So, who broke it? I'm not mad, I just want to know.
I did, I broke it -
No. No, you didn't. Sherlock?
Don't look at me. Look at Mycroft.
What? I didn't break it.
Hmm. That's weird. How did you even know it was broken?
Because it's sitting right in front of us, and it's broken.
No, it's not!
If it matters... probably not... but Irene was the last one to use it.
Liar! I don't even drink that crap.
Oh, really? Then what were you doing by the coffee table earlier?
I use the wooden stirrers to push back my cuticles. Everyone knows that, Mary!
Alright, let's not fight. I broke it, let me pay for it, Eurus.
No. Who broke it?
Well, John's been awfully quiet.
[Cut to Eurus in the room, the rest of them fighting in the background]
I broke it. It burned my hand so I punched it. I predict ten minutes from now, they'll be at each other's throats with warpaint on their faces and a pig head on a stick. Good. It was getting a little chummy around here.
so how long did sherlock stare at john’s empty chair after the wedding before it all got too much and he dragged it out of the living room, having to stop halfway up the stairs, sitting down and taking his head into his hands trying to get himself together?
John at the piano with Rosie on his lap, guiding her fingers across the keys as he teaches her to play. Sherlock wrapping his arms around both of them, resting his chin on the top of John's head to watch.
*HEART EYES MOTHERFUCKER* aka i love it wow asldkfjdsalfjs so precious
He hurtled in his room crying out in
frustration and anger that you rarely see in an eight-year-old child. His
sister watched him wide-eyed cuddled under the covers of her bed at the other
side of the room. The boy spent some time with his eyes directed at the shut
door furiously before darting to his own bed and falling face-first on the
After a while his sister forced
her blankets over her head trying to ignore her brother’s muffled sobs as tears
rolled her soft cheeks silently.
His fingers twitched unoccupied.
He was sitting in a car at a corner of a dark street. Music could be heard from
the nearby club. Music his ears painfully recognised and his mind reminded him
of. The man beside him was crouched to the wheel with a pair of binoculars
stuck in his eyes. Stake out. What could be worse in their line of work? His
ear caught another melody and his head turned almost violently to glare at his
partner incredulously. Ah, yes, of course that was the only thing missing.
Sherlock Holmes humming on his own rhythms that dangerously resembled Bach. Damn
it, this wasn’t a good night for him.
‘Sherlock.’ He managed.
‘Eyes on the subject,
John.’ Came back the low voice commanding, not even granting him a glance.
Doctor John Watson
sighed in his eternal turmoil of a situation. How did this man always manage to
make him unnerved in the end? His leg was twitching in anticipation now. This
was officially the Worst.Night.Ever. Weeks afterwards he might actually
reconsider that decision of proclamation but now it seemed quite appealing.
They were on a crazy,
unusual case as was usual with them about a mysteriously stolen antique this
time and honestly John couldn’t comprehend what was so special about that one.
The way that was stolen was pretty obvious and the thief as well, already
caught by the police. However, as always, Sherlock insisted on a stake out at
the other side of town, of some utterly irrelevant salesman’s house.
Soon the music died
out, the last people from the pub passed their car oblivious of their presence,
overwhelmed in music and alcohol, the hours drew ahead of them like endless
pauses on a pentagram. John’s agitation soon left when there was no more music
(thankfully his detective partner had got bored of humming hopeless tunes), and
his body was soon sliding lower, his head fell on the side and his eyes slowly
started to close in the small hours before dawn.
Sherlock let him drift off for a while. He didn’t need much sleep anyway
but John slept indeed much more even though it was uncoordinated and scarce for
a proper normal person, it still was more than Sherlock. The detective smiled
softly hearing the impalpable snore from the shorter man and wondered if it
would be like that when he slept in a proper bed. He quickly shoved the
thoughts away and focused on the task at hand somehow frustrated that nothing
had happened yet.
It happened when he was seven. His mother had
gotten sick. The grown-ups wouldn’t talk about it in front of them but both him
and his sister knew. Soon she couldn’t get up from bed. Father wouldn’t take
her to the doctors at the hospital. He had been there once. They had helped his
leg mend. He was sure they could help Mother.
Their walks on the park had stopped long before
that though. Father said he should concentrate on his lessons from now on. He
didn’t mean Mother’s lessons, just school. The child had done everything he
could to finish everything early every single day so he could at least proudly
go to Mother and ask her to teach him again. She would just smile and guide him
through every single challenge. He loved it. He didn’t mind that he wasn’t
allowed to go to the park anymore. He loved her. Now she was sick.
His little sister had whined and complained and
cried about the park. She wanted her friends and their games back. She blamed
him for spending time with Mother rather than fighting like her. She was little
then… No more than four years old. He didn’t blame her. One day she would
understand the beauty of it. One day he dreamed of her admiration. One day he
wished he could teach her too.
