sherlock’s brain: my worst intrusive thoughts want me to lick skin and suck dick oh no im such a monster john will never love me :(((

john’s brain: my worst intrusive thoughts want me to lovingly make sex in the missionary position oh no im such a monster sherlock will never love me :(((

sherlocks reaction to vicky the kink monster tells me all I need to know… he’s the biggest romantic fluff ball look at the shock in those eyes and tell me he doesn’t go crazy for missionary position and a thorough snog

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.

Something happened today.

the essence of johnlock is that the watson character has settled sustainably, tho unhappily, into heteronormative life when he meets the holmes character, while the holmes character has entirely rejected the task trying to pass as heterosexual/normatively masculine/neurotypical, so in a certain sense he’s freer than the watson but in another sense he’s even more isolated and lonely bc his abnormality makes him a social outcast. & then over the course of their relationship watson becomes more comfortable w himself and holmes becomes more emotionally open and less isolated. it’s like they have to be Freed from the two contrasting pitfalls that queer people trying to survive in normative society often fall into & the key to both of their escapes is each other

#(sniffs this post up my nostril like a line of cocaine)

The upper part was done and then forgotten at the bottom of my drawer. Finally got it out and painted the lower part today. Haha This was painted from an edit I saw somewhere on tumblr and just love the color. If you know who made it, pls do let me know.

uhhhhh hey moff?

When everyone you know wants to have sex with you and you’re just staying in your lane.

tbh i definitely do have a bit of fondness for falling a bit accidentally into kisses, like john just putting on his coat and grabbing his shopping list off the counter and saying all right i’ll be back in a bit, try not to spill that on the lino, would you, and sherlock looking up from his experiment, wait where are you going? and john says just the shops, I won’t be long, and leans in and gives sherlock a quick peck on the mouth and heads out. and then two or three minutes later he walks back in and is like, did i? and sherlock is still sitting there all pink-cheeked and flustered and he goes, um, yes? and john purses his lips a bit in thought and nods and says well. is that? and sherlock says, very quickly and a bit embarrassed, yes, i think so. 

so john comes back in and slides both his hands along sherlock’s jaw and studies his face, his wide, uncertain eyes, the flush on his cheekbones, the tiny, breathless part of his lips, and then john leans in and kisses sherlock properly, carefully, kisses him softly but surely, and sherlock leans into it and hums in pleased surprised and they just stay there a moment, reveling in it, the smell of each other, the feel of each other, the thrum of their heartbeats fast but in sync, until finally they each pull away and smile bashfully, and then john says all right well, and sherlock says yes, the shop, and they blush and john rubs a hand along the back of his neck and heads out again and then sherlock calls after him oh john? pick up some wine, too, don’t you think? and john reappears in the doorway and gives him a crooked grin, yeah, wine, okay, and takes off, and neither of them stops smiling for an hour. 

tag yourself: series 4

tag urself i’m churros holmes

Sherlock Holmes BAFFLED!

I genuinely never thought I’d see the day. Sherlock is BAFFLED! He hasn’t got a clue! He’s flummoxed! He’s bamboozled! .

He’s stuck.

He’s… quiet.

Keeps playing the violin when I ask him if he’s alright. 

As you know, there was a plane crash the other day, just outside Dusseldorf. Everyone died. Obviously, it’s a real tragedy but there’s something very strange about one of the passengers. He was found in a car boot in Surrey!

According to the flight details, he was checked on board. His passport has been stamped in Berlin Airport. He should have died in the plane crash. But he didn’t.

Obviously, I haven’t got a clue but neither does Sherlock. He just can’t work it out. It’s actually and literally impossible.

Any suggestions, feel free to leave them below. I’ll be sure to pass them all on. I think he needs the help! ;)

I don’t need anyone’s help, John! You can’t honestly imagine the readers of your little blog capable of solving this when I can’t.

Little blog?! This is where our cases come from Sherlock, we’d be out of work if it wasn’t for my little blog!! Besides, who knows what kind of people read this? They could be geniuses! 

Geniuses. Don’t make me laugh, John. I’d much prefer it when your blog wasn’t read by the Commonwealth. All this attention is compromising my ability to work as a private detective. I’m getting recognised on the street, John!

Sherlock you’ve got the most spectacularly sharp cheekbones of any man I’ve ever met and I’ve heard people of every gender talk rhapsodies about your cupid’s bow. You’re not exactly one to blend in, you literally shine like a beacon wherever you go.

My cheekbones? Shining? You make it sound like I polish my zygoma on a daily basis.

Thank you… I suppose. For saying… you know. That. About me. And my bones.

You’re welcome :)

Oh for God’s sake, John, stop using those face smileys. 

;)

honestly this. this is more reasonable and believable as an episode of the show

Last night was one of the worst, and then one of the best - if not the best - nights of my life. Too much happened for me to go into any detail, but we survived. As we always do.

To cut a very long story short we finally met this ‘Moriarty’ figure that people kept on warning us of. He kidnapped me and set snipers on Sherlock and myself at the swimming pool where Moriarty had killed Carl Powers all those years ago. We had no way out, and with a single shared look, Sherlock and I decided that to get rid of the evil that is James Moriarty, we needed to sacrifice ourselves.

We got out, thankfully - a well timed phone call can literally save lives. And I’ve never felt a rush like it. Sherlock had been… uncommunicative recently and I think he was pushing me away because he was worried that being together would be too dangerous. But the moment Moriarty left us alone in that pool it was like the air had been electrified. Sherlock was back and we were us again. Except it was more. And we finally acknowledged that it had always been more.

One thing led to another and… well, I think it’s sufficed to say people will have reason to talk about us now. God, we should have done this sooner. We should have made that leap because it is so worth it… he’s so worth it.

I’ll update more soon. I just wanted to let you know that we’re alright. At least, I think we are. For now, I’m just going to let him sleep. He looks beautiful while he’s asleep. I’m a very, very lucky man, in more ways than I ever hoped.

good morning sherlock’s not got out of bed yet today because when he woke up he looked over and saw john all soft and cosy on the other side of the bed, all golden eyelashes and faint pleased look around the corners of his eyes, all comfortable and trusting and home in sherlock’s bed that’s now their bed together, and it made sherlock happy in that way that sort of hurts because he didn’t know, he didn’t know he could feel like this, had barely dared even to imagine, so instead of getting up he snuggled closer to john, snuggled his way in to get his head under john’s chin so he could breathe john in, and john made a questioning sort of mm? but shifted and slept on, his arms closing around sherlock’s shoulders, holding him near and dear and comforting even in sleep.