universal sherlock holmes

  • The Doctor: *regenerates*
  • Sherlock: *dies and comes back*
  • Sam Winchester: *dies and comes back*
  • Dean Winchester: *dies a lot and comes back*
  • Castiel: *dies and comes back*
  • Loki: *dies and comes back*
  • Harry Potter: *dies and comes back*
  • Professor X: *dies and comes back*
  • Buffy: *dies and comes back*
  • Arthur:
  • Merlin: …Arthur?
  • Arthur: *loading please wait*

Petition for including the dialogue “No shit Sherlock” in a scene between Robert Downey Jr. and Benedict Cumberbatch in Avengers: Infinity War.

Reblog this till it reaches MCU.

Soulmate AU


So we all know the AU where each person has a tattoo with the name of their soulmate, right? Okay.

But John would have the name William, not Sherlock. He would go through all those years, all that pain, resigned to the fact that the wonderful person that is Sherlock Holmes is not even his soulmate. He even marries someone else in the midst of his grief, thinking his best friend is dead and his soulmate will never appear.

But of course, Sherlock has the name John hidden away. He knows John is his soulmate, for who else could it be? Besides, his tattoo is in a fairly visible place- Sherlock sees it every day. But John seems to be adamant about not being gay, refusing him at every turn, and Sherlock becomes disheartened. But he will still jump to save John Watson. He will still love him for all he’s worth.

But everything would change that day on the tarmac. Sherlock reveals his full name: William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

John would freeze, breaking down as he realizes with pain in his chest that the love of his life has been standing in front of him for years. He’ll cry at the fact that he’s married someone else, and weep because he knows that Sherlock is to be sent to his death.

How cruel the world is, to realize one’s soulmate just as they are to die.


Final fic in the Map of the Universe series.


“You’re having a what now?”

And Sherlock blinks at Molly.

Frowns, as if she’d spoken in another language.

Behind him, she can see John Watson staring at the back of his head, little Rosie pressed to his chest. He raises his eyebrows at her in question- Problem?- and she shakes her head, causing Sherlock to frown more and turn. Look at his friend askance.

“Molly just told me she’s having a baby, John,” he says, his voice oddly… detached.

“She says it’s mine,” he adds helpfully, “which is… Surprising.”

He looks down at his tea mug, nonplussed. “Really bloody surprising.”

“Surprising? What’s bloody surprising about it?” Molly snaps, insulted. By now she is beginning to regret just blurting this out in front of John. But she’s been trying to tell Sherlock for two weeks now and she hasn’t been able to bring herself to say it. She’d thought that just getting it out, willy-nilly, would be better than never saying it at all.

So much for that notion.

Sherlock looks back up at her however, that same nonplussed look on his face.

“It’s surprising because I assumed that if you wanted children then you would choose someone else to father them,” he says, his tone as mild as if he were pointing out the unsuitability of a bit of wallpaper, and not his own unsuitability to reproduce.

The very reasonableness of it cuts Molly to the quick.

“Why wouldn’t I want you to be the father of my children?” she asks. “I love you. You’re clever, kind, perfect- Even if you are a great, lumbering clot of a man sometimes.

What on Earth about that translates to you as “not father material,”?”

He looks at her as if she’s mad. “I’m an emotionally repressed trauma magnet with a past of addiction and murder, who has never been able to sustain a relationship besides my friendship with John,” he says in that same reasonable tone. “I come from demonstrably unsuitable genetic stock- Any child I have could be another Eurus. And you are loveliness and kindness personified- Why would you want that for yourself?” He shakes his head decisively. “No, you deserve better.”

Now it’s her turn to look at him like he’s mad. “But I love you,” she says softly. “I love everything about you- Even the bad things. There is no “better,”.”

And, her decision made, she pulls him to her by his dressing gown’s lapels. Kisses him soundly. To her amusement, John covers his daughter’s eyes with one hand, causing Rosie to gurgle in delight and try to pat his hand away. When they pull apart and come up for air, Sherlock is staring at her in wonder, as if she were some sort of wondrous, magical being.

