knitted sherlock

flight

He steps out of the car. The sky is lightening, slate gray.

 The plane waits on the runway. He looks at it, and is struck with a wave of déjà vu, overwhelming, nauseating. Behind him, the driver has turned off the car. The engine clicks in the cold air.

John and Mary are standing together. They are looking at the plane, and neither turns at Sherlock’s approach. There is a man in a black suit with them, a CIA agent, no doubt. Sherlock is irrationally glad it is not the man he remembers from the Adler case.

 He draws closer, holding himself in check, carefully blank. His eyes sweep over the pair of them. They look tired. Unhappy.

John meets his gaze, swallows. “MI6 was waiting at my house when I got home last night,” he says. He makes a terrible attempt to smile. “Kind of thing that seems like it would be a lot more exciting than it actually was.”

 "Given your near-constant need to embellish and exaggerate on your blog, I’d have thought you were already well aware of the disconnect between fiction and reality,“ Sherlock murmurs.

 "Joking, then,” John says, his face still approximating a smile. He nods. “Good. That's—that’s good.”

 A retort dies on Sherlock’s lips. He cannot seem to maintain the fiction that all is well, cannot go on bantering with John as if this is not the end. He’s already done this. Doing it again is tantamount to torture. He looks past John, stares hard at the plane that is to take him away.

 "Sherlock,“ John says. His shoulders are hunched against the wind. "Mary and I talked last night. After.”

He does not want to hear this. There is no reason to hear this. Obviously, they’ve talked. They wouldn’t be standing here, in the cold, if they hadn’t talked. Mycroft has already told him about the deal that’s been cut, about the new identities and the new lives and the official pardons. It is all logical and sound and fine but he does not want to hear it again, and he certainly does not want to hear it from John Watson’s mouth.

 So he tunes out the words that John is saying, instead takes the time to look his fill, to memorize all of the curves and planes of his friend’s face. There are laugh lines around his eyes, deeper now than when they first met, and although he is not laughing now it is easy to remember the times they have laughed together, laughed well and loud.  He’s never laughed quite the same way with anyone else as he laughs with John Watson. Their association has left its mark on John’s skin. This pleases him.

Keep reading

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Examples of some of the scarves I’ve made, all of which are on sale now on my etsy page; Hazelknit.

@angry-muggle-lord’s commission of a Doctor Watson scarf from Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows, a 12’ Doctor Who Scarf, and a personal project of a Newt Scamander Hufflepuff scarf (though extra long).

2

Only a tiny portion of my WIPs…I have a problem, I know.
My Sherlock blanket is kind of a never ending WIP. I don’t think I will ever consider myself out of squares I want to add, and I can’t really decide on the layout when I still adding to the stack so…
And socks! So many socks to knit. I will always have several socks in progress. Always. The ones on the top in considering frogging - fit issues or just lost interest. The ones on the bottom I absolutely love, and will finish. Hopefully before next fall so I can wear them. And then there’s my Christmas stocking. Not really a sock, but definitely a WIP that needs finished before *another* Christmas goes by.

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‘Sherlock’s Lucky Cat’ by Kat Bifield

I haven’t worked on my Knitted Sherlock series for a bit (been busy with Avengers, dwarves, Christmas presents and something else that I hope to post soon) but knitting a lucky cat as a birthday present for a friend got me thinking that I really should knit a little lucky cat (as seen in the Lucky Cat Emporium in The Blind Banker and then on the mantlepiece of 221B Bakers Street in A Scandal in Belgravia) for Sherlock. And so I did.

Little Lucky Cat is just under 4cm tall. 

Wedding Day

Prompt: How about a Sherlock x Reader where it is the day of their wedding? And Sherlock is really nervous and John and Mary are there to help and loads of fluff? Please and thank you :P

A/N: I hope you like this, it’s late and I am tired!


