jeogi
in
openpockets
(no subject)
101.
sherlock/john, gen, pg-13
a/n: short ficlets? yeah ok.
00.
"but don't you understand." john is desperate.
"no." they kiss.
01.
eventually, john gives.
what's another peacock to their collection of misc. anyway? he sighs, places the paper on his lap, glances up at the telly. hm.
"at least cage it, sherlock."
02.
not so good. john is disappointed.
well, sherlock sure isn't. a beautiful problem like this outweighs any, as he's said before, simple murder that pops up in the news.
it's a sort of purification of a beautiful(ly tainted) mind like his.
03.
for an experiment, john finds himself repeating aloud, even as sherlock is struggling to keep his grip on the too cold too real doorknob of their shared flat and murmurs, ahh, like the woman's death bell, a simple hypothesis proven true.
one of them is in love.
04.
life in technicolor.
john arches off the bed, fingers crossed and clinging, wrecked like he is in every nightmare yet he's awake for this one and it's not gunfire or bloodlike waters drowning him into the abyss, it's a pale, beautiful, ghastly figure pressing down against him. john gasps.
yes.
05.
"john? john." sherlock is distressed and he doesn't bother hiding it. john is lying limp across their couch, white as a sheet. no, sherlock thinks, he's just―
"sick, you git, i heard you the first time around dear god, isn't mrs. hudson in? i need tea."
sherlock suddenly feels a rush of something in his chest. "i shall quickly brew―"
"no." john finally opens his eyes, warm, unlike his fingers folded peacefully atop his head. "i need you here. with me."
and sherlock listens, grabs a small cushion and perches beside john's bed with his head resting softly on his chest, listening to the small heartbeat beneath layers of fuzzy cotton and john. sherlock breathes.
will be a collection of random thoughts/ideas that i won't expand on. i'm not talented enough to write good sherlock fic.
sherlock/john, gen, pg-13
a/n: short ficlets? yeah ok.
00.
"but don't you understand." john is desperate.
"no." they kiss.
01.
eventually, john gives.
what's another peacock to their collection of misc. anyway? he sighs, places the paper on his lap, glances up at the telly. hm.
"at least cage it, sherlock."
02.
not so good. john is disappointed.
well, sherlock sure isn't. a beautiful problem like this outweighs any, as he's said before, simple murder that pops up in the news.
it's a sort of purification of a beautiful(ly tainted) mind like his.
03.
for an experiment, john finds himself repeating aloud, even as sherlock is struggling to keep his grip on the too cold too real doorknob of their shared flat and murmurs, ahh, like the woman's death bell, a simple hypothesis proven true.
one of them is in love.
04.
life in technicolor.
john arches off the bed, fingers crossed and clinging, wrecked like he is in every nightmare yet he's awake for this one and it's not gunfire or bloodlike waters drowning him into the abyss, it's a pale, beautiful, ghastly figure pressing down against him. john gasps.
yes.
05.
"john? john." sherlock is distressed and he doesn't bother hiding it. john is lying limp across their couch, white as a sheet. no, sherlock thinks, he's just―
"sick, you git, i heard you the first time around dear god, isn't mrs. hudson in? i need tea."
sherlock suddenly feels a rush of something in his chest. "i shall quickly brew―"
"no." john finally opens his eyes, warm, unlike his fingers folded peacefully atop his head. "i need you here. with me."
and sherlock listens, grabs a small cushion and perches beside john's bed with his head resting softly on his chest, listening to the small heartbeat beneath layers of fuzzy cotton and john. sherlock breathes.
will be a collection of random thoughts/ideas that i won't expand on. i'm not talented enough to write good sherlock fic.