john gets his own


“It bothers you, doesn’t it? What they think?”

2.04 // 4.10

fic where irene’s moan alert goes off while john and sherlock are sitting in the living room and instead of getting pissed off, john starts competing with his own sex noises

anonymous asked:

Dr Who but each incarnation is swapped with one of their companions.

omg?? I love it??

The First Doctor: 

She’s not completely unfriendly, exactly, she just doesn’t have time for humans being idiots. In the right circumstances, she can actually be very warm. She loves history, which is lucky because her granddaughter Susan does too (they tell people Susan is her daughter, but even then it’s a bit of a stretch, human ages are weird). Of course, then two of Susan’s teachers follow her home one night, and next thing the Doctor knows she has a crotchety old history teacher and a handsome young science teacher on her spaceship with no way to get rid of them that isn’t morally questionable. 


The humans help her lose some of her haughtiness. She leaves Susan in the 22nd century to become her own woman. 

Along the way and against her better judgement, she falls hopelessly for Ian Chesterton. He wants to stay with her forever, but she knows it would never work, and encourages him to go with John Foreman in the Dalek Time Machine to get back to his own time. 

Later, in other lives, she checks in on him occasionally. 

The Second Doctor:

The baby face is a problem. It takes a good twenty minutes on a lot of occasions to get anyone to take her seriously. On the bright side, a lot of Polly’s clothes fit her now. 

She finds a best friend in Scotsman Jamie McCrimmon, whose rather naive approach to futuristic technology is extremely refreshing, as is his unique insightfulness. 

After Ben and Polly leave them, they rescue Victoria, who Jamie is utterly taken with. Victoria is unsure about living a life so unsupervised by someone older and won’t listen to the Doctor’s insistence that she is in fact perfectly qualified to look after them all. 

She and Victoria spend a good many nights aboard the TARDIS talking about women’s history and the things to come for women in the future and how women act on other planets. Victoria is fascinated, occasionally horrified, and often quietly thrilled at the things she learns. 

It’s a shame to see her go, but all she ever wanted was a family and security, and the Doctor can’t provide that. 

They meet an eccentric man on a space station, with funny trousers and an obsession with the recorder. The Doctor and Jamie like him instantly, and invite him on board only to learn that the man had been considering stowing away if not invited. 

The Time Lords take her friends away from her. She is forced to regenerate and exiled to Earth, as punishment for her interference. 

The Third Doctor: 

Shrewd, passionately devoted to science, and not one to take kindly to interruptions or anyone trying to talk down to or even disagree with her, it’s a wonder the Doctor even gets hired by UNIT at all. But then again, beggars can’t be choosers. 

On the bright side, this fellow John Smith from Cambridge seems to be the one person around with an actual brain and not just a penchant for attacking first and thinking later. 

They’re friends instantly. Or, they are once she makes it perfectly clear that she is the cleverer of the two. The look on his face when he realises is a memory she’ll treasure forever. 

He eventually leaves to go back to his own research, upon realising she doesn’t need him. 

It’s a shame and she misses him, but then Jo Grant comes into her life. Despite an awful first impression, the two women are soon fiercely devoted to each other. Jo keeps going on about women having to stick together amongst all the army boys, and while the Doctor could usually not care less about gender politics, if it means Jo hangs around her more, then so be it. 

The Master turns up. It’s exhausting and exasperating and oh so much fun

Meanwhile, the Doctor’s told herself to not let herself fall for humans, after how much Ian hurt. But with Jo, it’s impossible not to. (Not that she hasn’t noticed the Brigadier’s lingering stares, or failed to appreciate him in his uniform. But he’s far too professional to ever do anything, and too trigger happy besides.) 

Jo is like sunshine and she’s always there and smiling and pressing herself against the Doctor out of fear or shock, until one day they’re in the supply closet of a spaceship and they’re kissing furiously instead of listening out for their pursuers. 

It’s wonderful, being with Jo. Until Clive Jones comes along, and the Doctor has to tell her to forget about her and marry the nice young man who can grow old with her and give her the life she wants. 

She drinks more champagne than she is proud of that night. 

Luckily, along comes Sarah Jane Smith, who is exactly the kind of human that the Doctor automatically adores. Inquisitive, sharp, and a vocal feminist. What a woman. 

Of course, then giant alien spiders happen, and it’s time for a change.  

The Fourth Doctor:

Or… not. Apparently, she’s doomed to be young, attractive, humanoid, and pale skinned throughout all her lives. There are worse fates, but she wouldn’t mind a little variety, frankly. And being so small is getting infuriating. 

Harry takes a long while to take her seriously, but once he does, he is steadfastly loyal. Sarah Jane takes the regeneration in stride for the most part. 

And after them, Leela, who is so strange and savage but so utterly charming in her honesty. They share a few kisses, but nothing more. 

Then comes Romana. A young Time Lord who looks older than her, is far taller than is sensible, and has an even more absurd grin. She can’t stand him, with his bragging about his grades and thinking he knows everything. 

She soon teaches him that experience wins every time. 

Of course, then he spots some pretty princess on Tara, and next thing she knows, the moment the whole Key To Time mess is sorted, Romana is now a less taller, less ridiculous, utterly beautiful Time Lady in her first regeneration. 

She tries to argue against what she can only consider body theft, or at least copying, but it is a relief to not have to crane her neck up to speak to her companion. 

