this is such a sherlock and john moment right into the brilliant

The 4th Episode: A Complete Johnlock Fix-It

The screen is black.  A woman’s voice cuts through.  It’s Molly’s voice.

“Forward? Or Backward?”

A blinding white light floods the darkness.  A pulsating heartbeat. 

“Backward,” sighs Sherlock.

White noise stings as scenes are replayed backward. Sherlock and John running backward.  John’s fist recoiling from Sherlock in the morgue.  The christening, backward. The birth, backward.  The plane glides into the air, tail first. Magnussen’s limp body jolts into standing position, Sherlock puts the gun back in John’s pocket. The flashdrive jumps from the fire, into John’s hand.  The gun drops, the coin falls back into Mary’s fingers. Sherlock raises from Magnussen’s floor, the blood-stained shirt turns freshly white. Mary stands across from Sherlock, gun drawn.

Roll Title Credits.

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Happy Valentine’s Day everyone! Get ready for all the fluff and Sherlock speaking French! 

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                                                __________________

Johns pushes the front door open, letting out a loud sigh and rubbing one hand over his face. He’s tired, hungry and wants nothing more but to curl around Sherlock and let the exhaustion of the day fade away. He knows there is a high probability Sherlock isn’t even home right now, most likely out seeing Lestrade about the case they’ve been working on for the past three days. John shakes his head, smiling as he heads up the stairs. Somehow it feels strangely normal to think he’s going to spend the evening of Valentine’s Day alone at the flat.

It isn’t that they’ve never celebrated it, and John can only remember too well their first Valentine’s Day together. Sherlock had (stupidly) thought John would love something ridiculously romantic and over the top, and after the third romantic cliché, he had made sure Sherlock knew there was only one thing he needed for Valentine’s Day and that it involved a certain detective naked in bed. Ever since, they had celebrated in their own way, not always with a gift but with small gestures and affections.

Heading directly for the kitchen, John calls Sherlock’s name once, twice and only hears silence. Considering sending a text, he goes to put the kettle on and that’s when he finds the first note, right next to his mug. He frowns, immediately recognizing the language but digging into his high school memories to understand what’s written.

J’aime savoir qu’il y aura toujours une deuxième tasse de thé

à remplir lorsque je me l ève le matin.

John catches the words tea and love , but gives up on understanding anything else. Sherlock must be working on some experiment, and it’s not the first time he’s switched to some other language. He stares at the note, waiting for the water to boil, and is vaguely certain there’s also a morning there. He pours himself some tea, careful not to spill any on the note, and gets some biscuits.

The second note is on his chair, and John rolls his eyes as while he sits down. French again, and this time John realises it starts the same as the previous one.

J’aime te voir assis ici quand je joue du violon, tes yeux fermés

et ce sourire  réservé juste pour moi sur tes lèvres.

He fidgets with the notes, staring at Sherlock’s handwriting and trying to guess by the force of his will to decrypt what he wrote down. Violin isn’t hard to understand, and there’s love again. John frowns, moi is me , right? Letting out a loud sigh, John looks around the flat, suddenly wondering if there are more of these notes, and his eyes find the one pinned to the wall above the sofa immediately. He stands up, setting the one still in his hands back on the chair and rushes to the other side of the room.

J’aime le fait que tu restes un mystère.

Un puzzle que je ne résoudrai jamais.

Mystery? Puzzle?

John isn’t so sure about the meaning of these notes again, and tries to remember if Sherlock talked about any new experiments lately. There was the one with the nails, and the one with their bed sheets, but John is fairly certain both were finished already. Sherlock hasn’t mentioned a new one, and certainly not a new one involving so much French.

Love , again. Could this be…

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John has to meet Sherlock for a case whose crime scene just happens to be on a roof. His first response is to panic. The last time he saw Sherlock on a roof… 



John was already in the cab, and only a few minutes away, when Sherlock’s name finally popped up on his phone. John rolled his eyes. After multiple ring outs he’d resorted to texting Anderson of all people for the location of the crime scene. He considered not answering, as payback maybe, but held the phone to his ear all the same.

“Would you look at that? Only took me five tries. Shall we call that the new record, then?”

Sherlock payed no mind to John’s sarcasm (he rarely did) and simple pushed forward, “Brilliant case, John. Brilliant. Who’d have thought to use sunlight as the weapon? Sunlight. A bit of well-directed sunlight would do the job, yes, of course-”

John laughed softly, shaking his head as Sherlock rambled on, “Yeah, of course. Why not.” He sandwiched the phone between his shoulder and cheek, listening while counting bills for the cabbie. He cut Sherlock off somewhere between recounting the effects of UV Rays on skin cells, “Where shall I meet you then?”

There was a beat, “You aren’t here?”

John slammed the door shut with a little too much enthusiasm at that, “What? No. Why did you think I’m calling you?”

Sherlock started to speak then stopped. John could picture the frown that was surely now set in place, “I was just talking to you…” Sherlock mumbled.

“Well, do you mind a bit of a repeat?”

Sherlock huffed, “Hate repeating myself. But you’ll be no use if uninformed, so, I suppose. The primary evidence wa-“

“Not now. Jesus, just tell me where to meet…”

“John?” Sherlock sounded more annoyed by John’s sudden lack of voice than concerned. He huffed, “We didn’t loose service, this is a prime spot. I’m on a roof for god sake. I can also hear you breathing. John, hello?”

Roof.

John felt as if the air had been kicked from his lungs. The feeling was a sudden, horrid squeezing that he hadn’t expected. He could see Sherlock very plainly on said roof. He could pick out the way his coat flapped around him even from below. Sherlock was stood near the edge, hand pressed to the cement ledge, forensic people milling about him. Much too close to the ledge. John squeezed his eyes shut, and suddenly Sherlock was standing on the ledge, arms out, falling forward-

He opened his eyes. Sherlock was behind the ledge, not falling, phone still held to his ear. He blinked and he was falling again. John stumbled forward.

“John-“

“Sh.. Sherlock, don’t-“ His words gave out to a gasp of air, and his feet were carrying him forward at a run, “Don’t-“ He tried again.

“Don’t? Don’t what?” John watched as Sherlock turned, swore he could see the confused squint. His heart lurched. He was facing the ledge now. Totally oblivious to how it looked.

“Don’t move. God, don’t move.”

John took the stairs two at a time. The elevator would be too slow, and he wasn’t sure his heart could handle that right now. You’re being irrational his mind told him, and yet his heart thudded and images of fallingfallingfalling played behind his eyelids.

He burst through the roof door, gasping and zeroing in on Sherlock immediately. Sherlock’s eyes found him just as quickly, but it couldn’t have been that hard with the speed at which John was coming at him.

Sherlock held his hands out in a frustrated manner, “What is the point of phone calls if you aren’t going to-“

The rest of his sentence got lost in John’s hands fisting the collar of his coat and yanking him away from the cement barrier, the only thing separating them from air and space and fallingfalling

Sherlock’s composure crumpled for just a moment, utter surprise breaking through at the contact. His hands came up to cover John’s as they stumbled, John nearly slumping against him. Sherlock stared hard at him, mind reeling:

Hands shaking. Anxiety. Cheeks flushed. Usually embarrassment but given trembling most likely also anxiety.

“Just- don’t stand there will you? God, just-“ John pulled Sherlock closer to himself by his jacket rather harshly, “Jesus..“ He bowed his head slightly, desperately trying to control his breathing.

Sherlock tried to steady John, tried to figure out what was wrong, assessing the situation. He added John’s sharp breathing to the list.

John had run right to him so clearly Sherlock was the source of this reaction. He backtracked to what he had said on the phone. The case. They’d only talked of the case. Not verbally triggered then.

General triggers for anxiety. They listed themselves, sparking through his skull. Verbal, Personal, Sensual, Locational-

Sherlock’s thoughts froze for a fraction of a second, then were sent reeling left, back to their phone call.

“Just tell me where to meet…”

Trail off. Tone change.

“I’m on a roof for god sake.”

Oh.

Verbal and locational trigger all in response to…

His mind screeched to a halt.

“Oh, John…”

“I know.” John was breathing deeply in through his nose, fists still tight on Sherlock’s coat, “I know. I just- saw you there. Up. Near the- Jesus, I know it’s-“

“John.” John finally stopped trying to speak at the sheer softness present in Sherlock’s voice. It was so rare that he was sure he’d always stop when it made an appearance. He didn’t look up though. He could still feel an insufferable sting behind his eyes.

“I didn’t even think. I didn’t realize the… the weight of those particular- of this particular situation.” Sherlock’s fingers tightened fractionally around John’s where they had remained from Sherlock’s surprise, “I’m sorry.”

John took one more breath, exhaling harshly and then straightening, slowly letting go of Sherlock’s coat, “Right. No, it’s fine. I should be able to be on a roof with you. This is… ridiculous. Sorry.” He huffed again, blinking and finally looking up at Sherlock, “Right. Okay, the case. Sunlight, UV rays or- something, what were you saying? Shall we take a look-“

John stopped again, closing his eyes briefly at the feeling of cool fingers catching around his wrist. He looked back at Sherlock, hoping his eyes didn’t show how hard his heart was still pounding. “C’mon then.” He tried. His voice cracked a little.

“I wouldn’t. Again. You don’t have to worry.” He was taken aback by the look on Sherlock’s face. So close to desperation, “John, I don’t want you to ever think I’d… leave… you.” He seemed tentative at his choice of words. “Not intentionally. Please don’t worry.”

