little head of johns

Fall Playlist

i’m so excited about it being fall that i put together songs to celebrate the best season of the year. music for when the leaves change color and the weather gets cooler. 🍁🍂✨

1. canyon moon - andrew mcmahon in the wilderness
2. yellow - coldplay
3. old pine - ben howard
4. all too well - taylor swift
5. haunting - halsey
6. grizzly bear - angus & julia stone
7. 40 day dream - edward sharpe & the magnetic zeroes
8. autumn leaves - ed sheeran
9. bonfire heart - james blunt
10. follation wood - ben howard
11. safe and sound (feat. the civil wars) - taylor swift
12. into the wild - lewis watson
13. sigh no more - mumford & sons
14. who says - john mayer
15. atlas - coldplay
16. king and lionheart - of monsters and men
17. cherry wine - hozier
18. conrad - ben howard
19. the apple tree - nina nesbitt
20. meet me in the woods - lord huron
21. sweater weather - the neighbourhood
22. set the fire to the third bar (feat. martha wainwright) - snow patrol
23. sad beautiful tragic - taylor swift
24. golden leaves - passenger
25. the funeral (band of horses cover) - nina nesbitt
26. re: stacks - bon iver 
27. from afar - vance joy
28. sedona - houndmouth
29. down in the valley - the head and the heart
30. let it go - james bay
31. pray - kodaline
32. roman holiday - halsey
33. stubborn love - the lumineers


John Myles Sharpe met his New Zealand born wife, Anna Sharpe, in his home town of Mornington, Australia. The couple went on to have a little girl, Gracie, who was born with hip dysplasia and had to go through numerous surgeries and medications. Due to pain, she often cried out and found it difficult to sleep.

The couple had been married for almost ten years in 2003 and Gracie was now 15-months-old. The same year, John went to a local sports store and purchased a high powered spear gun which is used for fishing. In November of the same year, Anna fell pregnant. John was infuriated, although he never showed it. He would later confess that Gracie was enough of a burden on him and that he didn’t want to have another child. He thought back to the spear gun. He had never had an interest in fishing beforehand so why did he purchase it? He practised shooting in his back garden.

On Monday the 21st of March, 2004, the family went to a family picnic to celebrate a nephew’s birthday. Nobody noticed that anything was untoward with John; he appeared to be the doting husband. The following morning, Anna took Gracie to nursery and made plans to meet up with a friend in a couple of days. The last interaction she had with another person other than her husband was the following day, when she called her private health care provider and enquire about adding their unborn baby to their health cover.

On Tuesday night, Anna went to bed as usual. John, however, had something much more sinister in mind. He went to the garage and retrieved the spear gun he had purchased. He came back to the bedroom and shot his pregnant wife in the left temple. Not dying instantly like he had expected, he shot her once again before covering her bloody body with a blanket. He then went downstairs to sleep on the sofa. The following morning, John took Gracie to nursery as usual. He created an elaborate lie that Anna had ran off with another man and said she would be back to pick up Gracie.

John realised he needed to make Gracie disappear to solidify his lies. He returned to his wife’s body to remove the spears but they were lodged into her skull; he went to the same sports store as before and purchased more. On the evening of the 27th of March, John downed copious amounts of whisky before creeping into his disabled daughters bedroom, armed with the same spear gun he shot his wife with. As Gracie slept in her cot, John aimed at her head and pulled the trigger. It lodged in her skull but didn’t penetrate deep enough to kill her. The terrified toddler began to scream and cry. John rushed downstairs to retrieve more spears and shot her again. This too didn’t kill the defenceless little girl so John violently pulled the spear from his daughter’s head and shot her for a forth time, finally killing her.

John wrapped Gracie’s body in tarpaulin, blind in duct tape. He disposed of her in a landfill. He dismembered Anna’s body with a chainsaw and disposed of her in the same landfill. John kept up his lie for three months; he went on television and begged for information regarding their whereabouts and begged his wife to come home with little Gracie. Eventually, his lies started to crumble all around him. He then confessed to the gruesome murders and was sentenced to life imprisonment.

anonymous asked:

It's a beautiful day for first kisses, bless. My (recent) favorite first kiss thing to think about is John dropping a soft kiss to the top of Sherlock's curly head out of habit. Like every morning John kisses Rosie's little head while she's sitting at her highchair on his way to the coffee pot, and one morning he presses his lips to Sherlock's head and he freezes when he he realizes he's got a face full of frizzy Sherlock bedhead and they like, stay frozen that way for a full minute

lolololol love that domestic bliss

these moments | john shelby

@ateliefloresdaprimavera wanted, and I quote: “happy,married to the love of his life John and [reader] who’s like a daughter to Polly”

hope you like it, hun!

You marched down the street, half angry, half exhausted. Groups of kids were running up and down and you cast an eye out to check whether any of yours were there. Men tipped their caps to you as you passed and you barged your shoulder into Polly’s front door, slamming it behind you.

“I got fucking fired, didn’t I?”

“Lovely to see you too, sweetheart. Sit yourself down. Kettle’s just boiled, you can explain yourself”

You huffed, yanking your scarf off and chucking it over the back of a chair.

“Thanks Pol. Where’s the kids?”

“John’s got them”

“John’s got them?”

Polly cast a look up to you as she brewed the pot and smirked when she saw your confused look.

“He was showing Katie her numbers and the rest wouldn’t let them be, you know what they’re like”

“Sorry, no, go back – John’s got the kids? By himself?”

She chuckled to herself and slid a cup over to you.

“Sit yourself down. And explain”

Keep reading

The Drowning at a Party.

Meet me at Bart’s. Drowning at a party. Lestrade treating it as suspicious. - SH

Sounds thrilling but I’m busy. - JW

Mrs Hudson will watch Rosie. I know you’re at Speedy’s. Again. I’ll meet you outside in 5. - SH

John sighed as he stared at his not-so baby girl, and more screeching toddler. The books were right about that part.  

“Well let’s get you upstairs shall we. Daddy has to go and babysit his other child.” He leaned over and tugged Rosie’s cheek and she giggled loudly as he picked her up out of the high chair.


“Ah Molly, I was wondering what was taking you so long.” Sherlock called, he hadn’t even turned to see who it was, but the lanky bastard always had a knack for knowing people by their footsteps.

John briefly glanced at Molly, and then once more when he noticed her lab coat didn’t seem to be drowning her petite frame due to a small rounded bump hidden under a large maroon jumper. It had only been a month since he last saw her hadn’t it? He cocked his head in confusion and he caught what he imagined was his own expression mirrored on Lestrade’s face. Although Lestrade seemed to be eyeing him questionably.  

John just shrugged his shoulders in response and Lestrade mouthed the word ‘Tom’ to him. Now John knew that door had definitely been closed, locked and bolted. Once again he shrugged and Lestrade looked back to Molly again. John only just realised that Sherlock had been watching the  whole exchange, staring at the two of them like they were chimps in a zoo. John coughed and Lestrade shuffled his feet back towards the body. Both of their heads hung like reprimanded school boys.

“So, male victim, Ross Hall, 29, found dead in a pool at a party held for lifeguards celebrating no deaths this summer.” Lestrade started as he stood at the head of the body, Molly pulled back the sheet as he spoke.  

“You have got to be kidding me.” John whispered and laughed, mostly to himself, but he felt three sets of eyes suddenly glare at him.

