sherlock being cute

things sherlock holmes has canonically done:

  • scrapbooked the hell out of his newspapers
  • put on a hat that was too big for him 
  • giggled
  • cried because lestrade was nice to him
  • got all sappy and romantic by smelling a rose
  • let a puppy lead him on adventures
  • “impish mood”
  • lit his pipe with an ember from the fireplace because he thought it looked cool

feel free to add to this


As ever, Watson, you see but do not observe. To you, the world remains an impenetrable mystery, whereas, to me, it is an open book. Hard logic versus romantic whimsy - that is your choice. You fail to connect actions to their consequences.

Imagine Sherlock just giving you this pettish look everytime he meets you, because it frustrates him that he’s not able to read you.
“Bring her out, John”
“Sherlock, I can’t just send her away, this is a public place so-”
“Bring the witch out of here!”

GMS Fanfiction - Jack/MC - Mistakes

Sorry for the long hiatus, you guys. My motivation really took a hit when I heard the news about GMS. But I’m still absolutely in love with these characters, and I’m not going to give up on them. There will be more fics, even if I can’t say how long they’ll take.

Thank you all for your patience. I’m sorry again for my lack of content.

I hope you guys enjoy this. I was a little concerned about posting it since I’m worried my writer’s block will have also lowered the quality of my writing, but I wanted to share.

Moonlight glittered silver off of the glass panes of Guinevere’s apartment window, creating a glare that ensured Jack could not see into her world, no matter how long he squinted in vain.

He sighed, breath a whisper of fog in the darkness. He should not be here, despite how much the alcohol in his system was trying to convince him it was a good idea. There were a million ways this could go wrong, especially in his current state.

And he was in a bad state. If his ungraceful body had not been leant against the nearest tree, he may have slumped to the grass a long while ago.

At least he could take comfort in that. He could not hurt anyone like this, least of all her.

Tired frustration put a scowl on his face. The fact that he had not returned to the Moriarty estate two hours ago was a testament to how weak he was becoming.

He needed to go. If he remained here for much longer, James might decide he needed him. If he sent Sebastian to ‘collect’ him, and he was discovered beneath this particular window..

Well. James had a colorful imagination when it came to punishments. It would likely not end pleasantly for him.

Jack moved away from his support, irritation only growing when he stumbled over his own feet in the process. Perhaps the back roads would be better for returning home. If he were to meet anyone tonight, he may very well make a mess.

He was not looking forward to the scolding he would undoubtedly receive from James. It would take everything to hold his tongue and not unleash the sarcastic remarks building in his head even now.

A soft noise came from above. When he glanced, the branches of the tree he had been using as a sort of crutch were scraping over the surface of her window.

It truly was at a perfect height, that tree.

His fingers closed over a knot in the bark, as if he was already unconsciously ready for a climb. Jack felt himself frown, but he did not release his grasp.

It could not hurt to check on her, at least. If she had locked her window, like a good little girl, he would finally leave. His clumsy, drunken hands could not pick a lock even if he wanted them to.

It was surprisingly easy to swing himself up and onto the first sturdy branches, like muscle memory that he had yet to lose. Had he done a lot of tree-climbing, lately? His unclear mind was having a difficult time recalling.

Before he knew it, he was suspended at the top, peering into a dark room no longer shrouded by the moon’s glare. If he were to be seen, in this position, the unlucky passerby would most assuredly have questions.

Sometimes Guinevere left a light on through the night. He had yet to divine the reasoning behind this, but there was no light now. Just inky shadows and a spattering of silver over her bedding that had been cut through by his rather frightening silhouette outside.

She was sleeping, of course. It had to be close to midnight now, and if his memory served, she would be rehearsing tomorrow.

His hand fell to the base of her window. It was a strange, almost sickening mixture of emotions that gripped him when the glass slid up with almost no effort at all, uninhibited by the claws of a lock. Relief, disappointment, excitement, fear.

