cat: I will just hang out on your lap now me: yay cat: I have brought ten knives
ok who voted american. own up
Look, american cheese is perfect for a few specific food situations. Burgers. Grilled cheese sandwiches. Just eating it, slice by slice out of the refrigerator in the middle of the night when you're stoned. All totally valid. I propose to you that American cheese does not have to be of good quality as a cheese, because it is very tasty yum yum as a substance. It's a tasty substance. Maybe we shouldn't hold it to the same standards as cheese.
Since, in true Celtic fashion, I’m gonna start saying “it’s too hot” today, here’s the perfect poll…
Reblog & put your answers in the tags because I’m curious and need to know I’m not suffering alone
Genuinely horrified by this. You mean other people aren’t cold blooded monstrosities? My desperate craving for heat isn’t normal? Please. More heat. My marrow is ice. Sear the flesh from my bones.
let's settle this
rb + say in tags where you're from if you'd like
the x files is funny because at the time it was “progressive” or whatever to have the ultra-rational, levelheaded character be a woman
but it’s also a show where all the fucked up alien shit actually is real, so she’s just constantly wrong about everything
What’s funny is how often they’re both wrong. Mulder will be like “the victims all had their livers scooped clean out this is obviously the aliens escalating from cattle mutilation” and Scully will be like “don’t be silly Mulder this is clearly just a serial killer who’s really good with surgical tools” and then it turns out the actual killer is an immortal sewer man who comes out ever quarterly century to feast on human liver.
I cannot stress enough that this is literally the plot of an actual episode
Date
Sherlock gently pulled Rosie out of John's arms and deposited the young girl in the center of his own large, luxurious bed.
John stood still inside the doorway. He watched as Sherlock tucked the thick duvet beneath Rosie's chin, and lingered as the detective pulled a corner of the covers up to crawl beneath to snuggle in beside her. John watched Sherlock wrap an arm around his daughter. She settled in contentedly, lying on her side with one tiny hand curled up between them.
Sherlock stroked her head softly. His ice blue eyes filled with fondness as her breath began to slow and her limbs went slack in perfect trust and ease.
John realized he was looming.
"Rest well, my--dear," he whispered. Stepping backwards, he drank in the sight of them, memorizing each precious detail.
"John." Those crystal bright eyes were trained on him now.
"Yes?" breathed John. He came back into the room.
"Do you need something?" John cast his mind back: thinking about when Rosie had last been changed, wondering if he needed to grab a nappy and cream. There was a stash in the kitchen drawer where a bone saw and hydrochloric acid had been replaced by baby powder and burping cloths.
"John." Sherlock cut through John's caretaking spiral, voice inflected now with a hint of admonishment. "Watson is fine. She just needs one more thing."
John inched closer. "I can fetch a cup of water." He looked down at Rosie. Sherlock's arm nestled her close. Her ear rested against him, the soft pink shell a contrast to the pale, defined muscles in his arm.
Sherlock gave John a disdainful look and nodded slightly. His chin inclined towards the unoccupied portion of the bed, on the other side of Rosie.
John swallowed. He shook his head as if uncomprehending.
"You, John," Sherlock said. Then, more softly. "She needs you."
John felt himself lift, as though each breath made him float upwards towards the ornate tin ceiling above them. He spoke, feeling distant, as if the words he said came out of some other mouth, oceans away:
"Does she?"
And then he was touching the bed. And he was smoothing the duvet back from the soft sheets. Sherlock blinked at him, and John realized he was wearing a thick jumper, which was bound to be be too warm in the bed. His mind still a distant, perfect blank haze of scattered noise, John tugged the garment off and cast it somewhere on the ground.
He had a moment's pleasure at the thought of bringing some small measure of chaos to the neat and regulated quarters that Sherlock maintained, a haven from the havoc of their shared spaces. But then his knee was hitting the soft bed, pressing it down, rolling Rosie towards him in her sleep. And then he lay himself down on Sherlock's bed, where John had cared for him after his wife shot and nearly killed the man. Where he had lain, bleeding and bruised after he returned from being away, John never knowing what he'd sacrificed for him, Mrs Hudson, all of them.
