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guardmesherlock-rowan · 4 months

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January Prompt: Envelope

For @sherlockchallenge's January prompt

First the guys from Bakerstreet:

Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and George Lestrade under the cut

Sherlock Holmes

“Alright, MC” Sherlock leveled his gaze at them. “You have three envelopes before you, and you need to pick which one to decide what we will be doing tonight.”

Their eyes narrowed, “is that it?”

“Of course,” he smiled, “just pick one of the three. Of course there are clues on the envelopes themselves as to what they are. So I would love to see you guess which one is which.”

“I see,” they looked over the envelopes carefully. All of them seemed similar to each other, though as they picked them up they could feel the different textures and weights. They lifted the envelopes up towards the lights, but whatever was in them were wrapped in additional paper to obscure them from being read through the envelope.

“Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy.” Sherlock leaned back, smiling as he watched them examine the envelopes.

They lifted another up for closer inspection, looking along the seams when a peculiar smell wrinkled their nose. They pulled back and looked up at Sherlock curiously. It smelled a little musty, like a zoo. They set it aside, certain that that was the answer.

Then they grabbed the second envelope and looked it over and during the search they found a faded indent on the corner of the paper, tilting it to make it easier to read, they saw ‘Wishmas’ Waterloo, exit 2. Their eyes narrowed as they wondered what that could mean, possibly a show?

Setting it down they reached for the final envelope but were surprised at how it felt gritty and lighter. They gently felt along the envelope and realized the paper folded inside was the only thing there. Either the item was written on that page or- closer examination of the envelope showed an imprint of a shoe on the envelope as if someone stepped on it, but it seemed to be centered perfectly on the envelope. They stole a glance up at Sherlock who seemed to have not moved an inch, but his piercing dark eyes seemed even more pleased as he knew what they had seen.

The odd thing about the imprint was that it was the shape of a high-heeled shoe. MC’s eyes drifted up towards the mantel and the pink shoe that sat there. “Very good.” Sherlock leaned forward. “Do you want to guess the first two and make your pick or…?”

“This one… is it for the zoo?” They held up the first envelope.

“It is, and the second?”

“Tickets for a show called ‘Wishmas’?” They sounded less sure of that one, but the grin on Sherlock’s face told them they were spot on.

“Do you want to choose between those two or would you like to see where this third one leads you?”

MC glanced at the shoe, curiosity prickling in their mind. “Since you went through all this trouble…” They stood up and Sherlock’s smile lit up with pride.

John Watson

MC flopped down on the bed in the hotel room. Their feet sore from that day’s work on set. Maybe they should talk with the costume department about the shoes they choose for that costume. At this rate, they would need to cover up the bruises and blisters for any future scene without their shoes. They wrinkled her nose and sighed. They hadn’t realized they were nodding off until there was a knock at their door.

On the other side of the door was Diana holding out a cup of cinnamon hot chocolate and another postcard. “Are you sure that Doctor of yours doesn’t have a brother or…” The tall woman teased as she handed them over to MC.

“He has an older brother, but I haven’t met him yet.” They took the drink and the postcard to the sofa, curling up as they smiled down at the card.

“Well, tell that Doctor I want his brother’s contact information as soon as possible. He’s just so cute sending these to you.” Diana shut the door behind her, and smirked at MC as they read the postcard, a light pink hue growing on their cheeks.

‘To my MC, I hope you had a good day on set. I cannot wait to see you performing again. But, Sherlock is driving me crazy. He has rearranged the sitting room in an attempt to recreate a layout from this crime scene the other day to show Lestrade how ridiculous he was being with believing the wife had done it. Though honestly the only one being ridiculous is Sherlock! Mikah keeps asking if I’ve heard back from you, and while I know we talk on the phone, I just cannot help wanting to write to you. Show you that even when we’re not talking, my thoughts are on you and the peace you bring into my life. If you ever get lonely when you’re working you can hold onto my postcards, or send me a text. Just know, even though you’re the one away from here, I am feeling homesick. All my love, John.’

George Lestrade

“I’m sorry, MC, I’m really, really, sorry.” George couldn’t meet their gaze as he scuffed his shoe along the floor. “I was really looking forward to being with you tonight, but-”

“Well, you go out there and you tell those criminals that they messed with the wrong inspector.” MC stepped close, gently touching his cheeks and turning his attention back to them.

As he smiled they could see him relax and lean into the touch. “You bet I will, but try to have a good night without me. Okay?” He leaned forward and kissed their forehead, as he pulled back they could see the blush on his cheek. He turned to leave but quickly pivoted back to them, “but not too good, okay? I mean.. of course, have a good night, but not too good as if you don’t miss me or forget about me, which isn’t to say I’m more important than you having a good night but I just-”

“I’ll be taking it easy tonight, but if you can hurry back home I’ll be looking forward to watching our show together. Maybe you can grab some takeaway on your way home?”

“It might be a busy night…” he frowned.

“Maybe, but when these criminals face off against the Inspector Lestrade?”

