johnlock kiss fic

on their first date

What if the dinner at Angelo’s went differently? All it takes is stepping on a butterfly to change fate. (x)

Tagging @a-candle-for-sherlock @missmuffin221 @ailynerie @shag-me-senseless-watson @very-grumpy-bisexual @love-in-mind-palace @fangirllock @one-thousand-splendid-stars @the-blue-carbuncle (Let me know if you’d like a tag in any future stuff! I might turn this into a series.)

This is as cliché as it could have gotten.

Nestled together beneath delicate lights, the small Italian café soaking warmth into bones chilled by the London air. A table so small, two sets of knees could knock together with just a shift of weight (that is, if either of the knee-owners so inclined). Enough familiarity to settle into the scene with ease, though enough of strangers to still wary of the other. A candle flickering between them.

It’s enough to make you think. To make you wonder.

“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

When Sherlock hears you, you never can tell if he’s actually listening. “Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”

“Mm.” John says, and then freezes, the full intent settling in his stomach. Oh. “Oh, right.” A beat. “D’you have a boyfriend?”

Now Sherlock is listening, head immediately snapping to his companion with sharp, appraising eyes. His brow is furrowed. It makes him look boyish and, well, human, a word John has quickly learned not to affiliate with the man. John’s worried he’s actually offended him.

“Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it’s fine.”

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The Quiet Moments

Description: Cuddling. Lots of it.

Review: What the fuuuuuuck. This is so?????? Oh my god?? This is definitely the fic you want to read if you want a feel-good fic with so much cuddling and touching your chest physically aches with it. I almost died. So soft. 

Rating: Teen


“Alright. I’m ready now… Say it,” John says abruptly, taking hold of Sherlock’s wrist and turning to face him. He is smiling; laughter still lingering on his lips from the bout of giggling they’d just shared over the ridiculous attempt at escape the criminal had made when they’d cornered him during the case they’d just concluded.

Regent’s park is hushed around them. They’ve cut through heading back to Baker Street, enjoying a walk in the unseasonably pleasant weather. The late afternoon sun is warm with the first breath of Spring in the air, the world springing back to life in that way that stirs the soul back to awareness.

John is incandescent; his whole face is glowing with the exertion of the case, his eyes are sparkling with the thrill of the challenge and his silver hair is quivering in the breath of wind.

That familiar warmth curls into Sherlock’s chest at seeing John like this and, under John’s attentive stare, that heat creeps into his cheeks. He looks down at John’s grasp on his wrist as he feels an uncomfortable twinge in his stomach.

“Say what?” Sherlock pulls his eyes up to John as his face scrunches in confusion.

“Come on. You were giving me that look, Sherlock… I know what it means.” A jolt of cold anxiety shoots through Sherlock’s system and he swallows. Of course John knows… he’s not an idiot.

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anonymous asked:

I don't know if you answered this before, but.. Where do you think it's going to be the first Johnlock kiss?😊 And in what context? They will be laughing, crying, completely silence???? I love your blog!!!! 😊💜

hoppspindel said to inevitably-johnlocked: Hello! I don’t know if you’ve been asked this before, but what is your ultimate dream scenario for when the confession and first kiss finally happens?


I’ve actually written about my thoughts on the Johnlock kiss before in this post here, but I feel like expanding my new thoughts on it, so here you go:

During the episode, they have a case, and maybe Sherlock gets scuffed up a bit after he attacks a thug who went after John, who They run up the stairs, giggling. The fire is lit, the lighting soft in the 221B common room. It smells like firewood and the blueberry scones of Mrs Hudson’s that Sherlock loves so much; she’s brought some up while they were out and left them on the table for her boys, for they are usually very hungry after a case.

Tonight, though, it’s a different hunger for Sherlock, but it still makes his stomach unsettled all the same.