Romana becomes a most dear friend. She’s missed being around someone like her, someone who understands. It makes it all the worse when she leaves, leaving the Doctor with only Adric and his incessant questions. 

The Fifth Doctor: 

There’s something about this body, a regality, that commands a little more respect than the ones before it, despite it following the pattern of her others. 

Adric’s questions exasperate her, while Tegan’s demands to be taken home are met with gentle requests for patience and promises of Heathrow airport, and this Traken prince she’s picked up is thankfully one of the most polite people she’s ever had in the TARDIS. Decent brain on him, too. 

Tegan’s smile sometimes makes her stomach do backflips. The Doctor ignores it. She’s learned her lesson. It’s almost a relief to see Tegan reach her breaking point and leave, except it isn’t, because for a long while it feels like a part of her is missing. 

Turlough is a curiosity, but a nice one who makes for surprisingly good company in the absence of the others. 

Perpugilliam Brown is a surprise. The Doctor remembers why she has tried to avoid America where possible in her travels. Americans are loud. But in the case of Peri, it involves shouting at the Master, and as such, the Doctor decides that Perpugilliam Brown can stay as long as she likes. 

Between the two of them and soon Erimem, uncrowned Pharaoh of Egypt, they make quite the team.  

The Sixth Doctor:

It’s about time! Finally, a more weathered model. Peri is surprised to say the least, and seems a little disappointed to lose out on her best friend who had until now looked a very similar age to her, but soon realises very little has changed. 

And now she lets the Doctor take care of her a bit better. Thank goodness for that! The maternal instincts in this body are absurdly strong, she has no idea what she would do if she couldn’t express them. 

Now, the borderline narcissistic but quietly lovable history professor she accidentally picks up some time after losing Peri is a trickier matter. Still, at least he shares her love for chocolate cake. 

The Seventh Doctor: 

Bright, bubbly, and able to get most people to like her within ten seconds. Now this is a regeneration she likes. Plus, her most impressive set of lungs yet. Handy, for calling companions who like to wander off. 

She tries to not encourage Ace’s use of explosives, but it’s difficult when she sees how genuinely happy they make the girl. She’s getting soft in her old age, she knows. 

Still, at least her brain makes up for it. She can out-think a computer, easily. The universe is her chessboard and she’ll do whatever the hell she pleases with it. 

The Eighth Doctor: 

She’s a jolly thing. Always keen for adventure, ready to shout at anyone who deserves it, and just wants to have a good time, really. 

After a rather rocky start involving amnesia and kissing the cardiologist who had caused her regeneration in the first place, the Doctor is just minding her own business when she accidentally messes with history. 

It seems that saving this stowaway on the R101 might not have been the best idea after all. But he’s so charming and sweet and genuine, sharing her utter passion for life, that by the time she realises her mistake, she’s not willing to part with him. 

That goes… about as well as one might expect. 

The Ninth Doctor: 

It’s funny, being a weathered old war veteran with a guilty conscience, and simultaneously looking like someone who could be on the front of a magazine. 

Life is hard, after the time war, but she meets a man with big ears and blue eyes and things get better. A lot better. It feels good to smile again. 

The addition of Captain Jack Harkness is an interesting one, but she’s always said the more the merrier. Their other companion is not quite as happy about this development, but before long they’re the best of friends. 

The Tenth Doctor: 

She’s gentler now, somehow. Oh, she has her anger and her snark, and boy does this body have a set of lungs on her. But she’s so much softer, underneath. 

Losing her friends from her last body takes its toll. She at least manages to avoid comparing Martha to them that came before her. Martha is wonderful, always completing even the most impossible tasks that the Doctor puts to her. They part on good terms, after the Master’s ravaging of the Earth. (The Master had not been so impressed with this version of her. He had trouble seeing the strength within, seeing that she was more than the duality of compassion and shouting.) Martha needs to look after her family, and that’s probably for the best. 

And then there’s the skinny idiot in the suit. He actually talks faster than she does, which is absurd, but she wonders if that’s simply because of his questionable family. Perhaps not letting them get a word in is how he survives. 

Either way, they get along like a house on fire. Losing him, wiping his memory and seeing him stare right through her and smile that stupid smile, is almost enough to break her. 

No more companions, she swears. 

The Eleventh Doctor: 

It’s all about fun, now. Impressing the little boy whose garden she crashes in and then impressing him when he’s grown up and has waited 14 years for her. (To hell with her rule about no more companions. Her old self was full of dumb ideas anyway.) 

Oh yes, she likes Rory Williams a lot. And his best friend John isn’t bad either. Mind you, that nose… 

She has her spaceship, and her boys, and life is good. Well, there’s River Song to worry about, but she can never be sure if the archaeologist is more interested in her or John. Just one more mystery, it seems. 

Losing Rory, and then John, is hard. But she knows that they’re happy, and that’s enough. 

The Twelfth Doctor:

Short, bossy, a control freak, and a slight obsession with tartan. Also, her English teacher companion is secretly a rock star wannabe, disguised as a reclusive Scottish nerd. 

What’s a girl to do? 

(Apparently, find out that her best enemy is alive, and now also female. And Scottish like her companion. The first kiss had been… shocking to say the least. The ones after, against her better judgement, decidedly less so.) 

She cares about her companion more than she will ever say, and when faced with losing him, takes things too far. Further than anyone should ever take anything. And when it is all said and done… she can’t remember his face, or his voice, or how he sounded when he mocked how large her eyes were. 

