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adlockedme · 9 months

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Какой пейринг, по Вашему мнению, наиболее необоснованный - Мэрилок, Шерлолли, Джонлок или Шериарти?

For your English followers: which pairing, in your opinion, is the most unsubstantiated - Marylock, Sherlolly, Johnlock or Sheriarty?

(P.S. Возможно, мы и не сходимся во взглядах на Ирэн и Эвр, но зато нас объединяет любовь к "Шерлоку", так что м��е весьма любопытно узнать Ваше мнение по другим аспектам фандома, если, конечно, Вы сочтете возможным им поделиться).

Привет! Спасибо за вопрос! Пойду от наименее вероятного к наиболее.

Мэрилок я вообще не встречала, сложно представить ситуацию, в которой у Шерлока что-то с ней сложится. Только дружеские отношения.

Он слишком любит и уважает Джона, чтобы так с ним поступать, тем более, у него есть в поле вполне похожий типаж Ирэн. Они, кстати, с Мэри чем-то похожи, как отмечает Шерлок в каком-то из эпизодов, вся эта авантюрная жилка и ум, думаю, ему нравится, но не в любовном плане.

К Шерлолли у меня тоже скептическое отношение , исключительно из-за любви к Молли. Думаю, Шерлок в любви способен её очень сильно подавить, учитывая, как безропотно она в него влюблена. Эпизод с Молли в 3 серии всегда разбивает сердце, не в хорошем плане. Шерлоку её очень жаль, не может быть равноценных отношений в такой ситуации. Хотя, может, есть оооочень хорошие работы по Шерлолли, но я их не читала. Дайте уже девушке свободу без этих душных и сложных мужиков 😃

Джонлок – не столько не обоснован, сколько я просто не вижу именно сексуального напряжения между героями. Для меня это дружба. Любовь? Несомненно. Но без примеси эротики.

Шериарти. Тут все сложно 😃 Если бы я не любила Адлок и МорМор, я бы шипперила их. Их тянет друг другу, они очарованы и одержимы друг другом.

Ну и тут, конечно, харизму Эндрю Скотта не стоит отменять. Он мистер секс, коннектится со многими.

(Переводить мне всё крайне лень)

Short answer for my dear English followers.

From less to more possible pairing:

Marylock - no, just no

Sherlolly - He will destroy her, mentally, I think.

Johnlock - I believe in their love and friendship, but there’s no sexual tension between 2 characters for me, sorry.

Sheriarty - possibly, maybe. I love adlock and mormor and I think Andrew Scott is the most sexy and attractive man on Earth 😅 So why not. I see sexual tension between them.

#sherlock #sherlock bbc

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notagarroter · 1 year

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@the-sign-of-tea asked for marylock spam and I was only too happy to oblige.

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migurin-art · 2 years

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that's my girl 💖 marylock!! best friends!!!

#migurin art #bbc sherlock #sherlock #sherlock holmes #mary morstan #mary watson #bbc mary #marylock #mary morstan watson

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lorrrrien · 3 years

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#sherlock #sherlock holmes #mary morstan #marylock #my strange otp #collage #aesthetic

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theemptyquarto · 4 years

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Abandoned WIPs

for @goodintentionswipfest

“Oh my God, that was, like, the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”

That was the first thing she ever said to him.

Victor Trevor, the bastard, had dragged him out of the lab, then made him drive a car full of giggling idiots for three hours to Swanage, then had abandoned him to get drunk with additional idiots from Birmingham who had driven even further. And now one of the idiots from Birmingham, the American girl with too much hair, was criticizing his stone skimming abilities.

“I’d like to see you do any better,” he said, shortly.

The girl raised her eyebrows and made a face at him, then went to look for a stone of her own.

“The water is too turbulent here,” he said.

The girl kept looking, until she found a smooth white stone, really too large for the purpose, being almost the size of her palm.

“It calls for a calmer day than this,” he said.

Then the girl drew back her arm and lobbed the stone, which skimmed perfectly, touching the water five times before sinking into the water of the bay. Because of course it did.

“If you want to skip rocks in this kind of water you need to pick a bigger one and kind of… loft it over the breakwater. Just like that,” she said, waving vaguely at the sea.

“Skim stones.”

“What?”

“Here we call it skimming stones. Not skipping rocks.”

“And it’s pech blini in Russia and hacer ranitas in Spain. We didn’t pitch your tea into Boston Harbor just to keep doing everything the same way you did.”