John stared for a moment, aware of Sherlock’s hand still around his, aware that he was real and standing before him. He was hit again with what still felt like an unreal, monumental second chance with the man who he never expected to mean so much to him.

“I’m always going to worry.” He shook his head, offering a smile that was half pain half relief, “Sherlock. I’m always going to worry.”

Sherlock let John lead him back to work this time, images of bonfires and bomb vests consuming his thoughts.

He’d always worry too.


(I. love. them. God. Thank you to this fic for finally breaking my writers block THANK YOU)

April Fools

The last day of March came and went, as usual, with no acknowledgement of John’s birthday.  And then the murders began.

John was awakened on the first of April by the sound of Sherlock’s feet pounding up the stairs, soon followed by the sound of Sherlock’s fist pounding on his door.

“Triple homicide, John!  Get dressed!”

“Do I have time for a shower?”

“Yes, but make it fast.  We have a train to catch.”

“Where to?”

“Brighton — I’ll explain on the way.”


“How did Lestrade end up with this case, if the murders happened in Brighton?” John asked.

“The three victims were uni students from a missing persons case that’s been sitting on his desk for a week.  He wasn’t giving it much attention, since he figured they’d just gone off for a lark.”

“Okay.  But they’re no longer missing, so Lestrade’s case is closed, right?  Shouldn’t the Brighton police be investigating the deaths?”

“They are.  But there’s a fourth student who went missing at the same time.  He’s likely either the killer or in danger of becoming the next victim.  Either way, we’re going to track him down.”

“Got it.”


Their first stop was Joe’s Cafe, where Sherlock insisted John order brunch so that they would blend in.  Next, the case took them up the i360 observation tower, with breathtaking views along the coast, over the South Downs, and across the English Channel.  Then came a long walk along the stony beach, where Sherlock searched for clues while John enjoyed the fresh air and the rare April sunshine.  

They wound up on the pier, retracing the steps of the missing (or unfortunately found) uni students.  As they wandered through the Palace of Fun, Sherlock encouraged John to play a series of random-seeming arcade games.  Then they headed to the theme park, where they rode the ghost train through the Horror Hotel, followed by the Air Race and the Turbo Coaster.

John was having so much fun that he’d almost forgotten they were on a case.  “Care to fill me in on your deductions so far?” he asked.

“You know I never like to theorise ahead of the data,” Sherlock said.  “Go get some fish and chips over there.  Look away as he’s making change, and then bring me back the coins he gives you.  I think I’m on to something.”

John did as instructed.  He devoured the mouthwatering battered fish as Sherlock carefully examined the coins John had handed him.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up.  “How are you at laser tag?” he asked.

“You know I’m a crack shot.”

“Come on, then!”


Half an hour later, they were battling their way through the LaserZone.  John whooped as he zapped one hapless teenager after another.  By the time the game ended, he was giddy with exhilaration.  

“You racked up a record high score,” Sherlock pointed out.

“You weren’t too shabby, yourself.  We make a good team.”

Sherlock grinned at him, then checked his phone.  “Text from Lestrade.  The fourth student just turned himself in.”

John’s mood was too good to be spoiled by Sherlock’s mutterings about Lestrade having wasted their time, or by the fact that he leapt out of the cab in typical fashion the moment it pulled up in front of 221B, leaving John to pay the driver.  John was humming to himself as he made his way up the stairs to their flat.

“SURPRISE!”  

John’s mouth fell open at the sight that greeted him.  A huge banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOHN hung across the far wall.  Dozens of his friends surged forward to draw him in, plying him with food and drinks, gifts and conversation.  

Beaming, John raised a glass to them all.  “Happy fucking birthday to me!”


As the party finally began winding down, John turned to Lestrade.  “Cheers.  That was a bloody brilliant April Fools joke, you sending us on a wild goose chase so you could pull this off.”

“I wish I could take credit, mate, but this whole thing was Sherlock’s idea.  He’s been organising it for weeks.  He put Molly in charge of the decorating, and Mrs. Hudson in charge of the food.  I just helped out a bit with the guest list, and texted him when we were nearly ready.”

John was stunned.  Sherlock had done all of this?  Sherlock, who never acknowledged anyone’s birthday?  Sherlock, who scoffed every time John mentioned how much he liked Brighton, insisting that it was touristy and overrated?  Sherlock, who despised social gatherings?  

Sherlock had done all of this.  For him.  

Oh…  

John looked around, but couldn’t spot his flatmate.  Sherlock was probably hiding in his room, overwhelmed by the festivities.  John tapped on his door, and then let himself in.

Sherlock rose to greet him.  “Are you enjoying the party, John?”

“Yeah.  But I’ve been a fool.”

“For not catching on to my clever scheme?”

“No.  For waiting so many years to do this…”

John stepped forward, placing one hand on either side of Sherlock’s face.  He looked up into those familiar eyes, asking a silent question.  Seeing the answer he’d been hoping for, John kissed Sherlock, very gently, on the lips.

For one heart-stopping moment, the two of them stood together, frozen.  Then all of John’s birthday wishes came true: Sherlock kissed him back.


Written for the @sherlockchallenge April prompt: April Fools’ Day.

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TFP and the drink code, a.k.a. John truly hates himself - Mycroft Edition

[This post is my first addendum to the drink code after being written, in light of new canon content. (I wrote the drink code in July 2015. And yes, I didn’t write about TAB because the “CONFIRMED” was pretty obvious).]

One thing that has become clear about S4 is that is false af, and whatever you believe it’s happening there, you also know there’s meaning behind all that fuckiness.  I like the “TFP is John’s Bisexual Bunker Nightmare while dying” theory (and this meta is largely based on that assumption), but even if you believe in something else going on, the symbolism remains. 

We’ve seen John drinking through S4. As a matter of fact, he  is the only one seen drinking in the two episodes before TFP. Or one of his mirrors. Molly has a champagne flute when Baby Rosie is born, he drinks red wine while looking at the camera (fucky…), Vivian Norbury is said to be sort of an alcoholic… It seems alcoholic beverages were used in S4 as an indicator of John’s inner emotions.

So I expected to see him drinking in TFP.  But no. I noticed there’s only one sight of alcohol in TFP. At the first two minutes of TFP, we have Mycroft like this:

Drink code says when a character drinks whisky, they’re scared and are looking for some “liquid courage” (As TAB later confirmed).

If you consider TFP being John’s bisexual Bunker nightmare, everyone in it represents a part of him. The fact Mycroft is the only person drinking in TFP is a sign to indicate something not common in the show’s narrative: Mycroft will serve as a mirror for John. A mirror for that part of his personality that has been in charge of repressing his bisexuality. A mirror working during most of the episode and that could certainly explain why Mycroft is so out of character in TFP.

The drink code just makes it clear that the part represented by Mycroft is scared and looking for some sort of control.

So, what is he scared of? And what does that fear mean?

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anonymous asked:

I don't know if you answered this before, but.. Where do you think it's going to be the first Johnlock kiss?😊 And in what context? They will be laughing, crying, completely silence???? I love your blog!!!! 😊💜

hoppspindel said to inevitably-johnlocked: Hello! I don’t know if you’ve been asked this before, but what is your ultimate dream scenario for when the confession and first kiss finally happens?

Hi Nonny and @hoppspindel!!! (SORRY HOPPS I JUST FOUND YOUR ASK AMONGST MY OTHER ONES)

I’ve actually written about my thoughts on the Johnlock kiss before in this post here, but I feel like expanding my new thoughts on it, so here you go:

During the episode, they have a case, and maybe Sherlock gets scuffed up a bit after he attacks a thug who went after John, who They run up the stairs, giggling. The fire is lit, the lighting soft in the 221B common room. It smells like firewood and the blueberry scones of Mrs Hudson’s that Sherlock loves so much; she’s brought some up while they were out and left them on the table for her boys, for they are usually very hungry after a case.

Tonight, though, it’s a different hunger for Sherlock, but it still makes his stomach unsettled all the same.

Sherlock goes to stand by their chairs, scraped up and lightly bleeding from a cut on his face. John glances over to him, telling Sherlock to wait there, he’ll patch up the cut on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock watches John putter around the kitchen, finding everything John requires to tend to Sherlock’s needs, and Sherlock’s face softens. ‘This is it,’ Sherlock thinks, ‘This is the perfect moment.’ John is just perfect to Sherlock when he is concerned, content and caring for Sherlock. The force of his realization about just how much he loves John hits him so hard in that moment… 

The night could have turned out so differently. John was so brave protecting Sherlock, watching over him like a silent guard dog, all hard lines and rough exterior. But when the thug kicked John to the ground, brandishing a knife and making the motions to stab John, well, Sherlock’s mind may have whited out at the horror of possibly losing John, and he may have caught the thug by surprise when he tackled him and clawed at this face. It had taken John’s placating words and strong arms pulling Sherlock away to calm Sherlock down. John had quickly tied up and disarmed the thug, and called Lestrade. Sherlock just stood there, silently seething to hide his terror of John being attacked and John being almost hurt AGAIN and John being almost… well. John knew what to do. He always knew.

John’s small “Ah ha!” at finding his med kit shatters Sherlock’s reverie and brings Sherlock back to the present. Little moments like this always hit Sherlock hard, and he finds it increasingly difficult as the days - months - YEARS go on to hold himself from spilling all his secrets, liquid hot words that could tear Sherlock’s whole world apart. 