“You want..?” He doesn’t seem to have the worlds to explain.

“I want,” Molly nods in certainty. “I really, really want.”

And then, to her utter delight, he lets out this loud, fearsome, joyous whoop and picks up her. Spins her around. When he sets her down he drops to his knees, lays his ear to her still-flat belly and splays his long fingers across it. The words he says are soft. Gentle. Fast. He speaks of taking care of her, she thinks, of taking care of them both. Molly tangles her fingers through his curls and holds him to her, thinking of him. Thinking of how this is her family now.

She may have two newborns on her hands soon but she wouldn’t have it ay other way.

The Words We Say

Greg and Sherlock were arguing, the rain drizzling around them as they shouted, the tension of the case making them both tired and irritable. The blasted word spilled from Greg’s lips before he could think of the effect it could have on Sherlock. Sherlock, who immediately stiffened up, not moving, not blinking, not breathing for a prolonged second as the word hung heavily in the air between them.


The first time that Sherlock was called that loathsome word, he was just in second grade. He was in the playground, but he never did actually play with the other children. Instead he’d sit in the corner of the playground, underneath the trees that covered him in its shadows like a blanket of protection. He would read books that were meant for the older children that his teacher, a kind woman named Mrs Petelli, gave to him. He would solve puzzles, or he’d sort the wood chips by size and height if he was truly bored.

He existed peacefully alone, a shadow scarcely noticed and heard, until another kid named Sebastian decided that the scrawny loner was an easy victim. “Hey, freak!” he’d shouted, and Sherlock’s entire grade listened and for some godforsaken reason the name stuck. The first time Sherlock had been called the name, it stung. The question of what he’d done to deserve the name brought tears to his 7 year old eyes, before he turned on his heel and ran as fast as his legs would take him.

He did the same thing now at 24 years of age, his coat billowing out behind him as he ran, unable to stay at the crime scene any longer. The pounding in his ears sounded like the crashing of waves against an empty beach. Ice crept up and down his spine, freezing his fingertips over. It wasn’t the weather though, he was certain that today was a mild day in spite of the rain.

Sociopath was a word that Sherlock overheard from a conversation between his mum and dad when he was 13. Loud voices as sharp as shattered glass that filtered through Sherlock’s door and assaulted his ears as he tried to finish his writing assignment. Mummy and dad were arguing about something, and it took Sherlock a few beats before he realized it was about him and Mycroft. “They’re sociopaths!” Father had shouted, “I cannot have this go on any longer! William’s an outcast, he hardly socializes, and our neighbors think were some type of oddball family now because of those two!”

Mummy yelled back of course, voice tight with tears that Sherlock knew were falling even if she was hidden behind a closed door. The argument continued on, until it ended in whispers that were no longer coherent to Sherlock’s racing mind. Mycroft found his way into Sherlock’s room, silent as he looked into Sherlock’s eyes, and no words needed to be said. There was a silent understanding as he simply placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and handed his younger brother his mask of aloofness.

“It’s easier not to care, Sherlock,” he said suddenly a few nights after that, and Sherlock looked up already knowing what this was about. “Caring isn’t an advantage, I’ve learned. Ordinary minds often try to suppress the extraordinary, so they call us names to bring us down.”

“What do we do then? They think we’re…” he trailed off then, unable to say the word out loud, afraid that saying it would make this entire nightmare more real. 

“What have people done throughout the ages when they’re called unsavory names?” Mycroft asked, a small smile pulling on his lips in spite of the look in his eyes that reflected the sharp edge of an icicle. “We take it and we own it.” And they did. They began acting distant and colder, because it becomes harder to target a heart once you’re no longer sure it exists. Sherlock forced himself to stop caring, shoving all emotions into a closed off wing of his mind and refusing to show any vulnerability.

