The very beginnings of a reclist
“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks.
“Reading,” John answers, looking at the next page of the newspaper. He had been hoping that Sherlock would be happy that he was doing something that smart-John would have done.
Sherlock tugs the newspaper out of his hands and turns it right side up before handing it back to John. He sits in his chair and puts his face in his hands.
John puts the newspaper away and goes over to Sherlock. Sherlock’s shoulders are shaking and he keeps his face in his hands. John hugs him from the side and tells him, “I love you,” over and over.
At Baskerville, John is infected by a virus that turns him into a genius. But when the infection progresses into neurodegeneration, it’s a race against time to save himself.
Five Times Sherlock Was Confused, and One Time He Wasn’t
“Have you seen my glasses?” John looked up from his newspaper at the question, and grinned. “They’re on your head, love. Did you forget?”
Written by Team Mycroft’s very own Rachel, this fanfiction has made me bawl from seven PM up to the deadline at midnight. It is quite possibly this fic will both drain all happiness from your body and fill the hole your life was donning. The lovely lady also wrote a sequel to save our souls.
Perfectly Sound Analysis, But I Was Hoping You’d Go Deeper
That first winter with Sherlock had been a grace period, testing out each other’s boundaries (Sherlock refused to accept any of John’s boundaries) but by the end of the first few months, John was hooked on this man, not in a romantic sense, but hooked into a deep friendship that outweighed any friendship he attained in the army, which was strange for John, because he had previously thought that you get to know a person best when you’re stuck in the desert, living each day like you’d be blown up or shot the next. Living with Sherlock was the same; John did live each day like he would be blown up by a homicidal maniac or kidnapped. You never knew with Sherlock.
Written by our very own Oatmealjumper, this piece of brilliance with its hints of Inception is equal part confusing as it is absolutely bloody amazing.
John puts on a bit of weight and angsts over it until Sherlock and his magical healing cock convince him that really, it’s alright, and they still definitely want to tap that.
Exactly what it says on the tin, by our wonderful Lotherington.
‘I’d rather have ripped my arm off than wake you up,’ Sherlock blurts out, frowning as though he doesn’t quite understand it. The burn of pins and needles snakes its way into his muscles.
I WILL NEVER BE HAPPY AGAIN IN MY LIFE
why are the sweetest things always the saddest
He’s out among his beehives when John calls him. Not a minute later he hears soft footsteps behind him on the grass and an arm encircling his thin waist.
“You’ve been out here for hours. Come inside, it’s getting cold, I’ll make soup for dinner.”
You’re wrong, Sherlock thinks as he follows him. John is wrong, it can’t have been hours, he was just inside preparing coffee ten minutes ago.
Sherlock simply forgets. Possibly one of the most heartbreaking things you will ever read.
Sherlock is very good at ignoring John’s entire existence. Most often he sits in the kitchen fiddling with various contraptions and chemicals and controls and is silent. He doesn’t even mutter to himself under his breath like he usually does when he’s experimenting.
During those fights, John spends long, lonely nights in bed staring at the ceiling and wondering why the hell he puts up with it.
He never does quite come up with an answer.
After John leaves, Sherlock forgets which language he’s supposed to speak.
When John first woke up, he was not at all bothered that the technician recording his vital signs was sporting a large pair of glossy white wings. It was harder to ignore the second time, when consciousness was there to stay.
PG13 -After the pool, John sees wings on nearly everyone. Problem is, only he can.
John tried to decide whether he wished their conversation to be inane, profound, informative, or provocative. Finally, he said, “D’you ever wonder what it would be like if we had sex?”
Sherlock and John have sex, Sherlock has made sure all memory of it were gone the next day, except for what they’ve got on camera. They watch the tape together.
John imagined that Sherlock probably found the whole thing asinine. So John had a camera and was taking pictures – so what? It didn’t affect him one way or the other. Until, of course, it did, because John took his picture.
John finds a new hobby in an old camera he finds lying around. Sherlock has no problem with it, until he is the object of interest. Also: porn.
“It means we belong together, to each other, John, that’s what it, what all of it means.”
Sherlock and John develop a barter system for wearing each other’s clothes.
Cost of living
Sherlock dies at Reichenbach. John eats human hearts in his dreams to keep him alive.
Sherlock’s sorrow is a globe that looks as if it contains the whole world. John carries it for him.
Instead of meeting on January 29th, John and Sherlock meet on February 29th. And are then cursed to only be able to exist together every Leap Day.
