Posted on

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!

Posted on

hewascharming:

IM STILL SCREAMIN OVER MIDDLE AGED POKÈLOCK THOUGH……

John “nothing ever happens to me” Watson scrolling through the app store as if a miracle is stored in fucking Google play, suddenly seeing Pokèmon Go advertised and being like “:o my childhood” and downloading it hoping it’ll make him get out of the apartment and make him happy

And then theirs fuckign Sherlock, who has been following every new Pokemon shit since he was 8, downloading the game the second it comes out and immediately leveling up like crazy…. Both of them walking through the streets of London, Sherlock in extreme concentration n John just kinda amused at the silliness of chasing down Pokemon in London when they both hit foreheads bc neither of them were looking up, and after both apologizing and saying “ow” they look at each other and just Stare…… Both knowin they just met their soulmate

John “awkwardly flirtious” Watson like “do you…. Need a flatmate” like Immediately without thinkin and Sherlock Staring and then blurting out “if you win a battle against me then we’ll split the rent 40/60” and John like “you’re on”

Both trying really weakly at first and not really putting their spirit into the battle but having fun just being near one another like :o, John is in awe of how far Sherlock is leveled up and is like “what can you do when you’re that far?” and Sherlock like “*suppressed excitement to show off to this hot military guy* let me show you”

Sherlock just casually destroying John and after he thinks about it he realizes that sometimes hurts people’s feelings so he’s like “sorry that was bad to do to a beginner im sorry” but John only reponding with “that was… Amazing” and Sherlock going “!!!!!!! WAIT LET ME SHOW YOU WHAT ELSE I CAN DO !!!!!!” and John loving all of Sherlock immediately as they walk to Baker Street to check out the flat…….. That is where their pokè romance begins

Posted on

marcelock:

ok imagine (during relationship) john and sherlock coming home from a case and theyre both so tired they cant climb all the way up to their room so they try to sleep on the stairs again but mrs hudsons like. yall. are gonna be fucked up ok come sleep on my sofa at least. so they cuddle up among the needlepoint pillows and floral throws and sleep well into the day when they wake up to mrs hudson in the chair next to them watching game shows and telling them good morning; they snuggle under the blankets and watch the shows with her (and yell when the contestants miss the Obvious) for the rest of the afternoon (’:

Posted on

blueink3:

conversationswithbenedict:

blueink3:

conversationswithbenedict:

blueink3:

@conversationswithbenedict, I’m not thinking about the look on Mummy Holmes’ face when John sends her a Mother’s Day card for the first time. 

I’m not thinking about how she immediately tears up and calls for Daddy because it’s signed “Love, John” in his sloppy doctor’s scrawl. 

Another card arrives with it, signed by Sherlock (at John’s urging, no doubt). And she places them both on the mantle, front and center, so every visitor will know just how much her sons love her. 

Jesus God no don’t think about that.

It will only lead to other unthinkable thoughts, like the day Mummy gets a phone call from John, saying that he and Sherlock would like to come visit on Sunday if that’s okay with her and Da, Sherlock yelling in the background, “WE DON’T HAVE TO COME IF IT DOESN’T WORK FOR YOU, WE CAN STAY RIGHT HERE WHERE WE ARE,” while John covers the phone with his hand and hisses, “Shut it, you!”

Because then you’d end up thinking about her ending the call (bye now, bye, okay, bye-bye, bye!) and turning to Mr Holmes, grinning through her tears, announcing, “They’re coming up on Sunday! I think this is it, love, the big announcement!” and Mr Holmes’ eyebrows shooting up, as he asks, “Do you think he’s going to ask for our permission? Do young folk still do that kind of thing?”

And Mummy swatting him with a tea towel and answering, “They’re hardly that young, silly, and it’s the proper way to do it.”

DO NOT.

No, because then you’ll think of John’s white knuckle grip on the steering wheel as they turn into the drive, pretending not to see Mummy already clapping through the kitchen window where she spies. 

Don’t think of John placing a kiss on her cheek and nudging Sherlock to do the same. Daddy shakes his hand, before tugging him into a hug and leading them into the house. It smells like pine and cinnamon, and there’s a fire in the grate to chase off the chill. John is instantly at ease (or as at ease as he can be, given the circumstances), and Sherlock immediately tackles Mummy’s bookshelf, looking for a specific tome that could be useful in cracking a cold case. John takes advantage of the distraction to hover outside Daddy’s office. 

Don’t think about the fact that his left hand shakes. 

Daddy pretends not to notice John’s shuffling, glasses sliding down his nose as he smiles. Finally, Daddy announces, ”It’s not locked, my boy” and John can’t help but chuckle because no one has called him “my boy” since his grandfather passed. He inches into the office, not noticing Mummy immediately following him until the door clicks shut behind them all. 

“What can we help you with, John?” Mummy asks when it becomes clear that John isn’t sure how to broach the topic, but there’s a twinkle in her eye and, in that moment, he knows they know. This is just a formality and that makes the knot in his chest slowly unwind. 

“I, um, I…” he digs his toe into the carpet before giving a brief nod, snapping his shoulders back, and standing to attention. “I’m in love with Sherlock and I’d like your permission to ask him to marry me.” He spreads his hands out. They’re no longer shaking. “That’s the whole of it.” 

