Month: September 2018

cumbercurlygirl:

theconsultinglinguist:

hedgielovesotter:

a-candle-for-sherlock:

Some mornings, now, Sherlock leaves his hair
ungelled, silky and loose, to savor the way John runs a careless hand
over it, passing by. He’ll let his stubble remain until he gets a chance
to rub his face roughly in John’s neck and hear his surprised giggle.
After a shower, he stands in front of the mirror and smooths his hands
over his naked belly, feeling the softening, and smiles, because John
cooks for them every night, magnificent food, and it’s good; it’s more
than good. They’re home.

Meanwhile something’s happening to John
as he settles into the fact of Sherlock-and-John: he’s becoming clearer
around the edges, visible, vivid. His jeans hold him closer and his
shirts get brighter; jewel tones that set off the silver of his sculpted
hair. He steps out with wildly patterned socks peeking above his
sensible shoes. Sherlock never mentions the layers of John’s
self-protection coming off; but he looks his fill.

One night
they’re reading together in the quiet of the living room when Rosie
peeks her head in; on her way out to meet friends. Sherlock reminds her
to take her pocketknife, and not to take drinks from people she doesn’t
know, and John asks her to text him in two hours and tell him how it’s
going. She smiles her reassurances, Yes, of course, yes, I will; asks
Sherlock if he likes her nail polish (teal with a subtle sparkle) and he
says he does. It goes nicely with her top. She leaves. It’s quiet.

“I liked her polish too,” John says. “I wish she’d ask me what I think of her outfits.”

“She knows which of us has taste.“

“Hey!”

“All
right, your taste is fine. But no one would expect you to have a
passionate opinion on nail polish, John.” Sherlock’s tone is indulgent.

“What if I do?” John’s blushing, but his chin rises bravely.

Sherlock gives him a good long stare and then starts to smile. “John. Do you?”

John’s
blush deepens. “I used to sneak into Harry’s room and try hers on when I
was six, seven years old.” He sighs. “Not stupid enough to leave it on
more than five minutes. If mum had caught me there’d have been hell to
pay.”

“Your mother,” says Sherlock, clearly, “was an idiot. And
Rosie has an excellent array of nail colors in the catchall next to the
sink.”

Rosie comes home at half ten to find her dads in the
kitchen, spiking their mugs of hot cocoa with the Christmas liquor, with
the third Star Wars movie on pause in the sitting room. Sherlock’s
nails are a deep, rich red, and John’s are a shimmery, starry blue, and
they’re both mussed and blushy enough that she says promptly, “Hi dads.
Bye dads,” grabs a tin of biscuits and heads straight upstairs. She
knows very well when to get out of their way.

Downstairs, the Star Wars theme song starts up, and almost covers the sound of their laughter.

Somebody do some art of this. PUHLEEZE. 💖

Afdjgskflaualafahajfajaaaaaaaaaaa

Love this sooooooo much!