Sherlock stood in front of a large second story window, looking down at the flurry of activity taking place in the garden. It was a beautiful day and he should have been feeling happy and excited, but the feeling he was currently experiencing could only be described as panic.
“Almost time,” a familiar voice said at the door behind him. He turned to see John standing there, wearing a tuxedo very similar to his own. Only the boutonniere was different. John’s was red, his own was white, which incidentally, was the color of his face.
“Jesus, you look terrible,” John informed him. “Did I look this terrified on my wedding day?”
“This is a mistake, John,” Sherlock said, feeling the perspiration forming under his crisp white collar.
“A mistake? You marrying (Y/N) is a mistake?” John asked, eyes wide.
“No,” he replied, starting to pace the length of the floor. “(Y/N) marrying me is a mistake.”
“I might have to agree with you,” John chuckled. “But, for some reason that girl is crazy about you and seems fairly excited to become your wife.”
“John, be serious,” Sherlock pleaded. “She deserves better, I should spare her, I should…”
“You should stop right now,” John said, his voice firm. “You adore her. She knows it. She brings out your… more human side… It’s a match made in heaven.
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but another knock at the door interrupted him. They both turned to see Mary poking her head in.
“Excuse me boys, John, we are having a slight problem with the bride…”
“Problem?” Sherlock demanded, crossing the room in three large strides. “What problem? Is (Y/N) having second thoughts?”
“God, no!” Mary exclaimed. “She’s beside herself with excitement, but, we are having a bit of a wardrobe malfunction. John?”
“Coming,” he said, following his wife out. Before stepping into the hall, he turned back to Sherlock.
“She loves you,” he said pointedly. “You will be a good husband. You will give her a good life. Stop worrying.” Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded as John disappeared into the hall. He followed Mary down the long corridor of the manor house they’d rented for the wedding. (Y/N) and the rest of the bridal party were gathered the master suite on the other side of the house. Mary pushed open the door and John saw (Y/N) standing in front of the mirror with her white gown on, the long zipper down the back pulled about halfway up. (Y/N) looked as panicked as Sherlock had.
“I didn’t gain any weight,” she ground out at John. He held up his hands wordlessly.
“No, you didn’t dear,” Mary said, gently. “The zipper is stuck. I thought John might help give a tug.” John nodded and stepped towards his friend, careful not to step on the folds of her dress. He placed one hand on her hip and grasped the zipper in the other. To (Y/N)’s credit, the dress was loose enough, but the zipper seemed to be stuck on the lining. His strong, steady doctor’s hands gently worked the zipper up, slowly and surely to the top.
“There,” he said, smiling. “All zipped up.”
“Thank you, John,” (Y/N) gushed, turning to admire herself in the mirror. Sherlock was a lucky man, John thought to himself. This woman who had befriended them both had won the other man’s heart and John was unbelievably happy for them both. “How’s Sherlock?” She asked.
“Talking about calling it off,” John informed her. (Y/N) rolled her eyes.
“You handled it?” She laughed.
“I believe so,” John informed her. “Can you girls give us a second?” He said, asking the other girls to leave. Mary nodded and shooed them out, leaving John and (Y/N) alone. “I think you should see him.”
“Isn’t it bad luck and all?” She smiled. John shrugged, “Take me,” she said, gathering up her dress and following him out the back door, around through a back hallway and back up to the room where Sherlock stood waiting, gazing out the window again. She pushed the door open and he turned when he heard the rustling.
“Hi handsome,” she smiled, taking in his long, lean form, looking dashing in a tailored tuxedo.
“What are you doing here?” He murmured, crossing the room to her.
“John said you were going to stand me up?” She teased. She reached up and brushed a curl from his forehead.
“Why do you love me?” He asked, his brow knitting with concern.
“Sherlock,” (Y/N) sighed. “I love you for a million reasons. If you don’t want to get married, we won’t. But I’d sure like to marry you. I got this great dress…”
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, bending to kiss her. “I want to marry you. I just want you to be happy.”
“You make me happy,” she whispered back, pressing her lips to his. “We will be happy. We will fight, we will get irritated. You more than me, probably, but that’s OK because we will still be happy.” Sherlock smiled and kissed her again.
“God I love you,” he sighed.
“Save some of that for the ceremony,” she whispered. “I mean, that is, if you still want to marry me.”
“I do,” he replied and (Y/N) laughed.
“Save that for the ceremony, too,” she said, poking him in the ribs.
“I will,” he said, wrapping his long arms around her.
“Ok so, go wait for me at the end of the aisle, I will be the happy girl in the white dress walking towards you.” She kissed him again, quickly and turned to leave. Sherlock grabbed her elbow gently, stopping her. (Y/N) looked back at him expectantly.
“You always know how to get through to me,” he said, his eyes thanking her, his panic replaced with a nervous excitement.
“And to think you almost didn’t marry me,” she tisked. “Good thing you have a lifetime to make it up to me.”
“Good thing indeed,” Sherlock replied.

Okay...to cheer you up: some headcanons

Ummmm…Mrs. Hudson teaching Rosie to drive. Bonus: she lets her drive the Aston Martin.

Molly teaching Rosie how to knit. Rosie knits Sherlock a scarf and he wears it every chance he gets.

Also, Rosie hanging out in the morgue with Molly after school. Molly helping her with homework when Rosie needs it.

It’s not uncommon for Sally to join them. Rosie’s always asking about the details of Sally’s latest homicide case.

Sally letting Rosie do ride alongs during holiday breaks.

Irene taking Rosie shopping. In Paris.

Irene sending Rosie rare books that she finds whilst traveling the world. John has no idea where Rosie finds all these books.

All five of them gathering in Mrs. Hudson’s flat for tea. Sounds of laughter can always be heard. John and Sherlock are pretty sure they’re plotting world domination.