River is there to comfort her, though, in those 24 years on Darillium. 

And then Bill. Brilliant Bill. Oh yes, they make quite the team. And Nardole helps sometimes too. 

Send me an AU and I’ll expand on it! 

Sons of Lawrence #13

Summary:  Sons of Anarchy meets Supernatural. In this AU, the Winchesters run the most notorious biker gang in Lawrence. They traffic illegal drugs, weapons, and anything else that makes them money and keeps them on top.
Characters in this chapter: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Mary Winchester, Ruby, Jo Harvelle, Elen Harvelle, Bobby Singer, Meg Masters, James Novak. 
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Word Count: 2,861
Warnings: Angst, language, medical jargon
Author’s Note: This series isn’t going to be light and fluffy. It will include explicit language, explicit sexual content, casual use of illegal drugs, explicit canon typical violence.
Miss the beginning? GIF credit [x][x][x][x]

“This isn’t a fairy tale, Mr. Winchester,” Doctor Novak stated matter-of-factly. “Y/N suffered extensive internal damage. I can’t tell you long it will take because I don’t know how long it will take.”

Standing next to Dean’s hospital bed, John had his arms crossed and a scowl on his brow. “I don’t expect immediate results, doc. But there’s gotta be something that can be done.”

James Novak crossed the room and turned on the lights of the x-ray panels on the wall. He opened a large manilla folder and pressed the film up until it got stuck. He ran a finger along the outline of Y/N’s skull. “When Y/N got thrown from the bike, she hit her head. Now, the helmet saved her life, but it also did some damage,” he cleared his throat before continuing. “Along with a severe concussion, the impact resulted in a hematoma. In layman’s terms, clotting of blood outside the blood vessels.”

Mary, who was holding her son’s hand, asked, “Is it serious?”

Doctor Novak nodded. “It can be very serious if a hematoma occurs inside the brain. Unfortunately, that is what occurred. The clotting can cause pressure to build inside the skull, which is a factor into why she lost consciousness. Hopefully that won’t last too long. We went in and drained what we could.”

“What else?” Dean rasped, his throat raw from having a breathing tube removed earlier that morning.

Another piece of film was slapped up. “There was a lot of scar tissue from what had been repaired 3 years ago. This time, she was stabbed more than once. Add in the internal damage from the accident and the loss of blood, Y/N is looking at a rough recovery.”

There was a collective heavy sigh between the Winchesters as Dean pushed his head into the mountain of thin pillows.

“Thank you,” John murmured and held out his hand for the doctor.

James’ lips pressed into a thin line as he shook John’s hand. “Y/N was on a lot of my cases over the past year; she’s an amazing person. I promise that I’ll do everything in my power not to lose her.”

He went to leave the room, but stopped suddenly and rummaged in a pocket of his crisp, tan jacket. “I almost forgot,” he whispered.

Mary held out her hand when James approached and extended a fist. The ring she had given Y/N the other day fell softly into her palm. She choked on a sob and almost crumbled under the weight of John’s hand on her shoulder.

“You’ll get that back to her, Mare,” John promised, his own voice tremulous with emotion.

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ok…..but while John Laurens does sing and rap, he never really gets his OWN song, like Angelica and Eliza do (Eliza is a beat boxer because she supports Hamilton and Angelica can rap as fast as Hamilton because she’s his intellectual equal). This is symbolic of the way that Laurens doesn’t get a real shot of a relationship with Hamilton. His singing and rapping does happen occasionally however, which is symbolic of the small relationship that Hamilton and Laurens managed to have.

anonymous asked:

When Rosie is in bed and there's no case to read up on, no experiments to tend to, John comes downstairs and settles into the comfort of his chair or the sofa to listen to Sherlock play something on the violin. It has been proven that hearing her Papa play, even from downstairs, soothes Rosie into a deep and lasting sleep. John watches on as his love gets lost in the music, feeling his own heart swell as the emotion channels through the notes. Some are new, written after they finally got it (1)

together. They sound hopeful, bright. And some are from before, slightly mournful and longing. John can tell the difference, yet both make his heart feel full, ache for them both and all the years they lost. There’s a moment after Sherlock has stopped, where stillness and silence permeates through the room, the flat, until the lingering London sounds gently bring them back to reality. Some evenings John stands, goes to him, and they hold each other. Sometimes they share a waltz, making up for lost time. From there their evening is spent either in bed, or cuddled up watching something mindless on tv as Sherlock comments along to make John laugh, or doing their own thing - content in the knowledge that they don’t have to hide and lie anymore, that they are loved and happy, and their little girl is asleep and safe upstairs. It almost makes all those years worth it,how they cherish each other and every minute every second and moment together. (Fin).

*sobs* My babies are all growed up and raising their own baby.

If the end of tld tells me anything, it’s that Sherlock is his own white knight.

Not John.

Because despite getting beat up by John, he’s still there to comfort John when he sees John cry. He still tried to reach out to John and asked “are you ok” when John was about to leave 20 minutes early.

Sherlock went through hell and back, not just with the drugs, but also the fact that the most important person in his life told him off, told him to stay away, beat him up, and even after all that John still wanted to leave 20 minutes early– I mean the sheer amount of times his existence and effort is repeatedly rejected by John, that leaves quite a huge emotional trauma y'know, especially considering the extent Sherlock went through to try to make John happy.

And yet despite all that pain, Sherlock is still continuously trying to stand on his own two feet and having enough strength to comfort John too.