John returns, his smile soft, and places the kit down on the table next to John’s chair. John reaches up to Sherlock’s face, one hand lightly grasping his chin and the other with an alcohol swab. John gently cleanses the wound across Sherlock’s eyebrow, and Sherlock stares at John in wonder. It is in that moment, Sherlock thinks John has never been more beautiful, more devastatingly handsome. The feeling swells up his chest. No more lies: without a second thought, he moves forward to press his lips softly to John’s, who pauses suddenly in his ministrations, shocked. Sherlock pulls back, and smiles sadly at John, reaching up to hold John’s hand against his face, then closes his eyes, not wanting to see John’s rejection. 

But John can feel Sherlock’s heartbeat, racing and unsteady. He studies Sherlock’s face for any signs of a farce – he knows all of Sherlock’s tics and tells better than his own.

He sees none.

And suddenly, John knows. Their entire life together, SHERLOCK’S little tells and truths that only John was able to see, slams into his brain like a freight train into a wall.

The looks, the sadness behind Sherlock’s eyes every time John denied or was with someone else. Sherlock’s need to constantly make John happy.

Sherlock giving up John, even if it meant never seeing him ever again.

The relapses. The lingering touches. 

The need. The want. The selfless LOVE.

Suddenly, John SEES. 

‘I am SUCH a tit.’ John admonishes to himself, watching a tear escape from Sherlock’s eye.

And then John tears up, and puts down his cloth, brushes his thumb under Sherlock’s hand softly against his cheek. 

“Sherlock…”

Tears stream from Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock, look at me, please.”

And he does. And then John knows with absolute certainty that Sherlock wants “a forever” with him. John brings his other hand up to Sherlock’s cheek, and moves in for a more solid kiss.

And it’s silence, save for the cracking of the fire – no background music at all. The camera is zoomed right in and the kiss is deepened as Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow, eyes streaming in happiness, and his hands are now grasping John’s face, as he pulls them closer and closer. 

They break off for a breath.

“It’s always you, John Watson.”

A watery laugh from John. A soft petting of John’s hair. And then: the kiss gets passionate, goes on for at least a minute.

Finally, FINALLY, they stop and stare into each other’s eyes. So much is being said in just looks – A galactic ocean of love in John’s, and a chromatic rainbow of “always and forever” in Sherlock’s. Sherlock continues to pet John’s hair as he brings their foreheads together, just needing to feel. 

John holds Sherlock’s face gently in his hands, his thumbs stroking Sherlock’s cheeks, brushing away the tears.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” John whispers.

“I’ve loved you always,” is Sherlock’s reply. Sherlock pulls back and communicates everything with just a look. John understands, and backs towards Sherlock’s bedroom, holding Sherlock’s hands without ever breaking eye contact. 

And as they’re walking to Sherlock’s bedroom, it will slowly pan out, a hint of suggestion to what’s about to happen. A soft swell of John and Sherlock’s themes mixed together starts.

And the scene changes, an exterior shot of 221B. John and Sherlock are sitting at the table having a meal, John in only his pants and Sherlock’s dress shirt (à la Janine), Sherlock in pants and John’s jumper, their hair a mess, ABSOLUTELY GLOWING. Silent grins on their face as they munch on the biscuits left by Mrs Hudson and sipping their teas. Sherlock’s eyes crinkle in the way John adores so much, and he giggles. Sherlock follows suit, reaching across the table to hold John’s hand.

“Brilliant,” says John.

“Amazing,” replies Sherlock. 

End credits. 

OR, it will be after a three Garridebs moment, which I’ve written a nice little fic about before here. That would work for me too :D

That’s how I headcanon today. It will change again, I’m sure.

In which Sherlock comes back after pretending to be dead for two years, finds John moved out of Baker Street and nearly engaged. He’d deduced two possible reactions…but not this.

Part two to this post


John answered the door before Sherlock could even text him to let him know of his arrival, and immediately stepped out onto the front steps, already dressed for the cool London air. Sherlock’s eyes fell onto his scarf. His dark blue cashmere scarf. His gaze made John look down too.

“Oh.” He shuffled, “I’d forgotten I ever…” He glanced back up at Sherlock to see him smiling slightly. His neck warmed but he couldn’t help but slowly offer once of his own, “took that..”

Sherlock studied it a moment more then looked out to the street, the streetlamp casting his high cheekbones in stark contrast. John felt the tug. The oh-so familiar tug snug deep inside his chest that he hadn’t felt in so long. That he’d felt for the first time in two years earlier that night. Sherlock’s voice broke his gaze.

“Are we walking then?”

John cleared his throat, “Yes, I thought It’d be more…” he shook his head as they trotted down the steps side by side, “I don’t know what, I thought It’d be nice.”

“Walking is scientifically proven to let blood flow easier, therefore clearing and stimulating the brain at the same time and making it easier for thoughts to form and function…”

Sherlock broke off and fell back next to John, realizing he’d walked a step ahead of him.

“Yes?”

Sherlock tried to study John’s profile, “You usually stop me by now.”

“Oh.” John kept his eyes ahead, “Well, I haven’t heard it in a while.” He glanced at Sherlock, “Might’ve missed it.”

Sherlock nearly fell behind this time. He fought to keep his voice neutral, “Really?”

John let out a little laugh, “I’m going to regret those words.”

“Probably, yes.”

Sherlock watched the neon sign of the 24 hour cafe catch John’s eye, and nodded quietly when he asked if he wanted a tea for the road. He waited, hands clasped behind his back and facing the street while John went in. He felt good about how things were going so far. John seemed… Sherlock closed his eyes. John seemed like he wanted Sherlock to think he was okay. Sherlock almost felt disappointed that John thought he couldn’t see through that.

“Right, two sugars, this one’s yours.”

Sherlock turned, starting slightly. He looked down at John whose cheeks were pink from going from the warm shop to the cold early morning.

John rolled his eyes, eyes crinkling in a smile, “Stop looking at me like that, of course I remembered.”

But Sherlock couldn’t. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to stop looking at John like that. John who was the only person who bothered to remember how he likes his tea—save Ms. Hudson. John who was the only person in the world who could read, not his thoughts, but his emotions. The only person in the world who acknowledged he even had normal emotions.

John had turned his eyes to the city line, nodding towards it as he blew on his paper cup, “We’re gonna see a nice sunrise.”

Sherlock blinked, attempting to regain his composer, “Ah, yes. Day one back in the land of the living.”

He didn’t miss John’s flinch and instantly regretted his attempt at a joke.

“Do me a favor,” John sighed, “Don’t-“

“I won’t say things like that.”

John studied him for a moment then snorted, mumbling something like “bloody mind reader” as he led the way across the street to a small park with empty benches.

Hardly, John. Hardly.

John chose the bench with the best view of the only barely pinking sky, sitting down with a sigh and crossing his ankles. Sherlock took the seat beside him wordlessly, burning his tongue on his still too hot tea.

“This is… odd, Sherlock.”

“Two people waiting for the a sunrise? I hardly think that’s the definition-“

“Sherlock..” John’s voice was soft, much more serious than before. Sherlock took the hint. They needed this. They needed words—good, solid words—not to dance around each other.

Sherlock nodded once, looking down into his tea, “Yes. Yes, I suppose this is.”

John leaned back against the bench, eyes on the man beside him. Really, odd was not the word to describe this situation but, then again, he’s never been particularly good with words. He was in disbelief. Here he was, watching his best friend—his very dead best friend—sip a cup of tea and joke about watching the sunrise.

“You’ve got terrible timing.” He settled on.

Sherlock straightened, “I gathered that. You know, with the ring and the wine… the restaurant reservations-“

“No,” John laughed, he couldn’t help it, “Well, yes, that is also terrible timing, but I mean longterm.”

Sherlock finally looked back at him, “Longterm?”

John set his cup beside him to cool, “You jump of a bloody building, I-“ John’s chest suddenly feels tight at that hard fact, “I saw you- okay, you’re going to have to tell me-“ He pinched the bridge of his nose, “No, sorry, not the point right now. The point-“ he closed his eyes briefly before turning back to his friend, “is, is that you died but you didn’t. You died… and you let me watch you die, and then you let me grieve and- God, Sherlock… I grieved. I grieved…”

The air is filled with just their breathing for a moment, both labored, both filled with the sting of unshed tears. This is not what friends are suppose to do to one another.

“I wasn’t okay, Sherlock, I was not okay. For so long.” John said between breaths, “I met Mary, honestly pretty recently and she… God, she helped. She helped and I got a little better every day.”

“John-“

“No.” John let out a long breath, “I got better and then you come back and you see me better and that isn’t fair. Because now you have no idea what you did to me. What your death did to me. What losing you…”

John couldn’t finish and turned away, picking up his tea and quickly taking a sip. Sherlock was left breathless and frozen.

“John..” He tried again and this time wasn’t cut off. John’s hand was shaking. He didn’t seem to have any words left for now, “What I- What I said before at the chips place…” Sherlock closed his eyes. His brain felt foggy. Without the usual sharpness he felt bare, unarmed. He forced his eyes open again, pushing against the fog of emotions, “John, I try not to say things I don’t mean. I meant what I said. It was for your protection. I’m not-“ he cut John off when he opened his mouth to speak, “making excuses. I made this mistake. I made this mistake and I’m so, so sorry.”