His lip twitched with a smile, and then he pulled MC in for a tight hug. “Promise you’ll really take it easy tonight?”

“Agreed.” They promised. George gave them a quick kiss and stepped out the door, only to reopen it again and steal 3 more kisses, each one longer than the last. Then finally, as his phone started to ring, he hurried down the street.

Once he was out of the house, MC started to look around, wondering how to spend their night. They wandered into the bedroom, noting how messy it was, and decided to tidy up and were surprised to find an envelope hidden between their bed and George’s nightstand. They thought that maybe it had slipped down there by accident. But when they pulled it out their eyes were wide as they saw their name written across the top of the envelope. Inside they pulled out several sheets of paper, each of them with some words scratched out, a few of them crumbled up, but most of them said the same things:

‘To the most wonderful, best, darling, beautiful, handsome, loving person I have ever known. Your support means more to me than I can ever express. The way you believe in me when everything else seems to fall apart, the way you are there for me when I get down on myself. You make me believe I can be a better person, not just a better inspector. I forget my worries when I hear your laugh, I want to protect your smile against everything. The way you light up my life when you’re excited over a new project. I cannot wait for those days I get to see you on the screen or stage, because of how electric you are when you’re living your dreams. And-‘

Then it trails off, and MC smiles seeing the effort and love that George put into these letters he did not mean for them to see.

Their phone chimes as they receive a message from George, ‘made it safe to work, I love you!’

‘I love you too.’

Note: I have decided going forward that Simon would be going with a new preferred name 'Diana'.

#guard me sherlock #sherlock challenge #Sherlock Holmes #John Watson #George Lestrade #Inspector Lestrade

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rey-jake-therapist · 3 months

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Sherlock fic: The One That Got Away: chapter 3

Chapter 3: "Splitting Hairs" of my Sherlock fic The One That Got Away is up!

Link AO3 ⬇️

Summary:

While Sherlock's investigation on the suicide case progresses and he acquires the conviction that it may have been assisted, John and Molly spend a lovely afternoon together at the park with Rosie. Too bad they're interrupted by a call from Greg Lestrade, who just made a very unsettling discovery in a hotel room booked by Ema Nymton, the mysterious woman who burglarized Harold Boltroy's house shortly before he died. Mrs Hudson offers John to rent the 221C Baker Street, so he and Rosie can live closer to Sherlock.

Excerpt, inspired by the February prompt 'FEAR' proposed by @sherlockchallenge :

Hearing only silence from his partner, Sherlock repeated John's name, only to be met with an echoing void—John's absence, a persistent reminder. For a time, Sherlock had tried living with Billy Wiggins, a promising young man he had found on the streets, but Billy had disappeared one day and never returned. Sherlock blamed himself for scaring him away, though he knew it was for the best considering that Billy’s interests were limited to drug taking; he had hoped to teach Billy everything he knew and turn him into a good detective, but it hadn't worked out. Now, Sherlock lived alone, and sometimes loneliness crept inside him like a cold wind. It left him feeling helpless against the voices inside his head that whispered for him to end it all. But every time those voices came, he stood up straight and refused to listen.

Someday, death would come for him, whether he wanted it or not. Like the man from Samarra, he had run away from it many times before. One day, however, it would catch up with him. There were people waiting for him behind Death's curtain, eagerly awaiting his explanation for why they suffered and died because of him. Despite knowing this, Sherlock was not afraid to die. He knew his career path would lead him to an early grave, but he didn't fear it.

The only thing that scared him was the thought that maybe the people who believed in an afterlife were right, and the ones who suffered and died because of him were really waiting for him behind Death's curtain, eager to hear his explanation for what happened to them. As Sherlock put on his coat in the lobby downstairs, a sad-looking face appeared before him, staring at him intently. Dazed for a moment, he closed his eyes and shook his head to send the vision back away to the darkest corners of his memory, where it belonged.

Just as he was going to call a cab, determined to visit the late Harold Boltroy's assistant alone, Sherlock's phone rang in his pocket. A light of joy flashed in his eyes as he saw the caller's name on the screen; it was Greg Lestrade, at last!

“Sherlock? I’ve got some news. Is John with you?”

Ships: Sherlock x OFC, John x Molly, Mycroft x OMC

TW for this chapter: brief thoughts of suicide are mentioned.

CW for this chapter: mentions of platonic Adlock and Sherlolly.

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topsyturvy-turtely · 2 years

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my contribution for @sherlockchallenge. here is the first part, the rest is on ao3 (link below).

***

title: BLACK NAILS

John was running down the hallway and Stephen yelled after him, "She definitely likes you, Johnny!"

John turned around, while still walking quickly (he was about to be late), "No, she doesn't and STOP calling me that, for fuck's sake!"

John saw Stephen chuckle and he shook his head with a tiny grin on his face. Stephen was such a-

"Hey, watch where you are going!", a voice yelled behind him.

