. 

“By the way, take the brainstorming a notch lower, mate. Mrs. Hudson said something about….creaking floorboards?” he mused with playful pretend nonchalance, making both Irene and Sherlock turn an amazing shade of red.

The doctor took it as his cue to leave them at their celebration.

4

He looked up and there she was, on the other side of the room, mingling with other wedding guests, not far from Mrs. Hudson’s and Molly’s table.

She turned and gave him that enigmatic half-smile, and immediately – without consent from his brain – his heart began to pound.

His words stuttered as he finally approached the end of his best man’s speech, and his fumble caused him to reveal his unexpected deduction about Mary. He hurriedly covered his mistake by urging the guests to dance, finally bringing his speech to an end (hours after he had started its delivery, but well, public speaking tended to be second priority when there were murderous photographers to be dealt with).

He looked up again, trying to see her figure in the crowd, but she was nowhere to be seen. In the meantime, John and Mary were looking at him in confusion, and he knew that unlike the other guests, he would have to explain his little slip-up to them.

“All the signs are there… The signs of three.”

He watched as the expressions on his two friends’ faces ranged from shock to acceptance and finally to joy. And as John clapped him on the shoulder with a broad smile on his face and Mary beamed at him through shocked tears, he was momentarily distracted from the appearance of the Woman by the unexpected wave of emotion that swept through him as they stood in that little circle of three – well, four, if you counted the bundle of cells currently gestating in Mary’s uterus - in the middle of the dance floor.

It was a curious mixture of sadness mixed with happiness at the same time, melancholy and euphoria blending together. A sense of… belonging. He belonged to John and Mary, and they belonged to him.

How unfortunate that this feeling should come in this hour when he must surrender them to their domestic bliss. And yet, how fitting.

How very fitting for Sherlock Holmes.

Because even though he belonged to them, he was still apart from them. Sherlock Holmes was still a man like no other, and no matter how well he fit in with John and Mary, they were still different enough from him to almost be an entirely separate species.

In the end, there was really only one other person he could think of who was truly like him.

He searched for her in the crowd, but unsurprisingly, she was nowhere to be found. He donned his coat and walked out into the night.

He found her at the train station, standing with her back against him. She had been careful to avoid the cameras, but from this angle, she would be visible if she turned and so would he if he faced her. So he contented himself with standing behind her as they waited for the train to arrive.

“Who leaves a wedding early?”

He was careful not to stand too close. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew she was smiling. She didn’t turn to face him, but he could hear the smile in her voice 

“The best man, apparently.” She spoke in barely a murmur, but the languid tone of her voice – heard only in his mind palace for far too long – slid smoothly over him like silk. “Excellent speech, by the way. Trust Sherlock Holmes to solve an attempted murder in the middle of a wedding toast.”

“Well, I didn’t want to disappoint you.” He couldn’t help it. He leaned closer and inhaled the intoxicating fragrance of her perfume. Her neck arched slightly in response to his proximity. “It is the new sexy, after all.”

The cut of her dress kept her shoulders bare and her hairstyle, which he suspected she had planned specifically to tease him, exposed the long column of her neck to him. He was tempted to brush away the strands of hair that had escaped the knot and trace the curve of her neck and shoulders. He curled his hands into fists in his pockets to prevent them from acting on that particular impulse.

Too long. Far too long.

She was thinking the same thing, he could tell. Her breathing rate had increased slightly, and he didn’t have to take her pulse to know it was elevated, or see her face to know that her pupils were dilated.

“How long do we have?”

He huffed in impatience as the train began to slow to a stop in front of them.”John and Mary won’t miss me, but Mycroft will suspect. A day and a half. Two days at the most.”

The doors opened and they parted. She walked in casually, just another passenger. He followed, careful to keep distance between them, and the train began to fill.

He entered his compartment and had barely closed the door when she was on him and he found himself pushed against the wall. Her smile was wicked as she tugged off his Belstaff. 

“We’d better make it count then.”

__________

By SorrowsFlower

Back when things weren’t fucked up.

Because I still believe that Irene was at the wedding. In my Irene and Mary as sisters AU, she went because she promised Mary long ago when they were kids that she would be at her wedding (‘cause Mary was that kind of little girl then, but Irene, unsurprisingly, wasn’t).

Also, because I frickin’ need Adlock!!!!!!!!!

6

get to know me meme: (4/5) favourite characters - men

Money has been a little bit tight lately, but at the end of my life, when I’m sitting on my yacht, am I gonna be thinking about how much money I have? No. I’m gonna be thinking about how many friends I have and my children and my comedy albums.

3

When my dad got arrested, the police, the lawyers, the judge, the courts, they took everything from us. Our houses, our cars, our club memberships, our yacht, even, I’m not kidding, the clothes off our backs. Anyway, my mom sat me down on the edge of my canopy bed and she told me not to cry. Because there was one thing in this world that no one could ever take from me. Not ever. My name. Which, after telling me no one would ever take it, that is exactly what she did.

8

“All of my favorite things are the most simple things. I don’t need a $100 million yacht. I’m not going to say that. The things that I consider the most enjoyable are fairly simple, the creative process, a good meal. If you’re just making food for yourself at home, reading a great book, watching a great film, simple pleasures.” — Jared Leto