If I were writing Sherlock, I’d have given the plane scene a hug, dammit.
Hello, everyone. This is Tom.
….fandom….did I ever tell you how much I love you?
oh my goddddd THANK YOU ommggg this is the best thing ヽ(*≧ω≦)ﾉ
(Hi there! Prompts are very welcome, thank you! I don’t own a horse, and haven’t gone riding for over six years, but I do watch My Little Pony, so I do know a bit. In any case, I hope you like this! AN: read it in Stephen Fry’s voice. Much funnier.)
Within the Holmes Country Club, there are several very distinct and old-fashioned rules that each member must attain to. The first is that one must dress smartly: dresses and frocks for the ladies, and smart suits with ties for the gentlemen. The second is that one’s family must be influential within the community, such as being able to organise events, or own certain large pieces of land. But the most well-known of these rules is that each group or family within the Club must own a horse, or indeed a troop of horses, to go to events with. The Holmes family was no exception, with the eldest son, Mycroft, owning but never riding four extremely prized thoroughbreds, each winning at least two blue ribbons at their latest show-jumping, hunting, and dressage events.
However, the youngest Holmes, Sherlock, disliked horses. He often claimed that the beasts were dangerous at both ends and crafty in the middle, and would refuse to ride any of the Holmes family’s beautiful horses. His affections lay outside the realm of the Club, and from a young age had pursued a career in investigation. In any case, Mummy Holmes persisted in bringing the brothers to the Club to participate in or watch the events that they proudly held.
Today was no different. Dressed in a smart suit and tie, nearly 30 year old Sherlock dragged his heels as he walked behind Mycroft towards the large stands beside the show-jumping ring. A large group was gathered around the drinks table at the bottom of the stands, and the chatter and mumble and clinking glasses made Sherlock want to vomit. He barely had time to complain before he was forcibly sat down and told to shut up. A fanfare alerted the crowd to disperse, and the stands filled up with lightly drunk hoity-toities.
“I hate this.” Sherlock muttered.
“I know you do.” Mycroft smirked.
The gate opened. The first horse to jump was dun-coloured, with a dark brown bridle and saddle. The rider wore a blue helmet and jacket, with white jodhpurs and a dark brown neckerchief. Sherlock watched as the horse and rider masterfully navigated the course, jumping effortlessly over each obstacle. Sherlock pretended not to care.
“He’s good.” Mycroft sounded surprised, and almost a little bitter. Sherlock perked up. Anyone that could piss off Mycroft was a good guy in his book.
The horse and rider finished the course in a flurry of sand. Perfect score, perfect form. The rider waved to the crowd, a bashful smile on his face. The horse looked almost proud, tossing its mane and kicking up its hooves as if it had won the horse equivalent of Crufts. The crowd clapped quietly. This rider obviously wasn’t as rich as them.
“Who is he?” Sherlock asked.
“Watson.” Mycroft glared at the scoreboard at the front of the ring. “John Watson, riding Gladstone Rum. I’ve heard of him before. Odd chap. Hired by the Moran family for their show-jumping class. Talented.”
“He’s not that talented.” scoffed an old lady above Mycroft. “My Richard has more talent in his left thumb than that young man.”
“He won five blue ribbons at last year’s ring, darling.” her husband murmured.
“Really?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “How odd.”
“Not that odd.” Sherlock frowned.
“Not odder than you, that’s for sure.” Mycroft sniffed at his brother.
Sherlock glared at him. He rose out of his seat, and jogged down the stands, ignoring Mycroft’s snide apologies. He reached the Club tent, but didn’t stop, briskly brushing off anyone that stood in his way. The stables were in sight, but he didn’t have to go that far. Watson was stood outside, brushing down Gladstone Rum. The horse snorted at Sherlock approached, making the tall man stop.
Watson turned, and smiled at the newcomer. “Hello.”
Sherlock froze. He nodded stiffly. “Hello. That’s a… nice horse.”
“Glads?” Watson patted his horse’s neck. “He’s alright.” the horse stomped its leg, indignant. Watson laughed. “Sorry, sorry. He’s brilliant.”
“I just-” Sherlock coughed, unsure. “came to say. You’re riding for the Morans, aren’t you?”
Watson raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
Sherlock smiled. “I can tell, you’re more of a Holmes.”
i lived through dozens of lonely christmases just to find you
another commission by lovely aiwa-sensei, who indulged both my potterlock and invisible!John weaknesses in one fell swoop of genius.