“The only suspicion is the bruising to the back of his head.” Lestrade continued. “We wondered if it was-“

“Intentional? Don’t be ridiculous. I assume that even by your detective skills you found a small clear sealable bag in the mans back pocket, lined with a substance formed from the coca plant. Cocaine for those here who haven’t had much dealings with recreational drug use in their life.” Sherlock may have addressed the room but he was definitely glaring directly at John at that last part.

“And if you had even bothered to look at the photos of the crime scene I could actually be doing something much more productive with my time than spending it here with you lot.” John watched as Molly’s head bowed a little.  

“I thought you gave up on that blog post about the analysis of tobacco ash?” Sherlock didn’t bother to acknowledge John’s comment instead he held out his phone with the photo he had pulled up on Google images for the three of them to see.

“I actually thought to look up the location of the incident on the taxi ride here. And would you look at that in all of point seventy sixth of a second we have our answer. Come on Lestrade you can’t be telling me you didn’t pick up on the rocky water feature at the side of the pool? You know the glaringly obvious beacon in plain view.” His voice was thick with boredom.

“There was no sign the victim-“ Lestrade was silenced before he could barely begin.

“Fell onto the feature. Please, spare me. If you had bothered to even attempt to do your job today, you would have known this was just an accident.” Sherlock droned on as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

“You can see that the feature is made from granite, to be precise. How awfully ornamental. Anyways, said victim had clearly snorted a line too many, but he intended to go for a swim on his own because he had already taken his shoes and pants off and they were most definitely dry. Terrible idea, I don’t condone it myself. Obviously, he lost his balance after taking off said trousers and fell back. His head hit the granite, without causing a bleed, which is possible Lestrade. Oh and if you bothered to compare it to the photo of the crime scene you’d clearly see the point five of a millimetre crack in the stone.” Sherlock held up his phone against a photo he’d snatched out of Greg’s pocket. John struggled to see the difference. Then again Sherlock always seemed to have an unnatural magnification ability when it came to detail.

“I mean come on I’ve seen harder Spot the Difference puzzles in a children’s magazine.” He replaced his phone back into his pocket and thrust the photo back into Greg’s hand. “So there it is. One coked up and drowned party guest.” Sherlock finished his statement and looked so bored John could imagine he probably wished it was he who was the one who had smashed his head and drowned.

“I’m sorry we wasted your time Molly. It seems Lestrade was looking for an excuse to get out of the office, no surprise when Sally Donovan is your partner.” With that he seemed to give Molly some sort of warming smile. John had definitely not seen that one before. But when Sherlock looked back towards Lestrade and himself it was replaced with his usual flat lined expression.

“No foul play here. Just a victim of a terrible irony. How sad. Now have you got anything actually worthy of me being dressed today or can I go back to being naked in my bed sheet?” He stared straight through Lestrade and John swore he saw a blush creep up over Molly’s features.

“That’s it for-“  

“Thank you, Greg. Maybe next time check you have inserted your neurons when you get out of bed in the morning.” Sherlock turned on his heels and was heading for the door when Lestrade, who seemed to ignore Sherlock’s comment, turned to Molly who was preparing the body to be placed back into refrigeration.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, when are you due.” That seemed to make Sherlock stop dead at the door.

“Oh, no it’s fine honestly, it’s getting past the point where I can hide it now. But I’m around sixteen weeks, I’m due in March.” She smiled sheepishly, laughing intermittently between her sentences out of awkwardness John suspected.  

“So, are you and the fath-“

“I’m sure Molly has better things to be doing than making small talk with you Lestrade. You know, like her actual job, whom unlike you she is rather more competent at.” Greg looked a little fed up after being cut off by Sherlock for the fourth time today. Rather than giving Sherlock another opportunity to silence him he held up his hands in defeat, waved to Molly and John and not so accidentally shoulder barged Sherlock as he pushed through the door.

“I know it’s been a while, but you should come over some time. Rosie will be thrilled to see you.” John spoke softly to Molly.

“Yeah, that sounds wonderful. How is she?” Molly’s eyes gleamed with the promise of Rosie cuddles.

“Acting too much like a two year old for a twenty month old baby.” Molly laughed, genuinely this time and her hands came to rest on her stomach. Sherlock sighed loudly from by the door and John gave Molly a look that only those special enough to know Sherlock on a personal level would understand.

“I’ll text you later. Take care Molly.” John reached out and touched her upper arm before turning to the door to see Sherlock had already left through it. By the time he had caught up to him, they were almost at the exit.  

“You know, you can huff and puff as much as you like, you didn’t have to come today. You knew that was nowhere near a seven, so why bother?” John called from behind him.

“August is such a boring month. I mean where are the murders? It’s like someone flicked a switch and all people want to do is commit petty fraud and adultery.” Sherlock threw his head backwards in frustration.

“Yes because that it so terrible… but is this why you’ve been so frustrated recently? It’s the closest you’ve got to a potential murder in weeks so you wanted to check it out, even though you knew it wasn’t anything more than a drug induced accident. I’m starting to think you just like seeing dead bodies.” Sherlock looked down at him with his trademark smirk and took off towards the road, John hurried behind as per usual until he reached his friend’s side as they stood waiting on the curb.

“So, Molly Hooper’s pregnant.” John grinned impishly up at his friend, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed back at him.

“Yes John, no need to state the obvious.” Sherlock mumbled as he quickly pulled out his phone to check the time.

“Know, I mean come on. Who do you reckon is the father? Unless you already know, which you probably do.” John asked eagerly, convinced Sherlock would have some insight on the situation.

“You’re very good at asking questions John. Maybe you should use that wonderfully honed skill of yours and ask Molly yourself.” Sherlock had clearly tired quickly of this conversation, as his attention became absorbed by phone and his rather pathetic looking inbox.

“Suit yourself.” John muttered to himself as he pulled back his coat sleeve to check his watch. After he was reassured they were well within the time he told Mrs Hudson he would be back in to pick up Rosie, he rolled his shoulders back and stared across the road. A young woman with a child of no more than two years old were sat sharing a chocolate ice cream on a bench at the bus stop.  

John thought back to Molly. They had lost touch a little bit since Sherringford. Molly seemed to throw herself in to work, similarly to himself. Her shifts never seemed to match up to child sociable hours. And with the lack of murders, thankfully, there were less frequent visits to the morgue.  

But pregnant?  

I mean he couldn’t remember her bringing up her love life. He was no fan of womanly gossip, but he definitely couldn’t recall her speaking of a new love interest. Sherlock jostled beside him as he dropped his phone back into his pocket as a black cab came into view.

Anyways, she seemed delighted about the baby, so John concluded he had no reason not to be happy for her and he smiled to himself. By the looks of her she would have her baby by the end of winter, maybe spring time if she was around the gestation period he assumed by her bump. If all things went well, maybe Rosie would have a playmate in a couple of years time.

“She’s sixteen weeks and four days.” Sherlock spoke to the air in front of him.

“What?” John asked out in confusion.

“One hundred and sixteen days to be exact. And her due date is the twelfth of March. I told you before you think too loud.” Sherlock shouted as he flagged down a cab.  

Hang on.  