The words were bellicose but for once he was able to pick up on the tone, and when he looked through the ringlets that the breeze was blowing into her face, he could see that she was pinching her lips together to keep from smiling.

“I remember,” he said, slowly, “The great skimming stones debate that provoked the revolution. We learnt all about it at school. That’s why we burnt down your White House. That and your willful mispronunciation of aluminium.”

The girl burbled a laugh, and it was not as unpleasant as it mostly was when girls laughed. The “with” not “at” made all the difference.

Because he was eighteen years old and still desperately trying to pass for normal, Sherlock said, “I’m Will.”

She was twenty-one, and Mary Morstan and the rest of her pseudonyms were well into the future. So because it was the simple truth, she said, “I’m Rose. Nice to meet you, Will. I can teach you how to skip rocks properly if you want. Though it’ll wreck your attempt to look all Byronic and interesting.”

Sherlock frowned, though he wasn’t quite sure what Byronic meant, honestly. “I wasn’t trying to look like anything.”

“Oh come on. Alone, staring out over the sunset sea, the wind ruffling your hair. Very ‘Adieu, Adieu, my native shore.’”

“This is my native shore, I just wanted to look at the tide pools. Anyway, why are you here?”

“I,” she said, grandly, “Am way too close to shitfaced and I need to take a break for an hour. And I thought you looked Byronic and interesting. Where are there tide pools?”

He angled his head to their right. “Back that way. Maybe half a mile.”

“Let’s go see them!”

“I’ve seen them. And you aren’t wearing the appropriate shoes for climbing.”

Rose looked down at her cheap flip-flops, shrugged, and said, “God hates a coward. Come on.”

They’d looked at the tide pools, and Rose hadn’t complained as they scrabbled over rough Purbeck stone to get to them. Being a small woman, she’d asked for a hand up on two occasions, but she didn’t complain, and she was genuinely interested in the sea slugs and anemones they found.

Then they’d moved on to another section of swimming beach, and now she was trying to teach him to skip rocks.

“Oh! You almost had that one,” she exclaimed, as his latest effort sank.

“What sort of trajectory am I trying for?” he asked. “It really isn’t obvious.”

“Ummmm…” and she pitched another stone, which made four hops before sinking. “I mean, I guess, like fifteen or twenty degrees. But it depends on the rock.”

“Well, that’s helpful.”

“You just take the rock and then you know how you have to throw it. It’s mostly practice.”

“You’re very good at it.”

“It’s what I’m best at,” she said, and the next stone made six skips before it sank. “You got a projectile and need it put someplace specific, I’m your girl.”

“Really?”

“Really. What are you best at?”

He thought about it for a minute.

“Deductions. That’s what I’m best at.”

“Like… in geometry? If AB equals BC then A equals C?”

“Sort of. But it’s not just that. I can do it for other things. And people.”

“How?”

“Just like in geometry. You use if-then logic and come to the appropriate conclusion. Except most people aren’t aware of all of the givens, and I am.”

“O-kay,” she said, slowly, “So, like, what can you deduce about me?”

He cocked his head, doubtfully, and asked, “You want me to do that?”

Rose shrugged. “Why not? What have I got to hide?”

Sherlock wished he hadn’t mentioned it, now. It would spoil what had been a surprisingly pleasant afternoon. She was only asking because she’d never seen him do it… nobody really wanted his deductions. Everyone had something to hide.

But she had asked and declining would be nearly as offensive, he supposed. So he let himself really look. Excessive dark-blonde hair, no jewelry, black midriff-baring top with thin straps and no bra (irrelevant, he chided himself), well-developed lean musculature particularly in the shoulders. Mid-priced wide-legged flared jeans clumsily home-hemmed, since she fell between the “petite” and “regular” lengths. He walked behind her, continuing his examination, and smiled. The grey plaid flannel shirt she had knotted around her waist had a great deal of relevant information.

Returning in front of her, he asked, “May I have a look at your hands?” Rose complied, extending them forward, palms up. Her hands, with their emerald-green fingernails and distinctive musculature, had almost everything else he thought he could get, except-

“And a better look at the tattoo, please?”

Rose smiled and raised an eyebrow at that, but complied, slipping a thumb under the waistband of her jeans and tugging them down another inch or two to reveal a small, stylized design of a leafless tree struck by lightning (and incidentally a crest of pale hipbone and just a flash of red plaid underwear).

“Satisfied?” she asked.

“Entirely.” And Sherlock was.