I drew this in colour, but I quite like the black and white version :)
(Okay, I’ll give it a shot… I’m picking Sherlock, with Johnlock, and some laughs and some sads. Hope you like it!)
Sherlock and John sat side-by-side on the sofa, John’s head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. As the doctor read a thick novel, the detective stared at the fireplace, which crackled with warm golden light. Sherlock put a hand to John’s back, stroking the soft material of John’s jumper absent-mindedly.
The day hadn’t gone as either of them had hoped. Sherlock had managed to solve the case, but for an unknown reason had ended the case in a particularly sour mood. John had suggested a takeaway dinner, to which Sherlock had readily agreed. John was still worrying about Sherlock’s well-being when the detective spoke up:
"Mm?" the doctor replied.
"Can I be blunt?"
Sherlock frowned. “Excuse me?”
"Four-twenty blaze that blunt?"
"What on Earth-"
"One of the kids said it at the surgery," John chuckled, closing his book. "I wanted to use it in a sentence."
"That was hardly a sentence." Sherlock scoffed.
John laughed quietly. “Go on, what were you saying?”
Sherlock stopped stroking John’s jumper and instead gripped it lightly, as if it were a lifeline. “It was pointed out to me earlier,” he mumbled, “that I will one day lose my intelligence.”
John raised his eyebrows. “What?”
"And I was wondering…" Sherlock looked uncomfortable, his eyes firmly fixed on the fire. "will you still love me when that happens?"
John was left speechless. The thought of Sherlock losing his intelligence - his brilliance - hadn’t even crossed his mind. Sherlock was Sherlock - the great detective.
Sherlock could talk for hours, speaking at a hundred miles an hour, about anything and everything. Sometimes it would be complete bullshit, like the time he talked for five hours about pigmentation in flamingos and how it related to ocelots. But sometimes it would be fascinating, and John adored those moments.
Anyone in proximity would invariably be shocked or appalled or stunned, lapsing into silence of bad or good factors, watching and waiting for Sherlock to explain his point of view. Sometimes they applauded; sometimes they threw Sherlock out of the room. But every time, they would marvel at the, well, marvelous man.
In those moments, John often caught himself staring at Sherlock, watching the way his hands gestured in the air, trying to get his point across physically; watching his eyes sparkle with the promise of obtaining or relaying new and exciting information. And it was - new, exciting.
And that’s why John loved Sherlock. The brilliant brain underneath the big-headed moron didn’t factor into anything. Sherlock would always be… just, Sherlock.
John pulled the taller man into a tight hug. “Who told you that?”
"You hate Anderson. Why believe him?"
Sherlock simply shrugged. “It’s true.”
John sighed. “Even if it is, I’ll love you no matter what, you complete moron.”
Sherlock hugged him back. “Even when I’m no longer brilliant?”
"You’ll always be brilliant to me." John smiled. "But can you keep your brainpower long enough to remind me to punch Anderson in the face the next time we see him?"
Sherlock grinned. He nodded. “I’ll try.”
this one’s pretty damn long, so it’s going under a read-more
(Ahhh teen!lock, we meet again. It’s been a while. I hope you like this!)
"My God, John!" Sherlock Holmes exclaimed. Having been leant back in his chair at the back of the classroom, he swung himself forward and stared in awe at the newcomer. "What on Earth is on your face?"
John Watson threw a death glare at his friend, his hand hovering next to his mouth self-consciously. Their classmates giggled around him, pointing and staring. “It’s called a mustache. Get used to it.”
"You’re not keeping it." Sherlock snorted. He leaned back again, picking up a pen and wobbling it between finger and thumb. "It’s an abomination."
John pulled up a chair next to Sherlock and set his rucksack on the floor. “I like it. My mum said I look very handsome.”
"And what did Harry say?"
"She didn’t say anything."
"Unusual. It’s not like Harry to let such a horrific crime against nature go unnoticed."
"She didn’t say anything, but she did laugh her head off."
John bent down to his bag and rummaged around in it. He pulled out a tiny comb and showed it to Sherlock. “My dad got me this.”
Sherlock instantly seized it. “What. What. What.”
"It’s a mustache comb," John giggled. "so I can-"
"Comb your mustache." Sherlock laughed loudly, his smile widening for a brief second before he regained his composure.