Silk turned into leather.

 The car came out of nowhere, it seemed. It wasn’t going very fast, Sherlock decided as he fell against the concrete, otherwise he’d be dead. Between 20-30 mph then, because at 40 mph there was a 90% chance of death, whereas for 20-30 there was only a 10-50% chance of death. He was fairly certain he was neither dead nor bleeding internally, although the fact that he hit his head on his way down may have been a mercy handed out by the powers that be to stupidify him into believing he was safe. His body felt… distant, as if he was a disembodied consciousness floating in the midst of a world that was spinning rapidly, colors and muffled sounds swimming past his mind as he fought to grab onto something that could steady him, anchor him to reality.

He could feel the pain burning beneath the surface of his skin, bubbling like a pot of water left on the stove. Someone was touching him, he belatedly realized, a wet hand pressing against his face. Maybe his face was what was wet and not the hand. Maybe it was raining. Or maybe nothing was wet and it was all in his messed up mind.

He couldn’t be sure anymore, and he fought to focus, trying hard but he was just so tired and his eyes were slipping shut, too heavy for him to keep open. Sherlock was vaguely aware of a pressure building in his head, and it felt like someone was wrapping a rubber band around his brain, tighter and tighter.

He couldn’t speak.

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t think.

 “Focus on me,” Mycroft had whispered, voice soft as Sherlock- 16 years old- shuddered, too cold and covered in sweat as he lay on the mattress that did nothing for his bones. “Don’t go to sleep.” The light off of the candle lent a soft glow to Mycroft’s eyes as he stared down at Sherlock worriedly, wiping the sweat off of Sherlock’s face with a flannel with an uncharacteristic gentleness. The silence stretched on forever as Sherlock fought to stay awake in spite of the exhaustion the fever was causing him.

 “You worry so much it makes me worry. Am I dying, Mycroft?” he asked with a teasing smile that Mycroft didn’t return which slowly fell from his face. He shifted slightly, trying to ease the pain in his back. “Am I dying?”

The look he received was filled with what could only be labeled as a mix of frustrated helplessness, panic and shame. “I don’t know, brother mine. You better not.” Mycroft moved slightly, face turning away and Sherlock watched as the shadows danced on his face. It did nothing to hide the tears which shined clear as day in his periwinkle eyes. “Not yet. Not before me, at least.”

Someone cried, “shit, are you okay? Don’t you die on me, you bastard…” and Sherlock wanted to reply, perhaps snap at the person to shut up, yet his entire mouth tingled and he wasn’t sure if anything even tumbled out his traitorous lips. All he knew was that everything was too cold and too hot all at once, his vision turning gray at the edges. 

“Come on, Sherlock, wake up!” A hand slapped against his face, panicked and desperate. “He’s not waking up!”

Death was not a concept that Sherlock was knowledgeable about, he’d known about death and its permanence since he was 5 years old. He learned it through Mycroft, of course, since he learned most things through Mycroft. Redbeard had died, and he stared up at Mycroft with wide eyes. “He’s not waking up,” he had said in confusion, speaking slowly as he tried to piece together the events to form an explanation. “Why isn’t he waking up?”

“Call 999! We need an ambulance, he’s fucking dying!” a man’s voice shouted, distraught. Sherlock heard the marching of feet, and then succumbed to the darkness which swallowed him whole.

“Everything dies, Sherlock. All lives end.”

 Sherlock became lucid in fragments, becoming aware slowly as his mind tried to stitch together the little slivers of data he received from each individual sense into a whole picture. The heart monitor beating to his right, noise loud and sharp in the otherwise silent room. The smell of cleaners so strong that it felt as though the inside of his nose was being burned, a lemon-like aroma that filled Sherlock’s lungs with every inhale. The scratchy blanket that bundled around his legs, coupled with the feeling of a cool metal bed rail against his left arm, helped him come to the conclusion that he was in a hospital without him needing to open his eyes.

