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Johnlock, Saying the wrong name during sex
anonymous
March 30 2014, 20:06:30 UTC
Mary is gone, Sherlock and John get together. It's Sherlock's first sexual relationship and he is overjoyed that his love is returned, he finally has the man he wants, but for those reasons, he's also emotionally vulnerable.
Then John calls him "Mary" in the heat of passion.
Angst . . . maybe a happy ending when John suitably makes it up to him?
It had been over a year. The grief he felt was all encompassing, deeper than when he thought Sherlock gone. John knew that he should give it time, he gave Sherlock time
( ... )
"It won't be a betrayal. You are the most faithful man I know. You're bi. She understood our relationship, and she would feel nothing but happiness to know that-"
John threw the mug "what, that we slept together? That I miss it. That I miss her so much I can feel it? I won't do that to you. Or to her."
Sherlock turned his head "I want it though." He stepped forward and brushed his fingers through John's hair. "You won't be betraying her. You know that."
John lowered his head. At first it was just small tears. They turned into choking sobs.
Sherlock knelt down and held John. Half an hour later, John leaned back, pulled a tissue from his trouser pocket and wiped his face and nose clean. "Not very romantic."
Sherlock grinned "have I ever seemed one to want romance?"
John shook his head, let Sherlock pull him from the floor and followed Sherlock into his room.
Three hours in which Sherlock's mind was completely silent, three hours in which he may as well have lost his sight, for he only looked at the paper in his hands. The words did not come together to form sentences.
He just. Stood.
At one point he heard Mrs. Hudson leave. She hadn't returned yet. Sherlock knew she must be at Hospital. He was glad of it. A warm hand holding John's
I should be beside his bed
Talking nonsense.
I should explain, apologize, explain, tell him, do I tell him that I respected Mary. I did. I did. I never truly liked her, but she made him so happy...and she was clever. She saw how much I loved him....
Sherlock lifted the paper.
Love him. I love him. He's still here. I love him.
Sherlock raised the paper higher, stared at the letters. It took a full two minutes for the letters to finally form into words, sentences.
A suicide note.
Sherlock,
Do not blame yourself. Do not. Don't let that "machine" of your mind run until the gears become too hot, smoke, and burst into flame. I
( ... )
Fill: Tangible (1/?)
anonymous
April 2 2014, 03:29:20 UTC
'Mary's gone.'
Sherlock looks up from the microscope, stalling his examination of a peculiar fungus. John's stance is rigid, and the deductive reasoning of the world's only consulting detective is far from necessary to read the lines of distress on his face and the creases of his clothing. Regardless, Sherlock examines each tell, adding up the sum total of each to come to his conclusion: not good, not good, not good.
The quiet anguish written in the lines of his face causes a sharp pang in his heart. He never did like seeing John in pain. In this moment, Sherlock is almost ashamed of the other emotions that wash over him at the news. He knows he ought to say something, something to show that he cares about John, and he knows that it certainly isn’t ‘good riddance’ or ‘she should have never insinuated herself into your life.’
But Sherlock has never been . . . good with people, and he hasn’t the foggiest what the appropriate response is. He swallows and asks, ‘tea
( ... )
Then John calls him "Mary" in the heat of passion.
Angst . . . maybe a happy ending when John suitably makes it up to him?
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John threw the mug "what, that we slept together? That I miss it. That I miss her so much I can feel it? I won't do that to you. Or to her."
Sherlock turned his head "I want it though." He stepped forward and brushed his fingers through John's hair. "You won't be betraying her. You know that."
John lowered his head. At first it was just small tears. They turned into choking sobs.
Sherlock knelt down and held John. Half an hour later, John leaned back, pulled a tissue from his trouser pocket and wiped his face and nose clean. "Not very romantic."
Sherlock grinned "have I ever seemed one to want romance?"
John shook his head, let Sherlock pull him from the floor and followed Sherlock into his room.
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so much angst please fix
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Three hours in which Sherlock's mind was completely silent, three hours in which he may as well have lost his sight, for he only looked at the paper in his hands. The words did not come together to form sentences.
He just. Stood.
At one point he heard Mrs. Hudson leave. She hadn't returned yet. Sherlock knew she must be at Hospital. He was glad of it. A warm hand holding John's
I should be beside his bed
Talking nonsense.
I should explain, apologize, explain, tell him, do I tell him that I respected Mary. I did. I did. I never truly liked her, but she made him so happy...and she was clever. She saw how much I loved him....
Sherlock lifted the paper.
Love him. I love him. He's still here. I love him.
Sherlock raised the paper higher, stared at the letters. It took a full two minutes for the letters to finally form into words, sentences.
A suicide note.
Sherlock,
Do not blame yourself. Do not. Don't let that "machine" of your mind run until the gears become too hot, smoke, and burst into flame. I ( ... )
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Sherlock looks up from the microscope, stalling his examination of a peculiar fungus. John's stance is rigid, and the deductive reasoning of the world's only consulting detective is far from necessary to read the lines of distress on his face and the creases of his clothing. Regardless, Sherlock examines each tell, adding up the sum total of each to come to his conclusion: not good, not good, not good.
The quiet anguish written in the lines of his face causes a sharp pang in his heart. He never did like seeing John in pain. In this moment, Sherlock is almost ashamed of the other emotions that wash over him at the news. He knows he ought to say something, something to show that he cares about John, and he knows that it certainly isn’t ‘good riddance’ or ‘she should have never insinuated herself into your life.’
But Sherlock has never been . . . good with people, and he hasn’t the foggiest what the appropriate response is. He swallows and asks, ‘tea ( ... )
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