beingholmes RP: Something’s a MISS.((Anyone else can jump in!))
Mrs Hudson walked briskly under her polka dotted umbrella with grocery bags in hand. The rain fell lighty, but she didn’t want to get her peacoat all misty. Despite the dreariness of London weather, Mrs Hudson kept a firm and high head. Today was rent day. Every rent day, she and Sherlock would have a nice chat about living arrangements and status of the apartment. If anything needed fixing, she’d make special note of it over tea and scones.
It was also a wonderful opportunity to get to know Sherlock (as well as people got to know Sherlock, anyway.) She approached the door and gave it a knock before opening it with her master key.
“Sherlock, dear, I’ve brought some things from the market. After looking at that bloody fridge of yours, and I do mean that quite literally, I felt that you would need less perishable assortments for eating.” She continued her rant about how important it was to keep a well stocked kitchen while hoisting the groceries onto the kitchen table with various chemistry equipment.
“Sherlock, dear, I don’t mean to be rude (and you don’t have to do this immediately) but it would seem there was a spill…and it’s em….well it’s eating RIGHT THROUGH my table,” she gave a sigh and shook her head.
Sherlock was busy studying the lunula of a thumb, from his not-so-meager collection from the fridge. If his theory was correct, then the needle had been tucked under the nail of the victim, injected into the skin underneath. His own fingers twitched into a curl at the disturbing idea. It was a moment’s passing, a moment of sympathy from Sherlock. It wouldn’t happen again.
He lifted his head ever so slightly as he heard light footsteps on the stairs. Every other step was slightly heavier than the other one. Mrs. Hudson then, judging from the sound of her hip causing hesitation. John had a similar sounding tread on the first day they met, what with that bloody cane of his and all. With a sigh, he lowered his head again, readjusting the microscope again. He pretended that he hadn’t acknowledged her presence as all as the older woman bustled into the flat. What was she talking about? Food? Oh, a well stocked kitchen.
Sherlock finally perked up when she mentioned the acid. Slowly, his eyes flickered over to glance over at the stain. He called it a stain. Everyone else would probably call it a house pet.
“It’s fine,” he said breezily, waving a nonchalant hand as he returned to his observing, “John’ll clean it up.”
Anonymous asked: Sherlock, dear. I think we need to discuss the status of your rent~ Whenever you are ready, I'll swing by the flat. Take care, from Mrs. Hudson.
If you must. I’m free now. -SH
At Sherlock’s tone John whipped out one of his sighs. His chest rose and feel heavily with Sherlock weighing it down. It was a pleasant weight though. He found himself thinking of how easily he could get used to it.
“Now you stop talking and try and relax.” he said, letting some of his own tiredness seep into his voice.
The pillow made the reach a bit awkward, but John had already promised to help. So without further delay, John brought one of his hands up to his chest. Carefully he moved his his hand to the base of Sherlock’s neck, working in through the twisted and tangled bed head Sherlock now sported. Finally the tips of his fingers found what they sought and lightly brushed against Sherlock’s scalp.
It was just as soft as he’d imagined. Not that he would ever admit to imagining anything to do with touching Sherlock’s hair or running his fingers through it or flat out gripping it tight and… No, John would never. As the thick curls snagged a bit, John skillfully maneuvered through the tangle, careful as not to cause any discomfort. The goal was sleep right?
His breathing was steady and even. His arm, the one not busy curled up awkwardly to appease Sherlock, dangled limp off the side of the bed. The hand now engulfed in Sherlock’s hair had no plans on leaving, and neither did John.
His head felt terribly light, and he was very much aware of the space between John’s chest and his cheek. His forearm and a damn pillow were in the way. No, not in the way. He was just casually aware that there was a distance. Sherlock shook his head, passing it off as getting comfortable. He opened his mouth to speak, his voice slightly muffled.
“How can I possibly relax when-“
Sherlock’s entire body stiffened as John’s hand brushed against the base of his neck. For a moment, a split second, he was thinking of Irene again, her hand tangling in his curls and yanking, twisting, pulling - and nothing. John was being gentle, he wasn’t trying to control anything. Hastily, Sherlock closed his mouth. What the hell was John thinking? Trying to keep Sherlock relaxed and calm, yes, he understood that, but he had spent his entire life cataloguing the actions of humans. This type of behaviour wasn’t the kind of actions that Friends/Flatmates/John typically did. This was listed under Parents(in. parental figures) or even Lovers. John wasn’t his father. There was a distinct difference between John and Sherlock’s father, and that was that John was the far better man. His brain immediately started rearranging, shifting the John Knowledge to the forefront of priority. Who was John Watson, and why did he act this way? Merely for Sherlock? Did Sherlock even know this man at all?
One niggling thought ruled over this main priority. John was running his hand through Sherlock’s hair, his fingers smoothing through knots and tangles. He’d never admit it out loud, but it was pleasant. John’s chest created a rhythm, his breathing like a lullaby.
Yet Sherlock wasn’t comfortable enough to sleep. There was still a silent threat, hanging in the room. Did John even realize it was there? Did John know he was in danger? Sherlock couldn’t relax yet - what if they were attacked? What if a Whizz Bang got too close? What if the gas returned? What if they died again?