“So what do you deduce?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. You’re an American-“

“Well that was a toughie,” Rose teased.

“From Iowa. You’re a natural linguist but you’re studying chemistry. You played softball seriously, as a pitcher, until a rotator cuff injury which you opted not to have corrected bought your sporting ambitions to an end within the last year. Upper middle class family, strict parents. You currently live with a wire-haired terrier you dislike, you’re sentimental, and you’re a keen amateur cook.”

And that had done it, of course. Her face, which had formerly seemed naturally happy, had closed off and become hostile. She took a step away from him, and said, coldly, “Has Victor been talking about me behind my back?”

“You know Victor Trevor?” Sherlock asked.

“Everybody knows Victor. Answer the question.”

“No, he hasn't. I told you. I looked and I listened. Teeth straightened in adolescence, a selection of newish mid-priced clothes, spending a semester abroad? Well off but probably not rich family, then. You know, at no notice, idiomatic phrases in two separate languages describing an unusual activity? Clearly, there’s a gift for languages. The mild splay of the fingers in your dominant hand and unusual muscular development in your shoulders, along with your obvious aptitude for throwing suggests softball and pitching. The slight pull and hesitation when you draw that arm back would allow any doctor to diagnose a rotator cuff injury, a career-ending one without surgical correction, and yet you lack scars. Thus softball is over.”

Rose cocked her head and looked at him, but at least the anger was gone. So he continued.

“There’s particularly contoured dog hair common to wire-haired terriers on your jeans, meaning it’s fond of you, but none on your shirt, meaning you don’t pick it up, and you aren’t fond of it.”

“Marco’s a drooler and he scratches. Anyway I’m more of a cat person.”

“Cats eat you after you’re dead. They don’t even wait until they’re starving, just mildly peckish.”

“True, but on the other hand, I’m dead in this situation. So who cares?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, “Very practical. You’ve got enough minor knife and burn injuries to your hands to suggest you spend a lot of time cooking but your forearm development isn’t substantial enough to indicate professional work in the field. I can tell you study chemistry because of the marks on your shirt. They never properly clean the lab benches off and you lean into the edges and get some trace amounts of peroxide or acid on the material… which then produces distinctive straight lines of bleaching the next time the shirt is laundered. I have some of the same ones, see?”

He gestured to his trousers, where the bleaching effect occurred on him, given his greater height.

“Huh,” Rose said, “I never really thought about that. So why Iowa?”

“Ah, I was right!”

“Not really. Nebraska. But just across the river from Iowa.”

Sherlock sighed. “Accents are difficult with anyone young enough to have watched television as a child. But the Iowa accent is marked by monopthongs and “T”-glottalization, and you have it.”

“I have no idea what those things are,” Rose said, musingly, “But since most people around here think New York and L.A. are the only two cities in America that’s actually really good.”

Sherlock felt the blood rushing to his face with pride, and so he kept on, “You’re sentimental because that flannel is battered and you’ve fixed three different tears rather than just discarding it, even though it was never terribly expensive.”

“I saw Nirvana in this shirt.”

Sherlock frowned, wondering if she meant she was Buddhist, and then recalled the band.

“That tattoo,” he wrapped up, “Is a Marius Cook, done about five months ago. I’ve made a bit of a study of the major tattoo artists of the United Kingdom, you’d be surprised at how often it’s useful. You’ve been of legal age to get tattooed for some time but waited until you were well away from home and then did it instantly but kept it someplace easy to hide, thus: strict parents.”

It was dark, now, and someone had pulled out a guitar and was strumming amateurish chords. Sherlock and Rose had looked at one another and, in a moment of pure intoxicated understanding

The semen had more or less dried on her thighs by the time Rose decided that Will wouldn’t be back, even to collect his shirt. She sighed and rubbed her stubble-burned face. Then she pulled on her underwear and jeans, and sat and looked up at the stars, which were slightly more mobile than they ought to have been.

She’d liked him. He wasn’t handsome, but five years and twenty pounds of weight gain would probably have made him so. And he was sweet. Clumsy and inexperienced, yes, but intelligent and fun to talk with… essentially, she’d been very happy with the encounter and now she felt…

Cheap. Which was undoubtedly what her mother would have said about anyone who fucked a man who she’d just met and was expecting to never see again. So Rose had a bit of a self-pitying snivel, and cried about her troubles.

