MiniPrompt Fill: Sides (Sherlock/John Fluff)
{Not sure if I’m in a state to write. Let’s find out, shall we?}
—-
Their bed wasn’t big enough, and John had rolled over onto his side.
Sherlock never slept on the right side of the bed. It impeded his thinking processes, he didn’t like the angle that everything was at, he couldn’t sleepily calculate how the length and width of every square on his periodic table…
And John had rolled over onto his side.
Sherlock stood there for a minute, tapping one foot softly against the rug as if he expected the universe to correct itself on its own.
It didn’t.
It didn’t, so Sherlock nudged his way onto the corner of the bed, the proper side of the bed, and he crammed himself against John.
This wasn’t going to work. His forehead was about .9 centimetres from the bedside table and he’d certainly slam his head against it if Lestrade called in the middle of the night.
Sherlock paused, dragging the sheets further over and onto his edge of the bed as if he expected the universe to correct itself on its own.
Nothing happened.
He shifted backwards, shuffled up so that the crown of his head was almost sliding against the headboard, and he slowly pulled an arm over John’s head. His long fingers tapped at his shoulder through his pyjamas, and John flinched and started slightly. His eyes flickered open.
“Sher— What time is’t?” he asked, and Sherlock, no longer feeling any obligation to be kind, pushed him, inch by inch, back onto his side of the bed. John lifted his head and pushed his cheek against the crook of Sherlock’s arm before he shifted up and onto the pillow.
“Four fifteen,” Sherlock answered, not needing to twist and glance sidelong at the clock. (It was visible from John’s side of the bed, not his.)
John pulled his knees up slightly and they knocked with Sherlock’s own. With a slow, easy sigh, he accepted one of them between his legs. He could feel the muscles clenching slightly between the layers of sheets and pyjamas.
He could feel the soft alterations in John’s breath as he huffed out a smile against the skin of his neck.
“Good,” he murmured, and he was gone again, back beneath the waves of the earliest hours.
Sherlock counted the hair on the back of John’s neck until his eyes naturally pulled shut, and the universe corrected itself on its own.
Volunteer Hours (Part 3) - Sherlock/John
Part 1 can be found here
Part 2 can be found here
Part 4 can be found here
(Ugh, managed to accidentally delete my last post. Reposted. Derp.)
This is a fill to the prompt of Sherlock being in a deep coma, to the point where he’s considered vegetative. John’s counsellor suggests that he might find some further purpose in volunteer work, if he hates the concept of a blog so much, and he begins to visit him on a regular basis. He speaks to him, expecting that he cannot hear him and knowing that it’s only for his own benefit. He has no idea that Sherlock can hear and understand every single word that he says- and that it’s keeping him sane.
Alternate Universe.
John-centric.
Fandom: BBC’s Sherlock
Pairing: eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: still PG
Part 3 is under the cut!
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ugh, I forgot how out of practise I am at writing porn.
Wrote part of something for a Sherlock kink meme, am debating on whether or not to
a) post it on here (it’s an AU. Also, rape, humiliation, etc. For the record, the rape does not end in UGUUUU, I NOW INEXPLICABLY LOVE THIS~!, because I fucking hate that trope. It is awful.)
b) even bother continuing it in the first place.
Probably need to get a better handle on the characters. Comes with time, I guess!
I’d have it under a cut, of course, with appropriate trigger warnings. I’m not gonna be a douche about it. But still, I don’t think many of my followers actually watch Sherlock, but it might be worth asking. Would you guys be interested at all?
afrogeekgoddess:
For a split second, when he closes his eyes, John is not in Baker Street, not staring into the exasperated eyes of this impossible man he has just met, who dares to ask him, a combat veteran who nearly died from his wounds, to use his imagination.
As if he could stop using it. As if he could stop remembering the feel of the tall grass around him, the taste of dust in his mouth, the sickening, searing heat of the bullet as it ripped through him. As if he could stop remembering the way the fever tore through his body, set deep into his flesh, so deep only morphine could take the pain away. As if he could forget the words that he repeated in his mind, like a desperate mantra.
As if the past years of his life had never existed at all.
But he cannot tell Sherlock this. Not now. Not in front of all of these people who barely know him, in front of this man who read the lines of his life from one glance (but not deeply enough).
The weight of the memories are too much to hold in his mouth—they will flood out over them like blood—so he tamps them down behind his tired eyes and gravelly voice, and he says the only thing he can: the simple truth. And, by the tiny flicker of apology in Sherlock’s eyes, he knows it is enough.
(Source: , via filled-with-gold)