John sat back in his armchair and rubbed the bridge of his nose as a dull ache throbbed behind his eye sockets. Since Sherlock’s disclosure of Molly’s imminent arrival, John felt as if his best friend may have been hiding something. That night after they had been to the morgue the thought hit him like a big, red London bus as he made himself his last cup of tea for the night. As the kettle clicked, the spoon in John’s hand bounced off of the kitchen top.  

What if it’s Sherlock?

The thought had haunted John for the next few weeks as John wrestled with theories in his head. Now Sherlock wouldn’t like to admit it, but if there’s one thing he had in common with his brother it was that they were both good at knowing things about other people. 

The likeliness of this scenario was that Molly was considered a close friend to Sherlock. Even after the events of Sherringford the pair seemed to have resolved their differences. They told John they were strictly friends. Completely platonic. John doubted this at first, after all he saw Sherlock break into pieces in that room. Yet, the dust eventually settled. Quite literally. As 221b was restored to its former bachelor pad glory and Sherlock and Molly resumed their working relationship. He suspected Sherlock wanted to know as much about Molly’s ‘situation’ because that’s just who Sherlock Holmes was.

He had always thought that maybe Ms Adler had worked her way back into his clutches. Her text tone had been very active as of late, he had noted. He always thought something was going on between them. None of it made any sense, until today happened.  

Molly had been over earlier to see Rosie again. He wasn’t sure whether it was the pregnancy hormones or the fact that Rosie was such a delightful baby, but Molly had been over a lot in the past few weeks since he’d seen her in Bart’s. The odd time that Molly had been over, Sherlock occasionally stopped by. This included today’s visit. What got to John was that Sherlock didn’t seem to be coming over to see him. He spent most of his time watching Molly with Rosie. Occasionally he would pick Rosie up, point and spout dictionary definitions of inanimate objects littered around the living room. Apart from that, he would sit on the sofa with his legs crossed and observe.

It was when John had excused himself for ten minutes, to put the endless pile of washing away, he returned to the most peculiar sight. Molly was sat in the arm chair, Rosie curled awkwardly into her side and around her bump as Molly read her ‘Guess How Much I Love You.’

He hovered in the doorway, unseen by both Sherlock and Molly that he felt like an intruder in his own home. As Molly performed the actions in the book, stretching her arms out wide, Rosie copied her every move. The pair were absorbed in each other; Sherlock was absorbed by them. He watched onwards and when Molly turned her head to look at Sherlock sat opposite her, he returned such a tender and open smile that John was convinced he was an imposter.  

He was momentarily sucked into whatever this thing was between his two friends, the door creaked with his weight and the moment vanished in the blink of an eye. Sherlock stood promptly, dusted off invisible crumbs from his sleeve and Molly focused her attention back to Rosie who was starting to doze against her shoulder.  

Sherlock left without barely a word, just buttoned up his suit jacket, nodded once at John and left swiftly. Not long after Sherlock’s departure, Molly stood with Rosie still firmly attached to her. John got the message and took Rosie out of her arms as Molly put on her jacket. She made her excuses, it was her second ultrasound scan in the morning and she wanted to be well rested. She kissed both John and Rosie on the cheek and left quietly.

So now John felt he needed to put this to bed once and for all. He knew that if he asked Molly directly, she would probably deny it. And Sherlock? Well he didn’t know where to begin with that conversation. Instead, he formulated a plan to try and answer the mystery which had plagued him for weeks.  


John couldn’t believe he was doing this. Who did he think he was? James Bond? He almost scoffed. He couldn’t resist, what he saw yesterday required a much deeper investigation. He knew Molly had her appointment at ten at the UCL Hospital this morning. He was always glad that Molly blabbed too much when she was nervous or uncomfortable, like last night. If he suspected what he thought was happening, then a certain curly haired, lanky git would also be there too.  

He had dropped Rosie off with Mrs Hudson for the morning. He loved her dearly but she would most definitely be a hindrance in his task. He got to the hospital relatively early and managed to find a cafe just outside the entrance to the maternity ward. After twenty minutes he saw Molly half waddle half walk down the corridor and straight past John and through the doors to the ward. John kept the broadsheet over his face until the door to the ward had almost closed behind her.

Okay, so she was alone. But John knew Sherlock better than that. He knew that if Sherlock rocked up to a hospital with a pregnant woman on his arm the media would have a field day. If he entered on his own, it was less suspicious. Almost as if on cue, not five minutes later, he breezed in from a different direction to Molly. Of course he probably used an inconspicuous entrance.  

John felt so smug with himself for being right that he almost forgot what his investigation may just have proven. Molly was, quite possibly, pregnant with Sherlock’s baby. John’s stomach sank like a stone and he suddenly felt hot and uncomfortable. He stood from the cheap MDF chair, walked out of the hospital and all the way back to Baker Street.  

He heard music and giggles coming from Mrs Hudson’s flat, but he didn’t stop in to say hi. He marched straight up the stairs and sat in his old chair and waited. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed but when Sherlock eventually returned home he all but raced up the stairs like a gazelle and his face was beaming until he turned around to see John sat staring at him.

“Ah, John. Have you come to tell me you’ve fixed the visitor counter on your site again? I noticed it must have been off a few week’s back.” Sherlock mumbled as he shrugged out of his Belstaff.

“It’s you. You’re the father of Molly Hooper’s child.” John proclaimed loudly, and he watched as Sherlock glanced to the door.

“And finally the penny has dropped.” Sherlock answered unenthusiastically as he hung up his coat.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not my problem you’re so obtuse.” Sherlock all but collapsed into his chair. He popped the button on his suit jacket as he leaned back into the cushion.

“Hang on. You were trying to tell me? But Irene Adler? The text tone?” John questioned.

“A red herring. Oh and it’s surprisingly easy to set a provocative text tone onto one of your contacts.” Sherlock examined his fingernails.

“So all this time. All this time you were messaging Molly, not Irene Adler.” John struggled to hide the shock in his voice.

“Well, for the past six months. Yes. I pretty much had to plant the seed, otherwise I never thought you’d get there.” Sherlock shot John a demeaning glance.

“So you mean at Bart’s, with the drown victim?” John sat forward in his chair.

“Yes, of course John, do keep up.” Sherlock exhaled loudly and rubbed his brow.

“You dragged me to Bart’s because you knew I would see Molly and start to suspect who the father was.” John could feel himself becoming more frustrated.

“I wouldn’t say I dragged you.”

“You didn’t think to just sit me down, preferably with a pint, and tell me ‘oh guess what John, I knocked Molly Hooper up’ that would have been the much easier thing to do.” John’s voice became elevated with anger.

“But where’s the fun in that?”

“You know not everything has to be a game Sherlock. And this - this baby is most definitely not a game. Neither is Molly’s life.” He was aware he sounded angry and his tone was harsh, but Sherlock had gone too far.  

“I would never treat my child or the mother of my child like a game. Is that really what you think of me?” Sherlock shot up from his chair. The mood changed so suddenly, like someone had flicked a light switch. John felt slightly threatened by his best friend as he towered over him.  

“I-I thought you two we-were-“ John stuttered out of shock.

“Completely platonic? We were for the most.” Sherlock composed himself, calmly sitting back into his chair. His fingers tapped the ends of the arms.

“Yes. I mean when did this all happen?” John asked softly. He relaxed further back into his chair.

“One hundred and thirty five days ago, if you wanted to-“  

“No, Sherlock, I don’t mean the conception of your child. I mean you and Molly.” Sherlock seemed to pause slightly at this.

