Never Mind Me
Fanfics:
A note sits forgotten in the darkness.
It had been placed there years ago, tucked into an unobtrusive spot where it would be easily missed. The paper has begun to yellow with age, fading from the stark white of its youth into the mellowness of old age as the years come and…
*beep*
1 New audiovisual message received.
Play now? Y/N
Playing…
…
Hello, John.
It’s noon, the 19th of July, and you are sleeping a few metres away in our hotel room. You’d probably tell me that I should be sleeping as well, given how little we’ve slept in the last three days.
My body is thoroughly exhausted, but my mind, as always, is racing, so I stepped outside rather than risk waking you.
Though, I must admit that for half an hour I remained in bed, watching you, cataloguing every hair, every mole, every breath, every heartbeat.
I… I know I don’t always say everything I should… everything you need to hear. And I also know you understand that. You understand everything, John. You always have.
You let me come back into your life after I lied to you and hurt you. You forgave me, because you were willing to understand me. Because you love me.
That’s why I want to say this now.
I love you, John.
No. That’s redundant.
I have no concept of love that is not bound up with you.
You, John, mean everything to me. You are more important than my work, my life, my past or future.
I cannot think that I was fully alive before we met, in fact.
You are my life, John.
Everything I am, my mind, my heart, my body -my soul, if there exists such a thing- belongs only to you.
And despite the fact that it might seem unnecessary, or outdated, I want to show the world that I am yours and you are mine.
That is why, with deepest sincerity, and with all I am, I must ask:
John Hamish Watson, will you do me the immense honour of marrying me?
…
Compose New Message
To: Sherlock
Subject: video
Sherlock,
You are a complete and utter idiot.
Come back to bed this instant.
And one more thing.
YES.
-JW
Good for the soul. (if there indeed exists such a thing)
Wonderful! Adore it! *squeeflail*
Sherlock/The Avengers (Parentlock/Superfamily) crossover: In which Peter and Hamish are rommates at their new boarding school and fall for each other.
“So, Peter, tell me about your new roommate… Hamish, isn’t it?”, asked Tony casually. Peter nodded.
He wanted to tell his father everything about Hamish Watson-Holmes, his roomate at the new boarding school. He wanted to tell him about Hamish’s parents who were both men, just like Peter’s parents. He wanted to tell about Hamish’s skills of deduction. About how good he was at playing violin - which he liked to play in the middle of night. About how Hamish pretend that he didn’t care about anything at all, when in fact, he did care. About Hamish’s big heart and brilliant mind. But Peter didn’t know how. So, instead, he just said:
“He sucks… And…” and that was all. Peter didn’t allow himself to say more. Because Hamish sucked. He was an prat, and too full of himself sometimes.
Peter still remembered the day when Hamish was being an total asshole during the dinner and Peter couldn’t help but explode.
“You’re such an annoying dick.” he had said. And Hamish just sat there, staring at Peter for a long time. After that, Hamish didn’t talk to Peter for almost two weeks till Peter decide apologize.
Tony nodded and said:
“So, do you… Um, do you like him?”
Peter’s answer came out of his mouth before he could even think.
“What?! Hamish? Of course not!”
But Peter liked Hamish.
More than he’d like to admit.
(via valeria2067)
John was still getting used to it.
Having Sherlock back in his life. Having Sherlock alive at all.
The same Sherlock, and yet, not the same.
Slimmer. Shorn. And with a new-found apathy regarding the morning shave.
John definitely missed the hair.
But as for the rest of it.
Well.
“Tired already, are we?” he asked when he found Sherlock hiding in an unused corridor near the kitchen of Mycroft’s massive family home.
“My penance for all of Mycroft’s help. I said I’d come. I didn’t say I’d mingle for the entire evening. The same questions over and over. Boring. Deathly boring…”
John’s mind wandered a bit as his eyes took in Sherlock’s undone tie, opened collar, seductive pose.
Wait.
Seductive?
John swallowed down the contents of his champagne flute, set the glass aside, and sat down against the wall beside his tired, seductive friend.
“Boring, is it? I imagine so, especially after everything you’ve.. well..”
He looked over and met Sherlock’s intense, hungry gaze.
“Um, look, Sherlock,” John cleared his throat. “Would you, by any chance, want to find something a bit less boring to do right now? You don’t have to say yes, obviously, I mean—”
“There’s an unlocked guest bedroom on the second floor. Top of the stairs, third door on the left. Meet me there in ten minutes.”
John licked his lips and nodded as Sherlock stood up.
“Oh, God, yes,” John muttered under his breath.
John had always been a dog. He never cared, and why should he? Since the day he was born and sold he had been raised like an animal, like many others in the world. It didn’t bother him; he had never known anything else but this. He didn’t see how similar he and his owners were.
