Oneword: ShorthandOneword: Shorthand2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Before Sherlock died, the two flatmates rarely touched. John was withdrawn and still used to the homophobic atmosphere of the military. Sherlock was just as withdrawn, more concerned with clues and details than with people, even those most prominent in his life. Why put forth the effort?
After Sherlock died, that all changed. Small touches were exchanged between the two, a shorthand system of communication which they learned instinctively as they went along. A punch to the cheek was easy; "You're an ass." A gentle palm on the knee; "I'm sorry, forgive me, I need you." A slow tracing along the cheekbone; "You're actually real and not-dead."
Time progressed, and the language between them grew as more vocabulary was added. A tug on the elbow; "Don't leave me." A quick squeeze of the thumb; "I'll be back." A chin on the shoulder; "Keep watch over me." An arm around the waist; "I will, now and forever." A gentle grip at a tense shoulder; "Ignore him, he means you harm, I'm with y
Giveaway prompt: SpoonGiveaway prompt: Spoon2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John sighed when he saw Sherlock sprawled out over all three of the couch cushions, covered in no less than two blankets, his head propped on the arm rest as he stared, glassy-eyed with boredom at the talk-show program currently prattling away through the night. John hadn't been able to get back to sleep after his most recent nightmare (an afghani child, half his body blown away and bleeding profusely). He had sat in bed for a while, trying to forget the look of horror and pain which had remained burned in the backs of his eyes, just listening to the sounds of the city at night, and the muffled talking of the telly downstairs. After awhile, he had donned his slippers and shuffled down to the sitting room to join Sherlock for some company, to get the afterimage out of his head.
"Budge up," he'd mumbled, just loudly enough to be heard over the inane chatter, as he stood looming over Sherlock's head, arms crossed across his chest for warmth- a tee shirt was not quite warm enough in the cu
Giveaway prompt: KissGiveaway prompt: Kiss2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sherlock glanced at the empty mug that John set on the end table with a muffled little thud, his heart already sinking a bit. The end of John's tea usually signified an oncoming end to his time spent on the couch with Sherlock, in a mindless, telly-induced domestic bliss. Before John could gather himself up to shuffle off into the kitchen, Sherlock caught him gently by the right arm, giving a gentle squeeze to his brachioradialis, which caused John to pause and cover Sherlock's hand with his left one. Ever since Sherlock's return, they'd been sharing these subtle platonic touches, which almost seemed to serve as another form of communication. (Far easier to learn than code phrases like "Vatican cameos," Sherlock admitted to himself) John usually would be the one to bring about the contact; Sherlock would only do so when it was very important. He wondered what was so important now, that made him reach out to prevent John's departure?
John smiled up at Sherlock, the subtle light of the s
Oneword: MedicalOneword: Medical2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The two Londoners had unknowingly pinned a Gallifreyan against a brick wall in a dark alley. Having caught him suspiciously breaking into a high-tech facility, Sherlock feared that the tall, gangly man in the tweed jacket had been another member of Moriarty's web. John, not familiar with the technology contained in the stranger's little green-bulbed instrument with extendable claws, had pointed his gun at him for a sense of safety.
"Whatever went wrong," pleaded the man, both hands in the air against the wall, "I can assure you with... um.. about eighty six percent certainty that it wasn't me. Probably."
John wrinkled his nose at Sherlock in confusion. "Who are you?" he demanded of the stranger, lowering his gun by a couple inches.
"I'm the Doctor," he claimed, eyes darting back and forth between the darkly-clad man whose cheekbones he could sympathize with, to a shorter blond man who would almost remind him of the Master's last form if not for his kind, tired eyes.
"Yeah right," snort
Oneword: SliverOneword: Sliver2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sherlock had frozen in mid-stride as they paraded through one of the less busy streets of London, returning home after their repeat visit to the Art Gallery. He had been muttering softly as they walked, gesturing from hand to hand as he worked out the course of events they'd been following for the good part of a day. John kept a good meter or two of distance between himself and Sherlock, not wanting to give anything away with any facial expressions. He knew it was probably a hopeless cause, but why make it any easier on the genius? At least they were getting some sun. John gently nudged his elbow against each pole that passed between them, not paying as much attention as he might ordinarily.