“Two nights after Sherringford.” John knew that this was all he was going to get out of him on this topic. He also knew better than to ask how the child was conceived. He didn’t want to think about-

“It was the biological way.” John’s thoughts were interrupted.

“I’m sorry?”  

“The baby. It was conceived through sexual intercourse. Honestly John, you may as well stream your thoughts across your forehead on a ticker banner.” Sherlock tossed his eyes back into his head.

“I wasn’t going to ask. But, erm, congratulations? I mean is it congratulations because you haven’t given much indication towards your feelings on the situation.” John pried a little more.  

“It’s not planned if that’s what you’re suggesting? Although I do feel a sense of accomplishment at passing down fifty percent of my genetic makeup to a member of the next generation. I never thought I’d find it exciting, but pregnancy is fascinating. Plus, Molly gets the baby she always wanted, and my parents get the grandchild they never thought they’d have. Also, the sex was surprisingly not as vanilla as I would have expected from Molly. She has got quite a tongue-“

“Honestly, Sherlock. There is no need to paint a picture.” John stared at the latest pending member of the fatherhood club. This was definitely Eurus’ fault. “So, do you have any plans?” John posed the question with the tone of a life councilor.

“Of course. She’s going to stay at her flat, raise the baby there. It’s three bedroomed, plenty of space and not to mention somewhat more suitable for an infant.” John watched as Sherlock’s eyes darted around the flat.

“And you’re going to remain living here? Is this what you want or what Molly wants?” John tried to wrap his head around the situation. Did Sherlock think the baby was going to be a compulsory hobby for the next eighteen years?

“Molly understands the nature of my work. My life has always been unpredictable and there are people who know me who don’t like me or what I do. People who would like to see me hurt.” John registered his friend’s words carefully.  

“Ah. You’re protecting them. You don’t want people to know the baby is yours. This is why you’ve both been very hush hush about the pregnancy. That also explains the text tone. You were throwing people off of the scent.” Sherlock cleared his throat and sat up straight in his chair.  

“We both agreed it’s probably for the best, for the first few months anyway. I don’t want my child becoming mindless brain fodder in any form of media outlet.” John looked understandingly at Sherlock. “For the first few weeks, I will stay at Molly’s. As often as I can. I will still take on cases; Domestic only. Apparently babies are a leech on ones wallet.”

“And then…” John spread his hands out in the air in a questioning gesture.

“I’ll move back here. See Molly and the baby a few times a week, take on more cases and eventually get back into the good stuff, I suppose.” Sherlock, sat firmly back into his chair, seemingly impressed with his answer.

“You suppose? The woman you confessed your love to, albeit forced, is going to give birth to and raise your child and you’re going to stay here and play Consultant Detective like always? Do you want my honest opinion?” John asked forcefully. There was no way he was leaving without throwing his tuppence worth into the ring.

“I’ve never not been with you.” Sherlock sniffed and turned his head away.

“I don’t think you’ll want to move back. Irregardless of what you think about people wanting to hurt you. You know your brother would always watch out for your family.” Sherlock looked directly at him as he spoke that final word. “I think you think you can just waltz in and play happy families for a few weeks and then detach yourself. Trust me if you can hold that baby in your arms and honestly turn to me and say you can walk away from them, then I don’t know you at all Sherlock Holmes. You’re not the lone wolf you think you are.” John followed Sherlock’s gaze. He was looking at a photo frame from Rosie’s christening. He remembered Mrs Hudson bringing it up once the refurbishment was complete. John smiled as he cast his eyes over his late wife, then he looked to Sherlock and Molly stood side by side.  

"Do you love her?” The question seemed to hang in the air.

“Why are you so obsessed with trying to get me to play happy families?” Sherlock sounded bored, but John could tell he’d unsettled something within the Consultant Detective.

“Because you have a chance to grasp something I once had; happiness.” John could feel himself becoming moved. Memories of Mary flooded his thoughts.

“Are you saying I’m not happy now?” Sherlock asked defensively, he pulled his hands down into his lap.

“No, I don’t think you’re as happy as you could be. You can have it all, you know? The job you’ve always loved and a family who will love you unconditionally. You’re a good man, Sherlock. But I really do think this is your last opportunity.” John recognised the look that cast a shadow over Sherlock’s face. He stood up and walked over to his friend and crouched next to him.

“You’re scared you’ll fail.” Sherlock cast John a glance. His quietness spoke more than his words ever could in this moment. “I’m not saying it will be easy, because it won’t. I don’t expect Molly or the baby to give you an easy ride either. If there’s one thing I know about you Sherlock Bloody Holmes is you are not a failure.” He firmly patted his hand on his friend’s back reassuringly.  

Sherlock didn’t respond at first. His hand moved to the inside of his jacket pocket and withdrew a small black and white photograph and he sat and stared at it for a small while. John watched quietly from beside him. Sherlock’s face was blank but John knew the cog’s in his mind were working overtime. He hoped he was filing this memory away in that palace of his. Then John did the last thing he expected himself to do and he laughed.  

“I’m sorry. Did I miss the punchline?” Sherlock stirred from his trance and raised one of his large bushy eyebrows.

“No, I just imagined you arms deep in a shit filled nappy.”


John took the stairs two at a time as he proceeded up the endless concrete steps. At the top, the fire door was propped open with a plastic chair and John smirked. He pushed the chair aside and walked onto the roof as the London sky line twinkled in the backdrop. The sharp Spring night air stung at his face. The figure leaning over the railings hadn’t acknowledged his presence, just kept staring out into the city, a cigarette dangling from his lips.  

John walked up beside him and reached into the pockets of his jacket and removed two whisky glasses and a hip flask. The clink of the glasses caused the tall figure to turn and look towards him.

“What are you doing?” He questioned as John placed the glasses on the ledge and poured two equal, and very strong, measurements of whiskey.

“A toast.” John answered as he handed Sherlock a glass.

“A toast?” Sherlock echoed, John nodded and joined his friend against the railings.

“To fatherhood. A thankless job with ridiculous hours and a shit wage.” He clinked his glass with Sherlock’s and let the liquor run smooth and warm down his throat. Sherlock hesitated a moment, stubbed out his cigarette then swilled the glass twice before mimicking John and polishing off the amber liquid.  

“He’s a cracker, Sherlock.” John watched as Sherlock’s lips turned upwards and he looked so proud and dare he say it, content. They stayed silent for a moment. John watched out of the corner of his eye as the emotions of pure love, adoration, fear and terror passed over Sherlock’s face all at once. The same expressions he had once worn a time ago.

“Are you going to ask me?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Ask you what?” John feigned ignorance, but he knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking.

“Well I know I’m not holding my son in my arms but-“  

“If you could still walk away? Well could you?” A brief silence followed John’s question and a sharp breeze cut through them like a knife.

“No. No, I couldn’t. Just being up on this roof is torture, but I’ve never needed a smoke so much in all of my life. Plus, Mycroft has his army of baboons littered like roaches all over the building, which rules out the main entrances.” Sherlock shared one of his rare bedazzling smiles. John laughed and clapped his friend on the back. He knew that Sherlock was grateful deep down of the security his brother provided.

“Mrs Hudson is going to secretly miss having you around.” John spoke sadly, although his tone was lighthearted. Sherlock continued to smile out into the city. John knew then Sherlock had made his decision.