He opened his eyes slowly, the lights thankfully having been dimmed to be more agreeable with his headache. “You’re awake,” a rumbling voice like rain against a window said from the corner, and after a moment more of staring up at the ceiling, Sherlock turned to look at Greg. “I thought you were going to die…”

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds, eyes dull as he took in the sight of the disheveled man with wrinkled clothes, before looking at the wall instead. “I didn’t want to die yet,” he replied simply, unsure about how to speak to the man he’d considered a friend and father figure for a long time, his chest aching as he remembered the words they’d exchanged. The vitriol that Greg had yelled, the anger in his eyes- or was it disgust?- that had suddenly made Sherlock feel as if he needed to be anywhere- anywhere- but there.

Greg shifted in the plastic chair, nodding as he offered a tight smile. “I’m glad.” The smile was so bitter and brittle it seemed as though the slightest breeze could blow on it and leave it a pile of dust and regret.

“I’m sorry,” Greg finally said, breaking the silence awkwardly, like a child clumsily shoving a block between two others and bringing the entire tower down. “I didn’t mean to… call you any of those things. I didn’t mean it.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and the dim lighting of the room did nothing to hide his glistening eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” His voice wavered, on the edge of cracking, and Sherlock couldn’t help the tears that rushed to his own eyes.

Mirroring, he told himself. It was just a human instinct deeply wired into the subconscious to react to someone’s tears and pain with empathy. It meant nothing. Fighting to regulate his breathing, he nodded slowly, afraid that the wrong action would break open the dam and leave him to drown in an ocean of unshed tears that had collected through the years.

“When I saw you get hit by that car… I thought you were dead. Blood was all over your face, you weren’t responding to anything, and I just- I thought I lost you. I don’t want to lose you, Sherlock, and I hope you can forgive me for what happened.”

There’s a bridge being stretched out between them, and Sherlock knows that he could either ask the question that weighed heavily on his mind or he would miss the moment and wonder forever.“Do you really believe that?” he asked, voice hoarse. “That I’m a… freak?” He faltered at the word freak, feeling like he needed to drink an entire bottle of the horrible lemon-scented cleaner the hospital used to get rid of the dirty feeling that overwhelmed him at the use of the word.

Greg’s eyes bore into his, dark pools of sadness swirling behind them as he shook his head. “I don’t. I never did, I never would believe that you’re anything less than… extraordinary.” He moves closer in his chair, hand on reaching out and tentatively placing it on top of Sherlock’s which were idly tracing patterns against the blanket. “I don’t know why that I used that word, or why I snapped at you but I wasn’t angry with you, I was just- angry and I snapped. I’m sorry, I don’t have any excuses for my behavior but-”

“You apologize too much,” Sherlock cut in with a small smile playing on his lips, but the tears shining in his eyes contradicted them. “Apologies are tedious. A simple sorry would have sufficed”

Greg laughed in surprise at the statement, then his eyes flickered to Sherlock’s left leg that was in a cast, and his eyes softened, no it wouldn’t have.

Sherlock cleared his throat, staring at the tan and calloused hand on top of his for a few long seconds. “My father never apologized.” He shook his head quickly after speaking as if he was shaking an idea out, something akin to flustered panic written in his eyes. “Not that- not that he had any reason to! He never hit me, or anything. He was a good man, he just said some things sometimes.”

 “He’s a good man,” Mum had said to Sherlock, who laid with his face buried into a pillow, his back against the headboard and his knees pressed tight against his chest. “He just has a bit of a temper these days, and he says the wrong things with good intentions at heart. You have to learn to ignore the things he says, love. In one ear and out the other.” She pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s mop of curls before she left Sherlock alone in the room that was far too big and far too cold for Sherlock. This isn’t home anymore, Mum, he had thought as the tears fell quickly, creating a pattern fit for a Rorscach test. “What do you see here?” a man in a white coat could ask, and Sherlock knew what his answer would be.