Eventually her natural good humor resurfaced (she had the beneficial confidence of someone who had taken a birth control pill every day for the last three years) and she said, smiling to herself, “Jilted by a gentleman. If I can get ruined and discarded by a redcoat I can have my own Gothic novel.”

She collected the blanket and Will’s shirt, then ambled back to the party, which was still in full swing, although the Oxford contingent seemed to have gone. Her flatmate Magda spotted her and called out, “There you are, you whore. Where’d tall dark and skinny run off to?”

“I think I frightened him away,” Rose replied, lightly, “English boys are all prudes. Are there any more of those screwdrivers?”

Magda gestured wildly at the five gallon drinks cooler behind her. “About half.”

“Good. About half sounds just about right.” And she wadded Will’s shirt up, tossed it into a nearby rubbish bin, and poured herself a drink.

They both forgot all about it. The vodka helped Rose do a great deal of this within the first twenty-four hours. Then there was the fact that Byronic-and-interesting Will was neither the first nor the last of a long string of men that would eventually span four continents, some of whom would disappoint her in far more spectacular fashion. By the time she buried Rose and became Mary, she could skim stones without even vaguely recalling that summer afternoon.

Sherlock didn’t forget much, and so deleting Rose took an effort of willpower. He performed a few subsequent experiments with sex and came to the conclusion that it was unlikely to be productive of any good and indeed, subjected him to undesirable sentimentality. Cocaine was a far more efficient euphoric and asked much less of him, in the end. The choice to purge his files on the subject en masse was therefore simple logic and had nothing to do with wishing to shed the recollection of a callow, prematurely-ejaculating version of himself.

When, much later, he plugged the memory stick marked AGRA into his laptop and began reading the files, the name Rose Addison didn’t stir even the faintest reminiscence.

“Oh no. Oh my God, you’re- You died! You jumped off a roof!”

That was the first thing she ever said to him.

#WIP #Marylock #BBC Sherlock fic #pre-series #unilock #Was going to be smutty but I dried up on how to write those bits and so is just #t-rated #Quarto's fics

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pennywaltzy · 3 years

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Sherlock needs a flatmate but first he gets a pet hedgehog he names John. When Sherlock finally breaks down and gets a flatmate, it's Mary. Eventual Marylock. :)

So eventually this is going to be E rated, and it’s first chapter is very short, but I hope you enjoy this eventual Marylock fic.

The Ownership Of John H Watson, Hedgehog - When Mrs. Hudson demands Sherlock get a flatmate he gets a pet instead, a hedgehog he names John H Watson. But when the woman who gave him the hedgehog wants it back, he has an alternate proposal: co-habitation and co-ownership...a proposition that leads to so much more.

READ CHAPTER 1 | BUY ME A COFFEE?

“You need company, Sherlock. Someone to have here who isn’t a skull on the mantle. You’re…festering.”

Sherlock scoffed at Mrs. Hudson’s assessment of him. “I could do just as well with a...a...pet, for all that means.”

“A pet won’t let you bounce ideas off of them,” Mrs. Hudson said, setting the tea service down with a bit more force. “I’m going to issue a moratorium. You have one month to find a flatmate.”

“What do I need with a flatmate? I do perfectly fine on my own,” he said, gesturing to the messy sitting room of 221 B Baker Street. It was when Mrs, Hudson crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow that he took a better look at just how much of a mess it was. “Alright, I’m not the best at housekeeping.”

“And I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper,” she said. “Clean up, get a flatmate or else I may have to make dire decisions you won’t like.”

“Like what?”

“Like picking out your flatmate for you.”

Sherlock grumbled as he made his tea and Mrs. Hudson left him, and he stewed in the silence of the room. He liked the silence. He liked the atmosphere of it just being him there. But...maybe she was right.

Or maybe she wasn’t. A pet should suffice, shouldn’t it?

It should.

He had his tea, making a mental note not to irritate Mrs. Hudson before she could make more ginger nuts for him, and scoured the newspaper. It was a few days old, but really, did it take longer than a week for someone to adopt a…

That was what had him stumped. He didn’t want a dog or a cat. A bird would be too loud, a snake too much work. He wasn’t quite sure what he should get. This would take some research...

#sherlock #marylock #sherlock x mary #sherlock holmes #fanfic #fanfiction #mrs. hudson #my stuff #answering asks!#strangelock221b

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maryholmes94 · 3 months

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I'm currently participating in the ficwriting challenge dedicated to St. Valentine's day, and so far I've written six fics on 'Sherlock' (and have one more to go).