“I’m also ruling out domestic cases for the next eight weeks at least. You know newborns can recognise their parent’s faces by the time they are two months old?” Sherlock spoke with the excitement of a child in a sweet shop. John responded instantly with a knowing smile, sharing his friend’s excitement of his newfound fatherhood.

“You’re going to be bloody fantastic, Sherlock Holmes.”

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

Soldier Boy

Pairing: John Laurens x reader
Word Count: 2,261ish
T/W: Smut
A/N: You asked, I listened. (Special shout out to my Groffsauce Anon♡)
Tags: @justfangirlingaround ✨  @iworshipmusicals ✨  (I remembered!)

Today was the day! You were picking up John from the airport. He was coming home to you after two long years! His military service had him deployed half way across the world from you. He got to call and occasionally facetime, for christmas and special holiday, but it wasn’t the same as physically having him home. You constantly worried if he was safe or if he was alive, but the worrying was over! You made plans for Peggy to stop by to go with you to their airport, afraid you might get lost. John’s flight wasn’t coming in until that night, so you were at home, 100% ready to go, just waiting. You made some tea in the kitchen when you heard the front door open.

“Hey, Peggy, I’m ready my shoes are just-” your breath hitched as you rounded the corner, “John!”

You ran into his arms, he lifted you off the ground, holding onto you tightly. He had already dropped his bag by the front door, so his arms were free to cling onto you. Gently setting you back on the ground you still had your arms around his neck in a tight hug, refusing to let him go. You started to cry, actually feeling him in your arms, and against your neck. You said ‘you’re home’ over and over again through tears.

“Hey, baby!” he said, breathing in your scent, he had missed for so long. 

You pulled back to capture his lips, crying into the kiss. He kissed back harder, moving his hands down your back and to your waist. He brought you closer against him as you held his face in your hands, careful to not break the kiss. You moaned a little into the kiss as your hips met his. You felt a heat start to rise in you, and he could tell. 

“It’s been two years,” he spoke in a husky voice, “two years, since I’ve felt you, tasted you, loved you.” 

Your breath began to quicken as you undid his military jacket, he helped you out with a few of the buckles and buttons, sliding it off his shoulders. Underneath was an olive green fitted shirt, you didn’t bother with that yet. He picked you up in one swift motion, you wrapped your legs around his waist, he walked down the hallway, stopping to press you back against a wall, your hands messed his hair as you fiercely kissed each other. Breaking the kiss, he growled, turning you on even more. You pushed your hips against him. His hands came to your blouse, beginning with the top button, but he gave up rather quickly, opting to literally rip it open instead. You arched your back, hearing the buttons fall to the floor and feeling his lips against your collarbone.

“John,” your nails dug into his shoulder, while he reached around you to unclasp your bra. 

He tugged your shirt off, and your bra quickly following. His kisses started at the base of your neck, working to the swell of your breasts. you moaned, dropping your head back against the wall, while he worked magic on you with his mouth. Coming back up, he kissed your lips.

“I want more skin,” you whispered tugging at his shirt. 

He complied, though he wanted to just rip everything off you at once, he remembered you hadn’t see him in two years. Setting you on the ground, he tugged the t-shirt off, revealing another layer, a classic white tank top. You took this time to unbutton and slide off your jeans. You eyed him as you saw his toned biceps and and collarbones now exposed. 

“I’ve missed you,” you wrapped your arms around his neck. 

“I’ve missed you, too,” his arms came around you again. 

“Show me,” you whispered. 

He pushed you back against the wall, hands sliding down your back. You began kissing at his collarbone, hearing him moan, he squeezed your ass, making you pause for a moment biting your lip before continuing to suck and kiss at his skin. He pushed his hips against yours, you rocked back against him. You, yourself became even more aroused feeling his length harden underneath his uniform. You ground hard against him, gaining another low moan from him. 

“Shit-” he whispered, closing his eyes as you nipped at the base of his neck, rubbing your hands down his back. 

“John, I want you,” you said looking up at him with bambi eyes.

Your scent changed. He picked you up once again, carrying you to the bedroom. He gently laid you against the bed, you crawled to the middle as he removed the last layer keeping you from his bare chest. He grabbed your ankle, pulling you back towards him a little, evoking an excited giggle from you as you turned onto your back. He came over you, resting on his forearms. You gasped feeling his bare chest against yours, finally. His lips kissed the column of your neck. You spread your legs, letting his hips hit against yours, once again. Running your nails up his back you felt his gorgeous back muscles flexing. Bringing your hands to his sides, he lifted himself off you, letting your hands run down his chest. 

“John,” you said shocked, feeling his toned abs. 

“That’s what the army’ll do to you,” he whispered against your neck, “and it’s all yours.”

You moaned closing your eyes and biting your lip. He was all yours. Yours and yours only. Your hand found his hair and gripped at his locks. When you first met he had long poofy hair, but after joining the military he had cut it shorter, still long enough for you to tug at though. He whispered a curse against your skin, feeling your hands on him. Capturing your lips in a kiss, he caressed your jawline with one hand, rubbing his thumb against your cheek. His tongue slipped between your lips, as you willingly parted them for him. The kiss was hot and heavy.

“Damn, baby-” John dropped his head a little as you reached a hand down to palm him. 

“I need you,” you smiled to yourself, “Daddy.”

That got his attention immediately. it had been two years since he had heard you call him that. Two long, sexually frustrating years. His mood changed from sweet to he was determined to have you seeing stars and screaming his name. 

“Mmm, baby girl,” he hummed, a name you hadn’t heard in two years. 

He removed himself from you a little, slipping your panties off and tossing them to the side. He unbuckled his belt and undid his pants, just enough to release his hard cock. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, as he ran two fingers up your wet folds, you gasped. He pumped himself twice before lining up with you. Leaning back over you, slowly pushing into you. 

“Oh my g- John, fuck!” you squeezed your eyes closed and dug your nails into his biceps, enjoying the feeling of him inside you after so long. 

“Goddamn, baby-” John dropped his head against your shoulder, feeling you tight around him. 

You brought your knees up to his sides, waiting to adjust to his size, you shuddered a little, feeling him twitch once he was fully inside you. He gave you a moment to adjust, but quickly began to move inside you. He kept his uniform pants on, and you felt the cold metal of the belt against your skin, sending shivers across your body. You gasped at the beautiful sensation. It felt like heaven. He returned to kissing your neck. 

“Mmm, Daddy,” you bit your lip.

John growled, tugging at your hair, causing you to arch your neck a little more giving him more openness to suck at. Your hands move to his shoulder blades. His other hand travelled down your side, dragging his nails down your thigh hearing you moan. You brought you legs around his waist. 

“Oh god-” you tried to keep quiet. 

John began to slam into you harder, sure to leave bruises against your thighs. And you didn’t mind one bit, in fact it felt good. His nails dug into your hip and he moved his lips down to your collarbone. Nipping at the tender skin. He sucked back up your neck leaving bruises along the way. You got chills as he ran his tongue across the red marks, soothing them. When his mouth met yours he slid his tongue along your bottom lip before biting at it. 

His hips hit hard against yours, you felt the bed shake underneath you. You closed your eyes taking in every part of this moment. You had waited so long, and it was like nothing had changed. He still knew how to love you, perfectly. He shifted his hips, driving his cock into you harder. You felt a tight heat start in your core. With the way John was pulling your hair and biting your lip you knew you wouldn’t last long. 