When he grew up he…
It was entirely an accident. But Sherlock was tracking the last assassin when he saw him again for the first time in three years, and what a glorious sight John made, golden hair shining in the morning sun, his leather jacket enfolding his small form like a second skin
John turned and for a brief moment, his eyes lit up. Sherlock’s lips parted to speak, but John brushed past him, and Sherlock turned, following the doctor with his eyes, and felt his heart sink as John’s arms circled a woman’s waist. She looked up at John with doe eyes, and John smiled.
Such smile it was! So full of love and joy, as if that woman was the only thing in his world.
John used to smile at him like that, Sherlock remembered.
As John walked away, holding the woman in his embrace, Sherlock watched, wistful and longing. John had moved on. There was no place for Sherlock in London anymore.
(via shireduchess)
o
OH HOT DAMN. THIS IS MY MAN.Oh god it’s Benedict on a motorcycle. Oh god. Oh dog. I. I. I CANNOT EVEN. CAN’T. HANDLE. THIS. MADNESS.
His hair is shorter, his jacket leather, but it’s the motorcycle that makes him unrecognizable. Under the helmet, the rider could be anyone. His ride is loud, unsubtle, and no one would ever dream this was a man attempting to avoid detection. An excellent disguise, so plain in sight that the only second glance leveled his way was one of appreciation or envy.
He’s accustomed to that now. It’s been difficult, but he’s taught himself to ignore, to not engage, to - most difficult of all - keep quiet and never mention the unending flood of information the world insists on pelting him with. No more interacting. Even when he recovers his helmet from the local gang of bored teenagers, he doesn’t do much more than scoff and glare. Alone is what he has, alone is the only thing he has out here, tracking down the remaining shreds of Moriarty’s network in this deceptively idyllic locale.
It’s what he has until the moment John Hamish Watson decides to take a holiday abroad.
This is the exact moment alone because loneliness.
Terror as well. The terror need not be forgotten, not when John is so close to those who would destroy him. And Sherlock as well, but he’s had more than enough time to acclimatize to this notion.
It’s possible Sherlock immediately begins to stalk his old flatmate.
It’s possible Sherlock begins to stalk him relentlessly.
On Day Two of this, Sherlock realizes this is unfeasible. Less from the noise of the bike, but more from John’s appreciative eye toward it - and him. Sherlock has followed John back to his hotel, sits on his motorcycle and quite obviously checks his own watch before looking up and down the road, clearly waiting for someone, clearly not there for John. John seems to be there for the same reason - curious - and it’s not long before John’s attention wanders to the man on the motorcycle.
The helmet is all that saves him. When John looks straight at him, when John runs his eye down Sherlock’s body with a small yet excellent smirk, the helmet is the only thing that saves them both.
Sherlock immediately swears to keep his distance from now on.
Sherlock immediately changes his mind.
Not out of sentiment - never out of sentiment, not even for John - but because the man to meet John at the hotel, the man John greets with a smile and a wave, the man who answers with a familiar “how’s the shoulder?”, that man is Colonel Sebastian Moran.
So let’s pretend Sherlock is dead. Okay? No? Too bad.
*********
In all of Sherlock’s life he never yearned for another’s touch.
Never for holding a conversation. Never to sit in a comfortable silence between another and himself. Never yearning for love or to confess it. Never wishing for something so simple as laughter. Never to say he was sorry. Sherlock tries for all of that now. He can’t reach anyone. He can’t reach the only one. The only one who ever mattered to him.
“You see but you do not observe.”
His own words crush his soul. He never knew how much he needed John Watson. Not until he could no longer reach him.
————————————————-
John Watson is haunted constantly. He hears Sherlock’s voice and it follows him wherever he goes. They are the slightest whispers that he cannot comprehend. Everyone tells him that he cannot live like this and even he wants to move on with his life. Although, they do not hear what he hears.
Sherlock’s voice, when he can understand it, only tells him things that he does not understand.
“It was for you, John.”
“Why can you not see why I had to?”
“I miss you.”
————————————————
Sherlock talks to him everyday.
He has been cursed with hope. Hope that John will hear him one day. Hear Sherlock plea for forgiveness for leaving him.
When you’re a ghost though, you do not control things like the living do.
He tries to hold John while he cries himself to sleep. Even so, Sherlock cannot grasp John, no matter how hard he tries to hold him and whisper comforting words.
————————————————
Sherlock knows John can hear him on occasion but he doesn’t understand him. It frustrates Sherlock so he yells: screaming in John’s ear, trying to force his point across.
————————————————
His voice gets louder in John’s head sometimes. Every muscle in his body tenses and John feels tears behind his eyes. He stopped crying awhile ago. Everyday he works on throwing the emotions and the voice in a small box inside him, that weighs more then it ever should.————————————————
Sherlock will never be able to tell John the things he should have while he was still there.