Sherlock is his own white knight.

And Sherlock’s right, he doesn’t need romantic entanglement to fulfil his life coz all he needs to do to be whole is to love himself. Because everyone, even John, is capable of hurting him. And in the end the only one person he needs to feel whole is just himself

Title: Werewolf in Michigan Part 1

Character: John Winchester

TV: Supernatural

Warnings: None

Photo/GIF credits go to the original maker/owner

This is for my friend, @texasgal2222, hence why the OFC bears her name!

“John… it’s Teresa. Listen, I need your help. The town I live in; something weird is going on. My husband- never- torn- please? I’d rea- -ppreciate it,”

John listened to the voice mail at least six times and he couldn’t piece together the missing words other than she needed help.

Teresa Bronx was someone he had grown up with. If he were to be honest, Teresa was his first love, but things happened and Teresa moved, not really having a say in that situation.

Then Mary came along and they were married and had Dean and Sam. He honestly thought that he’d never see or hear from Teresa again.

Snapping his phone shut, he pushed his rear off of the Impala and went to the hotel room that he shared with his boys.

They needed to get on this and fast.

Closing the door, we walked by the two twin sized beds, knocking each of the boys’ foot with a tiny bit of force.

Both jumped awake, snorting as they realized that sleep time was over.

“Sorry boys, but we have our next case,”

“Uhgg, what time is it?” Dean asked, squinting at the clock.

“Time to get your tails up,” John replied, sitting at a table with his laptop.

Typing away as Sam and Dean stretched and yawned, John found the place where Teresa had called from.

“What do you have?” Sam asked, plopping down in a chair and rubbing his eyes.

“Got a call from an old friend,” he paused, reading, “looks like Werewolf attacks in… Michigan,”

“That’s about a seven hour trip, Dad,” Dean said.

Looking up at both of his sons, John smiled, “Looks like you best get to packing,”
“Dad, this town isn’t even on the map,” Dean said, from the passenger seat.

“Well, this is where the signal came from, so that is where we are going,”

So far it had been nothing but mountains and flat land. It had seemed like that they weren’t moving.

John immediately slammed on the breaks, scaring the boys.

“The hell!?”

“Jesus, Dad!”

“Sorry boys, but shut up and look,” John pointed to what was beyond the windshield.

The fog was so thick, so dense that they could barely make out the sign that set on the side of the road.

Dean squinted, leaning forward in his seat, “Welcome to the town of Quaker. Population…. I can’t see the numbers.,”

Slowly, John inched the Impala forward until it had disappeared into the fog.

Some of the thickness had thinned out, but it was still hard to see. Still, John continued to drive at a snails pace.

He sighed with relief when the fog gave way to a quaint little town. It was still overcast, but not nearly as bad.

People were scattered about the town, eating, walking their dogs, window shopping and so on.

Dean tapped John on the arm and pointed to their destination, “Last building on the right,”

~Bronx Antiques~

John pulled into a parking space and shut the car off. Pulling the keys from the ignition, he began to fumble with them as his nerves became frazzled.

“Dad?” Dean tapped his arm.


“You alright?” he asked.

John cleared his throat and shook his head, “I’m fine son. C'mon, let’s go,”

Dean and Sam shared a look before exiting the vehicle.

Entering the building, the doorbell chimed three times as they each crossed the threshold.

“Hi, can I help you?” A young girl in her mid teens stepped from a back room.

John’s eyes widened at the sight of the girl. She looked so much like Teresa did when she was a teen.

When Dean noticed that John wasn’t speaking up, he gave his father another weird stare and shook his head.

“Yeah. Hey Darlin’. We’re looking for Teresa Bronx. Is she here?”

The teen blushed, then nodded. Holding up a finger, she turned on her heel, “Hey Momma. There’s some men out here that wanna talk to you,”

“On my way, Issie,”

John felt his chest tighten at the sound of Teresa’s voice.

When she came around the corner, wiping her hands on a towel, it seemed like time had frozen.

Teresa looked exactly as he remembered, only her hair was shorter and she wore glasses.

She froze when she spotted him, her blue eyes getting tearful.

“John?” she gasped.

He could feel his own self getting choked up.

She walked faster over to him, hugging him for all she was worth.

“Hey Tere,” he whispered, giving her a squeeze.

“You came,” her voice skipped.

John rubbed her back, continuing to whisper, “Why would you think I wouldn’t?”

“Old memories,” she cried.

John pulled back and cupped her cheeks, “Listen Teresa, that was a long time ago. We were just teens,”

Teresa nodded and gave a watery laugh. She pulled off her glasses and wiped underneath her eyes to rid her face of tears.

“Sorry, it’s been a roller-coaster of emotions lately.” she said.

Dean coughed behind John, making him glance over his shoulder.

The boys looked uncomfortable, but curious as well.

“Teresa, these are my boys, Sam and Dean. Boys, this is Teresa. We grew up together.”

Sam and Dean leaned forward, shaking Teresa’s hand.

“Nice to meet you,” she smiled.

She put her arm around the teen, who seemed to look like she felt out of place, “This is my daughter, Issie,”

She kissed the girls head, “Like John said, we grew up together,”

“Ohh, he’s the one in the photo album at home,”

“Yes he is,”

Issie held her hand out, “Nice to meet you Mr. Winchester,”

“You can call me John, Issie. Nice to meet you too,” he said, shaking her hand gently.

