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.”

***

tags:

Keep reading

Chapter 1, “Save This House”, is up!

John Watson has made a life for himself in the backwoods of Canada. He’s alone, and it’s a hard life, but it’s his life, and it’s quiet. 

Then, in the middle of a blizzard, John receives an imperious letter asking him to take in a young botanist by the name of Sherlock Holmes. John refuses, initially, but dark circumstances force him to change his mind.

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.

Dead Letter Office: “End of War”

Summary: Sherlock leaves John. He prefers not to, but he know that he has to.

My favourite chapter: Sherlock Holmes running through his city, John Watson in a book bar, listening to Irish Music. Two idiots in love. A love letter to literature, language, and yes, London.

You can read the chapter here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11233392/chapters/26592138

Sunday Speed Writing part 1

John, Sherlock

Summary: Sherlock is being annoying on purpose and John is having none of it.

A/N: Based on this prompt. I hope you like it!

Words: 389

John was certain Sherlock was doing it on purpose, because no one, let alone Sherlock, could be that oblivious.

It had started early that week and was still going on, on a Friday evening that should’ve been calm and quiet unless they found a case. They hadn’t had a case all week, which was most likely one of the reasons Sherlock kept doing it. Boredom could turn even the cleverest of men into a mad one.

“Sherlock,” John called out, finally caving. Finally feeling himself going crazy. “Stop.”

“Stop what?” Sherlock asked, sounding almost as if he didn’t care about whatever John was talking about, though John was certain he’d detected a hint of amusement in his voice.

Keep reading

This year, we have four fics being posted so far:

@chriscalledmesweetie is posting Southanger Abbey

When a young man is born to be a hero, something must and will happen to throw a love interest in his way. Thus, seventeen year old Sherlock Holmes is invited by Mrs. Hudson to accompany her to Bath, where he meets the dashing Captain John Watson. Soon his life begins to resemble one of the gothic novels of which he is so fond, as he becomes enmeshed in the schemes of Irene and James Moriarty, and finds himself embroiled in the mysteries surrounding Southanger Abbey.

@sweetmandolins is posting The Mysteries of Musgrovio

Sherlock Holmes lives with his loving parents in happy rural isolation. But when he is tragically orphaned, the young man is thrown on the mercy of his heartless half-brother, Monsieur Mycroft, and his new husband. The villainous Moriarty has designs upon his husband’s fortune and that of his brother, and imprisons them in the gloomy castle Musgrovio. Separated from his beloved John Watson, Sherlock must cope with terrors both physical and mental as ghostly omens and attempts on his virtue threaten to overthrow his mind and reason.

@a-different-equation is posting

A fusion of Herman Melville’s ‘Bartleby’ and ACD’s 'Sherlock Holmes,’ set in present day. Instead of treating dead letters like cold cases, Sherlock should start writing love letters – preferably to John. Sadly… he prefers not to (yet).

@redscudery is posting This Land We Have Chosen

It’s 1866. John Watson is a former army doctor who served in India. He left the service after a mysterious traumatic incident and has been farming in the backwoods of Canada. Sherlock Holmes is an avid botanist and possible hysteric who is a very loud thorn in his brother Mycroft’s side.  
Since Mycroft wishes to run for Parliament during the first Canadian election, he knows he needs his troublesome younger brother out of their hometown of Carleton before he can precipitate any scandal—and what better place for a botanist than a backwoods farm? Especially when it’s run by someone who just might be able to treat Sherlock’s hysteria?

(Aka Red writes a m/m pioneer romance novel, complete with extra!virgin!Sherlock, rugged farmer in linen shirts!John and judgmental lesbian goats.)

Sunday Six

“Yeah, but none of you have ever had any problem with…this?” John waved his hand back and forth between himself and Sherlock.

“Oh, the gay thing?” Jenkins said. “That’s not a big deal. I’ve got two uncles.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” Anderson asked. “I have like, five uncles.”

“Oh my God, Anderson, you idiot. I mean my mom’s little brother is married to a man, so I have two uncles.”

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 wanted to let someone know they were leaving, since their teammates had been so insistent that they come to the party in the first place, but everyone he saw was surrounded by other people. Finally he found Mary and Sally talking alone in the hallway outside the kitchen. Good enough–they could let the others know. 

“I’m taking John home. He’s a bit too uninhibited to stay any longer.”

"I am not uninhibited! I’ve only had four beers.”

“That girl with the purple hair just asked you if you wanted to go upstairs with her and you said you were taken, then turned bright red and started giggling.”

“I never giggle!”

“You sounded like a 12-year-old girl. We’re leaving now.”

–from chapter 25 of Full Court Press

Chapter 18 of The Mysteries of Musgrovio is now online!

In this week’s thrilling installment, we finally *sob* make it to Musgrovio! But what are the mysteries contained therein?  Secret passages? Locked rooms? Howling wind? An abandoned castle?  And what is behind the BLACK VEIL??

Grab a beverage and a snack, dear readers, because this is a lengthy update full of gothic chills and terrors!

Southanger AbbeyChapter Seven 

These manners did not please Sherlock; but Moriarty was Mycroft’s friend and Irene’s brother; and Sherlock’s judgment was further bought off by Irene’s assuring him that James thought him the most charming young man in the world, and by James engaging him before they parted to dance with him that evening. Had Sherlock been older or more self-assured, such attacks might have done little; but, where youth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of reason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming young man in the world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner.

Tags under the cut - please let me know if you’d like me to tag or untag you

Keep reading

Sunday Six

Rather than the story dying out after a day or two, as Sherlock hoped, the interview he and John had given to the local paper got picked up by the national news. At practice on Monday night, Lestrade told them that the article was ESPN’s most-read college sports story of the day.

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “It’s not like we’re the first college players to come out, and we’re not even Division I.”

“Yeah, but I think you’re the first teammates to come out who are actually dating each other, so that gives it a new spin.”

“There you go, Sherlock,” John said. “You didn’t want to be famous for being gay, and you’re not. You’re famous for dating me.”

–from chapter 29 of Full Court Press

anonymous asked:

Any tips on how to stay motivated during this hiatus? I joined this fandom only after S4, and I wholeheartedly ship Johnlock, but the more time passes, the more discouraged I get since nothing's happening. I want to believe but it's starting to become wishful thinking. I really admire this fandom's patience though. And you, Steph! One of the few blogs that manages to still be positive & keeps me hopeful :)

Hi Nonny!

I’ve written a couple posts before about fandom life:

But I’ll continue on with some addtional thoughts here.

Honestly, I stay motivated and positive by interacting and engaging with the fandom, and TinHatting helps too, since it keeps me still speculating on more to come! May I suggest weekly watchalongs by @finalproblem on Wednesdays (all-fandom), myself or @tali-zora on Saturdays, and @cupidford has them on Sundays (both Johnlock-centric), and I think someone else now does them on Friday nights as well? It’s a great way to meet people and to make friends, and to exchange ideas and theories and to just be silly with like-minded people! 

Also, I find giffing (where one makes animated gifs) and drawing helps as well! If you’re a writer, write, or make silly photo edits! I think it’s mostly the PEOPLE more than anything that keep me still going and motivated. You don’t even really have to contribute anything; just get to know people, share in your ideas, and just have a good time. Hiatus is a rough go for everyone, LOL.

That said, thank you very much for your kind words!!! <3 I try to be a place people who are just entering fandom can feel welcome; we were all new bloggers once upon a time :)