"He said that a mustache would make me more mature." John snatched the comb off Sherlock and stowed it away in his trouser pocket.
"You’re more mature than all these dolts put together." Sherlock gestured unashamedly at the rest of the class, some of which stopped giggling and starting bitching about "the pale black-haired freak". Sherlock just smirked at them.
"Maybe so." John grinned too. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "Think I could grow it out to Gandalf proportions?"
"The wizard off Lord of the Rings."
Sherlock stared at the mustache for a moment more. “You can’t keep it. I can’t have my best friend walking around with a poodle on his face. We’ll shave it off after school.”
"Sherlock, I’m not-"
"John. You don’t look like Gandalf. You look more like Gollum."
(I can never resist a sad fic ;) hope you like it!)
The hustle and bustle of the London crowds had never been so traumatic. Sherlock’s taxi-hailing powers had been ineffective this morning, and the supposed genius had refused to take a bus (“do you really expect me to get on one of those smelly death traps?”), and so the dynamic duo of Holmes and Watson were forced to walk - of all things! - to Scotland Yard.
The sun was high in the sky, but the weather wasn’t warm. A nice cool breeze blew over the city, and John was enjoying the light, unrestricted feeling of wearing no jumper. He strolled leisurely behind a tetchy Sherlock, not noticing that he was slowly meandering into the oncoming crowd.
"Watch it!" squawked a lady, hustling past John impatiently.
"Sorry," he called after her, but she took no notice.
"Hurry up, John!" Sherlock grumbled impatiently.
John quickened his pace to fall into step at Sherlock’s side. “What’s the rush?”
"I want to spend as little time in this crowd as possible." Sherlock muttered.
"You should have hailed a cab." John smirked.
"No you didn’t. You flailed your arm about and nearly got run over."
"That’s trying. If he had stopped we would be at the Yard by now."
"But he didn’t stop." John grinned.
"Shut up." Sherlock sped up, taking long strides.
John jogged along to keep up with his partner, but eventually gave up and slowed to a walk. Sherlock practically sprinted ahead. “Fine, you big baby.” John sighed.
The crowd kept bustling him along. John was pushed this way and that, people shoving his little frame out of the way as they barged their way to their destinations. John was fed up within a minute, and soon found a bench to sit on.
The weather was hotter now, John thought, and he slid off his jacket to tie it around his waist. His left hand itched for some reason, and his legs were rather stiff. He took no notice of it, watching the rivers of people gush past. His bench faced a main road, and the cars honked and revved their engines, growing impatient at the traffic jam.
John could feel a headache coming on. There was so much noise here - he’d forgotten how noisy the city could be. He lowered his eyes to the ground, trying to block it out - but the noise was there, always there, rattling through his head… like gunfire. The cars on the roads, revving their engines - like the trucks on the sand, swerving into their compounds. The crowds on the streets, rushing to their workplaces - like soldiers, marching through the dunes. The sun high in the sky, beating down on them as they worked - and John could feel his shoulder burning, his leg seizing up, his left hand twitching. He could feel the sand filtering through his fingers, and hear the dull thump of distant shells.
John didn’t realise that someone was shaking him until he heard his name - “John? John, are you alright? Did you fall asleep?”
John looked up. Sherlock stood before him, his expression concerned.
"You could catch a cold sitting here with no jacket." Sherlock commented.
John’s throat was dry. His left hand shook, and he automatically grasped for his cane - of course, it wasn’t there, and he panicked for a second. Sherlock didn’t miss the gesture. He sat next to his partner, holding his right hand and rubbing circles onto John’s shoulders.
"John, it’s alright." Sherlock said soothingly. "You’re in London, near Hyde Park - see, there’s that cafe you like, over there, and there’s the newsagents where your friend Wilfred works. And over there is the Yard, we’re very close to it now. Can you walk? We’ll be there in two minutes, and you can have a proper sit down, and a cup of tea. Just milk, correct? And you can see the sniffer dogs. And you can talk to Lestrade while I’m being brilliant. Alright?"
John could feel a smile slip onto his face. In times like these, Sherlock was very human indeed. He squeezed his partner’s hand tightly.
"Let’s go." John smiled. Sherlock smiled back.
(Cool beans. Hope you like it!)