Their little childish dreams
hardly mattered in reality though. Once Mother was sick the music was gone.
Father forbade him of practicing, of even getting near Mother’s game. The
little boy hated him for it. He told Mother, he begged her to get to the good
doctors, to get up and play with him. She just smiled as always and dried the
tears from her son’s eyes whispering he should be strong. She told him a story
of a prince that never gave up his dreams and one day he won against the dark
wizard and came back to his kingdom victorious.
John woke with a
start, trying to get up. Damn it, Sherlock is humming again. That was the first
thing he registered, the tremor in his hand visible now. John grunted trying to
hide it by pressing his fist against his thigh. It didn’t work. In the meantime,
Sherlock was looking at him.
‘John, alright?’ The
detective frowned at his hand before looking directly into his eyes.
‘Yes, alright. Thanks.
What did I miss?’ The doctor said with a stiff voice and pretended to look
around as if something would happen exactly because he woke up.
Dawn was almost upon
them. A faint light that spread through the clouds of London. The road in front
of them was hopelessly the same. John’s hand stiffened when a warm touch on the
wrist was applied to it. He glanced down and saw Sherlock observing intensely.
John shivered and tried to pull away but Sherlock was already resisting the
force with a steady tug of his fingers.
‘John.’ He said
letting John’s hand free after a close examination.
replied as if nothing at all was concerning.
‘I hadn’t seen your hand
tremble like that in years.’ Sherlock knew where not to push John with his
immediate deductions anymore.
‘Yeah, well, it never
stopped.’ John provided looking away.
‘Yes, it had.’ He persisted.
John knew he could see the tensed shoulders and clenched jaw. He knew
Sherlock had already thought of all the possibilities. John was hiding
something important at the moment. Sherlock must have realised from the moment
the doctor woke up, maybe even before, that he was having a nightmare. It wasn’t
one of the usual ones of war and Afghanistan, this was something else,
something Sherlock hadn’t seen before. However, John didn’t give in. Sherlock
sighed deciding to keep it for another time. John Watson always surprised him.
What could possibly be new and unknown about the good old doctor for Sherlock
after all those years? This wasn’t exactly new after all. Sherlock could see
the lines stressed across John’s face, the elevated pulse, the reluctance of
acknowledge. This was deeply rooted. How could Sherlock miss something like
that for so long? Still he would like very much to take it slow and find out
while John grew accustomed to the idea of him knowing. The detective didn’t
want to repeat the mistakes of the past on something clearly important. How
could it not be? Everything was important about John.
She died not a year after. The little boy had
prayed and wished to all the stars he could see in the sky to let her live. He
hadn’t forgotten her tale and so hoped his Mother meant that the victory would
be theirs and the bad sickness would leave their home soon but that never
happened. His sister hadn’t said a word to him or anyone else for a long time
even before Mother died. Now she was utterly quiet. He had stopped trying to
talk to her or explain to her how school and friends worked and how small
numbers were not good in the paper that the teacher would send to Father. He
The day she left, Mother had taken her son’s
fingers in her palms. They were already stiff from almost a year of non-usage.
The boy was ashamed for he had forgotten all she had taught him to play. But
Mother just smiled… as always… and whispered.
‘Promise me, you’ll never give up, Johnny.
Promise me, you’ll take care of your sister. Promise me that one day you’ll be
great at playing and you will teach her as you always wanted. Promise me,
Johnny. Promise me.’
‘But I’m not the prince, Mother.’ His voice had
cracked. ‘You are not getting well. I am not the prince. I cannot make my
dreams come true.’ tears were streaming from his grey eyes. Mother only smiled.
‘I am not your dream, little one. Promise me,
now.’ She had fallen back to the pillows that almost engulfed her and buried
her whole. The little boy straightened his shoulders and nodded that day.
‘I promise.’ He had said, and he
broke that promise.
The stake out was
proved pointless. John was driving them home glancing at a very grumpy Sherlock
beside him from time to time rolling eyes. The detective was crouched in his
seat buried in his coat, legs bent and curled to his chest. You could only see
some black curls standing up from the end of his coat collar. John humphed in exasperation.
He would have to deal with this for quite possibly a whole week. Crime was slow
this time of year and this was the only case Lestrade could come up with that
might get Sherlock out of the flat for a few hours. He was right on the
practical part, but failed to look further ahead. Sherlock didn’t like being
wrong and he liked being fooled much less. A small smile appeared on John’s
lips remembering the last time Sherlock had a shouting match with Greg at the
police station. He only hoped Sherlock will be more discreet this time and call
him to Baker Street.