John’s cup was nearly squashed in his hands from his grip and was in great danger of spilling over. His breathing was labored, his head bowed, “Yes.” He let out a shaky breath, “Yes, well I’m the one who made the mistake of getting use to it.”

Sherlock’s mind immediately reeled, searching for context for the statement, but coming up blank, “Getting use to what?”

John bit at the inside of his cheek for a moment, worrying the skin, before looking back at Sherlock, blue eyes swimming, “You always being there.”

And Sherlock felt it all over again. The cold pavement on his back, John’s fingers on his temporarily stopped pulse, his cries and broken words. Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath, felt heartbreak for the second time in his life.

“Please…” Sherlock swallowed, both halves of his heart hammering, “Please get used to it again.”

For a split second Sherlock saw John’s jaw clench before it was hidden from view, John’s tea falling to the ground as he dropped his head into his hands, shoulders shaking.

“John..” Sherlock felt his own voice break. He couldn’t think straight, he was at a loss for words. All he could seem to see in his mind was John. All he could think was that John was hurting and it was his fault. It had been his fault for two years. The ache that settled in after that thought burned like acid.

John’s voice came out muffled and thick, “You have to understand-“

“I do. I do understand, John-“

“No, you don’t.” John was looking up now, eyes rimmed red and burning into Sherlock’s, “You were suddenly gone, and I was suddenly right back where I was before I met you. I couldn’t sleep, I was alone, and every night staring down the fucking barrel of a-“ John closed his eyes turning his head away.

But Sherlock didn’t need him too. His mind had finished the sentence for him and for once he wished he wasn’t so fucking quick. He couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t have words but, he decided, right now he didn’t need them.

He reached out, tilting John’s face towards him and, for once, acted without logic, without thinking. He kissed him. He kissed John because he loved him, because he always had, and because it said everything he couldn’t. He kissed him because sorry wasn’t enough—he was sorry, he was in love.

John didn’t freeze like he expected him to. Instead, he reacted like he’d been shocked, touched by fire, and didn’t miss a beat in fisting the collar of Sherlock’s coat, other hand in his hair. He was crying, Sherlock thought maybe he was crying as well, but it didn’t matter. Tears mixed and Sherlock pulled John closer by the waist, his tea joining John’s, forgotten at their feet.

When they parted they were breathing hard and the sky was a brilliant orange and red. John didn’t say anything, just leaned his face into Sherlock’s neck where Sherlock could feel him breathing. It was the most comforting thing in the world and Sherlock let his eyes slipped closed, feeling like he’d been waiting for this for an eternity. And, for that moment, everything felt okay. Or like it would be.

For that moment, it was just the two of them against the world. Once again.


Tagging some people who wanted to be tagged! Thanks for reading :) @deathfrisbee-221b @unrelentinghost @theodduckling and some other people who commented and might want to be tagged? ily! @yoonrey @swimmingfeelsinajohnlockianpool @sherlockfandomtandem

Not just planned. Planned and rehearsed.

Okay. I have a feeling this is pretty much common knowledge but I’m gonna say it anyway because I love ASiB.

Irene is a freaking genius.

And I find the dynamic between her and Sherlock so fascinating, because they’re intellectual equals — with Irene being the ‘right brain/emotional’ genius and Sherlock being the ‘left brain/purely intellectual’ genius.

They really are two halves of a whole. Which I’m sure is brilliant for Mofftiss, because they can say shit like that and have it falsely interpreted as romantic. But I digress.

Irene deduces how to ‘defeat’ Sherlock within the first five minutes of meeting him.

In fact, she technically figures it out before then — the moment she receives the photos of John and Sherlock in the cab together and they’re literally covered in rainbows. And Irene’s expression is just … gotcha.

Step 1) Make Sherlock/John jealous and uncomfortable. Her “battle dress” can do both at the same time.

Step 2) Ask Sherlock to explain how he solved a case, as a trial run for how she’s going to trick him into making the 007 deduction.

Step 3) Flirt a bit with John to make Sherlock more jealous.

Step 4) Watch as Sherlock gracelessly stammers and blurts out everything about how he solved the case immediately, before you’ve even had to do any real work.

PSSFSTINOFTHE CAR. Position of the car.

Step 5) Be vaguely surprised that it’s so easy to trick this supposed genius into laying all his cards on the table.

Step 6) Literally spend like the next 6 months cucking these lads for fun because you’re so confident.

Thatcher, Redbeard, a series of dreadful events, and the love that have yet to speak its name.

Someday the true story may be told – for those of us that have recognized and believed in the romance between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, Sherlock has been the adaptation many of us wanted to see it happen. S4 was difficult – I didn’t think it possible to experience grief and loss because of a tv show, yet there I was, sad, disappointed, and moping for weeks. But after going back and reading some ACD canon as a form of therapy, I realized just how much I still love Sherlock. I can’t explain it, it is… what it is. So I watched S4 again quite a few times the last week or so. And guess what? I am here to tell you in all seriousness – love conquers all may still be on its way after all.

We already know the surface narrative of S4: Mary died saving Sherlock, Eurus, the long-lost third Holmes sibling killed Redbeard aka Victor aka Sherlock’s childhood best friend out of jealousy, and was the mastermind behind everything Moriarty ever did. After enduring the Sherrindford Experiment™, Sherlock solved Eurus’ riddles and saved John’s life; Baker Street Boys were back at 221B solving crimes as they always do, with some parenting on the side. The end.

My conclusion after tearing through layers of allusions? Mary probably didn’t die (I can’t make up my mind about this… for now); there was definitely no baby. It was all Mycroft’s fault, Eurus the east wind was a story he made up to conceal Lady Elizabeth Smallwood’s slaughterhouse, where Redbeard came into being and became Sherlock’s Reichenbach cauldron. Sherlock and John finally recognized the hurt, grief, and loss they both endured as a couple since TRF; but for now, they were back in the glass closet, the love they shared remained unspoken – until/if the lost special can be found. The end.

Don’t believe me? Let’s begin with Thatcher because so much of S4 revolves around the darkest moments in the UK during her time as the prime minister. Before I begin, please note that you’ll have to see beyond the suggested time and space presented on screen as the surface narrative unfolds, and instead try and think about allegory and allusion. Yeah, kinda like reading ACD canon, but a bit more difficult – let’s face it, visual media is just as capable of inspiring as deceit as we all know intimately by now.

Ready? Fair warning – this is the longest and saddest meta I’ve ever written, and it’s only the tip of an iceberg. Please be patience and try reading to the end, I promise it’ll be worth your time.

The scene that broke everything wide open for me was the exchange between Mycroft and Lady Smallwood:

Lady Smallwood. Alicia this time. PM – as in prime minister? Nope. Because earlier:

Why use an acronym, then? PM as in night? Darkness? Shadow?

A secret then. What did Mycroft reveal as he removed Alicia Smallwood’s card?

Oh and look what Eurus said in the scene right after:

The other one – Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. Lady…… Sherrinford? 

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Hi! I have a question for you: how do you think Sherlock was feeling on the first night at Angelo's? Was he already in love? Was he freaked out/upset by John's blatant flirting? Was he in denial? Some other option, or a combination of them? I'm just conflicted on how he might have viewed John and his advances that night, and you seem like you understand these characters so well. You're lovely, thanks!

oh man what a QUESTION okay 

where is sherlock that first night. by the time they get to angelo’s, sherlock and john have met in the lab and sherlock did the charming wink thing (which we know from MHR he does when he wants to leave a good impression), they met at the flat where sherlock was super charming (smile + please, call me sherlock) and clearly anxious for john to want to like it (his cute sad attempt at tidying things up) and to like him (i read your blog - that SMILE with “what did you think?”), and lestrade came to get sherlock to come to a crime scene. 

so this is like, my fav part, because sherlock clearly trusts john already because his guard is down. although he waits for lestrade to leave before he is visibly excited about the case, he literally jumps into the air in excitement for john. he is also conscious of john’s suicidal thoughts and although his immediate reaction is to take off, he clearly reconsiders - doesn’t want to leave him alone, but also thinks that john might be well-suited to his work - “seen a lot of injury then, violent death? want to see some more?” he’s already deducing how to heal john, how to save john from himself. and what does sherlock know about saving someone from themselves? the work. because that’s what saved sherlock’s life. 

i think this is the crux of sherlock’s continued miscommunications with john, by the way. sherlock thinks the work saved his life, and he’s wrong. the work might have gotten sherlock through his drug addiction to the other side, but it’s clear from his later interaction with the cabbie that he values the work, the game, more than he values his own life. it’s not so much that he risks his life to prove he’s clever, it’s that he risks his life to prove he’s clever enough. he externalizes his value to his cleverness and his ability to win, his usefulness, as it were. he thinks his value to john is in his ability to save john from himself, in the beginning, by giving him the adrenalin and danger he desires, and later, from others, from outside sources that threaten him and what john wants. which is how he doesn’t understand that he’s john’s best friend in tsot.