John will endlessly hear Sherlock’s voice in his head, and will always try to ignore it.
Neither can move on.*********
Thank you to littletallbird for editing! I would have died without you!
First time posting a fic. (though very tiny) Advice is welcomed!
(via sherly-acceptable)
The iPhone shivered as her master ran their fingers over her touchscreen.
“P-please…” she said softly, her voice wavering. “I’m reaching my limit.”
Her master smiled. “You want me to plug you in, right?”
The iPhone’s battery icon had been sitting at red for a while now.
She gasped as her master ran their fingers along her lower edge.
“But don’t you think this is more fun?” They were enjoying the absolute power they held over the device.
“And I thought you enjoyed the feeling of being filled when you were at your emptiest.”
“How did y-you know that?” she stammered.
“…. I’ve read your notes. You really should invest in a secure diary app.”the fuck just happened
Fifty Shades Of Battery Charging
Obligatory “still a better love story than Twilight” comment.
now i can’t look at my iphone without laugh…thank you tumblr :)
(via thecoventryconundrum)
Sherlock Shoe Fic
John woke grumpy.
His reasons were good.
He still had a cold. The stupid construction on the stupid new food & wine shop four doors down was going at jackhammer volume again. And in the kitchen Sherlock was noisily pacing like an over-caffeinated cheetah—in three-inch heels, from the sound of it.
It was this last to which John latched on, and it was to this he vented his spleen.
“Sherlock mother-fuckin’ Holmes, stop marching across the god damn floor like some sort of boot camp recruit.”
In the near distance the pacing stopped. John sighed smuggly and closed his eyes. He contemplated going back to sleep. Then the pacing did not so much start again as find itself replaced by a predatory tread.
John opened his eyes to find his husband of two months in their bedroom doorway.
John was no longer grumpy.
His reasons were good.
He had correctly deduced the height of Sherlock’s heels. Sherlock was naked from neck to navel. From that point south he wore black lace knickers, thigh-high stockings, and glistening black boots. And he was pacing toward the bed like something slinky, feline, and wild. A cheetah maybe.
Seconds later John proceeded to latch on to something else entirely. Which eventually led to venting. Quite a bit of it.
I started writing about red heels. Then I went in search of a nice image. Then I discovered that the glorious XDress now also employ lean, slinky models. After breathing into a paper bag awhile, I adjusted my story to fit the image. (And now I’m curious. After clicking on the link and seeing the full photo…do you prefer the entire look, including bra? or the crop above?)
(via sherlock-in-heels)
Um… guys? Did you notice he’s got black wings? The Muse did. *sigh*~~~
He lay there, wrung out and panting, sable wings spread out beneath him; the jumble of their cast-off robes forming a nest in scarlet and white. Turning his head, wildly tousled hair as night-dark as his wings, Sherlock watched John’s slightly smaller frame move with similarly heavy breaths. Sprawled out in abandon where he had rolled to after crying out his pleasure into Sherlock’s mouth, John was almost fully in shadow. The pearlescent moonlight coming in from above them gleamed on John’s nearer wing, which was resting atop Sherlock’s, varying shades of sand, grey, and wheat contrasting markedly with utter black. Funny, in a way, how John’s skin was a fair blend of warm golden-brown with peach-hued beige, while Sherlock’s was creamy-pale and blush, safe for the tiny buds of his rose-pink nipples. Everyone always portrayed angels as pale and demons as dark.
It was John who remembered language first, giving a giddy little sound that was almost a giggle, and saying barely above a whisper, “That was some rescue.”
Languidly lifting one arm and plucking off the knotted rope still tied around his forearm, Sherlock snorted, though he frowned at the red lines left on his pale skin; the ropes had been soaked in holy water. The burns would be days healing. “It was good of you to inconvenience yourself on my behalf,” he drawled humorously.
“Give me a moment or two more and I’ll see to those,” John said, the blue of his eyes nearly black in the dimness as he watched Sherlock free himself of the ropes about his other arm. Pushing himself into an upright position with a soft grunt, John’s wing dragged over Sherlock’s as it pulled up and away to fold neatly behind him, making Sherlock shiver at the strange mix of soothing and tickling sensations. “How did they manage to catch you?”
“I believed they held you captive,” Sherlock admitted in a voice barely as loud as a sparrow’s sigh.
John’s breath halted for an instant, then he rolled over to lie half atop Sherlock, the rustle of his many-hued wings folding around them both as soft as the feathers growing from them. Face now shadowed above him, the moonlight gilding his sandy-pale hair with a silver-white halo, John’s mouth found Sherlock’s. “You’re an idiot,” John whispered against Sherlock’s lips. “A brilliant, beautiful genius of an idiot,” he added after another kiss. “But an idiot all the same.”