Sherlock/OFC, Greg/Greg's wife, Euriarty, Adlock, Mollcroft, John/Eurus, Marylock (and haven't yet decided what to write in the last one).

And you know what? This made me want to rewatch the show.

Which is remarkable, because I do it not that often.

And now I really want to watch all of this again.

Including The Cl... sorry, Moriarty.

And The W...oman.

And 'The Reichenbach Farce'... I mean, 'The Reichenbach Fall', of course.

And even Magnussen.

Imagine that.

(P.S. I blame Gatiss and 'The League of Gentlemen'. His works are contagious: you watched one, and immediately you want to watch the next).

(P.P.S. Only if the next one isn't 'Doctor Who' with David Tennant or Matt Smith, of course).

#SherlockBBC #fanfiction #mollcroft #adlock #euriarty #SherlockHolmes/OFC #MarkGatiss #marylock

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johnlockedinwarstan · 4 years

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May 20: Orchestra AU

#may of mary #mary morstan #mary watson #sherlock holmes #john watson #johnlockary #warstan #marylock

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inevitably-johnlocked · 1 year

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Any trash!John fics?

Hey Nonny!

Ah, good question??? LOL ah never thought of sorting my fics that way, TBH. First off, here's what I actually have tagged on my MFL list:

The Jealous Type by IamJohnLocked4life (E, 6,953 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TSo3, Trash John, Jealous John, Fanfiction, Fictional Marylock) – John hate-reads marylock. Jealousy ensues.

Signed in Love by Jberry (E, 8,850 w., 6 Ch || Deaf Sherlock, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Time Jumps, Alternate First Meeting) – Three Continents Watson meets Deaf Sign Language Interpreter Sherlock Holmes at a medical conference. They clash, mostly due to John being trash.

Enemy Number One by lookupkate (E, 15,005 w., 11 Ch. || Alternate Profession AU || Pathologist John, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Drama Queen Sherlock, Trash John, Jealous Sherlock, Eventual Happy Ending) – When Anderson finally crosses a line and gets fired a new pathologist takes his place. Sherlock isn't happy to find that the new doctor is almost as good at his job as Sherlock is. Said new doctor, John Watson, wants to woo the genius until he finds out what a prick he can be. Then he's just amused. And maybe a bit fond. And kind of smitten. Then he falls in love with the prick. Bloody hell.

-----

And based on those tags there, here are the lists that might contain fics you'll enjoy!

Jealous John

Jealous John Pt. 2 and Jealous Sherlock Pt 2

Jealous John Pt 3 and Jealous Sherlock Pt 3

Jealous John and Sherlock Pt. 4

Jealous John and Sherlock Pt. 5

Jealous John Pt 6 (March 2023)

Specifically Jealous John b/c of Other People (Apr 2020)

If anyone has a fic that Nonny will enjoy, please let us know!! <3

#steph replies #trash john #trash john fics #jealous john fics #my fic recs

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drewsb12 · 5 years

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“I like him.” _Mary Morstan (about Sherlock Holmes).

#bbc sherlock #sherlock #sherlock holmes #mary morstan #mary watson #marylock #benedict cumberbatch #amanda abbington #be alright

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notagarroter · 3 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Mary Morstan, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Mary Morstan/John Watson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mary Morstan, Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson Additional Tags: Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Threesome - F/M/M, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Sherlock, Grieving John Watson, post-s4, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Mary positive, imagimary, secrets and lies, Adultery, Flashbacks, Eventual Johnlock Summary:

It's been three years since Mary died. Sherlock and John are both grieving, and they still have some issues to work out.

Heed the tags! Johnlock ending, but first: plenty of angst and bad behavior.

#fanfic #johnlockary #sherlock #mary morstan #marylock #johnlock #i don't write fanfic #except when I do #original post

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grassangel · 5 years

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bread and biscuits

G, Sherlock Holmes & Mary Morstan, plus some Sherlock & Molly with appearances put in by Mrs Hudson and Mycroft Holmes. 900~ words, a bit fluffy.

years ago @equalseleventhirds was talking about how Sherlock's eating habits could possibly be born out of some kind of food allergy which severely restricts what he can eat, such as celiac disease. Knowing more than a bit of how hard it can be to make gluten-free (or wheat-free) baked goods, but also knowing the satisfaction of making something that someone can eat, I wrote fic about Mary baking Sherlock stuff he hasn't been able to eat since he was diagnosed

also available on AO3

It’s a challenge to find the right amount of gums to add to the dough, and she just about gives up and resorts to a baking powder risen quickbread, but eventually Mary has a loaf that doesn’t fall apart. The crumb is a little tender but after use of the electric knife and toaster she can confidently set a plate of three pieces of toast in front of Sherlock. She nods at his look after he sniffs at a slice, the smell of yeast and a bit of coconut wafting across the table.