It was as Sherlock had expected: boring, colourful and overly-cheerful. Presents of over-priced plastic toys littered the floor of 221B, and sparkly banners proclaiming “it’s a boy!” were hung against the drab brown walls.
Dull, thought Sherlock. Dull, boring, pointless. In his arms, baby Hamish gave a little wriggle, and Sherlock held onto him a little tighter. Are you enjoying this? Sherlock thought miserably. Because I’m certainly not.
Lestrade and Molly flirted casually as Mrs Hudson poured drinks. Mike was on his fifth sherry, while John mingled with a number of Sherlock’s old clients that had insisted on being there for the occasion. Sherlock, sat in his usual chair with Hamish cradled in his arms, contented himself with glowering at the floor.
Parties, Sherlock continued his inner monologue, are the most pointless things in the world. Humans have made great scientific advancements in the last decade or so. We have discovered the joys of internet blogging, nicotine patches and something called a Miley Cyrus. And yet humans still insist on holding… parties. Social gatherings. It’s barbaric.
"Sherlock?" John called.
"Hm?" the taller man barely glanced up from the floor.
"Janice wants to say hi." John smiled at a busty young woman, who smiled toothily at Sherlock and waggled her fingers at Hamish.
Sherlock glared at her. He slowly got up, carefully re-positioning Hamish in his arms, and walked elegantly over to the woman, deliberately turning his face away from her.
"Isn’t he adorable?" Janice cooed. "Hello Hamish! Hello sweetie pie!"
She reached out to take him from Sherlock, but John stopped her. “I don’t think that’s the best idea.” he smiled politely.
"I’ll be careful." Janice insisted. "Come on Hamish, come to Aunty Jan!"
But Hamish was having none of it. He wriggled impatiently, and Sherlock immediately swept his son away from the woman. Hamish started crying.
"Oh dear, he’s tired." Janice simpered. "Poor baby."
Sherlock opened his mouth to spit out a retort, but John shook his head at him. “Sherlock, go put him to bed.”
"Pleasure." Sherlock strode with Hamish into his old room, shutting the door behind them. Hamish whimpered, slowly stopping his tears. "Alright, Hamish." Sherlock rocked him gently. "It’s alright."
Hamish gurgled. He reached up an arm and patted Sherlock awkwardly on the face. Sherlock smiled.
Parties. By God, I loathe them.
(Thank you anon, and have a lovely day yourself!)
Everything was blurry, and Sherlock had no idea why. The last thing he remembered was the crime scene. Lestrade had been angry at him again for some reason, and told him to go home. Sherlock didn’t remember leaving the crime scene, but he supposed that he was home now, because he was in John’s dorm room. He liked this room much more than his own. His dorm was clinical and neat and smelled of corpses, but John’s was messy and full of books and smelled of soap. But now John was angry at him too, and Sherlock couldn’t comprehend why.
"Another crime solved! I suppose I’ll take you through it, if you want me to, John. The suspect had brown hair and drove a Peugeot. How do I know that? Isn’t it obvious?"
His body felt cold and hot at the same time, and he was shivering and sweating, and the world was topsy-turvey. He was exploding calmly, he was panicking happily, and John was yelling because for some reason Sherlock couldn’t stop talking.
"The suspect throttled the victim using the string from the victim’s guitar. Both were musicians - how do I know that? It’s obvious obvious obvious why don’t you see, John?”
John ducked as a lamp flew at his head. Sherlock wondered where the lamp had come from, and it was only when John threw the book that Sherlock noticed his own arm extended. Sherlock felt a searing pain across his shoulder and sank down onto the floor, still talking, still shivering. John ran over to him and put an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. John was crying now and Sherlock wanted to help him, but John had started talking while Sherlock couldn’t stop.
"I’m your friend," John whispered. "I want to help you. Let me help you, please, Sherlock."
"He drove away and left her. He drove away on the right side of the road. He’s American. He’s American. He’s American."
John clamped a hand across Sherlock’s mouth, muffling the constant stream of speech. Sherlock stared at his friend through wide and terrified eyes.
I can’t stop, he pleaded silently. Help me.
John drew Sherlock into a hug and started crying again. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered.
The last thing Sherlock heard was a knock on the door. The last thing he felt was John’s arms slipping away from him. The last thing he thought was nothing important, not to him, but it would have meant the world to the boy sitting beside him in the hospital.