When Sherlock suddenly stopped and spun on his heel, hurrying off back the way they'd just come, John was caught by surprise and reached out to grab the telephone pole he was about to nudge, using his momentum to swing around it and hurry after his partner. A sharp, hissing intake as John's palm dr
Giveaway prompt: DanceGiveaway prompt: Dance2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It was lucky for John that he had been raised with relatively good grammar, as he discovered one day when Sherlock had frustratedly rejected a client with a particularly bad case of cockney slang. "Why'd you do that?" he called from the kitchen, already brewing a pot to soothe the two of them.
"Do what?" Sherlock called back, snatching his violin from its case to pluck at it in agitation.
"Go all grammar-nazi whenever someone... I dunno, uses incorrect tenses?" A warm sizzle from the burner had already set John's associative reflexes to calming.
Sherlock paused with the violin poised at his chin, contemplating the question. "Just how Mummy raised us, I suppose," he admitted, "She had us go through the whole regimen of how the upper-class, educated young Englishman should behave. Etiquette, dance, hosting, grammar and the likes."
"Hold up," John poked his head out of the kitchen, one eyebrow quirked, "Did you say dance?" Sherlock only nodded, his expression grim. "You don't mean ballroo
Giveaway prompt: Who?Giveaway prompt: Who?2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Mrs. Hudson frowned as her daytime telly was drowned out by a strange wooshing sound coming from outside her window, unlike anything anything she'd ever heard before. Rising carefully from the couch (her hip was particularly bad today), she shuffled over to the front window to see if she could spy the source of the noise. A long pause, then the noise seemed to reverse itself just as the front door swung open quickly, admitting her boys from 221B. She hadn't seen them this happy and excited since the last big serial murderer case! "Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, "What have you gotten yourself into?"
"Space and time, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock gripped her excitedly around the shoulders as John shed his jacket, shutting the front door behind himself. "We've just been with the Doctor!"
Mrs. Hudson hadn't heard Sherlock mention any other doctor other than John, but this sounded important. "Doctor who, dear?"
Sherlock was about to try to explain, but John placed a hand on each of their should
Oneword: LiftOneword: Lift2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It had been a particularly windy day, and Sherlock's hair had still not recovered its usual large curls. The detective had quickly tried to tame the black frizz before their meeting in the executive office of the insurance company, but had had little success. It was fortunate for their bank account, then, that their new employer didn't much care what Sherlock looked like, so long as he was able to prove that the fire had been deliberate insurance fraud.
It was about halfway down their trip from the top floor when the wind knocked out a transformer, and the power to the whole building suddenly died down. John glanced up and around in alarm at the emergency lights, quickly calming as he realized what had happened. He only hoped it wouldn't be long before the power returned, as the longer he spent in the confined space the longer it started to remind him of the hide-holes he'd had to crawl into in search of terrorists.
"Well," he quipped, trying to keep his tone light, "It's a good thing
Giveaway prompt: TerrifiedGiveaway prompt: Terrified2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sherlock stood quietly in John's doorframe, the silhouette of the doctor's body illuminated only by the orange city lights glowing in from the window. Sherlock became increasingly concerned as the world-weary veteran tossed and turned in his sleep, muffled "No"s and "help"s occasionally escaping his lips as he thrashed about in the sheets. Sherlock could see the deep wrinkles in the sheet where John's fingers gripped it so tightly it seemed it might tear. Soon, the poor doctor was trembling and panting in his sleep, seemingly terrified by whatever his mind was haunting him with.
