Gift for @Sherlockianstudy
Part of the Exchangelock AU Pitchhit.
FAUNLOCK
After the near decimation of his Torchwood team, Sherlock retreats to the family cottage to heal. As spring unfolds, the forest awakens, bringing someone he never expected into his life.
The forest seemed quiet as the single lane road led him into the shaded arms of the old trees. The only sound at the moment was the soft shush of breeze that caused the leaves to dance as he drove down the tamped drive. He took a deep breath, realising he had been practically holding it since he had stopped in the little village that was the only connection to humanity for thirty-six kilometers. The solitude of where he would be staying was like a peaceful balm.
For this, he was thankful.
It had been harrowing, the whole ordeal with Jim. Victor had tried to warn him, and then had almost died due to their friendship. Sherlock understood if Victor never wanted to see him again. The brilliant-scientist-cum-madman had put everyone’s life on the line and the blame fell squarely at Sherlock’s feet. Or so he felt.
Read More HERE
Johnlock/mystrade/fifaSherlock isn’t quite sure why he agreed anymore. Or rather, yes, he knows; at some point he’s bound to develop some minimum of immunity to John turning on the charm… right?
Bad enough he’s being forced to watch a football game, but to do so, of all places, in a pub? And with not only Lestrade but also Mycroft for companions? No sexual favor is worth that kind of torture.
And it’s only been twenty minutes. Although it is rather satisfying to watch Mycroft be even more uncomfortable and out of place than Sherlock feels. Every so often, he starts to raise his glass to his lips, but then he gets a whiff of the wine and grimaces. He has yet to take a sip.
As the entirety of the pub erupts in disgusted groans, Sherlock looks up at the screen again. He’s obviously missed something. Judging from the exclamations around him, the referee did… something. Or didn’t do something. The players in white – is that England? – are apparently arguing with him about something. Out comes a little red rectangle, and the groaning in the pub redoubles.
“They bought that guy!” Lestrade exclaims. “No other explanation!!”
John agrees heartily, and the two of them, along with the rest of the room, continues to verbally abuse a man who stands on a football field on the other side of the world. Sherlock looks at Mycroft, desperate for confirmation that yes, this is all very stupid, but Mycroft has pulled his phone out and is typing furiously. It’d be useless to try to have a phone conversation in here.
“That bored?” Lestrade asks, leaning closer to him. “If you want to leave…”
“No, I said I’d come and I’ll stay until the end. Let me just forward this to the FIFA… Here we go. That should do it.” With a satisfied smirk, he pockets his phone again.
“What did you just do?” John asks, sounding equal parts amused and wary.
“I just sent a copy of the latest statement from that referee’s Swiss bank account to the committee in charge of referees’ assignations. It seems he did indeed receive a bribe.”
Both Lestrade and John stare at him. Honestly, they should have stopped being impressed by this kind of tricks a long time ago. What a show off…
After half-time, the referee doesn’t come back. Apparently, he took ill very suddenly. Unheard of, but the game must go on. Or something.
His replacement, according to the general mood, seems to be an improvement. England even ends up winning. Mycroft is insufferably smug for the rest of the evening. Next time Sherlock is definitely staying home.
i never understood the war doctor???
like eight is dying, and ey’re all like “make me a warrior”
and then we get john hurt and all they do is graffiti things and im sorry but thats not a warrior either the elixir fucked up or moffat just like, ignored his own minisode for the 50th
The trouble is one’s basic nature.
The Doctor has not been in this new body long enough to sort out a new set of pronouns, let alone change clothes or find a companion. But they always were quick at finding trouble, and so naturally the first thing they did after taking off was to crash-land on a remote planet and get arrested by a gun-toting mob of angry aliens with eight eyes apiece and turquiose hair growing out of their backs.
No problem, they think grimly as they are ushered down the usual badly-lit corridors into the usual badly-secured cell, The priestesses made me a warrior, didn’t they? I’ll just grab that guard’s gun and –
And –
Oh, cora.
They can picture it very clearly. They pretend to stumble, fall into Guard #1, grab xir gun and shoot Guard #2 before he can react, then turn, shoot Guard #1 and run off down the corridor as fast as their new legs will carry them. (Exactly how fast that will be, they don’t know. Fast enough, hopefully.)
