johnlock sunday

the posh boy solution

hi hello welcome to the second part of this little piece

part one: the posh boy problem

also available on: AO3


Sometimes John calls Sherlock little secret names in his head. Greets him with hey, handsome in the morning, calls him genius when he’s being too clever, calls him pretty man, silly git, sweetheart. But sometimes he just needs to call him,

“You fucking idiot!”

John throws his jacket at the back of his chair in obvious distress. It falls off immediately. He is clearly angry with him, Sherlock has observed the ragged breath and flaring nostrils long ago and drawn his conclusions. He wonders what exactly he’s done wrong to upset him so much. The fact that he (technically not quite) stole a boat or that he managed to fall into the Thames? He himself is just upset about having been forced to sacrifice his woollen coat in order to save himself from drowning. Of course, he owns lots of coats. You never know when an accidence like this one might occur.

While Sherlock swam to the shore, John made sure the jewellery thieves, due to which that boat chase had originally been initiated, did not shoot at Sherlock, and in the process of that received a pretty hard blow to the head. A bump is already growing just next to the vein that always pulsates visibly when John is angry.

“You should cool that,” Sherlock suggests.

“Shut up! I will cool that when I feel like cooling it, I’m a bloody doctor!”

Sherlock swallows. It’s worse than he thought. He cannot deny that he likes John when he is on the right side of angry, but this is probably the wrong side and he is also being yelled at.

“A boat chase, Sherlock?!”

“In my defence-” Sherlock starts, but is interrupted by John raising a finger, ordering him to shut the hell up.

“Take your clothes off.”

Sherlock stares. Sherlock blinks. His mind stays blank for a worryingly long amount of time. Then he remembers. He’s wet. Soaked, in fact, completely down to his bones, and freezing too. It’s taken him a little long to catch up because these words, words spoken in the tone of an army captain, are something he’s last heard two days ago, half asleep and desperate in his own bedroom. Another one of those nights in which his imagination filled in for the needs that reality doesn’t meet.

John is waiting in this charged air of silence, maybe having realised what he just said, maybe not. Sherlock tips his chin up and obeys.

“I’m not so posh anymore now, am I?” he mutters under his breath.

John presses his lips together at this, and Sherlock worries briefly that the vein at his temple might just burst. His eyes withhold a certain kind of spark, like a candle flickering, like the glare of a predator. All of a sudden, Sherlock feels stripped completely naked by those eyes only. Then he comes to realise … He’s stripping down. The ruined jacket abandoned next to his shoes and socks, his shirt hanging open to expose his chest and stomach, and his trousers… he’s in the process of shoving them down his thighs. The process of stripping down to his underwear for John Watson. But he feels naked.

John is walking towards him. Slowly, like he means to break him. He might.

His eyes are boring into Sherlock’s own and electrify the space between them, the air they breathe. Sherlock swallows, once more, but his throat is dry and he is thirsty. He is cold, goosebumps all over his body from the river water and those ocean eyes, but his skin is hot with anticipation.

John steps right into his space. Sherlock can smell him. It does things to him, awful things to his heightened senses. It clouds them, but at the same time he is overly aware of naked skin and of John wearing way too many clothes.

“Yeah,” John whispers roughly, so rough and so low he could hurt himself on that sandpaper voice. “You’re still a fucking posh boy.”

John’s eyes drop, and his breath is ragged, but Sherlock suspects this time it’s for entirely different reasons than anger. He doesn’t know who gives in first, and frankly, he  doesn’t give one fuck about it because the next thing he knows is that John’s lips are on his and it feels like he’s dying and being reborn in one single breath.

They long for each other, and their lips meet so hard it might leave bruises. John is all-consuming, is groaning and opening his mouth by opening his own first. Sherlock’s knees buckle at the sensation that is John’s tongue running over his bottom lip. If this is what it’s like to kiss John Watson, he should be put in chains because it’s dangerous. He walks him backwards, shoves him into the wall next to the kitchen. Sherlock’s trousers have dropped down to his ankles and he almost falls over them, held upright by the hard surface of the wall where he bumps his head into.

Dizzy and with a sharp pain buzzing through the back of his head, he feels weightless when John lifts one of his legs, slowly running his hand over the underside of his thigh, fingers through thin hairs and over hard muscle, and Sherlock’s natural reaction is to wrap his leg around John’s middle and hold on tight, so tight. His trousers are hanging from the end of his foot like one last resort before they fall off and to the floor. The pain wears off, and suddenly Sherlock thinks he can feel everything.