Sherlock goes to stand by their chairs, scraped up and lightly bleeding from a cut on his face. John glances over to him, telling Sherlock to wait there, he’ll patch up the cut on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock watches John putter around the kitchen, finding everything John requires to tend to Sherlock’s needs, and Sherlock’s face softens. ‘This is it,’ Sherlock thinks, ‘This is the perfect moment.’ John is just perfect to Sherlock when he is concerned, content and caring for Sherlock. The force of his realization about just how much he loves John hits him so hard in that moment… 

The night could have turned out so differently. John was so brave protecting Sherlock, watching over him like a silent guard dog, all hard lines and rough exterior. But when the thug kicked John to the ground, brandishing a knife and making the motions to stab John, well, Sherlock’s mind may have whited out at the horror of possibly losing John, and he may have caught the thug by surprise when he tackled him and clawed at this face. It had taken John’s placating words and strong arms pulling Sherlock away to calm Sherlock down. John had quickly tied up and disarmed the thug, and called Lestrade. Sherlock just stood there, silently seething to hide his terror of John being attacked and John being almost hurt AGAIN and John being almost… well. John knew what to do. He always knew.

John’s small “Ah ha!” at finding his med kit shatters Sherlock’s reverie and brings Sherlock back to the present. Little moments like this always hit Sherlock hard, and he finds it increasingly difficult as the days - months - YEARS go on to hold himself from spilling all his secrets, liquid hot words that could tear Sherlock’s whole world apart. 

John returns, his smile soft, and places the kit down on the table next to John’s chair. John reaches up to Sherlock’s face, one hand lightly grasping his chin and the other with an alcohol swab. John gently cleanses the wound across Sherlock’s eyebrow, and Sherlock stares at John in wonder. It is in that moment, Sherlock thinks John has never been more beautiful, more devastatingly handsome. The feeling swells up his chest. No more lies: without a second thought, he moves forward to press his lips softly to John’s, who pauses suddenly in his ministrations, shocked. Sherlock pulls back, and smiles sadly at John, reaching up to hold John’s hand against his face, then closes his eyes, not wanting to see John’s rejection. 

But John can feel Sherlock’s heartbeat, racing and unsteady. He studies Sherlock’s face for any signs of a farce – he knows all of Sherlock’s tics and tells better than his own.

He sees none.

And suddenly, John knows. Their entire life together, SHERLOCK’S little tells and truths that only John was able to see, slams into his brain like a freight train into a wall.

The looks, the sadness behind Sherlock’s eyes every time John denied or was with someone else. Sherlock’s need to constantly make John happy.

Sherlock giving up John, even if it meant never seeing him ever again.

The relapses. The lingering touches. 

The need. The want. The selfless LOVE.

Suddenly, John SEES. 

‘I am SUCH a tit.’ John admonishes to himself, watching a tear escape from Sherlock’s eye.

And then John tears up, and puts down his cloth, brushes his thumb under Sherlock’s hand softly against his cheek. 


Tears stream from Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock, look at me, please.”

And he does. And then John knows with absolute certainty that Sherlock wants “a forever” with him. John brings his other hand up to Sherlock’s cheek, and moves in for a more solid kiss.

And it’s silence, save for the cracking of the fire – no background music at all. The camera is zoomed right in and the kiss is deepened as Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow, eyes streaming in happiness, and his hands are now grasping John’s face, as he pulls them closer and closer. 

They break off for a breath.

“It’s always you, John Watson.”

A watery laugh from John. A soft petting of John’s hair. And then: the kiss gets passionate, goes on for at least a minute.

Finally, FINALLY, they stop and stare into each other’s eyes. So much is being said in just looks – A galactic ocean of love in John’s, and a chromatic rainbow of “always and forever” in Sherlock’s. Sherlock continues to pet John’s hair as he brings their foreheads together, just needing to feel. 

John holds Sherlock’s face gently in his hands, his thumbs stroking Sherlock’s cheeks, brushing away the tears.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” John whispers.

“I’ve loved you always,” is Sherlock’s reply. Sherlock pulls back and communicates everything with just a look. John understands, and backs towards Sherlock’s bedroom, holding Sherlock’s hands without ever breaking eye contact. 

And as they’re walking to Sherlock’s bedroom, it will slowly pan out, a hint of suggestion to what’s about to happen. A soft swell of John and Sherlock’s themes mixed together starts.

And the scene changes, an exterior shot of 221B. John and Sherlock are sitting at the table having a meal, John in only his pants and Sherlock’s dress shirt (à la Janine), Sherlock in pants and John’s jumper, their hair a mess, ABSOLUTELY GLOWING. Silent grins on their face as they munch on the biscuits left by Mrs Hudson and sipping their teas. Sherlock’s eyes crinkle in the way John adores so much, and he giggles. Sherlock follows suit, reaching across the table to hold John’s hand.