Sherlock sat up and lay down again, this time using John in lieu of the pillow. Again, his arms wrapped around, this time around John’s torso, and plopped his ear down next to John’s heartbeat. It was powerful, pounding next to his head. Irritation? Confusion? Most likely the latter. It didn’t matter, it was irrelevant. Sherlock sighed, and he visibly relaxed. After all, John had never been there. He stayed here.
John had the luxury of not knowing.
(Source: beingholmes)
Sherlock was doing that thing he does. You know, that thing where he fluffs up his plumage and gives you a command you just can’t say no to. Grant it, Sherlock probably knew full well he was doing it, yeah, that odd was pretty high. John, soldier, army doctor, sturdy as stone, normally never found it difficult to say no, though. Now and here, well that was a different story.
Maybe it was the fact that they were in bed together, or the fact that John figured the other option was to get out of said bed, but he complied with no question. Still captivated by how fast Sherlock was even able to move, and how close he actually was, he wriggled down more deeply under his stolen cover. Ducking under the imposing form of Sherlock he moved until he was laying flat on his back and staring over at the man, waited quietly.
In life, there was a heirarchy. Everyone was ruled over by someone, sheep following a sheperd. John Watson was a captain in the army, second-in-command of a sub-unit of up to 120 soldiers. He was a doctor, and a good one at that. People trusted him with their lives. They gave him their vulnerability. In society, John was technically a higher-up, yet he was foolish enough to let Sherlock Holmes rule over him.
Sherlock had never met anyone as brilliant as John Watson.
The fact that John trusted so willingly surprised him constantly. He had shot a man to protect Sherlock within the first day of knowing each other. He never stopped throwing himself in harm’s way. For Sherlock. There had to be a catch.
Sherlock was always waiting for it. The moment when John would throw his hands in the air, stomp upstairs, and then leave the building with his meager collection of possessions in his hands. It wasn’t a matter of questioning, either. It was the accepted inevitable. No one could be brave enough or strong enough or loyal enough to tolerate Sherlock Holmes.
No. This was the ramblings of a sleep-deprived man. John was here now, wasn’t he? Of course he was, Sherlock had told him to stay…indirectly. He was still listening to Sherlock. Hopefully, he would stay. After all, the worst he could get from this was a bemused sigh. John was terribly good at those.
Sherlock took his pillow, and set it over John’s chest. He dropped his head on top, and obediently, closed his eyes. Alright. This was better. His arm snaked around his pillow, pulling it closer.
“Now what?” he asked, somewhat impatiently.
(Source: beingholmes)
John’s thoughts were momentarily derailed from more contact with Sherlock. The pillow he was just cursing for being a barrier was now in his lap. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to even talk to him, let alone move closer. He can feel his face redden slightly, but it wasn’t exactly bright in the room, so it could be possible for Sherlock to not notice. He felt foolish for his reaction…
But wasn’t that exactly what he was going to ask of him? This was stupid. Completely stupid. His whole plan was idiotic. It was simply stupid, but he was still going to try, because that’s all he could ever do.
“This doesn’t seem like it would do any good, but it helps, really.” As a kid, whenever John had trouble sleeping, his mother would pull him into her lap, and run her fingers over his skull and through his short blonde hair. Sometimes she would hum, other times it was enough to just have her there. It did wonders to just know she was present and not going to leave. The soothing and repetitive movement was something to fixate on. It was calming and gentle, filled with care. And it was exactly what he was about to show Sherlock Holmes.
“Just… lay your head down and close your eyes, yeah?” He tugs the pillow a little further across his lap, looking completely serious if a bit unsure.
“I’ve tried that already,” Sherlock protested, but John had already grabbed the pillow and was fixing it for him. With a huff, Sherlock shifted his head onto John’s lap, laying awkwardly on his side. No. He couldn’t sleep curled up like this. He nuzzled his head into the pillow moreso, but his ear felt squished. He swung himself onto his back, bouncing on the bed to get more comfortable. No good. He scooted closer to John, his elbow bent over John’s knee. Nope, not even that. Hell, there was no way he was going to ever get comfortable with John in the same bed as him. He bolted up, twisting around so he faced John. He placed his hands near his hips, and leaned ever so slightly towards the doctor.
“Lie down,” he ordered.
(Source: beingholmes)
Because when people see you in that way, it matters. If it wasn’t for a casual comment by a strange woman, Amy would have thought I was gay until the day she died because of rumour like that. I would have been alone.
It’s different with John. He has me.
Well… well, that’s completely fine, but maybe if he doesn’t want it spread like marmite all over the papers and tabloids of London then you should keep quiet about it?
Why is this such a big deal? I could have done something far worse than bringing up the bachelor issue, so why would John care?
Such as what? What kind of thing could spread like that and cause looks on the street and talk and horrible things to be said like that could?
Why would it matter to other people!? Why does everyone find it to be such a scandal if John shacks up with person A or person B? Or with anyone at all? It’s not like I’m declaring anything horrific. Besides, the only thing John has ever expressed towards this particular media attention is mild exasperation.
