Headcanon that Sherlock messed with John’s phone one day and made it so that all his letters were stuck on capitals, so he can only text in all-caps. John was angry at first but Sherlock thought it was hilarious and refused to change it back, so now every time John has to send a text he lets out a resigned sigh and starts typing.
SH: Where are you?
JW: BUYING MILK. DO WE NEED EGGS?
SH: Why are you shouting?
JW: SHERLOCK I SWEAR I WILL KILL YOU
Allright, so I’m thinking about doing the 30 day OTP challenge (writing, of course). My current classes end December 5, So I’m thinking I’ll probably start on December 6, which will bring me up to Sherlock Seattle, more or less.
Question for you fine folks. Do I do Mystrade or Johnlock (or something else)?
And do I do the SFW version (even if I go off the SFW list there may be sex though) or the NSFW version?
Silver – John easily falls back into Sherlock’s orbit, but a nightmare shows how much has changed.
teaser below the cut
It hadn’t taken much for John’s life to return to it’s orbit around Sherlock. But, ever since moving back in with him, John had become aware the detective was moving cautiously around him. They took up cases here and there, but John knew Magnussen was foremost on Sherlock’s mind.
But there were other things now. Sherlock actually slept, or at least retreated to his room. John had taken up his old room. Some days it felt like nothing had ever happened, that Sherlock had never thrown himself violently out of John’s life. That the two years of emptiness had never happened. Mary rarely crossed his mind, or the child she carried. John had taken off his ring and left it on his nightstand. Sherlock had assured him he was working on a plan and that was enough for John.
This night, John crept downstairs in the wee hours to use the loo. As he finished, a soft sound from Sherlock’s room made him turn. Sherlock’s door to the en suite was slightly ajar. John moved forward to push it open the rest of the way.
Moonlight and streetlight lit the room from the window. Sherlock was curled into a ball, hands over his head as if protecting himself. He was crying. John’s heart stopped in his chest. He knew PTSD, knew nightmares. He didn’t know what had happened to Sherlock over those two years, but he’d never heard him having a nightmare before.