“Brilliant,” says John.

“Amazing,” replies Sherlock. 

End credits. 

OR, it will be after a three Garridebs moment, which I’ve written a nice little fic about before here. That would work for me too :D

That’s how I headcanon today. It will change again, I’m sure.

I commissioned the wonderful shootbadcabbies to draw me some teenlock star!John kisses, and it turned out more perfect than I could have imagined. Thank you so much! I am absolutely in love with it. I had to write a fic for it too. SBC is partially responsible for putting the AU in my head. Thanks again, dear! Hugs xx

Sherlock wasn’t sure when it had started. It had been going on for so long now it was as if it had always been a part of his life. Well, his dreams. The golden boy who shined as bright as a star visited him every night. Sherlock didn’t know where he’d come from or why he visited, but he knew the boy’s visits were too regular to be a recurring dream.

Once you’ve eliminated the possible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

He’d learned that while watching an episode of Star Trek with his brother one night. So, even if it seemed impossible, the star boy was real and, evidently, there to stay. Sherlock soon began to grow attached to the star boy and rather looked forward to his dreams. He and the boy had become good friends over the nights Sherlock dreamt of him. They would talk for hours about any subject. The star boy was remarkably bright (no pun intended) and was very eager to listen to Sherlock. He even educated him on a few subjects, and Sherlock remembered every last detail the boy said to him.

One night, Sherlock gave the boy a name: John. The two of them had a grand celebration that night, dancing and singing and Sherlock watched in awe as John made the stars dance and shine. Sherlock had woken feeling energized and happier than he had in quite some time. But lately he woke up empty and alone after his time with his John star.

‘You’re drifting,’ John said. Sherlock blinked and looked over at the golden boy, a soft smile on his face.

'Sorry,’ he apologised. 'My mind’s a bit restless tonight.’

'Your mind is always restless,’ John said with a laugh. 'What’s on your mind tonight?’

'You,’ Sherlock admitted, a soft blush dusting his cheeks. John laughed softly.

'You’re always thinking about me.’

'This time is different.’

'Oh?’ John smiled at Sherlock, his curiosity peaked. 'How so?’

'I…’ Sherlock bit his lip, his blush deepening. 'I’ve been thinking about how much I like to spend time with you. How I sleep more than I ever used to. It’s because I want to see you. All the time. I… We’ve grown close over the time we’ve spent together. I was thinking… I… It’s stupid.’ Sherlock turned away, hiding behind his curls.

'Hey.’ John touched Sherlock’s cheek, a touch of stardust left behind. 'Nothing you say could ever be stupid. You’re brilliant.’ Sherlock’s blush reddened from John’s praise. 'Tell me.’

'I can’t,’ Sherlock whispered.

'Why not?’

'It’s embarrassing.’

John chuckled. ‘You humans and your embarrassment. It’s quite endearing.’

'Don’t laugh at me,’ Sherlock huffed. 'What I’ve got to say is personal.’

'OK.’ John sat down and motioned for Sherlock to do the same. 'Go ahead and speak. I’m listening.’

Sherlock plopped down in front of John and stared down at his lap. He glanced up at John from beneath his lashes. He took a deep breath and began talking.

'I’ve been thinking about this for a while now,’ he said softly. 'I… I’ve grown to appreciate your friendship and I enjoy all the time we’ve spent together, but…’ He swallowed thickly before saying all at once, 'Ithinkweshouldtakeourrelatioshiptothenextlevel.’

John blinked. ‘What?’

'I think… I think we…’ Sherlock huffed and scowled at John. 'I think we should take our relationship to the next level.’

'I don’t understand.’

'What?’ Sherlock blinked, confused. 'What don’t you understand?’

'What’s the next level of our relationship? Aren’t we already best friends? Isn’t that the highest we can go?’

Sherlock breathed out in relief, a small chuckle escaping him. ‘No, silly. Friendship is only the beginning. It can go a lot further than friendship.’

'Oh? How so?’ John smirked softly, knowing exactly where Sherlock was going with his little speech.