John comes home from a trip to the seaside with a pale-eyed young man in tow. Sherlock is tall, brilliant, and strangely sad, and seems incapable of leaving John’s side. One day John brings a seal skin to Harry’s house and makes her promise to hide it, and that she will never, ever tell Sherlock where it is.
Sherlock is a selkie. John took his skin.
“I think we’ve got this whole ‘love’ thing a bit backwards,” John says when Sherlock straightens up. “Normal people fall in love, then get married.”
Love, John muses, is sort of like a Quentin Tarantino film. Except not really.
The whore of Babylon was a Perfectly Nice Girl
While he loves London and her busy streets, while he loves television and books and all the things he can indulge in now he’s home, it’s not enough to stop him remembering. It doesn’t hold his attention.
Sherlock, on the other hand, always holds John’s attention.
Sherlock walks into a room and takes all the space right out of it. He does the same inside John’s head.
The cane was used to standing hard, unyielding - it was its duty to be strong and support its owner. But the sensation, the feeling, after so long…if it had a mouth, it surely would have gasped.
John’s cane gets a taste of Sherlock’s trouser leg.
The Internet is Not Just for Porn
Sherlock texting at a crime scene wasn’t unusual.
Sherlock texting, then throwing back his head and laughing fondly, was a bit more out of the ordinary.
John is the boyfriend from Canada nobody believed Sherlock had.
The problem with communicating with text messages was the absence of tone and intonation.
Sherlock and John go to communicating by text.
“Sherlock, I’m hurt.”
“Oh. I comfort you.”
Every genre of fanfic carefully worked out for your reading pleasure.
“Have you—unh!—Have you met him?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound indifferent, though it was difficult when trying to wrest oxygen from an elderly yet spry Lithuanian.
“John Watson? No, I haven’t. Though I do have a complete dossier on him, if you’re interested. No photographs, though. You know mummy’s proclivities.”
Sherlock and John are both arranged to be married and are simply forced to cope. Written by the brilliant pennin_ink, this is a must read for the entire fandom.
This was the third time Johnbo Watson had secreted himself into Smauglock’s lair.
Porn. This is porn. With dragons. And a hobbit. But it’s basically porn. PORN PORN PORN PORN PORN PORN PORN
‘I’m afraid only the Wizard can possibly help me,’ John said quickly. To be fair, it was probably true. ‘I’ll wait, if you don’t mind.’
Wizard Moriarty curses John and he ventures out to find the wizard who eats hearts.
Not Exactly Location, Location, Location
“I want to make it clear that this house is where we plan to spend the remainder of our lives. I’d rather that time was not cut short by an arthritic tumble down a flight of unwanted stairs.”
Sherlock and John go looking for a place to spend the rest of their lives, but none is satisfactory.
John keeps his collection of hearts piled up in a corner of his room, collecting dust.
John has a collection of hearts he’s won and stolen. He doesn’t treasure them at all. When he discovers them, Sherlock is terrified that John intends for his to join the pile.
Who Wants To Be Normal, Anyway? (Abnormality Is So Much More Fun)
“A little bit?” John asks. “How can you be arrested a little bit?”
“Have you ever been arrested?” asks Sherlock.
“No.”“Well then, you wouldn’t understand.”
In which John sighs a lot, emotions are stupid, no one notices that they’re not actually dating, Sherlock is infuriatingand heterosexuality is overrated, anyway.
“It’s not usually so wretchedly awful,” John says on a bit of an exhale, shifting uncomfortably around his increasingly soggy peas. “So. David Hughes-Ellis. Right. What puts him at the top of the list?”
“His deodorant.”
Sherlock watches John’s face for any minute changes, and finds none next to the brief pinch of amusement at the supposed déjà vu. John is relaxing in bits and pieces.
“Let me guess. It was for men?”
John makes a reluctant Sherlock share his worst dating experiences.
And Stand There At The Edge of My Affection
“I require your assistance.”
John ran his fingertips over his jaw. “On what?”
“A love letter, of course.”
Sherlock asks John to help him with the writing of a love letter. A curious John needs to know for whom.
The eighth time Sherlock proposed to John, it was on a Thursday afternoon in the middle of a Tesco. And like the seven times before, he got rejected.
In which Sherlock has quite possibly the worst ways of romantically asking someone for their hand in marriage.
The night the aliens came was the first time John understood the extent of his predicament.
Life with Sherlock is always dangerous. John Watson says, let it come.