Where Sherlock had retreated after John left him for Mary. Where Sherlock had so often not slept, now, when Rosie had a bad night, and John's exhausting work schedule meant that the detective's eccentric biorhythms and penchant for playing sweet violin tunes in the night, meant that John had the perfect night-baby sitter for a teething, fussy child.
And then John was tucked in, too. With his two most cherished people in the world.
The duvet came up to his chin, and the world didn't end. He turned his head, and lay his hand on Rosie's side. She yawned in her sleep, expanding into the hollow of his side, even as she reached out a possessive hand to cuddle her Sh'lock.
"This is nice," John said, very much not thinking it out before the words emerged from his mouth. His eyes darted over to Sherlock, expecting a cutting glare, expecting snark, expecting..rejection.
But then, he did invite me here...
John's eyes found a very different sight from the meticulously coifed and bespoke clad and shod detective, whose stately facade he showed to the world. No, what he found now was the private man. With his walls down and his defenses cast aside. Tousled hair, easy smile, tender eyes. Tender and curious eyes. With a warm, welcoming look in them for Rosie, and an expectant look that turned questioning as their gazes caught and tangled.
A questioning look that changed into one of relief and assurance as the moment unfolded, as the communication between them grew, the hush of the room filled with expectancy, as unspoken hopes were answered with a half-lidded smile, the slightest of nods, the tug of their bodies one towards another.
Breaking the magnetic hold of their shared look for a beat, both adjusted their bodies. They circled round Rosie, enfolding her in a protective nest of body and bed. John spooned his daughter, his hand now grazing Sherlock's side. His eyes snapped up to see if he had gone too far, asked too much, unsure still of the reality of this silent tidal change that was occurring.
Sherlock smiled. He breathed out a deep, contented sigh. His hand rose and settled on John's forearm, stroking lightly, then sneaking up its length to cup his elbow. Stroking lightly there, the soft pressure lighting a fire in John's heart, breaking through a barrier he'd felt so deeply, so long, it felt as though the bedrock beneath him was opening up. As if the stones of Baker Street had been torn asunder.
"It's alright, John," said Sherlock. John realized his breath had quickened, his heart rate skyrocketed.
"I have you," Sherlock went on, his voice now as velvet whisper soft as the play of his fingers on John's arm. "I have you both, right where you belong."
And then the distance between them was too far. The width of the pillow a chasm the breadth of the sea. And John made a small noise, a sound from the child inside him that had hidden so far away from being seen, being found out, being hurt.
And then Sherlock's hand was on his cheek, touching his lips. And then Sherlock's lips took their place, and the past and its sorrows were gone from John's mind. Wiped clean by the taste of strong tea, the medicinal scent of alcohol, the feel of strong, supple lips and warm questing tongue.
"Papa?" Rosie stirred, half waking. They pulled apart. John felt a wave of anxiety.
Her eyelashes fluttered. She smiled. "Do I get a kiss too?"
"Of couse, darling," said John. And in turn they each placed a kiss on her small, amber crown. She snuggled in again and was soon breathing softly once more.
Sherlock's hand remained on John's arm. A flutter of warmth grew and grew, a great golden wash of affection, bathing every cell of his body, every chamber of his heart, every corner of his mind.
"John," Sherlock said. "I don't want you and Watson to move out, down to 221C."
"No?" He lifted his hand to touch Sherlock's cheek. A blush grew there, which John found pleased him greatly. A grin blossomed on the doctor's face.
This might just be brilliant.
"Fine by me," he said, watching Sherlock's lips and feeling a pleasant hunger weave through the contented bliss that encompassed him. John thought back to some of the plans for renovation he'd managed to see, when Mrs Hudson's attention was elsewhere. John laughed.
"I think someone else had the same idea."
Sherlock watched John giggle, an indulgent look on his face. He leaned into John's hand and gave it a kiss before John moved it, resting it on Sherlock's belly, beside Rosie. The young girl's shoulders moved in a slight stretch.
"What makes you say that?" Sherlock asked, his eyes also on Rosie.
"I had wondered why she thought we would need heavy cooking fans, when I'm happy with the odd bake or two."
"But of course, she was thinking of a lab, for me," finished Sherlock. He shook his head in mock disgust, but he had a fond smirk on his face. "That meddling woman."