There will be very little blood, but plenty of gaping laser burns and the stench of scorching flesh. Guard #2’s face will be blackened beyond all recognition. It will be a senseless waste of life and the whole thing will look like a stunt from one of those action films humans are so fond of.
They’ve been in enough wars over the millennia to know that this is not how war works. War is brutal and bloody and above all tedious, neither side giving an inch and neither side trying anything more inventive than the next way to kill. Above all, war is for the young.
(They catch the end of that thought as it goes by, and surreptitiously put a hand to their face. Wrinkles. They’d forgotten the wrinkles for a moment there. The last body went on and on forever with barely a change: now it seems all that lack of aging has caught up with them. Typical.)
The elixir was meant to make them a warrior, they think sourly, and resign themself to not stealing the gun as the guards open the cell door and shove them inside. A soldier. Not another dried up, tired-of-the-universe, can’t-go-on, seen-too-much wretch like the last one ended up being. Something more like the seventh –
Oh no, I’m not going there again.
Ah.
And there it is. They cannot be newly a warrior, because they are not new to war. Instead the elixir has done all it can, and has made them what they are: an old soldier. tired and beaten down and absolutely fed up of guns. This is no good at all. The last one ran out of things to hope for long ago, and now here they are, and they…
…they… have… hope.
It’s a remarkable discovery. They had been without it for so long, and yet here it is, nestling snugly and warmly inside of them as if it never went anywhere. What a miracle-worker regeneration is.
“Right,” they say to themself, “Let’s start with that, then.”
First the cell, then the aliens – without using a gun – then the pronouns and the clothes. And then the Time War. Even an old soldier can fight, if they have to.
It’s them or the Daleks. And it might – it just might – actually turn out all right in the end.
this is a good fic i like the fic
I wanted you (1674 words) by reclusiveq [AO3]
I wanted you (1674 words) by reclusiveq [AO3]
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: Captain America (Movies)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers, James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, James “Bucky” Barnes & Tony Stark
Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe – College/University, Misunderstandings, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Fluff, Light Bondage
Summary:Between watching over Steve – making sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble – and a full load of classes, Bucky isn’t sure he has time for anything else. His feelings for Steve had been rebuffed back when they were in high school, so when the suave and handsome Tony Stark starts showing an interest in Bucky, Bucky decides to give him a try. Steve, confused by his own jealous feelings towards Bucky and Tony becoming close, Steve launches a prank war between the art department and the science department.
Chapters 2 and 3 are up. Go take a look and leave comments 😀
Chapter 4 is up and it’s a sexy one. I tried anyway. Thanks to the roommate and another friend for helping and their Johnlock circle for encouragement.
Hell in High Heels
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: MorMor
Rating: Explicit
Summary: Jim always well-dressed but this was a bit different. Seb would take it. And Jim. And he would gladly beg if he had to.
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence, High Heels, Rough Sex, Anal, top!Seb, Bottom!Jim
Read it on AO3
Go read this. If you like mormor. Or heels. Or really hot smut
Days of our youth (2261 words) by reclusiveq [AO3]
Days of our youth (2261 words) by reclusiveq [AO3]
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Captain America (Movies)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: James “Bucky” Barnes & Steve Rogers
Characters: James “Bucky” Barnes, Steve Rogers
Additional Tags: Fluff
Summary:Bucky and Steve start 9th grade and Bucky has to struggle with his feelings towards his best friend.
This is just a bit of fluff. Writing some mostly happy-ish to offset the rather depressing fics I’ve already written. Hope this makes someone’s day.
imagine if you were born with the knowledge of your soulmate’s name but it was a really common name like chris
sherlock’s constantly annoyed that his soulmate has one of the most common names on earth
john’s annoyed because how is he ever going to find someone named sherlock?
“Do you know how many men are named ‘John’, Mycroft?”
"Do you honestly think ‘Greg’ is any easier to find?”
“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon.”
John’s heart stopped as the man ducked out of the room and all he could do was turn and look helplessly at Stamford. The man gave him an understanding smile, no doubt thinking that it was the deductions that had stunned him. It wasn’t. Rather, it was hearing his soulmate’s name for the first time in his life.