"No wheat products," she confirms as Sherlock reaches for the butter.

A smile steals across Mary’s face in response to his as Sherlock takes his first bite of toast in five years.

—

There’s an abundance of baked goods at Baker Street now. Ms Hudson is pleased at that, thankful she doesn’t have to bring up her own biscuits from downstairs when she pops up for a chat and a cup of tea.

"I can never remember which ones to buy down at the shop for you. It’s so nice that Mary’s looking after you as well," she says after coming up to talk with him for a bit and standing at the top of the stairs in farewell.

"Yes it is," and it surprises Sherlock a little that he means it sincerely, that he’s happy and pleased and thankful that Mary bakes him bread and biscuits and little cakes and things he hasn’t been able to eat for years. He goes and slices himself some more bread from the honey and cider loaf after making sure Ms Hudson has made it safely down the stairs. It keeps him content for the rest of the afternoon, and in the evening he sends Mary a very short text message.

There’s a reply received half an hour later, but read several hours after that. It says: I’m glad you liked it :)

—

Mycroft however, isn’t nearly as pleased as Ms Hudson. Sherlock has a smug sense of pride when he sets out the tea things when his brother comes to visit, the force of Mycroft’s restraint almost palpable as he abstains from having his share of the chocolate and almond biscotti. It’s admirable, but Sherlock cannot fathom why his brother would deprive himself of the pleasure of such things when they have such negligible consequences.

The extra is left out after Mycroft leaves. Sherlock doesn’t see much point in returning them to the tin if he’s going simply eat them later.

—

There's a biscuit tin hidden in a filing cabinet in the mortician's office at Bart's. It's convincingly sealed up with evidence tape as if it contains some forgotten or misplaced remains, but it's been sliced almost invisibly open with a scalpel in order to hide jammy dodgers inside.

Sherlock only knows this because Molly asks him to follow her after he's spent eight hours analyzing partially digested particulates. Though it's phrased as a request, the line of Molly's mouth and the tone of her voice indicates it isn't, so Sherlock piles his samples neatly to one side before following her.

Their destination turns out to be her office, two mugs of coffee and an empty plate on top of the desk.

"I'd like some company, and–" Molly says, sitting down and opening a filing cabinet, "Mary stopped by to drop these off." She pulls out the tin to retrieve the little plastic sandwich container filled with the gingernuts he's particularly fond of before dipping back in to pull out her own biscuits. "She was going to leave them in the break room for you, but they wouldn't last five minutes, even in the parts fridge."

"I– Thank you," Sherlock accepts, considering for a moment before plucking two out to have now and placing the container on a precarious pile of folders for him to bring to Baker Street later.

He assiduously does not place the biscuits on the plate, instead holding them loosely in his hand as he watches Molly place her own selection out on it and return the tin to its hiding place with the practised motions of a familiar routine. It feels like a ritual, the way Molly determinedly dunks an unremarkable looking biscuit into her coffee before starting to tell him about the latest batch of bodies to come in, one in which Sherlock is not important, merely his presence is. But the coffee is hot and he has gingernuts, so Sherlock allows Molly to talk about brightly about the most recent intake of student doctors, instead focusing on his slightly watery coffee and the soft sugar-spice crunch of Mary's homemade biscuits upon his tongue.

—

The delicacies come in with Mary when she visits. Sometimes she comes by herself, sometimes she tags along with John and sometimes John visits with Mary.

Today she’s alone. Today she has little buckwheat pancakes that can be filled with jam and cream cheese and whatever else Sherlock went out and bought when Mary had emailed him with what she planned to bring over. It’s not something he’s been deprived of these past few years, blini still popular in more retro dining establishments, but it’s still nice how Mary presents the plate to him at the door, how she smiles as he takes his first bite and then helps herself to one as well.

The feeling of contentment lasts past when Sherlock goes to John and Mary’s place days later to return the plate and ask for John’s presence in an investigation.

#fanfiction #Sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #Mary Morstan #Marylock #it's platonic but if you know me and my usual bullshit it's more than just friendship #John? who's he? he's barely mentioned

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