now where are those new sherlock stills

Bad Teeth [Sherlock Holmes x Reader]

Author’s Note: This is another one of those times where I’m posting something I’d written long ago, for the sake of posting. I did want to write a fic today but of course, homework comes first, and part of my homework involves writing a lot of poetry, which depleted my creativity for the day! And now I’m very tired. I need to watch season 4 of Sherlock still. When I have the time. So then I can maybe start writing new things for the lovely detective.

Word Count: 298

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All Good Things

Y’all I wrote something (short though it may be).  Can you believe it?!  I cannot.  I don’t know who to tag anymore (so many people are on hiatus), so hopefully you’ll catch this on your dash at some point.

John needs Sherlock to take the first step, but he doesn’t know if that is something Sherlock will ever do.  It’s driving him mad, this—this tension strung so tight it has no option but to snap—violently even.  And John doesn’t want it that way.  Not after everything, not after all these years, all this waiting, not after all the walls they’d erected to divide and keep them apart have finally begun to crumble, have been dismantled or blown asunder, in the last year.  

There have been too many cataclysms in John Watson’s life.  For once he wants something gentle.  Enough crash landings.  Time for a safe place to fall.

Words have never been John’s forte.  Actions are.  Why then, is this so difficult?

He could get up.  He could walk the short distance across the room, lay a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, wait for him to look up, squeeze, hope that Sherlock sees.  He could do that.  He wants to.  But, somehow he can’t, and it’s killing him.  

He looks up from his laptop, and across the lounge to Sherlock’s too-thin body hunched over his microscope, long fingers fiddling with the fine focus nob.  His hair is still damp from the shower.  They are staying in today, and Sherlock has been more lax with his personal grooming on those days when they have decided, unequivocally, to be domestic, to not take clients.  He looks young, vulnerable, with his fringe flopping over his forehead, and a soft halo of frizz forming as his curls dry in the warm, dry air of the flat.  His feet are bare.  His toes tap out an unconscious staccato on the floorboards of the kitchen.  He lets out a tiny grunt of frustration, and then turns and scribbles something in quick, vehement scratches, in the notebook beside him.

John loves him.

He knows this, now, without a shadow of a doubt.  Perhaps he’s known it for years, and had just been afraid to let himself…  But no—even that isn’t true.  He did let himself.  And then Sherlock was gone, and there is a place deep in John’s heart, where he thinks the wound of that will never fully heal.  Like the scar tissue surrounding his old shoulder injury, it aches, and holds him back at the oddest times.  But, today is not one of those times.


“Mmm…”  He’s scowling back through the microscope, a new slide now.  He’s only half paying attention.

“I love you.”

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