“But they—” Sherlock started to explain, about the proofs he’d been shown, the truth of the claims that John was being held in painful constraint resting clearly in the messenger’s mortal mind, but John’s mouth cut him off.
“Still thy tongue, Demon,” John breathed in a language older than human existence. “I have better use for it than words.”
“Trade me yours, then, Angel, and I will be content,” Sherlock replied teasingly against John’s mouth.
Laughing breath wafted over Sherlocks’ face, smelling of himself and John, blended. “Done. We’ll sort it all out later. You’ll sort it. It’s what you do.”
Sherlock answered without words, as requested, and John seemed quite content in the bargain.Good lord Random, this story is gorgeous.
“Doctor, where do babies come from?”
Ah, good question. Yes. Well. I assume you mean human babies, then? Right, of course you do. Human question, human babies. Right. Righty-oh. Right.
Well, you see, it’s all very, well, it’s a bit complicated, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad or frightening, does it? It’s just new. New ideas for you. Always good, learning new things, isn’t it? Part of what life’s all about… really… so there’s that sorted, then. Now, what was your question? Oh. Babies. Yes.
Well, Timmy, when a man and a woman love each other very much, or, well, I should really say when two people love each other very much, depending on the century you’re in, and science, and… is this the twenty-first century, here, or… Oh.
Listen, um, Blimey, I thought defeating the Daleks was hard, okay. Here’s another go.
Sometimes, when two people love each other very much, one of them runs away on her wedding night and flies through time and space with another man. This is all perfectly natural, Timmy, don’t worry. Though I worried, I can tell you, but that’s for another time… And, well, after a bit, the one who ran away starts to miss the other one. So they go back to get him, and all three of them have adventures, and they meet their daughter who’s all grown up now, only nobody knows she’s their daughter… well the daughter does, but she won’t tell them, all this talk of spoilers (what’s wrong with a few spoilers, I ask you?), but, at any rate all four of them now go on even more adventures.
And then, before you know it, all of time and space… all of it, as in everything ever from the beginning until two seconds ago… gets destroyed.
But not to worry! Because one of them remembers. Yes, Timmy, nothing can really be gone if you remember it, can it? No, of course not. And then everybody comes back, and there is a lovely wedding with lots of dancing.
And then, well, the two people who love each other go to their lovely room with bunkbeds…. bunkbeds are cool, by the way, very cool, and let nobody tell you otherwise, Timmy, because we know better, don’t we?
And then, ah, then there is a kind of, well, it’s really kind of a kiss and a hug, is what it is, it’s, very special and natural and nothing is wrong with it, you must understand, no matter how two people decide to… kiss… or … hug…, as long as each one is happy to do it, and, then, um, there’s, there’s more of the kissing on the bunkbeds… or on the ladder of the bunkbeds, and the genetic material of the two people gets mixed up with Vortex energy from the TARDIS, and Bob’s your uncle, the baby is born, but she’s abducted and trained to kill their best friend. Only she doesn’t, you see. She and the friend find a way to save the universe, and everyone lives happily… well, not ever after, of course, that’s only in fairy tales, but they do live happily, um, for a time.
For some wonderful times, Timmy, don’t forget that.
The best of times.
Mycroft had been worried about him for a while now. He was well aware that Sherlock tried to push his elder brother away, but Mycroft wouldn’t give up. He hadn’t given up on him when his father gave up on little Sherlock. Or when he started doing drugs and he was kicked off from uni. Mycroft would never give up on his baby brother. He made a promise to their mother to look after him and that what he was going to do.
” I saw him.”
” You didn’t. “
The look on his brothers face broke Mycroft’s heart.
” He was there!” The lanky detective pointed at the doorway.
But Mycroft Holmes shook his head sadly. ” John’s dead.” He said softly. ” He’s been dead for two years now. “
Sherlock stayed quiet. He didn’t look away from the doorway. Mycroft was oblivious. Or blind. Sherlock suspected both. But he was there. John stood there, with his jumper, smiling to Sherlock. Just like he used to. ” You’re going to stay this time?” Sherlock whispered.
John nodded and Sherlock went back on the couch and sat there, John following him. ” I missed you.” He said when John sat down. But the doctor didn’t say anything,
Mycroft’s grip on his umbrella tightened when he watched his baby brother slowly but surely descending into madness. The death of Dr John Watson had been too much for his brain. His perfect machine had broken down and without his companion, it was slowly rotting away. And even if Mycroft wanted to help. He couldn’t.
WHY?
I don’t have words to describe how not okay my heart is after reading this.
I really, really loved it. More please?
“Sherlock. Stop moving.” John was on his back on the floor and Sherlock was sitting astride his lap.
(via random-nexus)