… I think.
“I’m not that thirsty, thanks.” John retorts coolly. He crossed his legs at the ankle and folded his hands across his lap. Go make tea? Was that the solution to all of their problems? Make tea in silence, drink it in silence, watch crap telly, play the violin, sit and stare at the walls, all in horrible echoing silence. So right now would be no different. He’d sit in silence with Sherlock if that’s what the grumpy ass wanted.
John almost couldn’t stand it anymore. He thought about it every hour of every waking moment . Hell, yesterday he thought about it mid surgery. It was eating away at him. He knew Sherlock knew he wanted to talk about it. He knew the detective couldn’t miss the signs, especially not his detective. His breath hitched for a second. Had he really just thought of Sherlock as “His detective”? He shifted uncomfortably. Logically, yeah, Sherlock was his friend, who happened to be a detective, so yes, Sherlock was his detective… That’s not what he meant though. He sighed inwardly at the thought.
He flinched as Sherlock covered his head with that pillow, shutting him out. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to just forget about this. Go back to being… well they still were just friends. It was… Damn, he didn’t know. Before they both knew how each other felt, it had been better. Sherlock would actually talk to him. He even missed Sherlock being a complete jack ass over this chilly indifference.
“I can help. Well, I can try.” he says a bit less confidently, crossing his ankles over once again. “With the trouble going to sleep that is.”
Was he angry at Sherlock for not wanting to talk about it? Well, as far as Sherlock could remember, John wasn’t exactly keen on talking about Afghanistan. Hypocritical bastard. He should go make his damn tea. Isn’t that what British men did? Insert Situation here? Make tea. People couldn’t talk about things if their mouths were preoccupied. Like a few weeks ago, with Irene. He had tried to talk then, sitting (lying, kneeling, awkwardly trying to angle his limbs right over her…) in that hotel room. She distracted his mouth with her own. Maybe that would work with John. Could his lips overpower John’s? Well, that depended on the size. He was fairly certain his were bigger…hm. An experiment for another time. Sherlock was tired now.
Besides, how could John relate? They had both been in a warzone…That was it when it came to parallels. John had seen death, John had held two flaps of skin together to keep intestines from falling out. John was a soldier. Sherlock wasn’t a soldier. John didn’t get it, he never got it. He was stupid, and he was a stupid face, and he should just…shut up. Yes, that was it. Stupid Doctor John should just shut up. Wait. He was still a doctor. Didn’t doctors have pills to help with sleep?
Sherlock twisted around, pushing the pillow onto John’s lap as he looked up at the other man. He was barely conscious of the fact that he nuzzled his head into the pillow, and indirectly, John’s thigh.
“You can?” he asked. He already knew the answer. Of course John did, he was a doctor. A stupid doctor, but a doctor nevertheless. His stupid doctor.
(Source: beingholmes)
Because when people see you in that way, it matters. If it wasn’t for a casual comment by a strange woman, Amy would have thought I was gay until the day she died because of rumour like that. I would have been alone.
It’s different with John. He has me.
Well… well, that’s completely fine, but maybe if he doesn’t want it spread like marmite all over the papers and tabloids of London then you should keep quiet about it?
Why is this such a big deal? I could have done something far worse than bringing up the bachelor issue, so why would John care?
Because when people see you in that way, it matters. If it wasn’t for a casual comment by a strange woman, Amy would have thought I was gay until the day she died because of rumour like that. I would have been alone.
It’s different with John. He has me.
Yes, but the hat isn’t a big deal. A bit humiliating, yes, but nothing more. That kind of thing matters more - the confirmed bachelor thing, I mean. Kind of a low blow.
What do you mean a low blow? Why would John care?
rorywilliamsdear asked: Don't tease John. Being seen as a confirmed bachelor is no fun at all.
He bloody well deserved it!
beingholmes said: IT. WAS. A. DISGUISE.
NANANANANANANANA HAT MAN.
That’s a fat load coming from the confirmed bachelor.
Anonymous asked: Oh no, that will be something you must figure out, even though I'm dying to tell you. -MH
I’d tell you to piss off, but I’m not even sure if you can get to your feet anymore. -SH
Anonymous asked: Really, Sherlock, I am quite disappointed. You have indeed missed something very important about Rory Williams. -MH
Which is-? -SH
rorywilliamsdear asked: Still pretty impressive. Very impressive, really, I've met plenty of people in my time who can suck other people's brains out, but that's just better somehow. Care to share?
The other Mr. Holmes? Clearly you’re implying that you know there are two Mr. Holmes’ in London, and the only other one is my brother. Unless he mentioned me, which I doubt he did, then there would’ve been no other way you would have known about me unless you’ve read the articles about me in the local papers. It’s possible you’ve found my website before, but if you’re only contacting me now it’s unlikely. And let’s face it. Full-time husband? You have no job and your wife dresses you. Nothing about you really screams competent.
Did I miss anything?
About me
My name is Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. My methods are far beyond your understanding, so let me put it simply. I observe everything, and use the information I find to solve problems.If you need assistance with a case worth my time, contact me.
