@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.”
Aesthetic : Sherlock stretching on the bed, naked, barely awake and his hair ruffled, and John watching him, leaning against the doorway, two cups of tea in hands and not quite believing he’s this gorgeous man’s husband
@letthechoirsing, I love this. It always reminds me of the start of Where Else Would I Be? Our aesthetics belong together:
John stops in the threshold of their bedroom and leans against the door jamb, two mugs of tea in his hands, and takes in the scene before him. The simple room is filled with evidence of lazy morning lie-ins and cosy late nights, testament to the two of them lounging with books and newspapers, crossword puzzles, and back copies of the Scientific Beekeeping Journal. There are stacks of books on the bare, wide-plank floor, an antique dresser against one wall, and loosely folded jumpers in an open chest at the bottom of the wrought iron bed.
The room is bright with diffuse, early morning light, and two sunbeams fall diagonally across the bed and the man still sleeping in it. There’s a bee outside now, one solitary bee, bumping gently against the leaded glass windows above the bed. The bee knows, he thinks. The bee knows where Sherlock is, and he wants in. The bee probably has a message that only Sherlock will be able to decipher, something about honey saturation levels or feuding nurse bees.
Sherlock lies on his stomach, asleep, unaware of his little bee messenger. The sheets are twisted around his splayed thighs, his curved bottom half-exposed. His arms are flung out to the sides, and he’s managed to burrow his face in both his and John’s pillows. Sherlock’s hair is spread over the linens in every which direction, curls of silver and sable and all the shades between sticking out in an unruly mess. He wears it longer now, and even after all these years, John can never stop touching it. The hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck is still just as dark as when they first met, and John likes to burrow his nose there and imprint Sherlock’s scent in his memory. As if he could ever erase it.
He pads across the chilly floorboards now and sets the mugs down on the nightstand on Sherlock’s side of the bed, which isn’t really Sherlock’s side because Sherlock always takes up most of their bed, leaving John the sparse spaces that are left, usually curled around the taller man’s back or half underneath his star-fished form. God, this man, and all that he consumes.
consider this: sherlock wearing barrettes and any other kind of hair accessories to keep his hair in place while working on an experiment.
john has an entire photo album of him like that
- most of sherlock’s barrettes are john’s gifts
- john has excellent taste in barrettes and chooses the one with the cutest and most colorful designs
- when he goes out for groceries he always stops at the beauty section in the supermarket or just some themed shop in his way home
- sometimes when he his uncertain some employee comes to help him asking if they can help him choose for his wife/daughter
- john always replies with a big smile that they are for his boyfriend, employees look a bit surprised most of the times bc they didn’t expected that but they always helped picking up the right colour
- sherlock’s favourite barrettes are a matching set with a daisy and a bee
- john’s favourite barrette is a bright blue with little rhinestones because it’s a perfect match with sherlock’s eye colour
- if sherlock’s hair are a bit longer sometimes john uses a hair tie and makes the littlest pony tail on top of sherlock’s head. it’s more like a fluffy pompon and john adores it
- john discovering the existence of etsy shops and spending an entire afternoon looking for barrettes with sciency/chemistry designs
- the first time a barrette broke sherlock pouted for an entire day
- when sherlock is completely focused on his microscope sometimes john loves to see how many barrettes he can put on sherlock. he wins if he runs out of space before sherlock noticing.
- john wins 80% of the times
- but he also helps sherlock remove all the barrettes and kisses his nose between every barrette taken off
- it is not rare that they have to go out and sherlock forgets the barrettes in his hair
- john doesn’t say a thing and if sherlock remembers he still doesn’t remove it because he doesn’t care
- he’s cute and he knows it
- john loves his cute boyfriend
John putting sparkly little butterfly clips (90′s flashback!) all over Sherlock’s curls. Finding Etsy and ordering every sort of bee hair clip he can find to put in Sherlock’s hair.