Abruptly John turned around - to see about five books and 43 pens on the floor. "Oh, shit! I am so sorry, man. Let me help ya-", quickly John gathered everything and held it out to the pers-

He stopped midtrack. Two hands. Ten fingers. Ten perfectly manicured black nails. John didn't know why but he stopped moving like a maniac and stood still. Just staring at those hands with black nail polish. He couldn't tear his eyes off those nails.

"Sorry, I- didn't see you."

"Yeah. Obviously.", the voice to the nails said. It was deep.

"I'm really sorry. Here.", John handed the boy he ran into his books. When most of the nails disappeared underneath the books, John finally looked up. And was swept off his feet again. Even his mouth hang open. He looked into the prettiest eyes he has ever seen, framed with black kajal and black eyliner. His lips and those just a tad bit too long curls were black too. He was wearing a black choker as well.

The boy scoffed. "Thank you.", but it could have been a 'fuck you' too, John wasn't sure. Then the student purposely bumped John in the shoulder and walked off. Long strides, head lowered, one shoelace of his boots untied. John stared after him, until the curly head was lost in the crowd. And just by then John remembered to breathe properly again. "Who. Are you?", he asked the air. When the bell rang John's mind came back online and he cursed. He was gonna be late!

continue on Ao3 (1785 words)

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tags! ✨ (tell me if you wanna be added/removed or if i forgot you!) @catlock-holmes @justanobsessedpan @helloliriels @boredsushi @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @7arantellgrrl @ssmeowl123 @so-youre-unattached-like-me @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @pansherlock @the-smol-bean-libby-blog @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @toobluebrunette @francj15

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timberva · 2 years

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Enjoy my entry for July’s @sherlockchallenge , “Lamp.” I did not sleep at all last night. Whoooop! I’ve actually spent like 2 weeks on this and still didn’t make it in time for the end of the month which made me want to cry but I didn’t because I’m too emotionally repressed for no reason whatsoever. Will be on AO3 as soon as I get my 8 hours and have enough anxiety to jumpstart my system again. Yeah it’s a very…serious fic *does finger guns*

I’m just playing this is pure humor + fluff.

—

In the simplest terms, Sherlock and John shared custody of a lamp. Today it was missing, and John is murderous.

There was no need for custody when they’d lived together; the lamp adorned a lovely little table in the corner where John would read and Sherlock would criticize scientific journals with the passion of a thousand suns on a mission to dehydrate the universe.

Upon Sherlock’s return, a deal had been struck, and the lamp was passed between them each week. Really, they both suspected, it was just a reason for them to see each other.

In any case, today it was gone.

“How could you bloody lose it? It’s a lamp! People don’t usually lug them around with their Oyster cards.”

“Er…” He fidgets timidly with the edge of a stained sleeve.

“Oh HELL, Sherlock!”

For four years since its acquisition, it has never seen the outside of Baker Street and then John’s little flat, except when it would travel between the two places.

Of course John had kept it when Sherlock was away. It was the only object they actually shared— sure, the microwave was up for grabs, but since John had discovered a bowl of human intestines in there rather than his orange chicken, he’d given up the territory. And orange chicken. Since then no food (that was meant to be eaten by living human beings) has ever touched the machine.

It’s just a lamp. It’s just a lamp— is what he told himself the entire drive to 221B yet he is giving away just how emotionally invested he is in a piece of furniture. He has showed his cards, and they all support a diagnosis of unhealthy attachment and codependency, but John swears he’s going to get that lamp back or die trying.

“I told you, I needed it for the investigation!”

Or kill Sherlock trying.

“There is a reason torches exist! You couldn’t have found a more portable light source?!”

“What is this fixation with you and furniture? A month ago, you’d flipped out because of the brown stain on your chair. YOU DON’T EVEN LIVE HERE ANYMORE!”

“It doesn’t matter! The point is, it’s my week, I have a case to write up, and my bloody desk doesn’t have a lamp! And if it’s just a piece of furniture, why did you bother asking for it back? You could have just let me keep it instead of initiating this insane arrangement like the thing is our damn child!”

“For God’s sake— just buy another one! They’re half off at Kensington’s this week!”

“IT WAS ONE-OF-A-KIND!”

They’d gone to nearly 14 different furniture stores that day because Sherlock insisted that the corner table was missing something. Probably related to the robbery a month ago— a client had taken off with some ancient vase that looked like it would sell for a million dollars to some rare collector. Either that or when Mr. Jensen touched it, it finally crumbled into dust. John had suggested moving some of the floor mess onto the table. Sherlock was not amused (I have a system, John!).

“Why are we doing this?”

“We need a lamp.”

“Yeah, but really, why? Is there a case you're not telling me about? This is the 15th place we’ve gone to and we’ve disagreed on literally every product in the store. Listen, I know you’re bored since Lestrade has been out sick, but if those store associates glare at us any harder they’ll be developing telekinesis just to catapult us out the window. I’m starting to think that this isn’t really about lamps.

“Wrong, it is. Now pick something!”

“I have been!” He gestures indignantly. “This entire time! But no-o it’s too rustic or rounded or minimalist—I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!”