Issie shook Dean and Sam’s hand, getting bashful.

“Please come in. Can I get you all anything?”

At that moment, Dean’s stomach growled. He clutched it, laughing, “Sorry, we’ve not had lunch yet,”

“Oh! Well, let me lock up and we’ll go to the diner across the street,”
While Teresa and Issie were in the restroom, Sam and Dean demanded some answers from their father.

“C'mon Dad, you gotta let us in on this,”

John shrugged his shoulders, “You know everything, Dean.”

Before the conversation became heated, the women returned.

Everyone ordered their food; the silence slightly uncomfortable.

“So why don’t we just cut the chase? Why are we here?” Dean asked, slightly annoyed.

The door chimed, indicating another customer.

“Mom, it’s Baisley. Can I go talk to her?” Issie asked.

Teresa nodded and smiled, “Sure, Iss. I’ll come get you when the food gets here,”

As soon as Issie left the table, Teresa’s smile faded from her face, her eyes becoming hard. “I planned on telling you, just not in front of my daughter. You said you were hungry and what I need help with isn’t suitable for the table,”

“Dean,” John said, looking up from his hands at his oldest.

Dean sighed, “I’m sorry… just hangry, I guess,”

The waitress put the food on the table, getting out of the thick atmosphere quickly.

Teresa sighed, “Let’s just eat and when we go back to the shop, I’ll tell you what this is all about,”

Issie was called back over to the table to eat, making quick work of her meal.

In between bites, she begged to stay the night with her friend, which Teresa granted.

Back at the antique shop once everyone ate and Issie safely with her friend and their parents; it was time to get down to business.

“The curiosity is killing me, Tere. What do you need help with?” John asked, taking off his jacket and placing it on the back of a chair.

Folding her arms, she looked at each Winchester and sighed one dreaded word…



Wake Up Alone

- Wake up alone-

The rock was warm and dry in her hand and it left brown dust on her finger when she touched it. She knew it was stupid, bringing it with her. It was just a rock. There were rocks all over the damn country, all over the damn world but for some reason she just had to grab it. It was a piece of a place she once called home, a place with people she once called home. Maybe if she saw him she’d throw it at his head and say something witty and he’d remember all the days they had spent surround by rocks just like that. Then maybe the the rock would turn to sand and fall through her fingers and she would be free of it all.  

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“Five years ago.”

And, just like that, silence falls. Movement ceases. The bow refrains from its drawing across strings, muscles tightening and fingers pausing, Sherlock’s chest rising and falling in the same steady rhythm even though he’s not entirely sure how, when his heart is suddenly emitting bass notes louder than the treble he’d been weaving through the air just seconds prior.

His sharp, narrowed gaze falls on the hazy reflection in the window opposite him, and he waits.

He’s used to waiting, now.

“It’s quite a space of time, I know, but… well, I’ve been thinking about it.” John is slipping the coat from his shoulders, not looking towards the man silhouetted against the window with a violin perched on his shoulder as he shakes the rain from the somewhat soaked material and throws it unceremoniously to the floor. Sherlock observes, but makes no deductions. Now isn’t the time. “Because it’s five years ago today - did you know that? I know it’s not exactly the sort of anniversary you celebrate, your first suicide, but…”

Sherlock watches silently as John looks up and away from the coat, searches the misted window from afar until he meets Sherlock’s eyeline; it’s too far to read his expression, too dark, but Sherlock isn’t looking to find answers in such a frail attempt at eye-contact. That can wait, too.

After all, John is talking. And Sherlock owes John that.

“It’s quite funny, really - well, not funny. Doesn’t exactly make me want to laugh.”

Sherlock can’t quite tell from here, but he’s relatively certain that John’s hair is damp. He fights the instinct to grab the same towel he had recently used to dry his own ridiculous mop of hair and throw it at the doctor, because he’s quite confident that it’s the wrong moment. Perhaps in a minute. When John has finished.

“But that it’s today, of all days. Kind of coincidental, maybe.”

Slowly, Sherlock allows the hand holding the bow to fall to his side; he leaves the violin, though. It’s oddly comforting, settled against his shoulder, the weight of an old friend.

“It fits, though. I’ve had a few hours to think about it, plus, of course, the five years before all of this. Because I did think of it, which I’m sure you already know. Seeing as you know everything.”

He fights the urge to snort - clearly he doesn’t know everything. He didn’t know, for instance, that John would come home tonight. He had thought… well, it didn’t really matter what he had thought now. He’d been proven wrong, and not for the first time in recent days, so he had the sense to simply wait and see where it would take them.

Not that it made sense. Not when his fingers had started to tremble against the strings and his heart had started picking up speed to the point where he wondered if the sheer force of adrenaline had ever been known to kill a man.

The answer was probably in his Mind Palace somewhere. It could wait.

John was taking a few steps forward - soft steps, always soft, John didn’t know how soft he was but Sherlock did. For an ex-solider, he had always surprised Sherlock with quite how soft he was.

He stopped his progression after three and a half paces, lingering by his chair but not sitting.

Sherlock could just about make out the sudden clenching of John’s fists.

So. Sentiment was coming. He forces himself not to turn and face it head on. The adrenaline may think it knew best, but he was slowly learning to trust other instincts. Like the one that told him he wasn’t quite ready to face John.