“Do you know how long I’ve been wanting this?” John growled, tightening his grip on your hair, “Do you know how many nights I dreamed about fucking you?”

Your chest began to heave as he whispered what he imagined while he was away. His thrusts became harder and harder, causing your hips to bounce up a little every time he slammed into you. You began to whimper. He pushed your hips down to meet his and you gasped, feeling the heat become more intense. You reached a hand into his hair and pulled a little, gaining a low moan from John. His nails sure to leave crescent shaped bruises into your skin. You felt a sensation of tension, just as it snapped. He had found your g-spot.

“John!” you screamed, nails clinging to his shoulders.

“That’s it, baby! Fuck-” 

“Oh god, yes!” you yelled nearly crying. 

John watched as you bit your lip and squeezed your eyes closed. You swore you were seeing stars. A single tear falling. Your mouth dropped open as you were speechless gasping for you at the wave of pleasure that had just hit you. He kissed you on your open mouth. You were in paradise, every thrust felt like pure pleasure. Your toes curled as he continued pounding into you. Your legs began to shake, squeezing your knees hard against his sides. You clawed at his back, panting his name, pulling him down closer to you. 

“Shit baby-” John panted, his breath warm on your skin. 

“Right there, right there- Fuck!” you felt the peak of your orgasm hit, “Don’t stop!”

John kept his hard and fast pace, making your orgasm last longer. You screamed his name shamelessly along with curses and he adored it, kissing your neck and growling. Feeling himself getting closer and closer to his release. 

“Goddamn, baby girl, fuck-” he moaned.

You were still shaking against him as he dropped his head to the crook of your neck, you could feel his hot breath on your skin.  You had come down from your high and wanted to get him to his. You pushed your hips harder against his every time he pushed into you. You whimpered a little at the now sensitive feeling. Just as he loved hearing you whimper and moan; his quick breaths sounded beautiful to you as you drug your nails down his back, sure to have broken some skin by now.

“Fuck!” he yelled, in a rough voice, closing his eyes from the slight pain, but enjoying it none the less. 

You whispered something in his ear, causing him to go over the edge, he panted your name letting go of your hair a little. You kissed the crook of his neck as his orgasm hit, releasing into you. You gently grazed your fingertips down his sides, as he brought both forearms on either side of you to support himself. Your hands came to his chest, feeling how it rose and fell. You could feel his heart beat. 

“God, I’ve missed you,” he said, catching his breath a little, before holding your jawline in his hand and capturing you into another heated kiss. 

“I missed you, John, everything about you,” you smiled pushing some hair out of his face. 

After a while of calming down. He pulled out and you winced at the loss of friction. He stood off the bed, re-buttoning and buckling his pants. You sat up and bit your lip admiring his shirtless frame and the way his pants sat at his waist. There was a slight glisten to his abs and his biceps. Turning around you saw the red marks you had left of his back. His muscles look absolutely perfect.

“What?” he turned around to see you. 

“You planned it with Peggy, didn’t you?” you asked.

“Yeah,” John admitted pulling his belt tight, “ya know, it’s not nice to stare.”

“I can’t help it when you look so sexy,” you got up, walking over to him and hooking a finger through his belt loop, pulling him against you, as you stood on your tip toes to kiss him. 

“Oh, so the uniform does it for you?” he teased, arching an eyebrow and wrapping his arms around your frame.

“Hey, I bet if you saw me in my camou lace, you’d be pretty turned on too, mister!” you slipped out of his arms, heading for the bathroom, being sure to sway your hips.

John stood speechless for a second, processing what you had just said, before quickly following you. 

“C-camou lace?”

{ sweeter than sugar }

pairing: hamilsquad x reader

t/w: none!

a/n: features more little space and for once, a little reader!

inbox || masterlist

“We’ll be back in a little, darlings.” Laf’s words echoed in your head. “Behave, yes?” 

You, John, and Alex all nodded from where you were cuddled up on the couch. Herc kissed you all goodbye. As soon as the door shut, the three of you sat up a little. 

Keep reading


In May 1979, David Bowie did a two hour radio show called Star Special in which he played some of his favorite records.

Track listing
The Doors, “Love Street”
Iggy Pop, “TV Eye”
John Lennon, “Remember”
? & The Mysterians, “96 Tears”
Edward Elgar, “The Nursery Suite” (extract)
Danny Kaye, “Inchworm”
Philip Glass, “Trial Prison”
The Velvet Underground, “Sweet Jane”
Mars, “Helen Fordsdale”
Little Richard, “He’s My Star”
King Crimson, “21st Century Schizoid Man”
Talking Heads, “Warning Sign”
Jeff Beck, “Beck’s Bolero”
Ronnie Spector, “Try Some, Buy Some”
Marc Bolan, “20th Century Boy”
The Mekons, “Where Were You?”
Steve Forbert, “Big City Cat”
The Rolling Stones, “We Love You”
Roxy Music, “2HB”
Bruce Springsteen, “It’s Hard To Be A Saint In The City”
Stevie Wonder, “Fingertips”
Blondie, “Rip Her To Shreds”
Bob Seger, “Beautiful Loser”
David Bowie, “Boys Keep Swinging”
David Bowie, “Yassassin”
Talking Heads, “Book I Read”
Roxy Music, “For Your Pleasure”
King Curtis, “Something On Your Mind”
The Staple Singers, “Lies”

The Story of Tonight

Pairing: John Laurens x Reader

Summary: John gets drunk and tries to serenade you.

Words: 994

Warnings: drunk!JohnLaurens; drunken confession; fluff


You sat with your friends laughing your asses off. You were sitting in the guy’s apartment watching a video of John drunkenly singing to you.

“Will you guys shut up!” John snapped as he trudged his way out of his room with a pounding headache. The guys giggled like little school girls. You threw your head back and laughed. John threw a glare in you and the guy’s direction. “What’s so funny?” He grumbled as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

“I didn’t know you were into One Direction. I pegged you as a Backstreet Boys kinda guy.” Hercules commented. John rubbed his face.

“What are you talking about?” He asked dumbfounded.

“You mean you don’t remember?” Alexander asked him. John groaned in frustration/

“Remember what?” John snapped.

“You um, kinda sang last night.” You told him.

“More like he…. how you say? Serenaded you?” Lafayette stated. John’s freckled face burned a bright red.

“Aw look he’s blushing.” Hercules teased. You smacked him when you saw how embarrassed John looked.

“So what did I sing?” He asked after gulping down his coffee.

“We recorded it.” Alexander told him gesturing him over. John nervously walked over, thinking about every embarrassing thing he could have done in front of you and it frustrated him that he doesn’t remember.


It was Friday night the boys wanted to go out and invited you to tag along because the boys knew John had a thing for you.

“Hey guys!” You greeted the boys as you slid into the booth besides Lafayette.

“Ah mon ami! Glad you can make it.” Lafayette grinned at you. You smiled back.

“Glad I’m wanted.” You chuckled.

“You’re always wanted here Y/N.” John commented. A light blush crossed your face.

“Thanks.” You chuckled, he grinned. The waitress came around giving everyone a beer. Holding your bottles up, you raised your glass and clinked bottles before you all took one big gulp.

You were still relatively sober after 3 beers while the others were getting out of hand.

