I keep imagining Sherlock remembering John comparing to him a drug, and trying to tell himself it’s nothing, but then thinking, John, do you have ANY IDEA HOW GOOD DRUGS FEEL?
he doesn’t
John really does.
He had all sorts of lovely drugs when he was shot. Drugs that dulled the pain. Drugs that stopped the nightmares. Drugs that made him feel that getting shot wasn’t so bad. That life outside of the military would be okay
It was when he stopped taking the drugs (was forced to stop) that life became hard and dull and nearly not worth living.
When he compares Sherlock to drugs he knows *exactly* what he’s saying.
there are lots of headcanons about sherlock speaking french during sex and john dying because it’s so hot, but listen. what if sherlock speaking french sounds like martin crieff speaking french. what if it’s not sexy at all, it’s hilarious and john loses it and laughs hysterically and sherlock scowls and sulks and determinedly keeps his mouth shut during sex because he doesn’t want to embarrass himself but he just can’t help it and it happens again and again
This is absolutely how it would go, which is why I’ve never once done a Sherlock speaking French head canon.
Also John would bring it up at other random times just to mess with him, like in the middle of the dairy aisle at Sainsbury’s, suddenly John would turn to Sherlock and be like “allons -nous obtenir un peu de fromage, mon amour?” In like PERFECT French, and Sherlock would do the chin wobble and then scowl and stomp away and John would double over laughing, trying to call out “Sorry, I’m sorry, I just can’t help it. I love you, I love you, come back, Sherlock,” but still like crying laughing, while Sherlock stands outside and sulks.
sherlock
will lose his shit planning his and john’s wedding; he’ll want everything to be
perfect, he’ll flat-out panic because of stuff like the colour of the flower
arrangements and the height of the cake in centimeters, because this is
supposed to be a perfect day and he can make john so very happy if he
doesn’t do it wrong this time, and their wedding will be considerably
smaller and less big of a deal than john’s first wedding, but sherlock
will take it so so very seriously; and john will be like ?? sherlock,
love, i don’t give a fuck about the flowers, of course it will be perfect, no
matter what the cake is like and no matter what the best men are
wearing, it’ll be perfect because i’m marrying you and you are perfect and he’ll smile at his fiancé and sherlock will smile back and fiddle with his ring and sherlock’s chin will WOBBLE SO MUCH JUST KILL ME
And can you imagine John coming home one day and Sherlock has everything up on the wall like a crime scene and he’s in his robe pacing back and forth, nearly tearing out his hair, yelling down the phone, “No! I specifically said that the arrangements were to be cream colored Ranunculus, not roses. And the hydrangea are to be lapis, not denim! Are you color blind? IT IS NOT THE SAME THING!”
And John takes the phone, mutters an apology and a quick, “We’ll ring you back.” And drops the mobile onto the coffee table with a sigh. “Sherlock, love, what is going on?”
And Sherlock is indignant and frustrated and snarling and pacing more. “John these people are IDIOTS! That twit tried to convince me that roses are just as good as ranunculus. And clearly he has no visual ability to discern the various hues of foliole. And the bakery, if one could even call it that, wanted to produce a fondant monstrosity that was only twenty-five centimeters! TWENTY-FIVE, JOHN! We agreed on forty-eight! Anything less is a sheet cake. A SHEET CAKE! JOHN! And someone, who will remain nameless, Mike Stamford, thought the suits should have… have… CUMMERBUNDS! MY GOD! CUMMERBUNDS! JOHN! THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!” And then Sherlock drops like a rock, sprawling on the sofa with a whine and a whimper, clutching his head as though in pain.
So John pulls the coffee table away from the couch and drops onto his haunches between Sherlock’s knees and lets his palms rest on Sherlock’s thighs. “Sherlock, Love. Look at me?” And Sherlock would be sulking enough that John would have to cup his chin and lift his face. “Sherlock, listen to me. You know I don’t give a fuck about the flowers. And I don’t care about the bloody cake. And I really don’t sodding well think what the groomsmen wear is at all relevant.” And he would give Sherlock such a long look, willing him to understand. “And do you know why? Sherlock? Do you?”
And Sherlock would pout and shake his head ever so slightly.
And John would just sigh fondly. “Because it will be perfect. Because you are perfect.” And in the silence that followed, John’s brows would knit together as he waited for Sherlock to understand. And he’d watch as Sherlock’s lip wobbled ever so slightly. Then a bit more, before the corners twitched into a small smile. And John’s mouth would break into grin, and he would lean forward and whisper, “You’re perfect,” against Sherlock’s lips before kissing him senseless.
HOW THE HELL DID YOU TAKE THIS SILLY THING AND MADE IT SO BEAUTIFUL WHAT IS THIS SORCERY