“No—you’ve been pointing at random objects so we could leave! At some point you suggested getting a menorah! NEITHER OF US ARE EVEN JEWISH. If you actually liked something, you would fight for it! You were an army doctor, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers—use some of that initiative and CHOOSE SOMETHING!”

John sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Why is this important?”

“You really want to revisit that topic—“

“No, no—no! Fine, er…ooh! That one- I…like the little tassels.”

“…what the hell John that thing is absolutely hideous—it would destroy the entire aesthetic of our living space, are you sure we’re looking at the same thing?”

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE SHERLOCK WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”

Needless to say the sky was as dark as John’s mood by the time they started heading back to Baker Street, lampless and refusing to make eye contact. Things were said that caused pain on both ends.

John sighs, and settles onto the arm of the chair facing Sherlock. His chair. The feeling of nostalgia is instantaneous, his position as natural as it had been two years ago, when this was home. It’s easy to pretend— the floor is still a mess, the kitchen table is still a hazard rather than a place to eat, and they’re still bickering. The only difference is the bare corner table.

“Where’d you see it last?” he manages much, much more calmly.

“I investigate things for a living, John. Don’t you think I would have checked the crime scene?”

“No, I think you had an epiphany, ran off, and forgot all about it.”

“Touché.” He is still standing, arms crossed against his chest. Even admitting defeat, the sass coming from this fucker is unacceptable since it’s his fault that they even have to have this discussion.

“Answer the question,” John grits through his teeth.

Sherlock looks away and says something in French.

“Say again?”

“Molly’s muffin tin.”

“What?”

“Lestrade’s rubbish bin.”

“Lestrade’s rubbish bin!”

“I told you I needed it for a case!”

“Where? Anderson’s cubby?”

“I went back for it, but it was gone! Someone must have cleared it out while I went after the suspect!” His eyes go glassy in a way that’s dangerous when trying to get him to stay on topic. A lax smile spreads across his face as he recounts “Oh, it was brilliant, John! It was the shoelaces that clued me in! You see—“

“I don’t care how you solved the case!”

They both sit in silence for a moment. And darkness, since the object in question was the only thing they usually used to light the living room. Neither of them point out that it’s literally John’s job to care about Sherlock’s cases.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mumbles.

John is taken aback by the sincerity of his ap-

“I’m sorry that you’re so emotionally attached to a piece of furniture! Really, John, I can steal you another one if you’d like! Why are you so angry about this?”

“BECAUSE I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU!”

Mycroft had called them in the next day to help with a “personal problem—“ which is code for super-secret government investigation. Normally, Sherlock would decline the invitation out of spite, but the case withdrawal was beginning to drive him mad. So there they were, on a Wednesday morning, walking into Mycroft’s house instead of a precinct.

The furnishings looked like they’d been stolen from the 1800s— the ancient vase would have fit perfectly among the brushed bronze and porcelain statues guarding the furniture. The carpet was red, with a velvety sheen, and John wonders if it was a strategic choice in order to ensure that all footsteps could be tracked should the need arise.

They meandered into the sitting and lo and behold, it was like a gift from God— the only decisive choice presented to them alighted by the rays of the sun like a divine being was pointing at it with a finger saying “this. This is the one.”

It was a smallish lamp with a cream-colored mushroom shade, held aloft by a polished wooden base carved vaguely into the shape of a gargoyle mid-roar. No further embellishments coated its structure— just ebony and the deft craftsmanship of a wizard (probably). It was the perfect combination of tacky and majestic.

He made eye contact with Sherlock, who had also stopped dead a few paces from the door, and knew immediately he felt the same. For the first time in two days, they were in complete agreement. It was ugly, posh, and absolutely perfect for their flat.

Not that John would ever suggest they buy anything that Mycroft owned unless either of them were willing to lose a kidney for a piece of furniture.

“Mycroft bought that from a flea market three weeks ago,” Sherlock whispered in his ear.

Speak of the devil, John thought as the man strode in, umbrella absent but still clad in a flashy suit, demeanor commanding the same level of esteem from everyone he interacted with.

Esteem, of which Sherlock gave none, promptly insulting his weight and blowing raspberries.

There was a thief among their ranks, selling equipment or information to foreign parties. Or weapons or…something. Honestly, John was too preoccupied with trying not to burst into laughter as Sherlock fidgeted with everything in the room, occasionally interjecting witty remarks that had nothing to do with the case, so that John’s memory of Mycroft’s report was distorted by the hilarity of their bickering. (Oh shit is this what it was like for their clients?)

After he was finished explaining the task, Sherlock simply said “no,” and then shot at his brother with a crossbow. Luckily his aim was true and it hit the candlestick on the mantle rather than the embodiment of the British government. He placed it back onto its glass display case and then hurried across the room to a side table, opening and closing a drawer while Mycroft’s back was turned. He slipped something into his pocket and began sprinting towards the door. John took the wild look in his companion’s eyes as a signal to run like hell, so they did, and got into a cab for Baker Street.