john, on the other hand, doesn’t see sherlock’s value that way. obviously. sherlock’s value is in sherlock himself. if sherlock never worked a case with john again, john would’ve been happy anyway just to be around sherlock. this is how john shoots the cabbie without knowing whether the case was solved. he doesn’t care. he sees a threat to sherlock, and he eliminates the threat regardless of the consequences. sherlock didn’t see it that way, he misunderstood. that’s how this whole elaborate set-up in tld happens - john tells his fake-therapist that sherlock didn’t even try to contact him. well, no, john! not after what you said. sherlock thinks he needs to be clever (reinforced by mary who at best is just a bad person trying to be good but failing miserably and at worst is an actively bad person just attempting to appear good while being bad) - he needs to give john a case, the danger and adrenalin, and only through that does he think he can reconnect to john. he tries to give john that boost of saving him. but john doesn’t get that boost from saving him. john doesn’t get the boost he needs until he can talk to sherlock and break down and be vulnerable in front of him.

anyway so. they go to this crime scene, john calls sherlock “brilliant” which is like, plot twist! you don’t have to convince me you’re cool, i already think you are! which for sherlock is like, crazy. and when sherlock says, you’re helping me to make a point, what he means is, you’re here to show everyone that i’m not always alone. that i can work with people, that sometimes, people choose me. that i am not a freak or whatever. i don’t know if sherlock even realised he was doing this, but he was. he was showing john off, so to speak. and john was happy to be shown off. 

so then sherlock jets out of that crime scene, though. mixed signals! but from tld we know that sherlock was aware immediately of john being left behind. of john, a suicidal bloke, being suddenly left behind by the person he had chosen, left without a way to really get home. imo, mycroft picks john up because sherlock asked mycroft to - that’s why mycroft is so super interested. mycroft picks john up because sherlock asked him to, but he’s creepy of his own accord, because that’s how mycroft tries to be protective. next time just use your words, myc. you can even use them over a phone. and sherlock texts john when mycroft takes too long. come back. you have a purpose. i need you. 

i think that can’t be undersold. sherlock says to john, i need you. and john comes.

which is when we get to angelo’s. how is sherlock feeling? WOW. MIND. FUCKING. BLOWN. this guy has never been so deep so fast. you’ve gone from a) not unbearable flatmate to b) gotta save this guy’s life to c) better feed him up while i’m at it. (the uneaten apple in john’s desk = depression-related lack of appetite at least.) and if you recall from the pilot: is that what girlfriends do, feed you up? to me it is obvious that sherlock is interested, in that way. i think it was obvious to john, too. john is a repressed sort of dude. he would not have put himself out that way if he wasn’t getting some reciprocal vibes. 

so why does sherlock reject john’s advances? 

a) i think sherlock is used to rejecting people’s advances. he gives a speech that is at its foundation pretty kind, and pretty rehearsed. he rejects molly in the first few scenes of the episode. AND we see throughout this episode that sherlock is still acting out of habit. it’s habit to rush out of the flat to the scene. it’s habit to rush off the scene to find the suitcase. he is not yet thinking things through; he has not had time to look at everything and make a well-considered decision. he is used to the immediacy of his deductions and struggles, throughout the entire show, to put aside the surface of his deductions wrt john and dig deeper. 

b) so this is just speculative, but considering that we know from lestrade and sherlock’s interaction at the fake drugs bust that sherlock has perhaps a somewhat tenuous grasp on his sobriety, it’s possible that sherlock is still in the first year of his recovery. and if he’s seen any kind of addiction counselor - rehab, anything like that, even just googling really - they will almost always (in my experience) tell you not to get into a new relationship within the first year of your recovery. but sherlock’s sobriety is important to him throughout the first two series of the show - they talk about his cigarette addiction as a kind of go-around, but it’s clear that he is also fighting that other demon. so he wants to be in recovery. the stunted, rehearsed-ness of his rejection speech might have its grounds in saying something he’s not sure he really believes in (can you see sherlock listening to an addiction counselor? i think he’d think, come on, i have complete control, i can do this without all that. but away from them, i can see him thinking, well. it couldn’t hurt.) 

c) being chosen and being wanted are two totally different things. i think sherlock was ready and prepared to be chosen. he wanted john to choose him. he wanted john to like him, to like the flat, to like his work, to choose to stay and help and be with him - feelings! wild, right? but i don’t much think he was prepared for being wanted back. i don’t think he fully recognizes his own feelings and could not have expected john’s. it takes him by surprise. it is still taking him by surprise as late as tsot, when he’s not aware that he’s john’s best friend, and it’s reinforced in series four through t6t and tld, presuming that what we see on screen is in fact what happened which imo is 60/40 right now, before john breaks down and shows his own vulnerability. remember always that john thought sherlock would contact him between the end of t6t and the start of tld, and was bitterly disappointed that sherlock hadn’t. but sherlock thought he wasn’t wanted. that’s a boundary line john drew and sherlock respected. it isn’t until the end of tld that sherlock realises, through john’s vulnerability, that he is wanted, still, and always, and that the fact of john’s wanting sherlock is in fact the cause of some of john’s pain. it’s like, john wishing mary would go away so he could be with sherlock, the way they must have been while mary was off trekking the world, and then when mary died, john had this moment of like, wait! not like that! so his wanting sherlock causes him some pain. and sherlock doesn’t see the wanting part. he only sees the reaction of pain. sherlock saw the choosing part coming, but he could not see the wanting part. so he was surprised.

tl;dr, he was surprised into a habitual, rehearsed response borne in part of his misreading of john’s interest and in part of his protectiveness over his own sobriety, and then by the time he fully understands his own interest and is ready to reciprocate, he thinks his value to john exists primarily in his usefulness because his initial rejection and john’s subsequent interest in other people appears to have closed that door. john, taken aback and still, remember, kind of a repressed dude, says no, i wasn’t asking. the boundary is drawn; sherlock respects it. 

but that itself is the thing. neither of them were ready for each other that first night. they both have had so much fucking baggage to work through, and neither of them had gone through it by the first night. they could not have, imo, navigated a successful relationship as the men they each were at angelo’s that night. they had to grow up and grow into themselves. they spent a long ass time doing it, but i have no doubt that they needed that time to understand themselves and each other, and they’re still working through that throughout s4, however much of s4 you think was true or false. they’ve reversed some of the script from sherlock’s vulnerabilities into john’s, and have not yet resolved every issue. we still have our hanging chekhov’s guns. like, practically literally. i just beta-read a meta that explains alla that so i’m not gonna go into it because amy toxicsemicolon is about to in a hot minute here so just look for that. 

what it means, really though, is this: they have not yet achieved the modern version of the end to tab - the two of them in their chairs at baker street, utterly comfortable, utterly together. they have not yet reached the end of their journey together. there’s more to come. 

Sherlock Holmes X Male!Reader - interesting.

Sherlock Holmes [bbc] X Male!Reader
warnings: light language, light sexual themes, mentions of rape/attempt of rape
he/him pronouns used for reader
** reader is around mid-twenties and therefore younger than sherlock
___

“John, someone’s at the door, go get it.” Sherlock drawled from where he was perched on his desk, fiddling on his phone, “John, did you hear me? I said there was someone-“ 

Keep reading

Beneath the Surface - Request

Requested by anon:  hello can you do a sherlock x reader angst based on the song beneath the surface by dream theatre thank you ♡

Pairing: Sherlock x reader

Word count: 1,440

Warnings: Angsty.

A/N: I tried to write something different with this one. I hope you like it. ;)
Also, this is set between season 3 and season 4 (you know when Mycroft wants to send Sherlock away…)
*Tags under the cut.

Enjoy!

Originally posted by ofallingstar

“My dear lover (Y/N),

I must ask you a question, as it is the only way I can get rid of this sentiment invading my brilliant mind. A question, perhaps, too ridiculous to come from a man like me, yet important to kept my sanity. Please, forgive me if I cause trouble, but you know I must focus solely on what matters; my job, which is the only thing that fulfils me, or so I thought. I’m spoiling the point, forgive me. I will ask you the question now – it is a great time to stop reading – and please promise me you will never repeat it out loud, and you will never talk about it –or this letter, for that matter – with anyone. I don’t know what will be of me after such thing. The paragraph is too big, I fear, I will write the question on the next one, as a starter, like an elegant letter. I’m sorry for this introduction, I can’t put my mind on order and you will see why very soon. I really hope you understand that that is the reason why my usually clear calligraphy has turned into a mess, or why I can’t make myself write a drabble and then type a proper version that is perfectly understandable.

Is there ever a right time? You had led me to believe you’d be there for me. Perhaps when the star aligned, when you weren’t so consumed. I looked for clues, for it is all I know how to do, and yet I found none. John told me to be patient, and so I waited in the shadows, looking for the minimal cue that showed me the time was right – but it never happened.

It was then when I stopped caring, and God knows I am utterly regretful at that choice. I forgot the reason why I longed to be so close to you, and faded – disappeared – into the darkness, the same darkness in which I had hidden my feelings until the proper time arrived. Said darkness turned into pain, a pain that I had never felt before, and I’m afraid it never went away. It hurts, my love, and it will continue to hurt forevermore.

I wore my feelings, I never hid them until John suggested to. I craved for the moment when you realized that my love for you was new to me, and so I couldn’t quite confess with words what I felt with my soul. Words are never enough to such things, you’ll see, no matter how strong they are only actions can interpret the feelings of the heart.

Am I being too poetic? I’m afraid so, but then again, I don’t feel like myself. That is why I’m writing to you this letter. I must expel everything out, as it is the only way I can rest in peace each night, without you invading my mind.

Where was I? Oh yes, I wore my feelings but after I stopped caring, I hid them; I buried all of the remains deep beneath the surface. <- That is quite a catchy phrase, should I write it more often?