Sherlock grinned. That was exactly the opening he’d been hoping for. ‘Like this.’ He crawled over to John until he was nearly sat in his lap. John stared at Sherlock, his eyes wide and his chest heaving. Sherlock pressed their lips together in a chaste kiss before he had time to over-think it. John gasped, his hands reaching out to grasp at the first thing he could find. It happened to be Sherlock’s thighs, his fingers leaving a trail of stardust on Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms. Sherlock hummed softly into the kiss before pulling away. Both boys’ chests were heaving, their lips slightly swollen from the kiss, and their eyes half-lidded.

'Wow,’ John breathed out. 'That was… wow.’

'My sentiments exactly,’ Sherlock whispered. 'Want to do it again?’

'Yes,’ John breathed out, his chest still heaving. Sherlock chuckled and pressed their lips together again. John’s hands tangled in Sherlock’s curls, gold stardust sprinkling into his hair. Sherlock moaned softly, his arms draping over John’s shoulders, and dared to lick across John’s bottom lip. John giggled and pulled away.

'Sorry. That tickled.’ They giggled over that for a bit before calming down, John’s hands now resting back on Sherlock’s legs.

'I want to show you something,’ John said after a few minutes. 'Something special.’

'Okay.’ Sherlock grinned at his John star. 'What is it?’

'Hold on tight, and close your eyes,’ John instructed. 'It’s a surprise.’ Sherlock did as John said and felt a whoosh of air pass over them.

'What happened?’ Sherlock asked.

'No peeking,’ John said. 'We’re almost there.’ Sherlock nodded and squeezed his eyes shut tighter. He felt something soft touch his feet. He wriggled his toes and giggled when the soft fluff tickled him.

'Okay,’ John said. 'Open your eyes.’

Sherlock opened his eyes to see the night sky, stars twinkling every which way. He gasped and stared at how beautiful it all looked. He looked down and saw what had been tickling his feet. A cloud. They were sitting on a cloud.

'Oh my god,’ Sherlock whispered. 'This is amazing.’

'Thank you.’ John flushed with pride. 'This is where I live when I’m not visiting you.’

'You live here?’ Sherlock looked around the sky, a goofy smile on his face.

'Yes. I’m a star, as you know. This is where I stay when you’re awake. I sit up here and watch over you as you go about your day.’

'So, you’re like a guardian angel?’

'In a way. I guess I’m more of a star guardian. Only special people get one.’

'So, I’m special?’ Sherlock’s eyes lit up. 'The universe thinks I’m special?’

'Yes,’ John said softly. 'Very special indeed. And only the people who come to be loved by stars are allowed to see their homes.’

Sherlock froze. ‘You love me?’ he asked, his voice a quiet whisper.

'Yes. I’ve loved you for a long time. I’ve loved you as a friend, and now I guess I get to love you as a romantic partner. Is that alright?’

'Yes!’ Sherlock cried. 'Yes! It’s perfectly alright!’ He flung his arms over his John’s shoulders and pulled him in for another kiss. John hummed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock draped his legs over John’s lap and pulled himself as close as he could. They had to break apart so Sherlock could breathe.

'I love you,’ Sherlock said when he’d gotten his breath back. 'I love you so much.’

'And I love you, Sherlock,’ John whispered. 'My special human boy.’

'My star,’ Sherlock breathed out. 'My shining star.’

They sat there, kissing on the cloud until Sherlock had to wake up.

'Come with me,’ he asked John. 'Please. I hate waking up without you there. Please come with me.’

'To Earth?’ John asked. 'Are you sure? I won’t be hated there?’

'No. My mum will be happy to see I’ve finally made a friend. She won’t care where you came from or how you got in my room. Just please come with me.’

John mulled it over for a bit before nodding. ‘Okay,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll come with you.’ Sherlock pulled him in for a tight hug, a lovestruck smile on his face.

'Thank you,’ he whispered. 'You have made me the happiest boy on Earth.’

'I’m glad I have. Now go. I’ll follow you.’

Sherlock nodded and found himself slowly waking up. He quickly sat up when he remembered what John had said and frantically looked around for him. He wasn’t in his room. But John had said he’d come with him. Where had he gone?

A soft glow lit up the room, streaming in through Sherlock’s window. He shot out of bed and raced over to look outside. John was sat on the back lawn, rubbing a hand through his hair. Sherlock danced in place before rushing out to greet his star. He ran right over to him and they fell onto the grass, wet with fresh morning dew. They kissed passionately, John hugging Sherlock to him as they kissed.