“I see a fallen angel without a home.”

“Sometimes good people do bad things,” Greg murmured, eyes scanning over Sherlock. “Sometimes the words we say carry more weight than we could believe. They get embedded into a person’s mind and after that, it can be a pain to get out. Even after years and years, the words we say could still be echoing in a person’s mind.” 

Sherlock nodded, a tear falling from his eye as he bit down on his lip. “I’m not a sociopath,” he said, wondering if it was Greg he was saying it to, or the memory of his father that he could still hear yelling the word. “I’m- I’m not as strong as everyone thinks I am, Greg.”

He used the name deliberately, and he knew the older man knew that as well. The hand on top of his tightened for a second, before leaving it completely. “That’s alright,” Greg responded, standing and pulling Sherlock against his chest, mindful of the wires. “You’re plenty strong enough for me. And if you need me, I’ll help you carry all that weight you lug around inside you.” Sherlock buried his face into Greg’s soft cotton Henley, the dam broken as his skinny shoulders quaked.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Sherlock whispered between his tears as if  it was a truth he was too afraid to say out loud, a thought which haunted him during long sleepless nights.

“You’re not alone anymore. I’m here.”

So! That took forever to write and the timing of it was pretty much all over the place. I hope it made sense. @princesspeach212 suggested it again, so she’s to thank for this little fic. 

http://archiveofourown.org/works/11159409 if you’d like to comment/ leave a kudos. @love-in-mind-palace @savedbyholmes @kateis-cakeis @shag-me-senseless-watson @inevitably-johnlocked


For those who enjoyed “Map of the World,”… A small continuation.


“What did you do?”

And Mummy Holmes narrows her eyes at her youngest, who is sitting in his chair projecting an air of innocent bafflement that she doesn’t buy for a minute.

While he may be a talented actor- like his brother- he has never been able to fool her, and she intends to keep it that way.

Besides, the only reason a man asks for access to a valuable family heirloom- particularly one which dates back to the period of the Tudors, and which nobody, theoretically speaking, actually knows the Holmes family own- is if he’s done something to his other half.

Something spectacular.

Something relationship destroying.

Something even sweet Molly Hooper would get annoyed about-  

In short, the sort of something which Alexandra has no doubt her son is capable of, given that he takes after her.

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Piano!lock AU

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4ao3

He hurtled in his room crying out in frustration and anger that you rarely see in an eight-year-old child. His sister watched him wide-eyed cuddled under the covers of her bed at the other side of the room. The boy spent some time with his eyes directed at the shut door furiously before darting to his own bed and falling face-first on the pillows.

After a while his sister forced her blankets over her head trying to ignore her brother’s muffled sobs as tears rolled her soft cheeks silently.

His fingers twitched unoccupied. He was sitting in a car at a corner of a dark street. Music could be heard from the nearby club. Music his ears painfully recognised and his mind reminded him of. The man beside him was crouched to the wheel with a pair of binoculars stuck in his eyes. Stake out. What could be worse in their line of work? His ear caught another melody and his head turned almost violently to glare at his partner incredulously. Ah, yes, of course that was the only thing missing. Sherlock Holmes humming on his own rhythms that dangerously resembled Bach. Damn it, this wasn’t a good night for him.

‘Sherlock.’ He managed.

‘Eyes on the subject, John.’ Came back the low voice commanding, not even granting him a glance.

Doctor John Watson sighed in his eternal turmoil of a situation. How did this man always manage to make him unnerved in the end? His leg was twitching in anticipation now. This was officially the Worst.Night.Ever. Weeks afterwards he might actually reconsider that decision of proclamation but now it seemed quite appealing.

They were on a crazy, unusual case as was usual with them about a mysteriously stolen antique this time and honestly John couldn’t comprehend what was so special about that one. The way that was stolen was pretty obvious and the thief as well, already caught by the police. However, as always, Sherlock insisted on a stake out at the other side of town, of some utterly irrelevant salesman’s house.