I’m deeply sorry for not knowing the truth; for believing I was the only one suffering in silence. If I had deduced it in time… But love blinds us all, and I couldn’t imagine a human like you in love with a monster like me. I now blame that as the reason why the right time never came; it was always there, but we were too blind and scared.

I appreciate your effort trying to protect my fragile frame. You couldn’t risk it, could you? If you had, maybe I would go mad – but dear, my dearest (Y/N), I am already mad.

How was your search? The search for words, the rehearsals of what you’d do when the moment came… I know mine was tedious, and more than once I thought of quitting and confessing my love at any time without any hesitation. But I couldn’t do it, because I believed you deserved more than a mad man bursting into millions of pieces out of a sudden, especially me, who you know to be a well-centred person. I would scream just to be heard, yelling at the stars above – but I fear the stars were the only ones to know apart from John.

John found out a bit later, after you and I both stopped caring. He noticed the break up between us, although there was nothing to break up since there was nothing between us. But I craved for it with all of my might. I was bleeding just to feel, and have you feel back – I craved your soft touch, and your never ending love; it was perhaps egoistical from me to dream of you falling in love, but I needed it. I must admit that a bit of me got very proud of knowing that you did love me back.

If you had only told me how you truly felt, things would be different. I would be writing another kind of letter – if any – and not a good-bye one. I would be by your side, with my mind on its place and my heart warm by your side. But I’m afraid it will never happen, and I will never see you again.

Is this making things easier for you? I knew you would try to run away, quitting perhaps, but I’m sure you would never consider that I would kill a man threatening your and all of my family’s life; did you think I could murder someone? Of course you didn’t, because you were in love and love blind us all. But I did, and now I will have to go away. This letter is to free us both from the invisible chain we unconsciously tied around our necks.

The shell of what things could have been will be destroyed once I finish writing this letter, and hopefully yours will once you finish reading it. The secrets we kept were too frail, and our tired bones must rest now. Carrying such weight isn’t healthy, you know it for sure.

I’m sad to think I never knew. Not only does it mean I’m not as good as I thought I was, but it also means I missed the chance of my life. Do you feel the same? After reading this letter, and after doing whatever it is that you chose to do with it, will you forgive me for being so blind? I kept you away from love, happiness and maybe a future. You will now walk the London streets alone, knowing that it could have been me by your side, rather than the cold wind and the yellow fog.

I hope that your future is as bright as mine can’t be. A person like you will be able to find someone else soon, and hopefully someone better. I must admit, I was very concerned that you would fall for me, because I know who I am and I know that you deserve better. I also know that this letter has different messages that may result confusing, but do know that love is confusing and, although I have stopped caring, my love for you will continue for the rest of my days as an old memory deep inside my soul.

Remember those nights, at the very top of the bridge that crosses the Thames, in which we would find the one boat sailing earlier than the rest? Remember the tiny red light it had on the top? Remember the pulsing, blurry vision we’d get of it once it sailed away? That is my love for you now. It is objective, because it is there, but it no longer shines in front row but rather in the back.

Am I being too harsh with you? Apologies, my lack of care is playing with us me. As said before, if I had known how you felt, things would be different. However, you kept me reaching in the dark for something to… conceal. Why did you do this? Did you stop caring before me? Please, do tell me how you achieved it.

I hope you don’t forget me, lover. I hope you find someone else that isn’t as blind or fragile as me. Please, don’t remember me as the killer that wrote you a sad letter just to shake you off his mind. Remember me as the world’s smartest man, the one that you were once able to love. Maybe then I will turn human again.

Dig my dear, dig deep beneath the surface.

Forever yours,
S.H.”

Keep reading

9

“Here’s to a job well done, Mrs. Lestrade.”

Molly snorted but clinked her champagne glass against the detective inspector’s, “that’s Doctor Lestrade, if you please.”

“Right, how silly of me,” he chuckled, swigging the remaining champagne from his glass. He gathered up his jacket, smiling at his companion, “ready?”

Molly nodded, replacing her own empty glass and taking his outstretched arm. Three days they’d been posing as a married couple to solve a string of robberies carried out on wealthy British nationals. Circumstances aside, Molly was rather enjoying herself. She and Greg made a brilliant team and he’d built quite a list of resources and suspects. To celebrate their progress, he’s insisted on taking her to dinner - Molly wasn’t about to argue; she’d been looking for an excuse to wear her new dress.

Ten minutes later, the two were comfortably ensconced in a private booth in the hotel’s dining room; thankfully, Molly had retained enough of her schoolyear French to order the seafood special and a glass of red wine. Greg, meanwhile, absently fiddled with a breadstick, as if unsure what else to do with it. He swallowed almost nervously, looking across at Molly.

“Look, Molly, I’ve had a great time these last few-”

”Excuse me, sir, but zere is a phone call for you in reception.”

“What?” Greg looked up at the waiter who’d interrupted him; the bespectacled man was busy polishing cutlery with a cloth. He frowned, “tell them I’m busy.”

“Mr. ‘olmes,” the waiter replied, still rubbing at the knife as if he had a grudge against it.

Greg rolled his eyes, “I’m definitely busy.”

“Mycroft ‘olmes, sir.”

The detective inspector hesitated, glancing at Molly; the lovely woman just smiled, “it’s okay. You take it. I’ll be alright until you get back.”

Greg nodded, shooting the waiter a final disapproving glance before hurrying off towards the reception. Molly sighed, fiddling with her wine glass as she watched her company exit the dining room.

“Do you think that disguise is fooling anyone?”

After a moment, the ‘waiter’ abandoned his aggressive polishing and took the seat opposite her. Molly stared at Sherlock in annoyance, taking in his dark glasses and drawn moustache; he looked ridiculous and gorgeous at the same time and it pissed her off. He folded his arms.

“It fooled him.”

Molly was having none of it. “What are you doing here, Sherlock? Why are you following me?”

"I’m not following you,” he snapped defensively, “I’m on a case,” Molly raised an unimpressed eyebrow and he cleared his throat, “I may have come across you in my…free time.”

“Like the Eiffel Tower, for instance? Yesterday lunchtime?” Molly said, a hint of smugness to her tone; her smile grew when the man in front of her refused to look at her, “Or how about when Greg and I were walking through the park-”

"He had no right to hold your hand.”

Molly rolled her eyes; honestly, she had no time for his pathetic jealousy. Instead, she picked up her napkin and dipped it into her water glass.

“Could you at least get rid of the moustache?” She reached across the table, gently wiping at his upper lip, “you look like a knock-off Poirot.”

He frowned, “who?”

”Nevermind,” Molly chuckled, grasping his hand, “you know I prefer my detectives clean shaven.”

Before he could do more than smirk, Greg returned to the table looking rather flustered; Sherlock and Molly quickly dropped hands before the Inspector could notice.

“Sorry about that. It was just-” he stopped, staring at the waiter occupying his seat opposite Molly, “um…aren’t you supposed to be working?”

Sherlock jumped up, immediately returning to waiter mode as he flashed Molly  grin, “my apologies. Is zere anything else I can do for you?”

“No,” Molly smiled, finding it immensely difficult to keep her composure under the look he was giving her, “th-thank you for your help.”

"A pleasure, mon chere,” he brazenly took up her hand, pressing his lips to her soft skin. The keycard passed between them and Molly blushed prettily, tucking her hand out of sight. A final wink and he was gone.

“What was that about?” greg commented, finally taking his seat. Molly shrugged, fiddling with the keycard in her lap.

“You know the French.  A bit over-friendly.”


Greg looked out at the Paris landscape, exhaling the cigarette he was indulging in - one wouldn’t hurt, it’d been a long day. The city was beautfiul in the dark, the streets near empty and lights twinkling like stars. the case hadn’t provided him with much free time; he made a mental note to come back for a holiday.

“Right, I’m just going out for a walk,” he turned to see Molly yawning, stretching her arms above her head, “fancy stretching my legs. Don’t wait up, I might walk into the town.”

He nodded, puffing once again on his cigarette, “yeah, sure. Say hi to Sherlock for me.”

Greg couldn’t help but chuckle as Molly’s face exploded with colour befre she hurried out.

classycumberlock  : “Hi! I have a fanart request for you and I was wondering if you like the idea! It’s Sherlock as an otter and John as a hedgehog. Sherlock’s down on one knee asking: "Will you be my otter half?” It’s super cute but I don’t know if anyone has done it before. You like the idea? From a fellow Cumber cookie :3"


A MILLION TIME YES THIS IS TOO BRILLIANT I have postponed this req for the right moment and it’s still in Valentine’s mood so Happy Valentine for you too! xoxo

Kidnapped

Request from Anon:  Sherlock x reader. Jim kidnapped The reader who is also Sherlocks wife. She’s been missing for weeks and he’s done unspeakable things to her

So I wrote this a bit differently, I hope it works. I’d appreciate any feedback, I am really on the fence about this one. Thanks to @igottomuchfreetimeonmyhands for beta-ing and for the words of encouragement! Enjoy xoxo - Sarah!


Hour One

Sherlock twisted the gold wedding band on his left hand and looked anxiously around the room. Officers and detectives alike were scurrying here and there. Lestrade had a phone glued to his ear and was barking out orders to anyone who would listen. His stomach churned with unease and he had to keep swallowing down the bile threatening to rise in his throat. He replayed the scene that he came home to just an hour ago.

