sultry john

sherlock with his too-big sleep shirt slipping down his shoulder, leaving all that long, long, long line of neck and collarbone and curve exposed, leaving all that fine delicate skin on display, star-speckled with moles and milky-way-ribbons of silver-pink scarring, a long, long, long line for john to trace with his fingertips, with his lips, with his smile and his giggle, with whispered words, you wear this shirt on purpose, don’t think i don’t know, and sherlock’s low laughing rumble back, you’ve a weakness for a sultry shoulder, john. positively victorian, don’t you think? 


‘Now summer is in flower and natures hum
Is never silent round her sultry bloom
Insects as small as dust are never done
Wi’ glittering dance and reeling in the sun
And green wood fly and blossom haunting bee
Are never weary of their melody
Round field hedge now flowers in full glory twine
Large bindweed bells wild hop and streakd woodbine
That lift athirst their slender throated flowers
Agape for dew falls and for honey showers
These round each bush in sweet disorder run
And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun.’                         

John Clare

Kiss it better

For oxfordlunch and jamlockk (I started writing this Sunday but couldn’t get it to flow, but finished it today with the lovely Jam in mind)

Graham Michael Watson-Holmes has all the curiosity of his Papa and all the bravery of his Dad. This volatile combination means the fearless boy is constantly getting into scrapes.

John has always had medical supplies to hand for Sherlock, but now his kit includes an assortment of colourful and themed plasters especially for Graham. The most recent batch is pirate themed, because the 6 year old takes after his Papa that way.

Even wounds that don’t actually need a plaster are made better by the application of a pirate flag and a kiss from Dad.

One unexpectedly exothermic reaction and shattered Erlenmeyer flask later, John is examining Sherlock in their loo, checking for any injuries.

Silky curls have been combed free of any lingering shards, and John runs an antiseptic swab over a small slice on one of those heart-breaking cheekbones.

“Pretty much unscathed,” is John’s final diagnosis. “Unlike the worktop,” he adds with a wry grin at Sherlock, packing up his med kit once more.

Pale, violin callused fingers catch John’s wrist before he closes the bag. “No plaster?”

John shakes his head, but he’s grinning. He digs into the bag once more and swiftly covers the small scrape. The skull-and-crossbones are now emblazoned across Sherlock’s right cheek. “There.”

Once John might have thought that Sherlock would protest the frankly childish plaster, but instead he receives that grin… the genuine one that is just for John, not the quick smirk seen by others, but a beaming smile that slowly takes over his whole face.

John snaps the bag shut and heads to put it away in their bedroom closet, when he’s finds himself captured and pressed against the loo door by his taller husband.

“What about my kiss? You always kiss it better when Graham gets hurt,” Sherlock rumbles, somehow managing to sound both sultry and petulant. John leans up and brushes a chaste kiss over the plaster on his cheekbone.

“There. And after you go sweep up the kitchen and make sure there aren’t any shards that Graham or I might step on…come to bed and I’ll make sure all of you is better, hmm?” His brow arches as he gives Sherlock a significant look.

A token sigh of protest, but Sherlock releases him and they head out of bathroom.

As Sherlock heads back towards the kitchen to clean up his mess, the Jolly Roger a dark slash across his pale cheek, John can’t help but grin.