Rosie's head moved, her eyes fluttering once more. John petted her head reassuringly.
"Well, this one will soon be up. Time to make good our promises."
"Park.." muttered Rosie. John felt her wriggle slightly and recognized her gathering herself to meet the day with the joy she brought to everything.
"Of course, Watson," said Sherlock. He looked up at John, a gleam in his eye. "It's a date."
John felt a cascade of heat and happiness bloom in his heart once more. He nodded slightly. "A date."
Rosie pushed herself up, levering her little pixie body up in the midst of the tangle of sheets and blankets and limbs. She started jiggling from side to side, dancing in place, her happiness animated.
As she started pushing the blankets off, clearly getting ready to leave the nest of the bed, John sighed, not wanting to leave this moment. A hand came out holding her still.
"Just a moment, Rosebud," said Sherlock. He held his phone in his other hand. "A picture for your Dada and me?"
<hr>
Several weeks later, Mrs Hudson had tea with her sister, sharing the gossip, pleased as the devil to be able to share all the details about John and Sherlock's new relationship. How Rosie had come bump-a-bumping down the stairs to tell her that her Dada and Sh'lock were kissing now. How John had taken John's hand in the full view of their colleagues from the Metropolitan police. How she had watched Rosie when the Yarders took the two of them out to kid and toast, and say again and again - "finally." And how they were all planning together the renovation of the Baker Street flats, making accommodations for ease of getting to all the floors - good for toddler, good for Nana H -- as well as fitting out the basement flat for laboratory experiments, a dark room, and a guest room that might tempt Mummy and Daddy Holmes to visit.
"Sherlock wasn't having that, until John pointed out that it would irk Mycroft to no end to have them stay there instead of some 5 star hotel he'd want to put them up at for visits, and that if they put the nicest guest room down stairs, that meant the would not have to face the parents staying in John's old room, now the nursery. "
And on the mantel, in a place of pride, was a framed photo of the three of them, walking hand in hand at Regent's Park. Rosie was laughing. John and Sherlock were looking at each other, glowing. There was no hiding those long love-starved hearts now that they had found they were both wanted, both home.
Mrs H said it was her favorite. And it was. Well, it was her favorite shot that had been shared with her. But her favorite was one that she'd seen - printed and pulled discreetly from John's wallet for a glance, as well as shining for a golden moment on Sherlock's phone as she stole a glance over his shoulder.
A photo of the three of them snuggled in bed. Rumpled and pink and each as happy as any soul had a right to seem.
"Well, but, I've shown you enough of my little family. How's your daughter doing? Did she pass the exam? Do tell... "
***
Final installment of my May prompt ficlets. Thank you again @notjustamumj and @calaisreno for inspiring so much wonderfully indulgent, angsty, inspiring and heated fic this spring.
This is all up on ao3 here:
Part of the wonderful collection:
Tagging a few friends below the fold. Enjoy, dears!
Trying to decide whether I should add more stickers to my notebook....
jopson would have slayed so hard if he was alive
Everyone should read their own fanfics recreationally tbh this shit fucking rules. It's like the author knows exactly what I like.
Tell me why in the tags
Holy shit 150 votes already! I honestly forgot I made this XD
reblog for sample size blah blah you already know
I don't think we should think hickey is evil for the cannibalism when fitzjames (good guy) literally volunteers his body for cannibalism
Hickey murders Billy, murders the ship's dog (completely blanking on his name at the moment). He also murdered someone in order to go on the trip.
He also pushes his finger into whatshisnames' poor, undefended brain.
He also stabbed McDonald to death, but that was an accident, he just didn't feel that bad about it.
Oh, he also murdered a large group of innocent Innuit, not to mention murdering John Irving, and the other unremarkable crewmate they brought with them when they met the Innuit.
He bad man.
I think it goes beyond cannibalism.
The feminine urge to say “have you no compassion for my poor nerves” every time something goes wrong with my life
In honour of Larry's birthday I've compiled all of my paintings over the years. Not a bad collection hey? Always adored him and through my love of him I found some of my closest friends. 😊
Feel free to pick a favourite and let me know. I'd love some interactions
Reblog if you’re still an active member of the BBC Sherlock community.
Always and forever!
Still going LOL