'Good morning,’ Sherlock said breathlessly when they pulled apart.

'Good morning,’ John replied. He smiled at his silly human boy and ran a hand through his hair, sprinkles of stardust settling in it. Sherlock smiled down at his star, his heart beating wildly in his chest. John was on Earth, John was real, Sherlock was awake and John was real and John was with him. He kissed his star again, running his hands through his fluffy golden hair. They broke apart to breathe, their chests heaving.

'I love you,’ Sherlock whispered.

'I love you, too,’ John replied. The slowly got to their feet, a small pile of stardust left in the grass where John had been lying.

'You might want to be careful with that,’ Sherlock said, pointing to the dust. 'Humans don’t leave dust behind, and I don’t want anyone to know about your true self. Just me.’

'Okay.’ John waved his hand and the dust flew away on a gust of wind. His skin also had less of a glow to it afterward, though his hair was still a lovely golden blonde.

'Come on.’ Sherlock took John’s hand and squeezed. 'I want you to meet my mum.’

'Okay.’ John grinned at Sherlock and gently ruffled his hair so the stardust fell out. 'Let’s go.’


“The tree?” Sherlock asks, uncertain. But when he turns to John, John isn’t looking at the tree.

“That, too,” he replies, quiet, a little bit breathless.

Sherlock’s used to John’s praise, the way amazings and fantastics drop from his lips as easy as breaths. But not like this. It’s never been like this before, as simple and obvious as John standing in front of him, the lights glinting silver-bright in his hair, the fire painting him in a golden-rose glow, telling Sherlock he’s beautiful.

The feeling of it burns deep in his chest like lungfuls of embers, until he can’t breathe around the heat of it.

Watching the reflections of fairy lights swimming like silvery fish in John’s river-deep eyes, he wonders if this is what drowning feels like. He wonders if John means it, truly means it the way Sherlock thinks he might mean it. He wonders what he should say. He wonders if time travel is possible and he could spend a lifetime coming back to this night again and again. He wonders what John is thinking. He wonders if he pressed their mouths together and licked inside if he could taste happiness there, if it would be bright and bursting like ripe tangerines or delicate and sweet like candy floss, if it would dance on his tongue crisp and effervescent like expensive champagne or melt in his mouth mellow and deep like good dark chocolate.

He dips his head low without even thinking about it, his body acting on instinct to carry out his desire, and it’s only when John’s lips part in the tiniest gasp that he even realises he’s moved. He pauses, eyes darting to John’s, expecting to find concern or confusion or at the very least hesitance, but instead he only sees openness and anticipation and his own need mirrored back at him.

—  hudders-and-hiddles, of midnight moments and mistletoe
Eight Days A Week

Based on a head canon I had aaaaages ago (X) 

You can also read it on AO3 here

John woke up late, relishing the rare chance to lie in.

Life in 221B was as chaotic as it ever was. Sherlock was still a whirlwind of activity; spouting off deductions at unseemly times, solving cases, running experiments, leaving body parts in the fridge, and forgetting the milk. John still played his part as The Handler for a certain Consulting Detective; working at the surgery to pay the bills, cleaning up the flat, forcing food and sleep into Sherlock, and remembering the milk. With the addition of Rosie, she contributed her own mess, noise, and her own brand anarchy but it fit right in with the rest of their chaos.

She sat at the table with Sherlock when he did his more tame experiments, insisting that she too look into the microscope. She kneeled on a stool next to John when he cooked so he could teach her the basics; one was never too young the proper way to make a fry up. She danced and sang with exuberance when Sherlock played his violin; so much so that Sherlock was considering buying Rosie her own instrument. She sat with John on the couch whenever he watched football or the Great British Bake-off, yelling along with her daddy despite having no idea what was really happening on screen.

She filled each day with excitement and gave her fathers endless bouts of happiness. And a few grey hairs, to even things out.

But she was at grandma and grandpa Holmes’ for the weekend. So the flat saw something it hadn’t seen since John first moved out: silence.

John smiled, languidly stretching in the pale light that shone into their room. A groan escaped him and a matching one answered it next to him. Before he had the chance to open his eyes, arms came around his middle and a body pressed in close.

“Go back to sleep,” Sherlock murmured sleepily into John’s chest.