Sherlock could take it no longer, making the decision that John's comfort was far more important than his eight hours of sleep. He crossed the few feet between the door and the bed, and crawled in to curl his lanky limbs around John, wincing only a little as he was struck with an unconscious fist. A few moments of gentle stroking at his ribs, and a firm grip around the pelvis with his leg, and John's fitful nig
Must Be MadTitle: Must Be MadMust Be Mad3 years ago in Romance More Like This
Rating: Mild T (13+)
Summary: There are some things none of us understand. Things like falling in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Warnings: Slash. May trigger intense periods of crying over the cruelty of the BBC.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. If I did, the series finale would certainly not have involved John Watson's heart breaking into a million tiny pieces.
Notes: This is kind of part of a series of fics (Must Be Mad, More Than I Am, Lovers of the Lost, and Of Course, Of Course.) They can be read as a series, or as stand-alone stories
Oneword: HassleOneword: Hassle2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John sat up straight in his armchair as Sherlock stomped up the stairs with a couple bags of groceries. The doctor had to remember to close his mouth as he watched the introvert bring the goods into the kitchen and store them properly in the refrigerator, even going so far as to dispose of the oldest experiments in the back, which had started to mould over the previous week.
John stammered for a second, then gave up on wording and followed Sherlock into the kitchen. Curling his arms around the detective's diminutive waist as the last item, a pint of milk, was shoved into the door, John let his chin rest on Sherlock's shoulder as he gave a firm squeeze of affection. "What brought this on?" He nosed gently behind Sherlock's ear, eliciting a soft rumble against his chest.
"Why, I'm certain I've no idea what you mean," Sherlock teased, "I was just being a responsible flat-mate, like usual." He curled his fingers in with John's, who leaned in against him gently until he was pinned against t
Sherlock's sonnetSherlock's sonnet2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
If I had known that I could have a friend
More loyal than the royal Queen's brigade,
I would have made my selfishness an end
And for a quick delivery have prayed.
Before we met I thought it left to chance
That I would play the game of life alone
Abandoned had I all thoughts of romance
Until we made our partnership our home
But how, my doctor, shall we now progress?
No longer do I wish to tempt my fate-
Uncertainty my impulse does oppress,
What if my own decisions come too late?
If I'm the brain to your unfailing heart,
Then please, I beg you, tell me where to start.
Oneword: DisregardOneword: Disregard2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John pressed the warm compress gently against the shallow cut, letting the fresh blood soak in and away from Sherlock's pale skin. The detective was hunched over his own knees, lower lip held between his teeth as he tried not to flinch away from the doctor's touch. The water matted down the topmost feathers, turning the deep blue a dark, iridescent black which sent shivers along the wing from the cool air.
"You knew there was a storm coming." John sighed as he wrung out the washcloth and re-wet it, pressing it back against the cut. "You could have waited until it passed." He dabbed a bit of hydrogen peroxide into the cut and let it fizz.
Sherlock grunted softly, fingers clenched into a fist. "And miss the opportunity to catch Burke? Not likely. I'll gladly disregard minor danger when it comes to the work." He turned back to inspect John's work. "You know that."
John bit his tongue and reached for a bandage, trying to figure out how to apply it. The field of orni-anthro medic
Oneword: BeliefOneword: Belief2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John set down his latest novel with a sappy sigh. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him. John smiled and summarized, "He wrote her a poem, and she finally realized that he was right for her after all."
Sherlock snorted. "That's ridiculous. What would a young woman have to gain from a few stanzas of writing?" He turned to the next chapter of his textbook.
John stood to put the book back into the pile of library returns. "I dunno, ever since we had that Shakespeare unit back in senior year, It's always been a personal belief that writing poetry is one of the most romantic gestures a person can make." Sherlock didn't look up from his book, but his silence told John that he'd absorbed his words. At least he didn't follow with more ridicule.
The next day when he woke, John found a folded piece of paper hidden between the screen and keyboard of his closed laptop. "My dearest John," it read in Sherlock's loopy, graceful handwriting,
"If I had known that I could have a friend
More loyal than the
A Pleasant Surprise - BBC SherlockIt had been a month since Sherlock Holmes died. A month since John Watson saw his best friend jump off that roof. John didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe it.A Pleasant Surprise - BBC Sherlock2 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
After all, it was Sherlock. He wouldn't kill himself. That's what he told himself, but his eyes told him otherwise as he stood in front of Sherlock's grave. He didn't show any signs of being suicidal, wasn't depressed, nothing. He was the same as he always was. Nothing changed about him.