Finally, at home. John
parked nearby at a lonelier street and got out desperate for a good snooze on
the couch with morning tea. Cars and buses were already moving almost
hectically to the streets and it wasn’t even properly working hours yet.
Sherlock took a bit of time to gather himself and although it frustrated John
immensely, he couldn’t help but smirk at the detective’s dishevelled form
struggling out of the car as if drunk. They both quickly paced towards 221B feeling
the cold creeping up their exhausted and unfed bodies. Once in, John alerted
Mrs Hudson knowing she’ll be well awake by now and by the time he got to the
stairs he could hear Sherlock’s door shutting closed with a loud bang.
whispered through gritted teeth. Now he would have to make tea on his own along
with almost a dozen experiments on the kitchen table. Good luck to him finding
the real sugar.
The earlier incident
was all forgotten and especially for John that sounded something like good
news. The last thing he needed was Sherlock looking into his most sacred and
deep past. There was a reason it was buried and should stay that way. Gosh,
that music earlier must have triggered the memory in the dream. John should
really be careful next time. He couldn’t quite name a date for when his memory
started to fight back at him by recognises pieces and notes randomly wherever
he went as if looking for stimulation. He could either let it alone or steel
himself in case it happened again. John knew the second could quite possibly
make him prone to those incidents even more but he could not risk leaving it to
mere chance. He had to do with Sherlock Holmes after all. Definitely the last
thing he needed.
So yeah, decided to write this because it was so damn cute <3 Part 2 coming soon, I stayed up all night to write as much as I could and it is not beta-ed so sorry for any mistakes. Going to post it on Ao3 as well, I’ll soon get a link here especially for when it becomes smutty but we have time for that ;) a few people were interested so tags below the cut
As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers.
His “wooing”? What does that mean? It’s not him wooing his wife, because that doesn’t make much sense in the scope of his memory of 221B. So is he the one that had been wooed here? If so, it’s obviously by Holmes. And that’s such an odd word to use. I know to woo can mean to curry general favor, but it’s almost always connotated romantically, or at the very least meant to sound like an enticement.
So, put another way, “When I passed the door and thought about Holmes wooing me and our first case together, I was seized with a keen desire to see him again.”
That’s adorable. And gay. So very gay. Honestly, how do people interpret lines like this WITHOUT a queer lens? Where do the words go? Even if there is another way to interpret that line, how does someone adequately argue AGAINST this interpretation?
what about headcanons for sherlolly as grandparents
When they were parents, Molly was usually the one who enforced rules while Sherlock was more the “if they have a good reason for it, I’m more inclined to let them break rules” parent. As grandparents, both of them would let their grandchildren get away with almost anything…and probably help cover it up (so long as it wasn’t too illegal)
Sherlock still runs his science experiments, but these days they aren’t so much for proving who murdered the victim but meant more to amaze his grandkids with the very cool things that science can do. Even the grandkids that pretend not to like the “boring science stuff” do like it when he makes stinkbombs. Their parents and their grandmum, not so much,
No one makes baked goodies like Grandmum Molly. No one. Not Mum, not the other grandparents, no one. Hers are the best, and it’s the one thing everyone in the family agrees with Granduncle Mycroft on. Sometimes Mycroft even lets them have some when he comes around (the grandkids can never figure out how he knows when their grandmum is baking…their parents know but they won’t spill, but he comes all the way from London when she bakes for the family just to eat stuff and NOT SHARE).
Sherlock makes sure all the grandkids leave with packets of sees meant to attract bees for the gardens they have. They all know how important bees are for the ecosystem and they tell everyone, and they all know how to behave around bees. The older ones sometimes help him around the hives if they want to, and usually sometimes there’s a jar or two of honey in it for them, and maybe some honeycomb if they’re lucky.
Every year there is a big dinner with Granddad Watson and his family, and Rosie brings her kids and her stepsiblings come too with their kids, and they all spend the day as one big family, and there’s always a quiet moment when Granddad and Grandmum and Grandad Watson just look at the brood and just look up and say something about Mary, and then they all go look for Rosie and give her a big hug and everyone cries and the littlest ones don’t understand but their mums and dads get a little sad too. But usually after that they go set off fireworks Granda has made and everything is okay again. It’s the same day every year, and eventually they find out it’s the day Rosie’s mum died, and they’re celebrating her life and how she meant a lot to the three of them.
Hi Steph, how are you? Sorry to bother you with this, but what does Sherlock mean in THoB when he tells John "as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable"? Is that a nice compliment or some kind of joke? Thanks! :)
It’s ABSOLUTELY a compliment; he essentially told John that Sherlock is smarter with John around, that John has a way of making Sherlock realize things that he himself would never have come to on his own because he overlooks the simple things. He’s telling John that he is “brilliant” in his own John-way.
John makes Sherlock brighter, and the world is dark for him without John in it.