The smooth fabric of John’s shirt and the rough one of his jeans that presses against the lower part of his body. Against his thighs and hipbones and the growing bulge in his pants. John’s one hand is rubbing back and forth over his inner thigh and the soft spot where it dissolves into firm buttocks. A soft spot that draws a quite whine out of the back of his throat. He places his other hand on his face to hold him. Lifting his jaw ever so slightly, his thumb is stroking over one sharp cheekbone, and he kisses him again.

Sherlock still feels like he is dying, but it’s different than it was before. John deepens the kiss, and he feels utterly devoured. He’s never wanted anything more, he thinks. Wrapped up in all of him. It fuels his addictive personality in many dangerous ways, but he cannot think, can only indulge in this dance of drawing back only to lean back in again, tongues against each other in one hot wet mess.

All the blood is running south, and as he wraps his arms around John’s neck, he isn’t quite sure how to feel, much less what he is doing.

John breaks the kiss with a sigh. A long, dreamy sigh Sherlock has trouble interpreting correctly. Is it regret? Relief? Pity? But as he closes his eyes in silence, he brings their foreheads together and leans against him. They stay like this for what seems like minutes over minutes, and it should be uncomfortable, should feel ridiculous - with one of them undressed and the two of them panting against each other - but it doesn’t. They breathe together in unison, and when John draws back to look at him, his eyes don’t show anger, aren’t predatory. They are warm, they are gentle.

“You have no idea how long…” he begins, but doesn’t quite know where he was going with it, or if he wants this sentence to end.

Sherlock’s response gets stuck in his throat and its remains come out in a sob. “Yes,” he manages.

“And all this time,” John continues, “So much time…”

“It’s okay,” Sherlock assures him. His voice is quiet, as if he was afraid of breaking emotions fragile and clear as glass. And when they aren’t clear as glass, they are a thick fog of all the things left unsaid. It’s very hard to see through it, but what he sees is sharp enough. “We’re here now.”

John leans back in. He takes his time now, is gentle in his touches and caresses his cheeks. They feel wet, somehow, but Sherlock doesn’t understand why. It’s like the tears are falling naturally.

“Bedroom,” John whispers.

How many times has he imagined John Watson in his bed before this? He hasn’t kept track, but he knows that this time couldn’t be further from his imagination. Because it is reality. And it feels so, so much better than anything else in the world.

John doesn’t hold anything back with him. He kisses him in every spot, he bites his lip and neck and, oh god, the sensitive skin up, up his thighs. He whispers names into all of those spots, lets them sink into his flesh and travel to his chest where they can burn and glow and melt his insecurities with flickers of bliss.

He calls him love when he breaks a kiss, calls him honey as he buries his face in the crook of his neck, calls him genius when Sherlock touches him in the most intimate of places. He tells him he is gorgeous, tells him I need you and I want you. It’s the hottest thing in Sherlock’s ears, goes straight between his legs. He asks him, Is this okay?, asks almost desperately how, how can I have you?

He calls him you brilliant man when he groans, you pretty, pretty boy. But as he thrusts, harder, yes harder, sinks his teeth into his flesh and moans, as his movements became frantic and they are so close and wrapped in each other with tangled limbs and desperation, and yes, as he comes, the one thing on his lips is Sherlock. Only Sherlock. As beautiful as he has ever heard his own name sound. He’s had no idea his name could sound like this, and he’s not sure how anything else could ever come close to being this good.

They lie together, cuddling and blissed out and fucking happy for the first time in what seems to have taken ages. Sherlock feels a smile stretching across his face. John’s thumb caresses long laugh lines as he is bent over him. But he isn’t smiling back. He looks like something worries him.

“Don’t ever risk your own life like that again,” he warns him, but warns him softly.

Sherlock thinks about it in the most rational way he can. He is very serious when he says, “If risking my life leads to this right here, to you and me, I might just consider it.”

John goes ahead and bites him. Just below his jawline, as he has very recently learned he likes a lot.

Sherlock gasps and John lets go.

“Oh no,” he whispers. “This wasn’t a reward, Sherlock. It was… long overdue. I’m still mad at you.”