And whatever you do, don’t think about the look Mummy and Daddy share that’s entirely too knowing and ridiculously too smug. Don’t think about Mummy stepping forward and cupping the cheek of the man she’s long since considered one of her own. 

“Is that a ‘yes?” John breathes. 

And don’t think of Mummy’s reply because how could it be anything but. 

Why would you do that? What on earth possessed you? Because now I have to work extra hard to not think about the ridiculous grin on John’s face as he struts out of Daddy’s office, proud as all get out, that he has both Sherlock’s love and the Holmes’ approval.

I am steadfastly refusing to think about John walking into the library, shoulders back, chest out, clearing his throat, or Sherlock glancing up from his book, eyebrow cocked, then shutting his book and setting it aside.

“And just where did you, Mummy, and Daddy get off to?”

John pretends Sherlock hasn’t deduced all of this already, probably a week ago, a month ago, a year ago, maybe even that first day at the lab.

“Just a little business I had to take care of.”

“Is that so?”

At this point I am begging you not to think about the sly smile on Sherlock’s face, the way he slouches a bit more in his chair, lets his legs fall open, or the way John moves forward, full of confidence, and kneels on one knee between those mile long legs.

Jesus Christ, do not think about John digging around in his pocket, Sherlock’s expression one of besotted amusement, then John finding what he’s looking for, re-centering himself, looking up at Sherlock and saying, “Sherlock…”

“Yes.”

John smiles. “But I didn’t ask yet.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Deduced it.”

“Yes?”

“Obviously.”

“Git.”

“Idiot.” Sherlock leans forward and crashes heir lips together, fingers tangling in John’s shirt. “Now where’s my ring?” he asks as John chuckles against his lips.

“Patience, husband.”

And don’t, not ever, think about Sherlock’s smile the minute he registers that beautiful, incandescent two-syllable word.

“Never, husband.”

Posted on

oxfordlunch:

John buys Sherlock flowers.

It’s on a whim; he walks straight past the florist on the commute home every other day, doesn’t he? Only today the gaudy Easter arrangements and strands of faerie lights are something like a siren song, and he stops in front of the shop and bites his lip and stares at the window, and something in him says that this is a thing he ought to do.

He never bought his girlfriends flowers.  They wilt and die, after all, and there’s all that awkward scrambling for water and a vase to put them in. Always seemed a sad waste of ten quid.  Wine was a far more sound investment for an evening.

Sherlock won’t expect flowers, though, and there’s something about that that makes the idea infinitely more appealing.  There’s no generic flowers-chocolates-wine-jewelry progression with Sherlock.  There are instead ‘here, I saw this book on people who’ve been killed by their exotic pets and thought you’d enjoy it’ gifts and ‘here’s a Lucky Cat because I love making you laugh’ gifts, and he thinks flowers might be just the thing for a ‘here, I think you’re lovely and wanted you to have something lovely’ gift.  It might even be a surprise, and it’s not often John gets the pleasure of surprising the World’s Most Observant Man.

He goes inside and stands there awkwardly, tries to browse casually and feels more awkward still.  Eventually the shop-keep takes pity on him and strolls over and gives what sounds like a prepared sales pitch for straight blokes.  Which is fair enough, John thinks, but he still appreciates how the man’s demeanor loosens up considerably when he tells him he’s looking for something for his partner, emphasis on the not-a-wife-or-girlfriend.

He leaves the shop with a recommendation for a pub he ought to check out, several enthusiastic well-wishes for his and Sherlock’s relationship, and a dramatic bundle of irises wrapped up in soft green paper.

They’re tall, and curly, and vibrantly purple.  They make him smile.

He jogs up the stairs back at 221b to the bellow of Sherlock’s voice telling him he’s late, and that he shouldn’t have bothered stopping for bread on the way home because Mrs. Hudson already brought some.

John wears a small, knowing smirk that grows into a grin that grows into a wide, joyful smile at the sight of Sherlock’s furrowed brow and sudden, surprised silence.  This is good; this is very good.

John clears his throat and ducks his head slightly, holding out the flowers and watching Sherlock as he stands there quietly in his pajamas.  John thinks he can feel his face go red.  He tells Sherlock the flowers are for him.  He tells him he saw them and thought of him.  He tells him lots of things, talks about the supportive shop-keep, makes a few awkward jokes, realizes he’s rambling nervously, and shuts up after a minute.

Sherlock takes the flowers.

He stares at them, blinks a few more times, then shifts into John’s space and leans down and gathers him into a hug with his free arm, dropping his face into the space between John’s neck and his jacket collar.  There are muffled words spoken into his skin, something like ‘thank you, they’re beautiful’ and ‘no-one’s ever.’  John brings his arms around Sherlock’s waist and breathes into the curls at the nape of his neck.  They smell dusty and warm, like an unwashed day spent in the flat.

He feels suddenly nauseous with how much he loves him.  He does.  He’d buy him flowers every damn day if it would make him happy, fill the flat with them; sod his pollen allergy.

He watches a few minutes later as Sherlock clatters through his lab supplies and rifles through the kitchen cupboards before finally holding up an enormous beaker with a triumphant flourish and filling the thing carefully with water and irises and the little packet of plant food that came with them, and John thinks the awkward scrambling for a vase didn’t turn out to be that bad after all.