John found himself clinging to the silly hope that Sherlock was alive. That it was all some sick joke because he was bored and he would walk in 221B Baker Street like nothing happened. It seemed like something he would do, at least. Maybe when John came home Sherlock would be lying on the couch, saying he was bored and shooting holes in the walls. He found himself smiling fondly at the memory as he left the graveyard. Maybe he'll go out for a pint or two.
Later that night he was stumbling into his flat, clearly drunk. To his surprise h
Oneword: DismissedOneword: Dismissed2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Dr. Watson." John looked up from his hands with a miserable yet somehow still blank expression. His supervisor continued. "You're a talented physician. You know that, and I know that. You've been with us for more than two years! But ever since you've resumed your Extracurricular activities, your performance and attendance have taken a serious turn for the worse." The chief surgeon leaned across his desk with an expression which could almost be construed as worry, but not quite. "We simply can't keep a salaried doctor on the payroll if he doesn't show up. You understand." John nodded and stood to leave when he was dismissed. He wondered if Sherlock would mind terribly that he no longer had a day job. Now that they were drawing in enough cases to support both halves of the rent, he supposed, probably not.
Oneword: EnticeOneword: Entice2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sherlock didn't mind John's bed. In fact, it was probably more comfortable than his own, if he cared to admit it. The doctor's firm mattress was an excellent support for the back, and the covers were kept remarkably straight and neat. (As was the rest of the room, to John's credit.)
However, there were times when Sherlock felt as though their relationship was a bit unbalanced in certain regards. While the withdrawn detective knew that John would never force or even insinuate starting something without Sherlock's interest and explicit permission, it still left Sherlock ill at ease sometimes... As though he had less control over the situation, because he was a guest in John's space.
It was a conscious effort, then, when he took the time to put his studies aside for a day and tend to more common duties. He threw the windows of his bedroom open to let in the cool, fresh air and evacuate the musty smell that had built up from his last experiment. He skittered about his room, tossing anythin
Oneword: SwingOneword: Swing2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John shifts in his sleep, turning over onto his left to let his right cool down. His dreams are erratic, that night, but not the horrifying, haunting images of war that usually occupy his REM. Tonight, they are bizarre and jumbled.
He and Sherlock are running through London, leaping from rooftop to rooftop until their feet are no longer touching the buildings, and John is just following right behind as he always does, not daring to look down at the city below them. They just barely miss the London Eye as Sherlock's great belstaff coat spreads open in the wind, keeping them aloft.
John is brewing tea and trying to spread jam on three slices of toast at once, and Sherlock is standing over his shoulder, shouting at him, how he's doing it wrong.
Suddenly, Sherlock backs away with a look of depressed horror in John's general direction, "I never wanted to be a sociopath," he starts, ripping off his suit jacket to reveal beneath it, not his tight purple shirt but plaid flannel- "I wanted to b
Oneword: ScornOneword: Scorn2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sherlock stole glances across the top of his textbook at John as he read, processing both the written information and several other trains of thought simultaneously. The older man was curled into his armchair with a thick quilt and a mug of tea, watching the news. Some stories brought an anxious crinkle to the doctor's brow, while others had his nodding thoughtfully. Suddenly, John's face shadowed into a scowl of scorn at the telly's information. It was strange for Sherlock to see this expression on the face which he had become so accustomed to seeing in a state of kindness and concern. The detective couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen John get angry any anyone other than himself, and never before with this shade of disrespect and dismissal.