John’s hand came to cup the back of Sherlock’s head, mussing the already tangled curls. “Did I wake you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “This is normal breakfast time. Body woke me. Don’t want to. Back to sleep. Shhh.”

John chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. “Do you think we’ll get much sleep now? After years of waking early?”

“Call it an experiment, John.” Sherlock yawned and nuzzled against John’s chest. “And the thing about experiments is that you will never know the outcome until you try.” John couldn’t help it, that got him laughing, much to the consternation of his sleepy partner. “That is not sleeping, John.”

“No it’s not,” John agreed. He blinked his eyes open and looked down to find Sherlock’s face completely buried in his neck, hiding from the sun. “How about this,” he said, kissing his head once more. “I let you sleep in a little, and I’ll get some breakfast started?”

After a moment of silent contemplating, Sherlock asked, “do we have the jam I like?”

“I think we do.”

Sherlock finally tilted his head up towards John, face open and sleep sweet. “Can we come back here later? To take advantage of the absence of a certain little monster?”

John smiled fondly, absolutely interested in taking advantage of the empty flat; once his full bladder and empty stomach were taken care of, of course. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek with his free hand and kissed him softly, heedless of their morning breath. “You got it, love.” Their next kiss was slow, deeper, but without urgency. It was a promise of more to come without teasing; comfortable and undemanding.

He slipped out of bed, taking note that Sherlock’s arms just laid where they were, not making an effort to move or hold him, until they flopped onto the bed in his absence. Like a bloody cat, he is, John mused. He tugged on a pair of pajama pants and kissed Sherlock once more before leaving the room.

After emptying his bladder, John went off to the kitchen to start making their breakfast. He flipped the switch on their old radio and was pleased to find it already cued to the “oldies” station. He might have been offended to be labeled an “oldie” if it weren’t such good music. Elvis was halfway through “Suspicious Minds”, and he hummed along while he dug through their cabinet for the coffee.

“Just don’t let a good thing die
Oh honey, you know I never lied to you
Yeah, yeah

We’re caught in a trap, I can’t walk out

Because I love you too much baby
Why can’t you see, what you’re doing to me
When you don’t believe a word I’m saying”

John had a momentary flashback to just after Sherlock’s return and the fallout after Mary. He shivered and focused more on putting coffee grounds in the filter than the words of the song. Then, to distract himself, he decided to pick up their clothing from where they ended up the night before. They had wasted no time fully enjoying Rosie’s absence. After the Holmes family left with Rosie, they had torn into each other like presents on Christmas. The new image chased out the old, depressing ones and John soon found himself smiling and tuning into the new song on the radio.

“Ooh, I need your love babe

Guess, you know it’s true

Hope you need my love babe

Just like I need you”

The Beatles never failed to put a smile on his face and soon after the song started he was singing and dancing around the room as he picked up their clothes.

“Hold me, love me

Hold me, love me

I ain’t got nothing but love girl

Eight days a week

Eight days a week

I lo-o-o-ove you”

“What happened to breakfast,” Sherlock asked from the hallway, pajamas hastily donned and smirk clear on his face. John knew he hadn’t been there long, leaning against the door frame watching John as he made a fool of himself. Ignoring the question, John deposited their clothes into his chair and walked towards him. Sherlock eyed him, amusement in his smile and John took full advantage of that playful mood. He took Sherlock’s hands from where they were folded into his crossed arms and was pleased to have Sherlock move with him willingly.

John pulled him close and they began dancing around their messy living room while John sang at him.

“Ooh, I need your love babe

Guess you know it’s true

Hope you need my love babe

Just like I need you”

The words were truth wrapped in a light, happy pop song. He sang them with happy conviction, reveling in Sherlock’s indulgent smile and compliance at being manhandled around the living room.

“You’re ridiculous, John,” he told him, voice lacking any heat.

“I ain’t got nothing but love babe, eight days a week,” he replied back, singing.

“You know there’s only seven days in a week, John.”

“Eight days a week,

I lo-o-o-ove you

Eight days a week

Is not enough to show I care”

Sherlock’s cheeks flared pink and he tried to hide his face but John’s hand reached out from his shoulder to his cheek to hold Sherlock’s gaze directly on him.

“Love you every day, girl

Always on my mind

One thing I can say, girl

Love you all the time”

Sherlock replied back softly, “I love you too John.”