The entire ride is spent in breathless giggles and then silence after a short conversation about whether or not they had a new case (“It’s the prime minister’s secretary,” Sherlock says.

“Oh. Well, aren't you going to tell him?”

“Yes. When we’re safe at home, and he can’t throttle me for stealing his loyalty card to Belle Époque Patisserie.” He holds up the slip of paper he’d nicked from the drawer earlier, smirks, then clutches his side as if in pain.

“You alright?”

He casts a suspicious glance to the front of the cab. “Ran into a table corner on my way out.”

“Ouch.”)

Then in the safety of their flat, when the door had shut because Sherlock insists that Mycroft could have bugged the staircase, he turns toward John and pulls something out of his Belstaff with a flourish.

“For you, my dear Watson.”

It was the bloody lamp, presented to him like a bouquet of flowers. It really shouldn’t have stirred the butterflies in his stomach but Christ. He feels a rush of fondness for the madman in front of him, as quickly and painfully fervent as the blush creeping across his face, like he’d dropped all of his inhibitions in the middle of a street and tripped over them while trying to be smooth.

John had known for a long time that he was doomed to loving his best friend in silence, but it was things like these that ensured his destruction. It was incredibly thoughtful, in its own Sherlockian way, that committing larceny was worth making John laugh. For a second, he could believe that perhaps his love wasn’t unrequited.

But he could never be sure unless one of them made a move that risked showing their cards. Friendships and romances tend to be one-way roads that never lead back to each other.

So he put the lamp on a table instead of a vase, and they went about their day pretending they were completely happy with the way things were.

The silence after John’s outburst is deafening, but then Sherlock pipes up with “Oh. Oh, we’ve wasted so much time.”

And John is so angry because this fucker was in love with him too and didn’t say anything—so angry he could kiss him, so he closes the short distance between them, pulls him down by the collar of his shirt and kisses him into oblivion (because he’s allowed to do that now). The romance of the gesture bursts like a firework between them— bright, flashy, beautiful, but short-lived as John’s brain conveniently decides to have an epiphany at that moment.

“IT’S AT MYCROFT’S HOUSE, ISN’T IT,” he exclaims, pulling away mid-kiss.

Sherlock falls back into his chair with a groan, digging the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. “John, you were thinking about my brother while we were kissing?!”

“I- no! Sorry—it’s just that um. I made a deduction! Two, actually!” He chuckles euphorically, and for a moment he just stands, gazing transfixed at the imaginary jigsaw puzzle he’d put together like it was the holy grail of puzzles. He finally understands the root of Sherlock’s arrogance— if he always saw the world like this, it definitely would also go to his head.

“Well?” Sherlock croons, leaning forward. “Go on then.”

John grins and sits down in his chair, steepling his fingers in mockery of the gorgeous man sitting in front of him.

“The stain on your sleeve.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, green today and sparkling with mischief, trying to see where John is going with this.

“You don’t stumble over your words— you literally corrected a man on the conjugation of his execution—- you are obsessed with grammar. You’re well-spoken, and you’re not drunk, so there’s no reason for you to screw up. But you told me to ‘buy another one.’ I know you care about that lamp, I know you’re lying to me about something because you hate being wrong. You know it’s irreplaceable— you nicked it yourself! There’s no way I could have gotten it from a furniture shop because Mycroft bought it from a flea market. You wouldn’t have said that unless you were trying to cover something up.

“After figuring that out, I realized the stain on your sleeve is from a sandwich in Lestrade’s rubbish bin— it’s Thursday so they’ve got a buy-one-get-one-free deal and he never passes up on that. You must have fished it out! And yet it’s not here, so someone must have seen you. Can’t have been anyone other than Lestrade. Everyone else is immune to your bullshit but Lestrade has been dating your brother for 4 years now — that’s my second deduction by the way. Mycroft would never go to a flea market on his own, so it must have been a date— that’s why Lestrade recognized it and confiscated it from you!”

Sherlock, apparently, was blind to the details of his brother’s love life. His complexion had paled to ivory as John spoke. His eyes had grown comically wide in horror of the many things he’d remained blissfully ignorant of in the last four years. John clears his throat and Sherlock’s eyes refocus like the dial of a telescope. He quirks his lip upwards apologetically, and gestures for John to continue.

“Then you said ‘I’ll steal you another one.’ You have a tell, Sherlock, sorry to break it to you. Whenever you lie to me, you only get away with it because it holds some sort of merit or is half-true—- you’re able to say you’ll steal another one because there’s one to steal! And the only reason you’ve been covering it up and arguing with me about it is because you know where it is and it must be somewhere utterly deplorable for you to step foot in but somewhere Lestrade has access to— ergo, your brother’s house.”

John leans back in his chair and sighs.

“That was unbelievably hot,” Sherlock says, staring at him.