The name had been imprinted on his soul since birth, his other half, but he had despaired of ever meeting someone with such an uncommon name. But now that he’d met one, he was reminded that not all soulmates ended up together, and even then, not always romantically. John Watson was a visibly aging, war-damaged doctor with no prospects. And Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant, gorgeous man who, judging by the suit he’d been wearing, still had everything going for him. Even if they were soulmates, what chance did he have?
~X~
Sherlock had kept track of every single ‘John’ he’d ever met, apparently subconsciously because he’s tried to delete the knowledge of each one of them. All 163. And John Watson made 164. There was no reason to suspect that this John would be any different.
Until a week had gone by. John had complimented him, called him ‘brilliant’, ‘amazing’, ‘fantastic’. Had killed someone to save him from himself. Only complained about his experiments and and spare corpse parts when they threatened to contaminate their food. Nothing that any John had ever done for him before. Nothing that any anyone had ever done for him before. So now… What was the protocol on asking a friend what their soulmate’s name is? And if the name on John’s soul was his, what were the chances that would John answer truthfully?
~X~
“You idiot,” John murmured at his unconscious friend. The git had become comatose after a suspect’s daughter had hit him in the head with a frying pan after being on the receiving end of some rather painful deductions. They were approaching 32 hours of non-responsiveness, all of which the blogger had remained stationed at his detective’s bedside. “Maybe next time you’ll pay attention when I try to tell you to stop while you’re ahead.”
He sighed and hung his head, raising his interlaced fingers to rest his forehead on them. “Not that I want you to stop deducing. Even after living with you for the past few months, it still blows me away to hear you what you do. It’s… amazing. It truly is… amazing” John gave another sigh, closely followed by a frustrated sound as he sat back heavily in the uncomfortable chair.
“I think you’re my soulmate,” he said suddenly, unable to take his eyes from Sherlock’s face. “I mean, the name of my soulmate is ‘Sherlock’, and besides you being the only ‘Sherlock’ I’ve ever met, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’m not gay but you’ve still managed to make me fall for you anyway, you preposterous peacock. Even so…” John broke off, finally turning his gaze away to dart towards the door, feeling incredibly vulnerable and wary of hospital staff breaking into the moment. He licked his lips and dropped his gaze down to his fingers before continuing, unable to even look his unconscious friend in the face as he spoke. “I can’t really believe that the name on my soul belongs to you because I know the name on your soul isn’t mine. I imagine it’s probably Moriarty’s. Or The Woman’s. They suit you far better than I ever could and it shows. You were never so… interested than when you were working their cases.”
Abruptly, John gave a small cough and rolled his shoulders as he stood up. The room’s air felt unnaturally heavy now, charged with his revelation. “I’m going to go now. I haven’t slept since before my idiot of a best friend caught wind of this case. I just… I didn’t think I would ever get another chance to confess and I certainly wasn’t going to do it while you were conscious. Okay. I’m leaving now. I’ll be back in a few hours.” He nodded once and then started towards the door.
~X~
“John.” His voice was uncommonly weak, despite his propensity for not talking in large chunks of time. He must have been unconscious for some time. Still, his doctor, one are raised to push open the door, froze in his tracks before turning around.
“Sherlock?” The relief on the ex-soldier’s face was blatant in every wrinkle and he was at Sherlock’s side in seconds. “How does everything feel?” The detective ignored his question.
“Come here,” he whispered, both because it would make the other man bend low and because his throat really wasn’t cooperating with him at the moment. Overall, it had the desired effect as John leaned over him, ducking to put his ear near Sherlock’s mouth. Before he got there, the detective turned his head to intercept, pressing his lips against his soulmate’s. Seems he wouldn’t have to ask John what the name on his soul was after all.
The kiss was simple, just lips on lips, and after a moment, he pulled away to rest his head back on his pillow. John’s eyes were comically wide and his head hadn’t moved. And he appeared to not be breathing.
“The name on my soul is ‘John’.” He suspected that, if his heart rate monitor had been on John’s fingertip rather than his own, it would be beeping quite intensely right now. There was a quiet moment before his blogger moved, blue eyes turning towards him. As tan cheeks darkened and pink lips spread in a brilliant smile, Sherlock thought it was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.