I hope these help!


Originally posted by agawssh

I love them all. I want to write them all. You are amazing, dear @equusgirl! ::hugs::

They're really not that heavy...

Just a crack-ish kind of ficlet that popped into my head. Enjoy.:)



Sherlock Holmes watched, bemused, as Molly Hooper hurried forward, wrapped two small hands around the metal bar, bent her knees, leaned back, and pulled.

He had never seen anyone manage to make doors look as heavy as Molly just had.

She looked over her shoulder at him, raising an eyebrow at his immobility.

“Aren’t you coming in, Sherlock?”

He knitted his brows.

“Not just yet. Would you please step aside, Molly?”

The pathologist huffed and rolled her eyes.

“Oh for chrissakes Sherlock, just get in.”

“Please, Molly? I would like to test something.”

With a long-suffering glare, Molly relinquished her hold on the door, letting it swing closed, and stepped aside.

Sherlock reached out one arm, wrapped his hand around the metal bar previously held by a much smaller pair of hands just a moment past, and pulled.

The door swung open easily with him exerting just minimal effort.

“It isn’t that heavy,” he said with a note of wonder.

“Of course it isn’t,” she exclaimed. Then, hesitantly, “Sherlock… You’re not…”

“High? Do stop being ridiculous, Molly. I think we’re past the days of you pretending to be less intelligent than we both know you are. I was simply wondering why you opened this door the way you did.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Molly blurted, her blush telling a different story.

He quirked a brow at her.

Annoyed, she glared up at him, cheeks still red.

"Okay, Consulting Detective. How about you deduce why I do it like that?”

She stuck her chin out and crossed her arms.

Without missing a beat, he answered, “Efficiency, obviously.”

She shrugged.

“Well there you go. You knew it all along, why ask?”

He had the gall to roll his eyes like she was the exasperating one, the prick.

“Because, Molly Hooper, that door is nowhere near heavy enough to merit much beyond minimal effort, so there’s no reason to open it other than the normal way, and frankly you just look ridiculously adorable opening it the way you did.”

She blinked up at him.

“What? What did you say?”

“I said, that door is-”

“No, the last bit.”

Another eyeroll from the manchild, and Molly Hooper’s palm started itching, but she kept her temper in check.

“I said, you just look ridiculous opening that door-”

“Liar!”

“Excuse me?”

“You are a liar, William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

“I beg your pardon, Margaret Anne Hooper.”

“That was not what you said. You had better repeat what you actually said or this first date is not happening.”

Sherlock sighed, but a corner of his mouth quirked upwards in a telltale smile.

“Fine, Doctor Hooper,” he drawled, his voice dropping to melting dark chocolate levels. His arm snaked around her waist, and she let him pull her closer, “I said, you look so absolutely adorable opening doors in that quirky little way of yours, that I’m tempted to let you open doors for me all the time just to watch you do it.”

She dimpled up at him.

“Close enough. Now let’s head in. I’m famished.”

Sherlock stepped forward, keeping her tucked against him as he pulled the door open. The smell of fish and chips greeted them and Molly’s mouth watered.

“Why did you not just wait for me to open the door for you anyway?” Sherlock asked once they were seated, his thumb running over her knuckles as they held hands atop the table.

She smiled impishly.

“It’s the 21st century, my dear Sherlock. And really, doors aren’t that heavy.”

“Sherlock, can I come in now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Not finished.”

“With what?”

“Surprise.”

“Oh dear God, couldn’t you have prepared your surprise a few days earlier? It’s cold out here.”

“Nope. I only had the idea last night.”

Day 30 of the Seasonal Fucking Cheer 2016 Ficathon. I’ll try and post one drawing for each day, and tag them #sfcficathon. Today’s prompt was: 30. I’ve left all of my holiday decisions to the last minute; what could possibly go wrong?

It was too late. 

He was too late.

His words, though sincere, fell flat.

Molly couldn’t suppress the angry tears, or the accompanying frown. “How dare you?”

Sherlock gaped for a moment, wordless, before managing to speak. “I– I beg your pardon?”

“How dare you say such a thing?” She clenched her fists, her jaw; she squeezed her eyes shut. “I’ve told you countless times, you insensitive prick. Yet you still feel the need to tease and embarrass me, as though I’m some sort of plaything. I’m not an experiment, Sherlock.”

Bewilderment played across his features. “Th-that’s not–”

“Get out,” she said, staring him down.

“But–”

“Get out of my morgue!” She hadn’t stamped her foot, but she may as well have.

Sherlock turned quietly and left.

~

“Rubbish timing,” John said later that evening as he sat at his kitchen table with his friend.

“Rubbish emotions,” Sherlock quipped. “How is it that, with everything else in my mind, I still have room for the damned things?”