John flushes. “Believe me, I know. You do it every day.”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkle with pride. A lot of his emotions are filtered through them—it was the best way to see what was going on in his brain. Which is exactly why John has had absolutely no clue as to what this man’s thought processes were for four years because open stares were often a cause of concern between two people who aren’t romantically affiliated. But after ages of relying on peripheral or body language cues, his eyes are as eloquent and boisterous as Shakespeare on his third bottle of wine. John only wonders if Sherlock’s ever looked at him like this when he wasn’t looking.

Like everything in the world just faded out to him; like he was the single bright thing in an endless dark void. A conductor of light.

Oh good lord, he was the fucking lamp.

Sherlock leans forward, tearing him away from his revelation. He tilts John’s chin upward—they are both literally sitting on the edge of their seats for this to be possible—and kisses him soundly, the brush of his lips and the warmth of his breath like the first rush of the heater when you walk in from the cold, warm and inviting. John slips a hand around the back of his neck, deepening the kiss.

The phrase “kissing each other senseless” would be inaccurate; for once, John is in full possession of all his mental capacity to think about how he could name all of the neck muscles he could feel stretched out beneath his fingers. He could list every known chemical reaction that was occurring in the body, every hormone that was being released at that moment. But he doesn’t. Instead he marvels at how lucky he had been to get so sexually frustrated over a lamp that it was the difference between stalling their relationship for another four years. And then that his self-proclaimed sociopath, the man who goes about every day of his life scorning the sentimental, pretending not to have feelings, pulls away and tells him earnestly,

“I love you, John Watson.”

John smiles and feels his tear ducts betray him. As warm tears flow freely down his face, he holds Sherlock’s face between his hands, gazing at him seriously and fully setting him up to expect an I love you too.

“…that means you’ll get the lamp back right?” he says tearfully.

John was expecting his expression to fall, or his face to go blank like in the rare times he’s confused about what’s happening, but instead tears also begin rolling down his face, and he says just as brokenly,

“Yeah I’ve got it all planned out. Free tomorrow?”

“Oh God yes.”

“…”

“And I love you too.”

*more crying*

—

Taglist: @topsyturvy-turtely @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @ladylindaaa

Lmk if you wanna be added or removed!

#I WROTE FIC #timbervawrites #maniacal laughter #johnlock #johnlock fic #sherlock challenge

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meetinginsamarra · 2 years

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New ficlet for Sherlock Challenge “Nail” up tomorrow

I did it again!

Thanks to @peageetibbs for beta-ing and fixing the final sentence!

#my Sherlock fanfics #Nail #Sherlock Challenge #teaser post

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smarthily · 1 month

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<...> Am I the current King of England?

For @sherlockchallenge March prompt GAME

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jarrows · 6 months

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recently i reread a bunch of my favorite sherlock holmes stories (norw my beloved) and felt compelled to create my own diagram for 221B

#sherlock holmes #there are so many great blueprints and maps out there and i thought it would be fun to toss my own hat into the ring #trying to be accurate to what is mentioned in the books #while still allowing for some fun artistic embellishments #was a nice challenge!#i ended up doing lestrades office too but of course you never do see that in canon so it was much more vibes~ based #i am going to color this and spruce it up some but we needed break here before diving back in #since i think the timelapse of this drawing is longer than some feature films 💀💀💀#anyway definitely open these images in a new tab and zoom in if you can bc these are really big

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helloliriels · 1 year

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It Belongs In A Museum

"John ... I thought you said this was a library?" Sherlock turned a corner and found himself in the middle of what instead appeared to be ... a museum?

John meanwhile, rounded the corner and came crashing into a halted Sherlock.

He looked the taller man up and down before peering about the room before them. Trying to see what might have arrested his flatmate's attention?

John's breath caught.

Hanging on every available inch of the walls ...

. Were brilliant works of art, in every style and fashion ...

Full sized paintings ... hand drawn sketches ... and mostly digital works ... some full color, some in a manga or comic book art style ... but all featuring ...

. "It's ... it's us?"

John asked, stunned.

The question had also paralyzed the detective. Try as he might ... he simply could not compute the sheer amount of time and effort that had been put into this lovingly curated hall of art works ... ?

"John ... are you seeing-?"

. "What you're seeing ... ?" John finished for him, "yeah mate." He nodded imperceptibly. Unable to tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing pictures that graced the gallery walls.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, as he caught a glimpse of something he definitely wanted a closer look at! And he was off ... Sherlock hard on his heels.

They spun about, smiling ... laughing ... tugging each other to see and comment on various pieces ... catching themselves eyeing each other with newfound wonder as they explored ... and often a hand over their mouths as they suppressed the joy that threatened to spill over like an uncorked bottle of champagne!

John had never seen Sherlock so animated, as when he was choosing his favourite image of John and having John imitate - or try as he might - NOT imitate - the position or stance that the artist had put them in ...

They landed on the floor laughing and rolling in each others arms after chasing each other around the silent gallery ...

Until John remembered - they were in a gallery! or what was supposed to be a LIBRARY! - and he hushed Sherlock with a finger to his lips ... Following it with a hesitant ... and careful kiss.

Their first.

Sherlock blinked.