Sherlock looks away in honest concern and fear. “Are you really?”

John sighs. “No.”

They cuddle in silence for a long while. Sherlock is very close to falling asleep. He is much closer to losing himself to whatever he feels for John Watson. He knows it is love. He’s not sure how much more it is, but it might just kill him one day. That might just be fine with him.

“You’re my posh boy now,” John murmurs right before he feels himself drift away.

He smiles, honestly. Wholeheartedly.

“I’ve never been anything else, John.”



Keep reading

Sherlock is going to cup John’s face in his hands. John is going to clutch Sherlock’s lapels. Sherlock is going to gasp into John’s mouth. John is going to follow that gasp with his tongue. Sherlock’s head is going to fall back, exposing his throat. John is going to growl and mark it. Sherlock is going to grab John’s hips and pull him closer. John is going to run his hands through Sherlock’s hair and let the curls twine around his fingers. Sherlock is going to spread his legs. John is going to place his thigh between them.

You guys, I doubt they’re even going to make it to the bedroom that first time. It’s gonna be full on fucking in the stairwell or against the door or on the floor in front of the fireplace. They’re going to be THAT. DESPERATE.

The Sherlock Sunday Summer Serial is back. This year’s theme is Liberty Hall, so indulge your wildest Victorian fantasies!

What are the ground rules?

  • Works must be Victorian-themed: either an adaptation of a Victorian (1837-1901)  or long nineteenth-century (1789-1914) novel or set in the Victorian era
  • Works must be published serially, starting in June

If I am working with a Victorian novel, can I adapt the original text?

  • You can! Many previous Summer Serial novels work with the original text; all you have to do is acknowledge that in your notes.

Does it have to be long?

  • Nope! You can post poems, 221bs, art–anything as long as it’s Victorian-themed and serially published.

When should I post?

  • Historically, we post once a week on Sundays, with an extra Thursday Teaser (the banner will be made available to you when you join)
  • This year our start is staggered, so join in any time! Just message us

When does the Summer Serial end?

  • It ends when your novel ends! There’s no fixed end date.

More rules here. Links to previous years here

Sunday Six

Sherlock ordered a chicken sandwich and fries, not the cheapest items available, but close to it, since he knew John couldn’t afford to splurge. John chose a double cheeseburger, insisting he needed the extra protein before the game. When it arrived at the table, it proved to be nearly three times the size of Sherlock’s sandwich. As he picked it up to take his first bite, Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Sure you can fit that in your mouth?”

John grinned at him and then proceeded to take a giant bite, leaving strings of cheese and a bit of lettuce hanging from between his teeth.

Sherlock choked back laughter. “Mm. Nice.” He took a dainty bite of his own sandwich, licking his lower lip dramatically after he swallowed.

-from chapter  21 of Full Court Press, to be posted as soon as I hear back from my beta.

Sunday Six--New Chapter Edition

Cheating a bit because I didn’t write this today:

“What?” John frowned at him, reflexively reaching to hold his shoulder although he had abandoned the ice pack at some point.

“You’re only in pain because you think you’re in pain.”

“I know what psychosomatic means, asshole. This isn’t psychosomatic. It really hurts.”

“I know it really hurts,” Sherlock replied. “And if you did know what it means then you’d know I’m not saying that I don’t think it hurts, just that the cause is psychological, not a physical injury.”

John dropped his hand from his shoulder and took a large step toward the bench, placing himself inches from Sherlock, who had to lean back to look up at him. “Say it’s all in my head again, why don’t you?”

–from Chapter 22 of Full Court Press

Teaser for Chapter 15 of The Mysteries of Musgrovio….

“Nothing could exceed Sherlock’s admiration on his first view of Venice, with its islets, palaces, and towers rising out of the sea, whose clear surface reflected the tremulous picture in all its colours. The sun, sinking in the west, tinted the waves and the lofty mountains of Friuli, which skirt the northern shores of the Adriatic, with a saffron glow, while on the marble porticos and colonnades of St. Mark were thrown the rich lights and shades of evening.”

chriscalledmesweetie  asked:

I know The Mysteries of Musgrovio is going to have more sex than the original, but I was wondering how explicit Udolpho actually is, and what exactly my innocent Southanger Abbey version of Sherlock is being exposed to. Could you give me a couple of quotes from the most overtly sexual scenes in the original Udolpho?