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Requested by fourtyninekirbygamzeegirl: Can you do a Sherlock x fem! Reader where the reader is a psychologist and lives in the basement apartment. She walks in on Sherlock and Irene Adler and it gets awkward. Jealous and fluff, please?

(gif not mine but writing is)

The Woman who was no Lady

You lived in the basement of 221B Baker Street in London. After 6 months of living there, you had become friends with your neighbours who lived upstairs, consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, Dr John Watson and Mrs Hudson who owned the building. Sherlock Holmes’ abilities astounded and enthralled you, he was truly a master of his craft. Sometimes you liked to think that he also respected your work. You were a psychologist and you’d moved to London as your skills were needed there. Sometimes you felt that 221B needed you just as much, as the people who you lived with were all damaged in some way. But it was a two way street, you felt like you needed them just as much as they needed you.

You sat in your apartment reading a detective novel, one of your favourites genres at the moment. Then it dawned on you, some key information about a client the boys had in yesterday. You chuckled to yourself. It was right in front of Sherlock’s face but he didn’t see it. Placing the book on the table, you smooth down your long white dress which was covered in a floral print. Excitedly you walked up the stairs, they creaked with every step you took. You could hear Sherlock talking. Great that means that John is home too.

Opening the door you see the familiar dark curls and chiseled cheekbones of Sherlock sitting in his chair. “I was thinking about yesterdays client and something occurred to me…” Your words trailed off as a stranger turned around in John’s chair. It was a woman wearing a short black dress that left nothing to the imagination. Her face painted with red lipstick and thick mascara, her dark hair pinned up. You stared at her slightly in shock. You knew that clients did not sit in that chair. Who is she? Studying her again you whisper “dominatrix” a smile flickered on Sherlock’s face. You must have been correct. “Sorry Sherlock, I didn’t realise that you were with a client.” you said nonchalantly as you started to back into the doorway.
“Come in we were only chatting. Besides we need someone to make the cups of tea. I’m parched.” said the woman with a smirk on her face. Sherlock did not know if her last sentence was meant to be a joke or not.

“(Y/N) this is Miss Irene Adler. Irene this is Miss (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N).” said Sherlock though he predominantly gazed at you.
“Pleasure to meet you Irene.” you say to her, smiling politely. Irene looked at you intensely and then back to Sherlock as if you weren’t even standing there.
“Oh Sherlock, I didn’t know that you had a mouse problem.” she said with a smirk on her face as her eyes darted to your direction. Her words took Sherlock by surprise and a look of confusion appeared on his face. She had only just met you but her words were cutting as if she was spitting them at you. Sherlock was about to interject in anger but there was a smile on your face that stopped him.
“It’s alright, I can come back later. I didn’t realise that you were busy.” you say politely. It was clear that Irene did not want you there for some unknown reason.
“Run along sweetheart.” she said, confirming your suspicions. Then something happened. Something that you least expected.

“No stay (Y/N). Please.” Sherlock said as he stared at you. Irene looks at him slightly in shock. Even you knew that it was rare for Sherlock to say the p word. You pulled a chair close to where they were sitting so the chairs would form a loose triangle. Your face looked strained as you sat down. Sherlock could tell that you were biting your tongue and trying your best to be polite.

“Well this is cosy.” Irene said sarcastically whilst leaning forward. As she spoke she placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee and it slowly crept up his thigh. Her plan was working until Sherlock kicked her hand away. His eyebrows furrowing into a frown. You sniggered a little as her plan didn’t work. There was a moment of awkward silence. You didn’t really know what to say.
“Not sure why you are friends with this one Sherlock. A girl like this boring and plain. I mean look at her. Doesn’t even know how to hold a conversation.” Irene said looking at Sherlock as if you weren’t even there. He stared at you with a pained expression. Clearly you must not be the only one holding your tongue.

“Friends… Ah yes that reminds me I must text John to let him know that you have more information on yesterday’s client (Y/N). He’ll want to get home quicker.” Sherlock said whilst texting on his mobile.
“I wouldn’t think it would be possible for her to have more information than you already know. When I see how your brilliant mind works.” Irene’s breathing became heavier as she spoke. “Well the things I would do to you. Sherlock you would be too breathless to speak.”
You raised your eyebrows in disbelief. This must be the weirdest and most awkward conversation you have ever witnessed with someone you had just met.

Suddenly your mobile vibrates silently notifying you of a new text message. You read it discreetly. ‘It’s OK let her have it. - SH’ A smile grew on your face which was mirrored by Sherlocks who has noticed your change in expression. He must of been texting you not John. Now that you had permission, this conversation was going to be fun. The conversation up til now had been in her control. Maybe the power should go to somebody else for a change.

“What is the deal with your dress (Y/N)? They look like curtains.” said Irene, it was obvious that she wanted you to argue back.
“Classic” you say in an unmoving voice.
“What is?” Irene asks with a confused look on her face. You promptly answer whilst staring at her directly in the eye.
“Classic. What you are wearing. The thick dark makeup on your eyes and the red lips. Specially designed to draw attention to them, instead of where you are lacking.”
“How dare you!” she exclaims but you keep on talking.
“Must have been easy for you to move out of your family home. Sad to see that Mummy and Daddy didn’t love you. Is that why you are wearing big girl clothes?”
Irene flinched. You had obviously struck a nerve.
“I knew from the second I saw you what your profession was and your conversation confirmed it. Though I never would have thought that you were into that kind of thing Sherlock.” you say whilst playfully shaking your head at him.
Looking at him you could see a massive grin on his face. Sherlock was enjoying this. You picking apart a woman he could not read and deduce.

“I don’t have to listen to any more of this. Are you really going to let her talk to me like that? Sherlock, I thought you’d be more careful who you choose as your friends!” Irene growls as she stood up. Sherlock also stood and signalled for you to aswell. She was now boxed in and unable to move.

Sherlock stood looking at her as he spoke, with anger in his eyes. “Irene you couldn’t be more wrong. (Y/N) is one of the most intelligent people that I have ever met. Which is evident from the way that she picked you apart. She is never boring or plain because she makes the most interesting and eloquent conversations. She is intelligent but does not let it rule her head. A fault that I have myself. Her dress is beautiful not only the colours but how the fabric hugs her body. She is perfect.” a look of shock and realisation is etched on his face as he looks at you.

Irene pushes past you and storms out of 221B, slamming the door behind her. Sherlock is stood like a statue, staring into your eyes. “She is perfect.” he repeats. A hint of red fills his cheeks. You could also feel yourself blushing.
“(Y/N) you are perfect.” Sherlock said smiling.

girlnairb  asked:

Could you do Drabble 18, "It's ok, if you cry...". Thank you!

This one gave me a hard time at first…but then it gave me lots of nice feels. :’)


18. “It’s ok to cry…”

Sherlock was completely and totally beat as he arrived at Molly’s flat. He was physically tired from being out all night chasing a suspect, hungry from having gone without food for almost a full day, and emotionally drained because of the fact that Lestrade ended up having to shoot the young criminal after he was foolish enough to pull a gun on them.

Perhaps in the past it wouldn’t have bothered him quite as much. But when he walked over and saw the lifeless face of a man who was barely a man, his heart ached a little. His mind went to the young man’s parents and how broken they’d be upon hearing the news, regardless of what life their son had led up till then. A parent shouldn’t have to lose a child. Period. And Sherlock felt more strongly about that fact now than he ever had before. Not just because of Victor, or because of the unnecessary pain his parents lived with for so many years, but also because of being a Godparent himself. That child meant the world to him, and he could only imagine the level of attachment that came from truly being a father.

He couldn’t help but wonder if that amount of love, and all that went with it, might just break him.

He walked in the door to see Molly balancing Rosie on her hip while trying to stir some soup. She turned and grinned upon hearing him enter, though her expression shifted as soon as she examined his.

“Oh goodness…long night?” Molly asked

“Sadly yes,” Sherlock admitted with a small smile.

“Well this one should be having a morning nap soon and I think Uncle Sherlock should do the same!” Molly said with a tickle on Rosie’s belly, making her giggle. “Oh and I think there’s something we need to show Uncle Sherlock, right?”

“Oh?” Sherlock asked while taking off his coat. “And what is that?”

“Well we learned a little something new today. Can’t wait to have her show John when he’s back from his medical conference!” Molly adjusted the sixteen month old Rosie on her hip and spoke clearly to her. “Rosie, what can you say now? Can you say, ‘I love you?’ Can you tell Uncle Sherlock?”

Rosie turned and grinned brightly at Sherlock. She pointed to him enthusiastically.

“Luh you!”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and jaw dropped open. “Sh-she just said she loves me!”

Molly nodded. “Yep, that’s right. We’ve been practicing all morning!”

“Luh you!” Rosie said excitedly again, reaching out to Sherlock.

Sherlock took her into his arms and felt a strange tightness in his chest and throat as he swept some of the blonde curls from her face. “Love you too, Rosie.”

That was when he realized that Molly was peering at him with particular interest and maybe even a little amusement. Sherlock cleared his throat and sniffed.

“Stupid cat of yours,” he attempted. “Got some of the fur in my eyes again.”

Molly smiled and stroked his arm gently. “You know, you’ve had a long night, and she is your Goddaughter and she just told you she loves you for the first time. It’s ok to cry…”

Sherlock pressed his lips together as Rosie snuggled up under his chin, and then he felt a tear escape against his will. He sniffled a little and wiped his eyes, resting his cheek on her soft little head. He managed a shaky smile at Molly.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

She returned his smile and gave his arm one more squeeze before returning to the soup, speaking over her shoulder while spooning some into a bow.