"How long has this been going on, John?" he asked, needing to know more. John shrugged, his smile deepening even as he flattened himself against the ground and simply enjoyed the feel of Sherlock in his arms ... The man was gorgeous with his hair all aglow in the gallery lighting ...

. "I honestly don't know, Sherlock," he replied ... tugging the detective down by his shirt front for another good snog ... "but I'm guessing they all noticed it before we did?"

. Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement. Accepting John's lips and the warmth of his nearness like a glove that fit only too well ...

John felt a twinge in his back at being on the cold, hard floor too long though - and pushed Sherlock off of him, playfully - rising and helping the man to his feet.

"Guess we should see what we came here for?" John offered, leading the way, "think the library is back here? Ah!" He flicked on a lightswitch behind a pair of double doors ... and a

. "WHOA!!!!"

Slipped out of their mouths simultaneously ... jaws dropping.

As the darkened warehouse before them flickered to life, row ... by illuminated row ...

Revealing hundreds ... if not thousands ... NO ... HUNDREDS of thousands!!! Of stories ...

. Written about ... them?

John winked at Sherlock.

Before dashing ahead in a mad chase. Each grabbing up several volumes apiece and meeting to read a few pages ...

. "Look at this one!"

. "John - you won't believe-!" "Sherlock!" "John!"

. "This is-" "-I'm taking this one!" "This is brilliant!"

. "We're in a sci-fi!" "oooh an epic!" "OHmyGOD!"

John's giggling could be heard a few rows down, and Sherlock tucked another in his pocket and swung around the shelving to peruse over John's shoulder.

His jaw dropped.

"I think ..." John grinned wickedly "... I've found the E rated section ...!"

Sherlock's eyes grew wide as saucers and he tore the book from John's hands ... devouring pages at a time! Then he looked up at the rows and rows of shelves, his gaze glossing towards empty - but John could see he was critically engaged in making a heavy calculation.

"Verdict?" John asked, smirking. Having allowed the great genius to do his mental gymnastics.

"I think we're going to need more bookshelves at Baker Street," Sherlock stated, "... and we may need to try everything suggested."

"For science?" John asked, solemnly.

"For science," Sherlock agreed. Hiding his own burgeoning grin.

Then they both stood. Sheepishly looking down at their own feet ... and then at the rows and rows of unexplored fiction they could wander through ... endlessly ... nightly ... for the rest of their lives ...

"John ... ?" Sherlock asked, then, quietly. As if whispering in a holy room, "... what did you say this place was called again?'

He was a boy again. Full of wonder.

John smiled. Recognizing the dawn of a new era of their lives. He answered, just as solemnly,

"I'd say it was ... an archive of our own?"

Then he met Sherlock's adoring eyes,

. ... as the lights above ... winked.

For @sherlockchallenge February Prompt: Museum. and for all you lovely @fluffbruary writers and artists making the month delish.

@johnlocky @fluffbyday-smutbynight @ohlooktheresabee @john-smiths-jawline @whatnext2020 @chinike @rhasima @totallysilvergirl @blogstandbygo @egregiously-chuffed @raina-at @thelazyecrivain @topsyturvy-turtely @the-reading-lemon @aquilea-of-the-lonely-mountain @safedistancefrombeingsmart @keirgreeneyes @elwinglyre @belles-magnetic-violin @thesunandherflannelcurtains @iwlyanmw @meetinginsamarra @hellolovelyscientist @ecsapingthereality @wizama @anyway-kindness @inevitably-johnlocked @iamjustreading @demonicangeling @summerfly-blues @eplapourdissant @lovelenivy @kittenmadnessandtea @leny-nguyen @calaisreno @discordantwords @thetimemoves @7-percent @shelleysprometheus @anyawen @gregorovitchworld @janetm74 @mrb488 @hasenkind687 @khorazir @kettykika78

#archive of our own #library love #museum #sherlock challenge #johnlock fluff

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lisbeth-kk · 4 months

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My entry to January's Sherlock Challenge. Prompt: envelope.

Perfectly Phrased

Chapter 3 excerpt:

The revelation

Another letter. Electronically written this time. It’s short and business-like. Informative. At least to some extent.

Doctor Watson

Your final destination is Slovenia, as you learned from the coded message. The plane lands in Klagenfurt, Austria. You will be picked up at the tarmac. Don’t bother asking the driver any questions. He only speaks Slovenian.

The letter isn’t signed but John knows who’s written it anyway.

The Greek philosopher = Diogenes = Mycroft.

Read the rest here

@sherlockchallenge @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitchworld @peanitbear @topsyturvy-turtely @raina-at @helloliriels @sabsi221b

#sherlock challenge #sherlock fandom #sherlock #john watson #johnlock #sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock #ao3 fanfic #envelope

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starkraivennemad · 6 months

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The Cold Detail

Being security detail for Mycroft Holmes was both an honor and a horror show.

All of Holmes’ security detail must run the minimum two-year gauntlet of the horror show of being on the detail for Sherlock Holmes before being rewarded to protect Mycroft and Anthea as space opened.