Mmmm @chriscalledmesweetie it’s shocking enough to get sweet young Sherlock’s pulse elevated!

Interestingly enough in some of Radcliffe other works there’s some pretty heavily implied smuttiness. Heaving bosoms and ripped bodices and the like 👀. Mine is a step between implied and explicit- but shocking enough for a young man fresh from the countryside..

“John was marble in the moon-light, the planes of his chest shadowy and strong, the jagged knot on his shoulder visible even in the darkness; Sherlock’s head was thrown back as kisses were laved upon his neck, his back arched as John’s mouth swept over his chest and stomach before pausing over the dark grove between his legs where Sherlock trembled for John’s touch. Sherlock’s hand explored the soft curve of John’s cheek, his ear, his head; it was as the swelling of a gentle hill against the sharp lines of the elevated peaks of Sherlock’s spread knees.

Sherlock gasped a breath round the meat of his palm as John’s mouth was upon him, his gasps echoed in the shiver of the leaves in the night, only stopped once John’s mouth was upon his own again, claiming his cries as he felt the strong, sure, hand of John around him; around them both, driving him to the heights of the sublimest ecstasy. His body trembled and shook, he was undone, he was entire, he was shattering apart under the body of his lover, he was coalescing and reforming under the moon-light and the cry of the nightingale.”

Sunday Six

“I still can’t believe you’re defending this. You, Mr. Rational Atheist. You think it’s fine and dandy for people to drink strychnine and dance around with rattlesnakes because they say it’s in the Bible.”

“I think it’s fine and dandy for them to do that because they choose to do it and for no other reason,” Sherlock said. “The Bible doesn’t have any relevance to me, but fascinating human customs remain fascinating nonetheless. It’s idiotic, but then, there have been times when I’ve voluntarily injected nearly enough heroin to kill me, and that’s objectively idiotic too. And you joined the Army of your own free will during wartime.”

Sunday Six

The little smile on John’s face was partly for her but mostly for Sherlock across the yard, who was doing some work with the beehives, moving with calm, deliberate slowness and grace to keep his little charges calm and sweet, only rarely needing to puff at them with the smoker. His whole tall body seemed to relax as he took in their soft ambient hum. Though his face was mostly hidden, John couldn’t help but notice Sherlock did glance over more often when the weather got warming and John wore less and less on his torso, bronzing in the sun as he worked unprotected.

John did so love to watch Sherlock in his strange self-contained happiness, beneath the mesh of that weird space-man gear that was just about the most unflattering item ever made for a human to wear. Not for the first time in three years, John mused that if Sherlock had been a woman, John would surely have tried to get him into a completely different kind of white outfit with a veil by now. And maybe the first few times John shocked himself a little with thoughts like that, but now they were just part of the regular background of his mind, familiar as the weather-beaten paint-peeling boards of the house and the porch railing he still put his feet up on even though it wobbled.


A Land so Wild and Savage
By: doctornerdington
Words: 82,193
Chapters: 12/12
Rating: Teen
Pairings: Johnlock, Jolto, Molstrade

In 1845, the HMS Erebus under the command of Captain James Sholto departed England on a voyage of discovery to find a Northwest Passage through the perilous arctic waters separating the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. It was never heard from again. Five years later, Captain John Watson of the Investigator sets sail to recover the Erebus and determine the fate of Sholto and his men. Naturalist Sherlock Holmes takes a berth on a scientific mission to catalogue arctic fauna. What they find could strike a killing blow at the very heart of the British Empire.


And TFP was Mofftiss throwing us a rope but forgetting the keys

somebody: i think you should let it go, sherlock is just a tv show it’s not that big of a deal
me [pulls out powerpoint]: sir arthur conan doyle brought sherlock holmes back after a break of 8 years because his fans back then were so furious after he killed him off. people walked around with black armbands to mourn his death and a woman attacked doyle with an umbrella for “the sin of killing off his greatest character” i’M ALLOWED TO FEEL LIKE THIS IT’S BEEN LIKE THIS EVER SINCE THE VICTORIAN AGE I HOPE THE NEWS KEEP TALKING ABOUT US FOR THE NEXT 5 WEEKS I WILL WAIT 8 YEARS IF I HAVE TO IF THIS MESS WILL BE FIXED THEN !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!