The song finished out without John singing it. He was far too busy putting his mouth to better use.
The Thing About Love - Mssmithlove
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Being in love with your best friend can make you do very stupid things. For example, you could potentially ask them to take your virginity so the arsehole who has made your life hell for four years stops teasing you about it.

At least, that’s what Sherlock does.

Rating: E    Words: 13,738
The Way to a Man's Heart

Description: When Greg asks Sherlock to be his best man, the past returns in an unexpected way, confronting Sherlock and John with the need to define what they are to each other. Set about a year after series 3.

Review: This fic is so so good. With Sherlock in the role of Best Man once again, some old memories resurface for both John and Sherlock. Victor Trevor makes an appearance and I loved how he called Sherlock Will. I loved that. I loved how John listed off the things that they do that normal flat mates don’t do. I loved how they danced. I just loved all of it.

Rating: Teen


“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.

Keep reading
To Keep Quiet - Salambo06
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Four days. In the end, that’s all it takes for Sherlock to accept the fact that there is a chance John might be feeling just as desperate for more as he is.

Still, it doesn’t change the fact that they need to talk. Sherlock counts it down to four conversations in total, at least. He’s certain John is just as aware of this fact as he is, but still, Sherlock finds himself unable to think of any plan of action.

Rating: E   Words: 11,091


Johnlock Kisses: Rare Varieties

Sherlock is standing in front of the window playing, looks beautiful. He should be kissed.

John is now warm and relaxed in a bubble bath. He should be kissed.

Things have felt slightly off but we can’t place the cause, so we should just kiss until it feels better.

It’s 3 am and we’re both awake suddenly. We should kiss.

I just heard a song that used to make me sad about being lonely, please kiss me.

You anticipated my thoughts/feelings/needs before I expressed them/ even knew about them myself, I must kiss you.

We’re passing one another on the stairs/ in the kitchen/ hallway and happy about it.

John is sat by the fire/in candle light and looks so warm and welcoming, he should be kissed.

Sherlock looks lovely and ethereal in moonlight and I can’t believe I get to kiss him so I’ll do it just to make sure it’s real.

We’re in a library/ used bookstore and the books smell amazing, and I don’t know what to do with this extra happiness kisses.

‘How in the hell did you get that on your face/clothes already’ you’re so cute kisses.

Something just reminded me of how it used to be before we had each other, please help pull me back to now kisses.

Kisses for no reason. Kisses for any reason.
Proof of Investment

Description: After John and Mary separate, Sherlock isn’t taking any chances with John’s attention span ever again. He’s got a plan: dinners at new restaurants, outfits that are guaranteed to get John’s attention, a new haircut tailored to John’s preferences - all to make him stay. John, however, follows these clues to the wrong conclusion, and resigns himself to playing the reluctant wingman for a newly-transformed Sherlock Holmes.

Review: Sherlock changes in order to “start anew” and to prove to John he’s worth it as a life-long commitment, but John sees it as Sherlock “moving on.” Sort of miscommunication, good length, I liked the characterization and the fact that Sherlock got a haircut. Cute.

Rating: Teen


Their first kiss is a mistake. Well, not a mistake—obviously. But, it slips out, when Sherlock is exhausted, and overwhelmed, and terrified, when John is on a white, polished, marble floor, one hand gripping his thigh, the other slipping in the swiftly expanding pool of his own blood.

“Tell me what to do?!” Strangled, frantic.

“Press here. Press hard. Call 999.”

And Sherlock does, and a woman is saying something, and he is giving an address, and then his mobile is clattering to the floor, and John’s eyes are rolling back, his face pale, his lips grey, and Sherlock has to keep him there, with him, alive, breathing.

He kisses him.

He murmurs things he doesn’t remember against John’s cold, dry lips, and he tastes the salt of tears, and the tang of blood, and he kisses, and kisses and kisses him.

And John stays.

—  sussexbound, Five Kisses
Spilt Milk - Robottko
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Everyone knew that the armchair in the back corner of the library belonged to Sherlock Holmes. Oh sure, he didn’t own it or anything, but if you happened to be sitting in the chair when Sherlock needed it, you were sure to find frogs in your gym shoes the next day…

Rating: T     Words: 2,811

AU - Teenlock / Favorite