But Sherlock is not the problem for Agents Marcus Derrico, Anand Sajjadul and the others on their rotation. They were the part of the secrete security of someone else important to Mr. Holmes.

Detective Inspector Gregory Michael Lestrade.

Their orders simple: do not interfere or help with his job, and above all do not let Lestrade see you.

So complete is their noninterference, there were a few times where Lestrade had lost a suspect who outran him. Twice with Sherlock on the chase as well - that is not their job. Lestrade may never learn how they kept a criminal’s accomplice from nearly getting the drop on and assassinate him – that is their job.

It was fine until someone slipped up. Derrico and Sajjadul heard about the dressing down the discovered detail received before they were shipped somewhere to chill for their failure to remain invisible. It did not stop Mr. Holmes from keeping Lestrade protected. After a year, it was with a resigned détente that Lestrade accepted they were a secret part of his life to the point the guards now on rotation were certain Lestrade had forgotten they exist which was perfect.

Until tonight.

Accustomed to waiting on Lestrade as he chased leads, the two agents followed him to a warehouse. The old brick and concrete structure was abandoned, the ceiling had caved in places and had no power. One of the rooms had been the scene of a grisly crime. Forensic had documented everything and the scene released nearly a week ago. Neither agent knew why Lestrade would want to enter the building on a freezing cold day, this close to sunset, but there they were. They could not drive into the lot and maintain their illusion of invisibility. Thus, Sajjadul drew the short straw and followed Lestrade to the front entrance only while Derrico waited in their nice warm car a block away.

Sajjadul had heard Lestrade muttering to himself as a door closed loudly. Yes, Lestrade had his phone and his torch, but Sajjadul really wished he had not gone into an abandoned building at nightfall alone. It had been cold earlier and little warmth provided by the sun vanished with its setting and it was now bitter cold. Sajjadul knew Lestrade’s natural body temp ran hot and was envied how the D.I. was walking around bare headed when he himself would kill for another layer of warmth on his head.

“God! It’s gold as a witch’s tit out here! What the bloody hell is he doing?” Sajjadul pushed his earpiece in more, pulling his hat down further over his ears. The temperature had dropped to the point that awning that had dripped in the sun when he first stood at the entrance had refrozen into stalactites.

“Fuck all if I know. He’s no Holmes, but he is damned smart copper. Probably following some obscure hunch.” Derrico responded. “Let’s hope he does it quickly get somewhere warm!”

“I haven’t heard anything, not even walking around. Somethings not right.” Sajjadul said after a while of much too quiet. “I should go in…”

“We’re not supposed to interfere …”

“We’re not, we’re confirming he’s okay.”

“Sajjadul, wait! Remember Naer and Corley?”

Sajjadul gave a moment’s pause at the reminder of the two agents banished to a location that would make their current local feel balmy.

“YOU want to tell Holmes something happened to the man while we were debating Schrodinger’s Lestrade?”

“Christ no!”

“Establishing a visual wellness check...” Sajjadul pulled a torch from his coat pocket and went in.

It was as he feared– oh so cold, very dark, and much too quiet except for an odd thud as he walked.

“Wait… I think I hear somethi …” Sajjadul started to speak, then stopped. “Derrico…? Anand..?” He heard nothing but silence and realized the concrete and brick obstructed even their communications. A quick check verified that his cellphone was also useless.

The thuds he heard before, now silent.

He began to worry as he carefully made his way to the crime scene.

“He’s not here?” He flashed his torch around the room. “Shite!”

The thud he heard earlier began anew. It was louder, and faster, yet weaker. He knew it was Lestrade.

He followed it to a room with a stuck door. The thudding stopped when Sajjadul slammed his body into it. It took a couple of tries before it finally opened.

The room’s ceiling was too high for Lestrade to reach. With no windows and no mobile reception even with the hole in the partially caved in roof, Lestrade had been trapped in the freezing room with no cell phone reception and no heat source. There was little chance he would have survived the night.

“This is going to hurt.” Lestrade moaned painfully as he unfolded his chilled bones to stand.

Even so, Sajjadul did not enter the room. He slipped back into the shadows and pretended he did not hear the barely audible “Thanks…” whispered as Lestrade painfully made his way out of the room.

He silently followed Lestrade out of the warehouse, where Derrico had also broken protocol. Their sedan awaited them at the entrance.

A very grateful Lestrade climbed into its empty warmth and was taken home by Derrico while Sajjadul drove Lestrade’s car to be found in its parking spot when he awakened in the morning.

“I can’t tell…” Sajjadul sighed before their shift’s end. “Should we tell him?”

“I’m not…”

Neither Sajjadul nor Derrico reported the incident.

They realized Lestrade himself must have informed Mr. Holmes when each had received an unexpected increase in their pay and a month’s holiday in the nice warm Caribbean. ------ Read on AO3

#flash fiction friday #sherlock challenge #mystradedialogueprompt #bbc sherlock #mystrade #greg lestrade

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