John’s voice mirrors the softness of his approach. “I went to see my therapist after you died.” He pauses, the silence pressing intimately against the fact that Sherlock had in fact not died, but neither of them corrected the mistake. John had, after all, lived those two years of believing otherwise. It was a moot point. “And she… was… determined to make me talk about it. You know how, when you thought Irene Adler was dead, I kept pressing you? Trying to get you to talk about your feelings?”

Sherlock’s head jerks irritably to the side, not seeing how The Woman had anything to do with the conversation. She was nothing. This was… well. Considerably not nothing.

“Well, all right, not quite the same, but that’s sort of my point. Imagine someone trying to push you into talking about that loss, but then… multiply it by about ten thousand. And then again. And again.”

The ebb and flow of John’s breathing became shallow, uneven for a moment. It makes Sherlock want to turn around even more, nothing to do with adrenaline this time; he compromises, letting the arm wielding his violin to slide to his side instead. Preparing himself, though for what he wasn’t entirely sure.

“It might have been all right, if she’d just stuck to trying to walk me through the grief, the anger, but something… something made me say it. So bloody stupid, letting yourself actually be vulnerable in front of your therapist -” John’s laugh is throaty, full, amusement laced with something far deeper and far more painful to hear, “- but I said it.”

It. It. What was it?

Sherlock doesn’t realise he’s spoken aloud until he sees reflection-John fold his arms and shake his head; damn. He’d failed. This was John’s turn to speak.

And speak he does. “Bit of a stupid question, really, mate.” He clears his throat. “Sherlock. Though I suppose not really, considering I didn’t say what I was supposed to say, then and now. I just… insinuated. Like we do, you and I.”

You and I.

Sherlock clenches his fingers tight around the neck of his violin.

You and I.

“I said to her, after she managed to make me angry - she was good at that, passive-aggressively antagonising a response out of me. I probably don’t pay her enough.” Sherlock can hear the slight smile in John’s voice, relishes in it, relishes in the odd twist of normalcy in such an abnormal conversation. John’s never really spoken about this before, this determinedly hidden point in his life, and Sherlock knows its basis lays within a point the doctor has yet to make. The thought makes him tense up all over again, almost missing John’s next jumble of words. “I said to her… I told her…”

An intake of breath. A steadying of emotions.

“I told her that there were things… things I wanted…” Another intake of breath, this time sharper, and it takes everything that Sherlock has within him not to turn on his heel and stride over to John, get on his knees, gather the man’s hands within his own and command that he keep his words to himself, tell him that he doesn’t need to hear this if it causes John pain to say it. The ache to physically comfort the man standing behind him was suffocating. “There were things I wanted to say to you. Before. Before you jumped, before the phone call, before…”

John’s voice breaks, and Sherlock drops his violin - drops it, doesn’t care, doesn’t give one damn about the expensive piece of wood, nor the clattering it makes upon hitting the floor - and reaches out to support himself upon the window because otherwise he’s going to give in, otherwise he’s not going to allow John to finish his soliloquy and he’ll have failed him. He bows his head and he knows John will understand, will feel his sorrow and regret from across the room, because John always knows, and he only hopes his friend will be stronger than he currently is.

He hears the light footsteps approaching before he can even realise his hope is a foolish one. He doesn’t need to look around to know there’s a hand stretching out toward him, John reaching out –

“Don’t comfort me, I beg of you.”

When he speaks it’s raw, hoarse from restraining himself from speech - he’s sickened with himself, utterly full of loathing. John, spilling his emotions, and Sherlock, unable to control his own in the wake of them: weakness, such weakness, and now John - John, who should be comforted, not Sherlock - is reaching out to soothe him.

Sherlock reaches out behind him in a similar gesture, though it’s a request to stay away rather than to make contact.

“Forgive me, John. Don’t come any closer.”

John’s voice sounds far too similar to Sherlock’s own vulnerable timbre, and it squeezes deep inside of Sherlock’s chest to have such a tone so close to him. “Sherlock…?”

“You stand there, speaking of… loss, of grief, of immeasurable pain which I have yet to even come close to making up for and yet I’ve somehow manipulated you into believing that I’m the one who needs support. I repeat, don’t come any closer and - for the love of god - don’t try to comfort me.”

He can almost feel the strength of John’s battle, the fight to stop from ignoring Sherlock’s request, and he knows it with such inherent intimacy from his own longing that he feels a tremor rock through his body at the combined desire from them both: it’s agony. There is a reason, he now knows, why Mycroft had always been so vehemently against the concept of empathy and all of the dangers it posed within such close quarters, and Sherlock’s own personal reason is now poised on the edge of both touching him and moving away and he cannot stand it, will absolutely falter, will completely destroy the inward promise he made to himself to allow John to have his moment –

“Turn around.”

Sherlock feels his lips curve into a smile which is nothing to do with amusement. “I wish I could, John, but, no. I need a moment, if you wouldn’t mind.”

You need a moment? Didn’t you just berate yourself for not allowing John to have his?

John’s reply mirrors his own thoughts, though in such a way that was far more John-like and therefore infinitely harder to ignore. “Well, I need you to turn around. Look at me.”

Eyes drifting tightly shut, Sherlock bites his lower lip. Hard.

“Sherlock, look at me. Now.”

Damn it all. He’s using his ‘Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers’ voice, and that would be enough to shake any man’s resolve. Slowly, slow enough that he catches John’s reflection-gaze one last time in the now heavily condensated window, Sherlock pushes himself away from the glass and turns on the spot to finally - upon command - face John. Face the words he had spoken hours earlier. Face reality.