Soon the music died out, the last people from the pub passed their car oblivious of their presence, overwhelmed in music and alcohol, the hours drew ahead of them like endless pauses on a pentagram. John’s agitation soon left when there was no more music (thankfully his detective partner had got bored of humming hopeless tunes), and his body was soon sliding lower, his head fell on the side and his eyes slowly started to close in the small hours before dawn.

Sherlock let him drift off for a while. He didn’t need much sleep anyway but John slept indeed much more even though it was uncoordinated and scarce for a proper normal person, it still was more than Sherlock. The detective smiled softly hearing the impalpable snore from the shorter man and wondered if it would be like that when he slept in a proper bed. He quickly shoved the thoughts away and focused on the task at hand somehow frustrated that nothing had happened yet.

It happened when he was seven. His mother had gotten sick. The grown-ups wouldn’t talk about it in front of them but both him and his sister knew. Soon she couldn’t get up from bed. Father wouldn’t take her to the doctors at the hospital. He had been there once. They had helped his leg mend. He was sure they could help Mother.

Their walks on the park had stopped long before that though. Father said he should concentrate on his lessons from now on. He didn’t mean Mother’s lessons, just school. The child had done everything he could to finish everything early every single day so he could at least proudly go to Mother and ask her to teach him again. She would just smile and guide him through every single challenge. He loved it. He didn’t mind that he wasn’t allowed to go to the park anymore. He loved her. Now she was sick.

His little sister had whined and complained and cried about the park. She wanted her friends and their games back. She blamed him for spending time with Mother rather than fighting like her. She was little then… No more than four years old. He didn’t blame her. One day she would understand the beauty of it. One day he dreamed of her admiration. One day he wished he could teach her too.

Their little childish dreams hardly mattered in reality though. Once Mother was sick the music was gone. Father forbade him of practicing, of even getting near Mother’s game. The little boy hated him for it. He told Mother, he begged her to get to the good doctors, to get up and play with him. She just smiled as always and dried the tears from her son’s eyes whispering he should be strong. She told him a story of a prince that never gave up his dreams and one day he won against the dark wizard and came back to his kingdom victorious.

John woke with a start, trying to get up. Damn it, Sherlock is humming again. That was the first thing he registered, the tremor in his hand visible now. John grunted trying to hide it by pressing his fist against his thigh. It didn’t work. In the meantime, Sherlock was looking at him.

‘John, alright?’ The detective frowned at his hand before looking directly into his eyes.

‘Yes, alright. Thanks. What did I miss?’ The doctor said with a stiff voice and pretended to look around as if something would happen exactly because he woke up.

Dawn was almost upon them. A faint light that spread through the clouds of London. The road in front of them was hopelessly the same. John’s hand stiffened when a warm touch on the wrist was applied to it. He glanced down and saw Sherlock observing intensely. John shivered and tried to pull away but Sherlock was already resisting the force with a steady tug of his fingers.

‘John.’ He said letting John’s hand free after a close examination.

‘Sherlock.’ John replied as if nothing at all was concerning.

‘I hadn’t seen your hand tremble like that in years.’ Sherlock knew where not to push John with his immediate deductions anymore.

‘Yeah, well, it never stopped.’ John provided looking away.

‘Yes, it had.’ He persisted.

John knew he could see the tensed shoulders and clenched jaw. He knew Sherlock had already thought of all the possibilities. John was hiding something important at the moment. Sherlock must have realised from the moment the doctor woke up, maybe even before, that he was having a nightmare. It wasn’t one of the usual ones of war and Afghanistan, this was something else, something Sherlock hadn’t seen before. However, John didn’t give in. Sherlock sighed deciding to keep it for another time. John Watson always surprised him. What could possibly be new and unknown about the good old doctor for Sherlock after all those years? This wasn’t exactly new after all. Sherlock could see the lines stressed across John’s face, the elevated pulse, the reluctance of acknowledge. This was deeply rooted. How could Sherlock miss something like that for so long? Still he would like very much to take it slow and find out while John grew accustomed to the idea of him knowing. The detective didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of the past on something clearly important. How could it not be? Everything was important about John.