Jack moved into her apartment once the gap was wide enough, shutting the window behind him with the same care as when he’d opened it.

Guinevere did not stir. His confusing concoction of feelings only grew more complex.

Jack walked slowly to her bedside, his mind running a mile a minute. He had not thought this plan through at all, had he? He had expected to find her window secured and his entry barred, and now that he had been proven wrong, he was not entirely sure just what to do with himself.

He was frowning again. The alcohol was making it very difficult to keep up rational trains of thought, but he had to keep himself steady.

If not, he would dearly regret the consequences.

Something was sent clattering to the floor. Jack stilled immediately, his heart jumping into his throat.

He went cold as the subject of his attention finally began to wake up.

“-What?” Her voice was soft and low, sleepy confusion clear in the tone. An arm reached from beneath the covers, and suddenly they were bathed in the artificial golden light of her lamp.

Bleary eyes blinked at him, brows tightly knitted over them. He could practically see the cogs turning in her head.

It was clear the exact moment his presence registered. Her eyes flew wide, lips parting to release a startled gasp.

"Jack? What? How did you-” She did not scream, but she was becoming visibly more upset the more time passed.

Distressingly, her agitation only made his worse. His expression contorted, emotions blank in his intoxication. He didn’t want to see her upset.

Scarcely without even realizing what was happening, he moved closer, sitting heavily down onto the side of the bed next to her, gravity and his own weight working in tandem to betray him as he swayed.

Somehow his fingers ended up in her hair, rising and falling in a gentle, comforting stroking motion that surprised even him. She smelled absolutely wonderful, vanilla and spice and cinnamon from her favorite tea. His proximity to her calmed him far more than he had been expecting.

Guinevere had gone quiet several minutes prior, holding herself stiff as if guarded. Now, she seemed to relax ever so slightly. Perhaps she could smell the alcohol on him, or perhaps she was merely taking pity on the pathetic state she’d found him in.

Regardless, her acceptance made him feel conflicted. She should not feel safe with him, not at all. He had broken into her apartment in the middle of the night and practically accosted her in her sleep.

It was his turn to be stiff as she tentatively reached out to him, in an ironic and strange turn of events that baffled him and made his chest feel tight and hot.

"I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair, his words bleeding together. He had so much he should have said to her, but he could enunciate none of it. From the chaotic mess, an apology was all he could manage.

Guinevere seemed to understand whatever it was he had been trying to get across. Not for the first time, he was stunned by the remarkable nature of this woman in situations like these.

"Do you want to talk?” she asked quietly. One of her hands was resting on his arm. It seemed as if he could feel the warmth of it through coat and shirt alike.

Something about her made his exhaustion return. His forehead landed on her shoulder. He no longer had the strength to hold himself up.

She may have said something else, but he was already too far gone. His eyes shut and his consciousness blew out like a feeble candle.

Jack awoke to a splitting headache and warmth all around him. At first, he was puzzled. Had he managed to make it home last night after all?

The warmth shifted, very much alive and not a bundle of blankets like he’d previously thought. Everything from the night before came back in a rush.

Blood rushed to the tips of his ears. He was lucky, truly, that Guinevere had not called the police on him for breaking an entry. He was not usually so careless.

And she had seen him at his most vulnerable. There was no one else alive who could say the same. Not even Sebastian and James.

At least if she had not shoved him off by now, she was most likely still asleep. Perhaps there was still time to salvage the rest of his dignity, after all.

Jack very carefully made to rise, and was quickly made aware of the fact that she was hugging onto him like one might a teddy bear or large dog. He exhaled, surprised. That would make this far harder.

Disregarding the pounding in his head and the blossoming sunlight burning holes into the corner of his vision, he disentangled himself from her embrace, checking frequently to see if she had arisen. It seemed luck was on his side that morning, as she remained asleep, her face tranquil and unbothered and her breaths faint and steady.

She was startlingly persistent with her unconscious cuddling. Jack filed away this new knowledge for later.