“You should have some of this and then lay down. You’ll never be able to watch her while I’m at work if you don’t.”

Sherlock sat down at Molly’s kitchen counter, Rosie still in his arms, and he couldn’t stop gazing at the woman across from him. Moisture still clouded his vision a bit…but somehow there was also a newfound and rather brilliant clarity.

As Molly walked over and set the bowl in front of him, Sherlock looked up at her intently.

“Would you like to have one?” he asked very softly. “A child, I mean.”

She stared back at him in silent awe.

“I think- no- I know I would like to,” Sherlock went on. “And what’s more, I know that if I have one…I’d like it to be with you.”

Molly had to take a moment to draw a breath. But finally she nodded, her lips lifting in a slow smile. “Yeah. Yeah I would like to have a child…with you.”

Sherlock felt his heart about to burst as he grinned back at her.

Molly leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to his temple. But she did give him a little smirk as she pulled away.

“Though, I might be even more interested if you ask me out first.”

The tiny hand in his went rigid for a long moment before curling inward and tugging as hard as it could, halting Mycroft in place and startling him out of scanning the sea of small children scattering the schoolroom. He turned to look down at the top of the dark curly head of his baby brother, brows pinched in concern. “What is it, Sherlock?”

Shaking that head of ringlets back and forth, bright grey eyes stared wide at the table Mycroft had been steering them toward, before narrowing calculatingly and looking away indignantly. “No,” Sherlock muttered, horrified gaze snapping up to Mycroft’s in an instant, highly offended that his older brother had picked such an unacceptable place for him to be dropped at. 

“What’s the matter? These kids look perfectly nice,” Mycroft tried to reason with the six-year-old currently clutching his hand, sighing tiredly as Sherlock shook his head again and frowned at his big brother.

Absolutely not, My,” Sherlock blinked at him, emphasizing the words heavily like he’d just learned recently, already crafting the art of disdain perfectly at such a young age.

“Fine,” Mycroft conceded, floundering on what to do next with a quick look around the room. “Where then?”

Sharp gaze dropping away from his, Sherlock glanced around them, taking stock of each table and person occupying it, young mind already learning to weigh the pros and cons of each potential situation before diving in. Mycroft had to stifle a grin with the back of his hand, chest warming at the sight of his already brilliant brother sizing up his new playmates carefully, observations practically glittering in his irises.

Mycroft was most definitely a proud older brother today.

Grey eyes landed on their target and before Mycroft had a chance to catch on, that tiny hand in his was yanking and those already long legs were marching, moving with purpose to a table off in the corner occupied by one little blond boy bent over what appeared to be some sort of coloring book, red crayon wrapped tightly in his fist, concentrating intently on his work.

Storming up behind him with his taller sibling in tow, Sherlock stopped just short of running right into him and huffed when the boy didn’t turn, glancing up at Mycroft in expectation, clearly waiting for a proper introduction since this other boy was clearly not going to whip right around and provide the attention Sherlock was obviously expecting.

Doing as Holmes the younger silently demanded, Mycroft cleared his throat. “Erm, hello.”

The blond head at the table startled for only a moment, turning and taking a cursory glance at Mycroft, flicking blue, unimpressed eyes over him and not bothering to turn all the way around to view his companion, before turning back to his drawing. “Hi,” he muttered, apparently not at all interested in these proceedings.

Attempting not to be impressed by the gall this six-year-old had, Mycroft continued, “This is Sherlock,” feeling the hand in his squeeze ever so slightly and trying not to smile. Maybe Sherlock would be meeting his match today. “What’s your name?”

Wiping the back of his hand across his nose and sniffing like the germ-infested child he probably was, the boy didn’t turn from his project. “John,” he murmured down to his artwork.

“Hi John. Do you mind if Sherlock joins you?”

The shrug of an unaffected child was enough for Mycroft to shove his still silent brother into the seat next to this busy kid, having just about enough small talk with people this age for one day. Sherlock, thankfully, went willingly, placing a hand on the table and staring intently at this blond boy, grey eyes flickering up and down his small frame. 

Finally turning to level a gaze at his new tablemate, John sized up Sherlock equally good and proper, regarding him for a long moment of awkward silence before offering the tiniest of smiles and flicking a gaze up to the crown of Sherlock’s head. “I like your hair.”

Sherlock, to Mycroft’s shock, stayed silent, blinking at this new boy in what could only be wonder, looking positively enamored, lips flapping momentarily before giving up entirely and, to Mycroft’s utter delight, scooting his chair just a tiny bit closer to his new friend. 

Mycroft’s chest ached just a bit, his gobsmacked brother just a bit endearing, though it was entirely unclear to him just what exactly Sherlock was so fascinated by but whatever it was, this John boy clearly had it. Sherlock always did have a knack for seeing things other people didn’t.

Frowning when Sherlock didn’t respond, John eyed him suspiciously long enough for Sherlock to duck his head shyly, a move Mycroft had never ever seen him do in all his six years on earth. 

And, astonishingly, at that, John grinned. “Wanna color?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied quickly, accepting the paper and crayon John slid to him, watching in awe as John babbled away about what it was he was drawing, his own artwork not nearly as important apparently as the words coming out of this kid’s mouth.

Taking that as his cue to head out, Mycroft crept backward toward the door, terrified of startling this pleasant little encounter too severely, though curiosity was getting the better of him. Sighing, he turned to head out, pausing long enough at the door to check one last time.

And just as Mycroft cast one last glance at his little brother on his first day of the school year, he was lucky enough to catch a small hand belonging to that blond boy he’d just left Holmes the younger in care of reach up and pat dark curls once, twice, three times so gently, like if he tapped too hard they may break, a grin only barely visible from Mycroft’s point of view from the door as John smiled widely at Sherlock Holmes and patted his head.

And Holmes the elder lingered just long enough to watch his tiny brother’s pale neck going crimson as he practically full-body blushed at the attention and ducked his head, hiding any other reaction from Mycroft’s view.

And something niggled and promptly snapped into place in Mycroft’s brain.

Oh.

Oh.

A Little Love and Lots of Laughs// Sherlock Holmes

Originally posted by fangirlhani

I’m going to try to fill most of my requests today: so here’s the first one!

Requested by @undiscoveries

It’s been five years since you met Sherlock Holmes, four since you fell in love, and three since you married. To top it all off, you have a son and daughter who are the clone of you and the Detective; they happen to love picnics and swimming and spending time with their cousin Rosie and Uncle John. What’s better than a family day?

Key:

y/s/n - your sons name

y/d/n - your daughters name

  *This is set several years after Season 4, but the two of you met in Season 2 right before the Reichenbach. So in hindsight, Rosie is probably about five or six.


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Johnlock Roulette

Five times John spun the wheel, and one time he came out a winner…

1.  Roulette

The spinning of the wheel echoed the spinning of John’s thoughts as he watched Sherlock flirt with the croupier.  He was a good actor.  But was he this good?  Or was he actually interested in the man?  And why should John care, either way?  It was for a case, right?  And even if it wasn’t for a case, John had no claim on Sherlock.  Did he?  Perhaps more to the point, did he want to?

It was after midnight by the time they stepped out of the Grosvenor Casino onto Maid Marian Way.  Too late to catch a train back to London.  And every hotel in Nottingham seemed to be booked up with tourists in town for the annual Robin Hood Pageant.

“What on earth is a Robin Hood Pageant?” Sherlock demanded.

“You know, Robin Hood and the Merry Men of Sherwood Forest.”  At his companion’s blank look, John continued, “Prince of Thieves?  Men in Tights?  No?  Everyone knows Robin Hood.”

“I must have deleted it.”

Unfortunately, thousands of others had not deleted the existence of Robin Hood, and were now stretching the city’s lodging capacity to its limits.  After several fruitless attempts, though, they finally found a vacancy at The Walton Hotel.  

“I’m afraid that our Bridal Suite is all that we have left for tonight, but I’m sure you’ll find it comfortable.”

John shuffled through several possible responses before settling on “Thank you,” and accepting the key.

The door to number 19 opened into a lounge area with two comfy armchairs and a table.  To one side there was an en suite bathroom with a huge tub, and to the other there were four steps leading up to a sleeping area with a king-sized canopy bed.

Sherlock immediately sprawled across one of the armchairs, and John sat opposite him.

“So, how did you know the croupier was our murder suspect’s accomplice?”

“I caught him top hatting.”

“Top hatting?”

“Dropping extra chips on winning bets placed by the man we’d tailed to the casino.”

“Oh, that’ll make a good title for my next blog entry.  Top Hatting and Tails.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John thought he could detect a slight twitch at the corners of his lips.  

John grinned, and then suppressed a yawn.  He glanced toward the inviting bed.  This doesn’t have to be awkward, he told himself.  Just bite the bullet.    

“I’m knackered.  Are you ready to turn in?  It’s a big bed, and I don’t mind sharing.”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, John, I find the amount of sleep you require to be tedious and unnecessary.  I’m not tired.”

“Suit yourself.”

You always do, John added silently.


2. Russian Roulette, 3. Chat Roulette, 4. Dirty Roulette, 5. Boys Roulette, and +1. Roulette of the Heart (NSFW) under the cut.  Or read it on AO3.

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