Out of curiosity, Sherlock turned his gaze to the story at hand. There was a female behind an anchor's desk, strawberry blonde and of slightly above-average aesthetic values. Sherlock knew that this woman was very much John's type, so sh
Oneword: FlirtOneword: Flirt2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John had to wonder sometimes if Sherlock even realized what he was doing. When he had insisted that John's date with Sarah was the same as what he had suggested, had he intended that as a flirt? When he grabbed at John's temples, or stood too close in his personal space, was it due to a sense of comfort, or a desire for something more?
Not wanting to push either way, John decided to leave the flirtatious behavior unmentioned. He didn't mind that much, after all.
72. Insomnia - JohnlockJohn lay awake in bed, an all too familiar violin screeching downstairs. Of course, it wasn't actually screeching, but at three in the morning it might as well be. Now if it had been in the afternoon or sometime that wasn't in the middle of the night, the violin would be quite pleasant.72. Insomnia - Johnlock2 years ago in Romance More Like This
He squeezed his eyes shut and held his pillow up against his ears. The action was futile, he knew from doing so several times before. Upon realizing that it still wouldn't work he let go of the pillow and opened his eyes with a sigh. He kicked off the blankets and stood up, walking over to the door of his room. He opened it up just enough to poke his head out and yelled, "Would you keep it down! Some people are trying to sleep!" He tried his best to sound threatening and angry but it only came out as tired and groggy and not intimidating at all. The sound of the violin paused for a moment and John thought that he finally got through to him. Unfortunately he didn't and the screeching continued. John sigh
The LessonThe Lesson2 years ago in Romance More Like This
"Honestly John, it's really quite simple."
"No, Sherlock! It's not 'quite simple!'"
"Of the two human beings in this room, which one is more able to make a well-informed and intelligent decision on the difficulty of a certain task?"
"I really think there's only one human being in this room: me. But in any case I should cause I'm normal."
Sherlock scoffed. "Ugh. Boring. Now try it again."
"Sherlock, my fingers are tired. I seriously can't play anymore. My fingers are going to start bleeding and I'm going to get an infection."
"Are you insinuating something about the cleanliness of my bow?"
"Actually, maybe I am." John set the violin down on the armchair. "You've come home soaked in blood before."
"Pig's blood." Sherlock murmured.
"As if that makes it alright!" John shouted, throwing his hands up in defeat. "How am I supposed to know what sort of rubbish gets on your bow?" He crossed the room, desperate to get away from the world's most aggravating flatmate, and let himself fall onto the
Oneword: DriftingOneword: Drifting2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
John turned fitfully in his sleep, drifting from nightmare to wakefulness to bizarre dreams to NREM and back. He was vaguely, unconsciously aware that he was not alone, that a gentle weight rested around his waist which lifted to allow freedom of movement each time he stirred. It always wrapped back around him, though, and gripped a little tighter when John's limbs struck out in fear. Finally, the nightmares faded and didn't return. John settled in comfortably, nestling in against the warm body with a thankful squeeze around the waist. It was thinner than his arm was accustomed to holding at night, but that thought didn't register as important until he became more conscious.
As he woke, the sunbeam graciously blocked by an angular shoulder, John was momentarily disoriented. His mind had formed a connection between sleeping with company and awakening in a strange room, so the sight of his own familiar surroundings threw him through a loop. As did the chest pressed against his own, soft
Sherlock- BoxJohn blinked at the box in the middle of the floor. It was fresh, new. The label on the side was addressed to Speedy's café, so John knew it wasn't originally meant to be in the flat. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't randomly leave a box in the middle of the floor, and John definitely hadn't had anything to do with it, so that left Sherlock.Sherlock- Box2 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
As far as things Sherlock brought back to the apartment, a cardboard box was mundane, at best. That was part of what worried John. He moved to examine the box, speculating as to what could be inside.
The first thing that he noted was that it was upside down. The bottom of the box, which was now the top, was still sealed with packing tape. Closer examination showed that the tape across the top of the box (now tucked underneath) had been peeled off, so the only opening was at the bottom. This also meant that it had been opened, which reduced the fear that Sherlock was stealing a café's mail.
With a huff, John plopped down in his chair, staring at the b