Face the elephant in the room.

John’s hand falls gently to his side. His eyes, despite the small smile playing on his lips, are guarded. “There. Was that so hard?”

Sherlock can feel his own defenses rising, yet he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want that at all. Not now. This is the wrong moment for defenses - every moment was the wrong moment for defenses with John Hamish Watson, and if he was to do nothing but this tonight, he would keep them down and away for the length of their communication. He must. He absolutely must.

And he must answer. Truthfully.

“You’ll have to be more specific.” Swallowing hard, Sherlock realises he’s still holding the bow in his right hand. Keeping his eyes fixed on John, he bends carefully at the knee and places it on the floor before straightening back to his full height and realigning himself to deliver his words properly. “Are you referring to me turning around, or… or perhaps…”

He can’t say it. Damn, damn, fuck, he can’t say it.

John reads this. Sherlock can see the quick processes of realisation flickering in the haze of blue within John’s eyes, and he marvels - possibly for the first time ever - at the rapidity of John’s understanding. Perhaps there were different sorts of genius, and John simply happened to be a different breed to Sherlock.

The thought of there being something which set them apart from one another sparks a thread of unwanted fear directly down his spine.

John seemingly has no fear now. His shoulders set themselves back, chin lifting in apparent confidence, though Sherlock isn’t entirely convinced. “Well, is there any point in beating around the bush anymore?”

Run. Run from this place and don’t look back.

Sherlock’s body poises instinctively for flight.

John doesn’t miss a thing. His eyes harden again and, with almost awe-inspiring authority, he takes a step forward and closes a rather large portion of the gap between them: Sherlock can feel, now, the body heat emanating from the smaller man and, within an instant, he feels the magnetic force between them flip - suddenly his chances of leaving the room have settled to zero, and whether he likes it or not, he knows that everything is about to change and that he won’t do a thing to stop it.

John reads this, too.

“Good. I didn’t want to have to wrestle you to the ground.”

Sherlock’s lips separate, a breath stolen from them without his permission. John, wrestling him to the ground. John, on top of him. John, initiating physical contact.

John’s voice slips through the sudden haze of combined panic and anticipation. “You said it first. So.”

The heat which Sherlock thought was coming from John seems to be coming from within himself now, caressing over his skin and making him tingle in a way he’s never experienced before; he barely suppresses the oxymoron of a shiver which is now determinedly making its way across his entire system, his hands beginning to tremble, eyes suddenly tearing themselves away from John’s iron-hot stare –

Clarity clicks; his gaze zeroes in on John’s lips.

John’s lips move.

Sherlock comes undone.

“I love you, too.”

John’s hands reaching forward, hesitating for just a moment before resting upon the solid plane of Sherlock’s chest.

Can he feel how hard my heart beats for him?

“And I’ve been waiting for the right time to say that…”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker down one final time to John’s lips.

“… for five fucking years.”

At which point Sherlock Holmes finally closes the distance between them and tentatively, bravely dips his head and brushes his dry, trembling lips to John Watson’s, heart pounding wildly beneath his chest as his kiss, his love, his ardent and unforgiving adoration is returned to him in the softest of pressures.

Fingers reach up and tangle into his damp curls.

Holding tight.

No letting go.

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How would Moriarty return? (1)

“John, take a deep breath, we’ve just brought in a suspect that was trying to kill Sherlock.” John shot Mycroft a look that said ‘and why are they still alive’. Mycroft held up a hand, “I haven’t ‘talked’ to them yet. I’m as clueless as you but they said it was a code 10.” John’s face dropped. Code 10 meant possible world end. World domination. A whole continent might be in danger. This person, whoever they were could kill them all in a second if not properly restrained and Mycroft knew these people were goldfish and even they were supposed to be the best of the best. John was there to protect Mycroft, he’d had a feeling two men would be needed. Their feet hammered down on the cold metal floor before stopping outside the interrogation room. Mycroft looked to John. “Ready?” 

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the signs as john oliver roles/shows
  • Aries: Vanity Smurf
  • Taurus: Last Week Tonight
  • Gemini: Dr. Augustus P. Crumhorn IV
  • Cancer: Dick Pants
  • Leo: Dr. Xenon Bloom
  • Virgo: Wax Sherlock Holmes
  • Libra: The Daily Show
  • Scorpio: Mock the Week
  • Sagittarius: Danger Dance John
  • Capricorn: Professor Ian Duncan
  • Aquarius: Booth Wilkes-John
  • Pisces: John Oliver's New York Stand-Up Show

DIRKJOHN AU WHERE DIRK IS A SUPER HIGH UP PROGRAMMER-SLASH-ENGINEER FOR CROCKERCORP AND JOHN GETS HIRED THERE ONE DAY. john is a TERRIBLE coder despite his passion for it and dirk can n o t fathom how he got hired. but also dirk finds his horrific incompitence and terrible personality endearing and starts trying to get in his pants. it turns out that johns family owns the entire fucking company and it was all for an episode of undercover boss

Past Becomes Present

Pairing: John Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 2006

Warnings: NSFW, smut, language, angst, fluff if you squint

AN: I’ve never written for John before so I hope this came out okay. Also the two requests I got were so similar I decided to put them together for one story, hope you ladies don’t mind! Thank you to @jalove-wecallhimdean for helping me with this one!