“I like you Y/N.” John confessed as he banged his head on the table muttering an ‘ow.’ “You’re really purdy.” He slurred. You just shook your head. He pouted. “What you don’t think I’m serious?” He asked, raising his head.”

“Tell me when you’re sober dork.” You told him. John abruptly stood.

“I’ll prove it to you.” He stumbled out of the booth and made his way to the karaoke station.

“Oh boy this’ll be good.” Alexander stated as he scrambled for his phone.

“Hello.” John said into the mic. Everyone in the place looked at John. “There’s this girl here who doesn’t believe that I like her so Y/N…” He looked right back at you. “This is f-for you.” The song began to play. Your face went red when everyone looked at you.

“Your hand fits in mine like it’s made just for me
But bear this mind it was meant to be
And I’m joining up the dots with the freckles on your cheeks
And it all makes sense to me“ He sang.

“I know you’ve never loved the crinkles by your eyes when you smile
You’ve never loved your stomach or your thighs
The dimples in your back at the bottom of your spine
But I’ll love them endlessly“

It was terribly funny. He couldn’t stand straight and he looked like he was going to pass out.

“I won’t let these little things slip out of my mouth
But if I do, it’s you, oh it’s you, they add up to
I’m in love with you and all these little things.”


“Here’s my favorite part.” Hercules said. Everyone watched as John finished that line and threw up on stage. John shrunk back in embarrassment. His face was burning hot. The boys laughed. It was a good laugh but the when you looked at John you felt guilty for laughing at the video in the first place.

“John, hey it’s okay.” You tell him, placing a hand on his shoulder but he shrugged it off before storming to his bedroom. The room fell silent.

“Shut the video off.” You snapped at Alexander before going to John’s room. “John?” You lightly knock on the door.

“Go away.” You heard. you reach down and twist the knob, luckily it was unlocked. Entering the room you locked the door behind you. John sat there on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands.

Hesitantly you walked over, lowering yourself on the bed besides him. John sniffled gaining your attention.

“Are you okay?” You ask him.

“No, I’m not okay!” His volume of his voice startled you. He sighed in frustration. “Do you know how humiliating it is to do something like that in front of someone you have feelings for?” He asked you. You grabbed his hand, gently pulling it away from his face.

“I do.” He looked up at you.

“What do you mean?” John asked.

“John remember when Jefferson threw that party a few months ago?” He nodded. “i remember being a huge ass, making a fool of myself and I threw up on myself twice and you were the one to take care of me and helped me clean up. That was humiliating for me for you to see that but that didn’t affect how you felt for me. And this….what happened last night doesn’t affect how I feel about you John.” You cupped his face.

“Y-You mean you have….for me?” You giggled.

“Yes John. I have feelings for you.” He lightly grasped your wrists, pulling your hands off his face, moving them so they were holding his. Leaning in his lips brushed against yours before you fully pushed yourself into him. The kiss was perfect, it was sweet. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as you disconnected from one another.

“I really like you.” John said.

“I really like you too.” You smiled.


I noticed an interesting trend ... When Kit plays a very emotional scenes with kisses, often just before the moment he takes in the palm his girl-partner`s face(head).The question is, why it was necessary to take and keep Sansa`s head this way for some time if Sophie is playing Sansa attributable his character - “sister” ….  

Naughty hands, Kit! ;)

Also, John is a  good brother for  Arya. John loves his little sister with all his heart.Note that, as John keeps his head Arya, he take  her by the neck brotherly, do you agree?And now remember how he tenderly holds his hand on the Sansa`s head  And also  again recall  Kit`s other works in which  he plays a man in love) Shipper is glad! Shipper is happy!

sick days

pairing: polyhamilsquad x reader

You had just gotten out of your last class at Colombia. You couldn’t stop coughing and your head was spinning. Clumsily, you reached for your phone in your pocket. You tiredly scrolled through your contacts and finally landed on one.The only boy you knew that would be home would be Lafayette so you called his phone and headed out towards the front of the college.

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Between the lines

Hello hello! So i’m doing a set of missing moments during 3B, there’ll be various interactions between all but the main focus will be on captain swan and their evolving relationship. I hope you like them!

Also can be found on AO3

Moment 1: A question of motive

Set during 3x13. David asks a lot of questions and Hook isn’t too pleased by it. 

David ordered Robin and his men to not to go searching for their newly transformed friend, but to hang tight and stay cautious when heading back out to the woods. Until they knew exactly what they were dealing with, It was best to keep their distance and try to remain safe.

He left them at the hospital as he and an equally stunned Hook made their way across town to the loft in silence.

David’s head was reeling with what he’d just witnessed. Little John had just grown wings and a tail, and flew away before his eyes. He may be from the Enchanted forest, but there were still things even he found hard to grasp.

The man had turned into a flying monkey.

He turned to the pirate beside him who was looking straight ahead, brow set into a frown.

“So that was… he became a flying..”

“Aye. it appears so.”

Something Hook had revealed earlier came rushing back to him as he took in the tension in the man’s posture. David saw an opportunity to get some much needed information about the missing year.

“And that was the same thing that attacked Emma in New York?”

“The very same.”

“The monster she was gonna marry.”

Hook’s step faltered and a flicker of something David couldn’t grasp swept over his face before he schooled his features and turned to the prince.

“Yes. The very same. Shall we continue?” he tried to carry on the journey towards the loft and away from the harrowing conversation unfolding, but David grasped his arm, halting him from going further. Hook let out a frustrated sigh as he stopped, turning his body to face David once more, keeping his bored expression trained on the sky above.

“Tell me what happened.”

“It’s best you ask Emma. It’s her story-”

“I’m asking you.” David pressed. “What happened in New York?”

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when you’re reminded that you cheated on your 30 boyfriends with gold so you’re on the verge of tears but you get signals from your husband that he lowkey knows and is disappointed so you decide to own up to your mistake at the earliest convenient opportunity (i. e. when you’re both on the brink of death and you take him out on a date to check out a whale’s corpse)

{ five’s company // ch. 8 }

a/n: forgive me this took way too long! but i made it a little longer than usual to make up for it. enjoy!

also! thank you for 700 followers! i want to do something special? but idk what? maybe more updates??? a new fic??? i don’t know. i’ll leave my inbox open!

again, thank you thank you thank you! ♡♡♡ xx


You woke up on top of John. Your head was on his chest and he had Alex curled up to his side. Hercules was holding Laf and they were both sleeping soundly. You were all covered in two, big fluffy blankets. You closed your eyes and sighed happily.

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Contributing to the pedals because I know a lot about baseball (thanks dad)

Something has been bothering me about Arakita’s backstory ever since I watched it. We all know Arakita’s promising pitchers career was ended by an elbow injury, right? Well that’s actually a really common injury in baseball. So common that in the 70’s they invented a special surgery (Tommy John Surgery) to essentially reconstruct the pitcher’s tendons and restore them from what would have been an otherwise career ending injury. It restores the hurt pitcher to their pre-injury abilities, and some even claim it actually improves their pitching. Tommy John’s is very common in baseball, and incredibly low-risk to the point that uninjured players will ask for it to try and boost their performance.

So why wouldn’t Arakita get a relatively safe, career saving surgery?? This really bothered me so I decided to do some research and found that Tommy John Surgery isn’t performed on minors because the elbow injury they experience is very different. Instead of the tendons wearing out, minors can actually damage what’s called their “growth plate” in their elbow called Little League Elbow. From what I could read there’s not really a fix for it.