John shushed him; Rosie was asleep in the next room. “You’re still human,” he replied quietly.

The consultant leaned forward, face in his hands. “How can I even know for sure what I’m feeling toward Molly?" 

"You do care about her,” John said matter-of-factly. “However, you might have come to me before bungling it up. I still can’t believe you told her you were ‘ready to have a go at a relationship.’”

“Just… help me fix it,” Sherlock said quietly, looking up at his friend. “Please.”

John just stared at him. Sherlock almost never asked for help, let alone politely.

“Fine,” he replied. “I’ll do what I can.”

~

After a sleepless night, Molly decided to call John for advice.

He answered at the first ring. “Molly? I was just about to call.”

“Oh,” she replied. “Did you need me to come over?”

“If that’s alright.” John glanced over at Rosie, who was making a mess of breakfast, and Sherlock, who’d fallen asleep at the table. 

“As long as Sherlock isn’t there,” she said. 

“Oh, he won’t be,” John lied.

When Molly arrived, John answered the door with a grumpy Rosie in his arms. She took the toddler and followed John to his living room, sitting down on the sofa across from him.

“Can I talk to you about something?” Molly asked, gently stroking Rosie’s hair.

“Er, yeah,” John replied. “Of course.”

“Sherlock…” she started. “Sherlock came to my morgue last night.”

John said nothing.

“He… doesn’t know where to draw the line, does he?” She set Rosie on the floor with her toys. 

John pressed his lips together. He was looking at Rosie, but his true focus was on her godmother. He sighed before replying. “How long has it been since the last time he carelessly trampled on your feelings? Months? A year?”

Her eyebrows drew together. It had been a while. “What are you getting at?” she asked.

“Clarify for me,” John said, already knowing the answer. “What did he say to you?”

Molly scoffed. “He told me he was 'ready to have a go’ at a relationship.” She swallowed hard. “With me.”

“Hm.” John thought for a moment before speaking again. “I can see why you think he was taking the mick.”

“Well, he can’t very well be serious,” she replied, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees.

Rosie threw her doll at Molly, who handed the doll back saying, “Rosie, remember, we must be gentle with babies.”

Rosie took it back and hugged it before going back to playing alone.

“Why not?” John asked. “Why can’t he be serious?”

Molly smiled bitterly. “You know how he is. All logic, no emotion. He prefers drugs to actual human company.”

John shook his head, a smile playing across his lips. “That’s what he wants people to think. He only pretends not to care. He can’t get hurt if he won’t let anyone get close enough.”

She bit her lip. Her heart ached to accept that as truth, but… “Maybe that’s what he wants you to think.” …she didn’t want to take the chance.

“Molly…” John sighed. “I know it’s hard for you to believe or accept, but Sherlock does care.”

She shook her head.

“Molly.” Her gaze darted up to the door, where Sherlock stood with sleepless eyes and disheveled hair.

She turned to John, her voice barely above a whisper. “You said he wouldn’t be here.”

“Molly,” Sherlock said softly, stepping into the room. “Please.”

John stood, picked Rosie up, and left the room. He’d done what he could.

Molly got to her feet, arms crossed, and eyes welling up with tears. “Why, Sherlock?”

He knit his eyebrows. “Why?" 

"Why me? Why now?”

“Why you?” he replied, tentatively stepping closer. “You are kind… caring. You see the best in people. The best in me. You have always,” his voice cracked, “been a good friend. Why now?” He sighed, shaking his head. “It’s not just now. It’s been… too long. I…” He paused. “I wanted you to be happy, and… I didn’t think you could be happy with me.”

The silence that followed was deafening. 

Sherlock mentally counted down. If she doesn’t say anything by the time I reach zero, I’ll just leave, he thought. The heart that had been purposely hardened felt heavier with each passing second. At zero, he turned, but stopped when she spoke.

“How long?” she asked quietly, letting her arms fall to her sides.

“I’m not sure,” he replied, still facing the door. “But… the day you said you didn’t count–it was the day I realized that you do count, Molly. More than anyone. More than… more than me.”

Another pause.

“One chance,” she said.

Sherlock turned back to face her again. “Sorry?”

“I can offer you one chance, Sherlock. If…” She took a breath. “If this is a joke, an experiment, or anything like that, you’ll tell me right now. If I find out on my own, that’s it. I won’t ever want to see you or hear from you again. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded silently.

“Now, tell me: are you serious about this? Do you absolutely mean what you’ve said?” Molly closed her fists, bracing herself for the answer.

He slowly closed the distance between them, leaned down, and kissed her gently before answering.

“Absolutely.”

5

Consulting cuties.
Crochet Sherlock and John - united at last!

Don’t they look beyond cute together??

(I know they still look a bit wonky in places, but it was the first time ever I made something like this…)


Sherlock’s individual post.
John’s individual post.