Request: @wayward-mirage: I’m so excited you are doing requests ! My request is John x Reader. They use to have a history but split up awhile ago and when she rescues him it ends up in smut. I just like the idea of her saving him.  & @autopistaaningunaparte: Hiiiii! 😁 maybe a John x reader request? They were together, but they had a huge fight and they split up, but then they find each other again and they pick it where they left it? With smut, lots of smut and maybe dirty talk? Tysm in advance!!! ☺️☺

Originally posted by heytheredeann

Louisiana was hotter than hell in July. Why couldn’t the supernatural find cold places to inhabit, like the Antarctic? You tracked a nest of vamps in New Orleans and you had been trying to stake out their hideout for two days now to get a better idea of how many you were dealing with. If it happened to be more than five, you were going to need back up.

Shifting on the leather seat of your mustang, you found your bare thighs sticking to the seat almost as if you were glued to it causing you to cringe. Pulling down your shorts as far as you could you released a huff at the futile attempt to save your legs from chafing. Before you could look up, your passenger side door was ripped open suddenly. Thanking your quick hunting reflexes you had managed to pull your pistol and point it straight at the back of the intruder’s head before they were fully seated. Your intruder turned to face you and an instant glare appeared on your face, renewing your grip on the handle of your gun.

“Nice to see you too, sweetheart.”

“Don’t sweetheart me, John. What are you doing here?”

“How about you put the gun down and we can talk like adults?”

“How about you just answer the question or get the fuck out.”

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anonymous asked:

hey. i dunno if somebody asked this already. what do you think about john punching sherlock on his face in TEH wherein he punched sherlock on his nose. does that mean that john's love for sherlock has changed since in aSiB, i remember irene saying that the person who punched sherlock must've loved him since that person avoided punching his nose and mouth. just wondering. :-)

Hi! That’s an excellent, outstanding, fantastic question. And actually I think I have a few asks about it, so here we go!

In ASiB, Sherlock and John have just come from a fun afternoon at Buckingham Palace, where they giggled about Mycroft and stole an ashtray. They’ve been getting along perfectly fine.

As part of his disguise, Sherlock asks John to punch him. John is understandably confused, so rather than take the two seconds to say “if I look like I’ve just been mugged she’ll probably let me into her home without asking for identification” Sherlock just punches John, knowing he’ll retaliate. And of course, John does.

Um…a lot.

You’ve probably (hopefully!) read this great meta by sylviatietjens, which quotes conceptual artist and feminist Barbara Kruger’s 1981 work: 

Sherlock grates on John’s nerves frequently, for sure. John doesn’t understand Sherlock’s “non-human” emotional state, the way he seems to care more about the case than the lives at stake. (Note I said “seems to.” We all know Sherlock cares very much.) John’s got a lot of pent-up frustration when it comes to Sherlock – emotional frustration, sexual frustration, all kinds of frustration. Sherlock’s punching him in the face, seemingly out of nowhere, triggered this attack.

Obviously John didn’t want to truly hurt Sherlock here. As Irene says, he avoids Sherlock’s nose and mouth. He jumps on Sherlock’s back and chokes him (sort of?), but Sherlock can still speak, and other than the mark on his cheek, is unharmed in the next scene. 

John’s a doctor and a soldier. He knows how to sprain people. This is just an outburst of frustration and an excellent excuse for physical contact with Sherlock.

Onto the TEH violence.

This could not be more of a different context than ASiB. John’s been grieving Sherlock’s death for two years, and here he just waltzes in with a goofy waiter disguise and goads John about his mustache. So yeah, John attacks. (I cheered out loud the first time I saw it.)

It gets worse when John learns that (by his understanding) Sherlock employed the help of Mycroft, Molly, and twenty-five tramps, but didn’t trust him enough to let him in on the secret.

Still, if Irene were here she’d be watching with a sly smile (and no doubt a high level of enjoyment). Because both times, John just tackles Sherlock and takes him to the ground, hands around his neck.

Is John actually intending to strangle Sherlock to death? Of course not. But he does want to hurt Sherlock – for leaving, for lying, for all kinds of shit pre-Reichenbach John still doesn’t know how to handle. 

There’s stuff you wanted to say, but didn’t say it. Say it now.

Sorry…I can’t.

It’s not just Sherlock’s death. John’s repressed all. kinds. of. shit. ALL KINDS OF SHIT. regarding his relationship with, and feelings for, Sherlock. There’s a reason his therapist tried to get him to acknowledge it. And the moment John – in his own words – attempts to “move on” from whatever that relationship was by proposing to Mary, that bastard just strolled right back into his life.

The first two attacks were about the betrayal. They were about Sherlock treating the whole thing like it was just a big joke, about his not trusting John when he trusted so many others with his plan. But this last attack is different. What triggers it? 

You have missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world …

It’s that. It’s all the other stuff, the stuff John wanted to say, but didn’t say it. It’s the two of them against the world, back when no one else mattered to either of them; it’s what their relationship was, and what it wasn’t. All of those feelings and all of that frustration exploded right here. 

Somebody loves you! If I had to punch that face, I’d avoid the nose and teeth too.

So does this mean John doesn’t love Sherlock anymore? Pretty much the opposite. John had every right to be pissed as all hell at Sherlock, yet he still avoided the nose and teeth not once, but twice when he took his anger out physically.

But the moment Sherlock reminded him about that unspoken stuff, just the two of us against the world, that’s when John cracked – not because he doesn’t love Sherlock, but because he does. And it hurts.