She died not a year after. The little boy had prayed and wished to all the stars he could see in the sky to let her live. He hadn’t forgotten her tale and so hoped his Mother meant that the victory would be theirs and the bad sickness would leave their home soon but that never happened. His sister hadn’t said a word to him or anyone else for a long time even before Mother died. Now she was utterly quiet. He had stopped trying to talk to her or explain to her how school and friends worked and how small numbers were not good in the paper that the teacher would send to Father. He was tired.

The day she left, Mother had taken her son’s fingers in her palms. They were already stiff from almost a year of non-usage. The boy was ashamed for he had forgotten all she had taught him to play. But Mother just smiled… as always… and whispered.

‘Promise me, you’ll never give up, Johnny. Promise me, you’ll take care of your sister. Promise me that one day you’ll be great at playing and you will teach her as you always wanted. Promise me, Johnny. Promise me.’

‘But I’m not the prince, Mother.’ His voice had cracked. ‘You are not getting well. I am not the prince. I cannot make my dreams come true.’ tears were streaming from his grey eyes. Mother only smiled.

‘I am not your dream, little one. Promise me, now.’ She had fallen back to the pillows that almost engulfed her and buried her whole. The little boy straightened his shoulders and nodded that day.

‘I promise.’ He had said, and he broke that promise.

The stake out was proved pointless. John was driving them home glancing at a very grumpy Sherlock beside him from time to time rolling eyes. The detective was crouched in his seat buried in his coat, legs bent and curled to his chest. You could only see some black curls standing up from the end of his coat collar. John humphed in exasperation. He would have to deal with this for quite possibly a whole week. Crime was slow this time of year and this was the only case Lestrade could come up with that might get Sherlock out of the flat for a few hours. He was right on the practical part, but failed to look further ahead. Sherlock didn’t like being wrong and he liked being fooled much less. A small smile appeared on John’s lips remembering the last time Sherlock had a shouting match with Greg at the police station. He only hoped Sherlock will be more discreet this time and call him to Baker Street.

Finally, at home. John parked nearby at a lonelier street and got out desperate for a good snooze on the couch with morning tea. Cars and buses were already moving almost hectically to the streets and it wasn’t even properly working hours yet. Sherlock took a bit of time to gather himself and although it frustrated John immensely, he couldn’t help but smirk at the detective’s dishevelled form struggling out of the car as if drunk. They both quickly paced towards 221B feeling the cold creeping up their exhausted and unfed bodies. Once in, John alerted Mrs Hudson knowing she’ll be well awake by now and by the time he got to the stairs he could hear Sherlock’s door shutting closed with a loud bang.

‘Bastard…’ he whispered through gritted teeth. Now he would have to make tea on his own along with almost a dozen experiments on the kitchen table. Good luck to him finding the real sugar.

The earlier incident was all forgotten and especially for John that sounded something like good news. The last thing he needed was Sherlock looking into his most sacred and deep past. There was a reason it was buried and should stay that way. Gosh, that music earlier must have triggered the memory in the dream. John should really be careful next time. He couldn’t quite name a date for when his memory started to fight back at him by recognises pieces and notes randomly wherever he went as if looking for stimulation. He could either let it alone or steel himself in case it happened again. John knew the second could quite possibly make him prone to those incidents even more but he could not risk leaving it to mere chance. He had to do with Sherlock Holmes after all. Definitely the last thing he needed.

So yeah, decided to write this because it was so damn cute <3 Part 2 coming soon, I stayed up all night to write as much as I could and it is not beta-ed so sorry for any mistakes. Going to post it on Ao3 as well, I’ll soon get a link here especially for when it becomes smutty but we have time for that ;) a few people were interested so tags below the cut

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