But what this injury can also cause is essentially a pinched nerve that would numb feeling in the pinkie and ring fingers as well as something called “claw hand” where the fingers involuntarily curl when the hand muscles are relaxed.

You know who makes a claw with his hand?

Arakita Fucking Yasutomo.

Head canon: Arakita doesn’t have much feeling in his pinkie and ring finger and makes that “wolf claw” because his pinkie and ring finger curl involuntarily and that looked stupid so he tried to hide it. Because of his baseball injury.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight

“Read!  Read, Daddy, read!”

John couldn’t help laughing as Rosie waved the magazine she’d found on the sitting room floor in Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock’s small, fond smile was enough to make his throat tight.

“Yes, yes, all right, I’ll read to you,” Sherlock said, taking it from her and looking at the cover.  He frowned and looked at John.  “Does she normally want to read your boring medical journals?”

John looked across at him from his end of the sofa.  Sherlock was on the other end, his legs stretched out, his toes just barely pressing against John’s shin where he had his leg bent so he could face them.  Rosie settled herself neatly in between Sherlock and the back of the sofa and poked impatiently at the magazine.  John couldn’t be arsed to care about Sherlock insulting his reading material.

He smiled, and if his voice was softer than normal he honestly didn’t care. “She doesn’t care what you read, Sherlock.  She just wants to hear your voice.”

The small bob of Sherlock’s Adam’s apple was the only sign that John’s words had affected him in any way.  He didn’t reply, simply opened the magazine, found an article that he apparently deemed interesting enough, and began to read.  Rosie giggled and snuggled up closer to Sherlock, and John just watched them.

Rosie was still flushed with fever, but her spirits had improved markedly ever since Sherlock had taken charge of her.  She’d been loathe to take the medicine John had for her, but Sherlock had held her up, putting their faces close together, and explained to her in his very serious and straightforward way that the medicine would no doubt taste awful, but it would make her feel much better.  John hadn’t quite understood how this sort of logic had managed to work on a baby, but he wasn’t going to complain, not when Rosie obligingly opened her mouth and accepted the spoonful of liquid.

Now, as she sat curled up against Sherlock’s side, John watched and wondered exactly how he had ended up here.  Domesticity had never suited him before, not at any point in his life.  His disastrous marriage had been proof of that.  But somehow, here in the warmth and safety of 221B Baker Street, here with Sherlock Holmes reading medical jargon to his daughter, Sherlock’s bony feet nudging against his leg, John couldn’t imagine anyplace that would make him happier.

He’d resisted the temptation to move back into 221B for months because he’d been sure Rosie would disrupt Sherlock’s life.  He wished he could say he finally caved because Sherlock had openly asked him to come back and told him that Rosie wouldn’t be a bother at all.  But really he’d only come back because, selfishly, he wanted to.  He’d missed the mess, the noise, the excitement, the sound of the violin, the bickering, the quiet nights in, the takeaways, the giggling at crime scenes.  He’d missed…Sherlock.

He hadn’t even told Sherlock he was coming back.  He’d just shown up one day and never left.  Sherlock being Sherlock, of course, had seen it coming, and John really shouldn’t have been surprised to find that the flat was already baby-proofed when he got there.  And the rest was history.

And now.  Well, now they were…a family.  Weren’t they?  

John shifted slightly on the sofa, his back twinging where the armrest was digging into it, and Sherlock’s feet pressed more firmly against his shin. Sherlock glanced up at him for just a second, but he didn’t miss a beat in his reading, his voice deep and soothing.  John leaned his head against one hand and smiled at him.  Before he even stopped to think about it, he let his other hand wrap loosely around one of Sherlock’s feet, his thumb tracing along the curved arch.  Sherlock’s voice did falter, then, only barely, but he simply cleared his throat and went on.  If there was, perhaps, a slight pink tinge to his cheeks that hadn’t been there before neither of them mentioned it.

John closed his eyes and listened.  It was absolutely ridiculous that Sherlock’s voice could be such a relaxing sound when he was reading something as tedious as an article on Achilles tear surgery.  But, if John was being honest with himself, he would gladly listen to Sherlock read from the dictionary and it would brighten his day.

Lost as he was in his own thoughts, he only opened his eyes when Sherlock’s foot wiggled in his hand.  Sherlock had stopped reading and was looking at him, and John had the distinct impression that he’d said John’s name several times.

“John, she’s asleep.”

Rosie was indeed fast asleep, her head on Sherlock’s stomach, her tiny little mouth hanging open.

“Right,” John said, shaking himself a little.  He let go of Sherlock’s foot, not missing the way Sherlock’s toes flexed slightly.  “Right, um, let me just get her back into bed then.”

He sat up straighter, stretching a little.  His back cracked painfully, and he winced.

“Let me,” Sherlock said.  “I can pick her up without moving her too much from here.  She won’t wake.”

John looked over at him and then down at Rosie who had one fist curled into the tattered fabric of Sherlock’s shirt.  “Yeah, all right,” he said.  “You do that, and I’ll put on the tea, yeah?”

Sherlock frowned.  “John, it’s two o’clock in the morning.  Aren’t you going back to bed?”

Not without you.  The words flashed in John’s mind, unbidden, and he felt a sudden heat in his cheeks.  He cleared his throat.

“No, I’m…I’d rather stay up a bit.  Besides,” he added, smirking, “we still need to take a look at your cheek.  Banged it up a bit when you fell out of the bed, remember?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  “You’re lucky your daughter is asleep on me.”

“Oh?” John asked, amused.  “What would you do if she wasn’t? Fall off the sofa in retaliation?”

Sherlock huffed and–with great care that was at odds with his sour expression–curled Rosie into his arms and stood up.  She turned her head against his shoulder and let out a little sigh, but she didn’t wake up.  

“You better make the tea correctly. Last time you put too much sugar in mine,” Sherlock said haughtily as he swept past John.

“Yes, your majesty,” John said, grinning and getting to his feet.  “Wait.”

Sherlock stopped and turned back around, and John stepped into his space, close enough to press a soft kiss to Rosie’s head.  “Goodnight, love,” he whispered, and then he lifted his head and met Sherlock’s eyes.  

Sherlock’s face was so close his breath made the thin strands of John’s hair flutter.  He stood still as a statue except for one nervous swallow.  

“Don’t take too long, okay?” John said, his voice quiet.  His gaze dropped to Sherlock’s lips without his permission, and when he looked back up Sherlock’s face was even redder than it had been when John had touched his foot.  John was pretty sure his face was in much the same condition.  He cleared his throat and stepped back.  “Wouldn’t want your tea to get cold.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly and then seemed to come back to himself.  “Yes,” he said, sounding strangely unsure of the word.  He nodded.  “Yes.  Tea.  I’ll just…”

He gestured with his head toward the stairs and then turned toward them and a few seconds later John was standing alone in the sitting room, listening to Sherlock’s footsteps ascend toward his room.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight

Wow, that…got long.  Um.  Sorry.  There will be a part three because I’m apparently incapable of getting my boys to kiss to in a timely fashion.  Ahem. Hope you enjoyed!  <3  Just tags under the cut. I’m so sorry if I forgot anyone or if your URL didn’t work for some reason. It was…a lot of tags.

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