After he was free, he wasted no time in making his escape through her window, leaving no evidence that he had been there at all. He hoped sincerely that she would not remember him due to being half asleep herself.

He steadfastly ignored that small part of him that wanted her to remember.

For now, he would return to the Moriarty estate. If and when complications arose he would deal with them, but not a moment sooner. Now that he was not in any immediate danger of discovery, he allowed himself to smirk, crimson eyes flickering mischievously in the orange of the sunrise. After all, no matter how much James would like to have been in his position, he had not, and he never would be.

Though he could not reveal this information for fear of retribution, being able to hold something over the insufferably arrogant man’s head in secret was more than enough.



Sherlock taking selfies with both the intended victim and the guilty party at John’s next wedding, of course, the suspect was apprehended and confessed long before anyone was in serious danger.

Sherlock responding “Mh? Yes of course I do, and he does as well, please get on with this quick as you can as I’d very much like to be married now if you would be so kind…” Before leaning down impatiently yet extremely happily to kiss his husband, who was busy trying to supress his laughter.

Harry coming around as a way to make amends with her brother, although first marching up to Sherlock, looking at him for a long time, puzzled. “John…he’s Clever Cheekbones isn’t he?” “Er- Hello Harry….Yes, this is Sherlock.” John pointedly avoiding his husband’s smug expression. “But you’ve been in love with him for ages! Practically since you bloody met him, and you’re only just getting married now??” A soft noise coming from the back of Sherlock’s throat and he holds onto John’s hand just a little bit tighter. Harry just grinning knowingly, wishing them the best, then sauntering off to find herself something to drink.

Mike standing up, looking at Sherlock and John, stating proudly “I knew you two would hit it off.” And sitting back down looking incredibly pleased with himself.

Sherlock dipping John during their dance because he’s tall and because he can and John getting red and trying to sound cross but he can’t stop smiling and laughing.

Sherlock referring to their honeymoon as their Sex Holiday to anyone and everyone he meets regardless of how many times John scolds him for it.

Sherlock and John quarrelling on the comments of John’s blog while sitting right next to each other.

Sherlock finding every opportunity to slip the fact that he’s married to John into any conversation he has with anyone for months, even when on cases. John originally thinking it was him showing off but immediately noticed the sparkle in his eyes and the tone of his voice and realizing that if Sherlock could never imagine himself having a best friend, what must it feel like to be married.

John finding every opportunity to inform anyone he converses with that he’s married to Sherlock, purely to see the expression on Sherlock’s face.

Someone referring to Sherlock as a “freak” in John’s presence, John stepping forward into his face and hissing. “I’ve got a mind to punch you and an especially sharp ring on my finger, I’d think it be in your best interest to be a little more polite to my husband before it turns out you have to go to the dentist to get replacements for the teeth I’ve knocked out of your mouth.” John smiling one of those ‘I-could-murder-you-in-your-sleep-and-they-would-never-catch-me’ smiles before stating loudly that the only one who could call Sherlock a freak was him, and that was specifically in bed. Before marching away, pulling an impressed, incredulated, and speechless Sherlock after him.

Sherlock and John saying married with such reverence from the day they were engaged till the day they die.

Sherlock getting really nervous after their first fight as husbands that they might break up, John finding out and comforting him continuously, promising he still loves him and forever will, declaring a rule that they must always end a row with a kiss, even if they still firmly disagree with each other.
John and Sherlock sticking to that rule.

Sherlock and John generally being cute newlyweds.

How about Sherlock and Jim kissing as snow starts falling slowly around them and when it melts in Sherlock’s hair, making his curls all heavy and messy, Jim can’t even kiss him anymore, he just stares like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

And the snow sticks to Jim’s eyelashes making his eyes seem even deeper and darker; Sherlock isn’t even conscious that he lifts his hand to touch. Jim closes his eyes and lets him brush away the snow, and as their lips meet again people pass them on the street without caring or noticing; it’s a moment of perfect bliss suspended in time.