“Sod it!” John threw his pen down in anger. It bounced off one of the three textbooks that lay open on the table and rolled along. “Sod this. I refuse to go on.”

Sherlock, leaning back in his chair with his feet on the table, pointed his toes and stopped the pen before it rolled off the edge. He smirked at his friend. “Are you still revising?”

John glared at him. “I was. Not any-more. I can’t continue, it’s doing my head in.” he flopped forwards, planting his face on the desk. “Leave me to die…” he moaned.

Sherlock sighed. He swung his feet off the table and sat up properly, looking at John with a smile. “Do you want some help?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sherlock, you don’t even take A Levels. You take GCSEs, which are a bloody piece of cake compared to these.”

“I’m sure they’re not that bad.” Sherlock stood up and sat in the chair next to John, pulling the textbook nearest his friend’s head towards him. “Biology. Sounds simple enough. Are you sure you don’t want help? By the looks of it, this is very easy.”

“Yeah, well, not all of us are super-geniuses that write essays in their sleep.”

Sherlock smirked. “Be glad.”

“Look, I just need a break. I’m going outside.” John started to stand up, but Sherlock quickly pinned him to his seat by throwing his legs onto John’s lap. He lay half across John and half across his chair, smirking. John’s cheeks flushed pink. “Sherlock, get off.”

“Not until you let me help you.”

“I don’t need help!”

“Please?” Sherlock sat up, bringing his face closer to John’s. He put one hand on the table to steady himself and slid the other up John’s neck and onto his rapidly reddening cheek. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

John sighed. “Fine. One chapter, then we go outside.”

Sherlock grinned. He quickly kissed his friend on the lips. “Brilliant.”

(Love you too darling! I hope you like this!)

…

Hamish sat on his bed, looking at his new uniform cap in his hands. The khaki seemed right at home in Baker Street - the hectic nature of the flat was akin to a war ground, especially when Sherlock was raving about a case. Guns and danger - Hamish was used to that. He turned the cap over in his hands, tracing the edge of the sewn-on patch. John still kept his military outfit in a box under his bed. Hamish had seen it once, when he was little and nosing around because he was bored. A shiny medal had rested atop a pile of khaki  - Hamish had been intrigued, but when he questioned John, the man went red and told him never to go into the box again.

Hamish wanted his own box. His own khaki. His own medal. He wanted to be like his dads, to make them proud. But of course, they wouldn’t be proud. John would probably be furious. Hamish glanced over at his suitcase, in which his new uniform and spare clothes and things were packed. The letter informing him of his tour of duty rested on top, like the medal on top of John’s uniform.

He hoped his parents wouldn’t be too angry. He had to do this. He had to.

A knock on the door made him jump. “Hamish? Are you in there?”

Hamish sighed in relief - it was just Sherlock. “Yeah. Come in.”

Sherlock opened the door and stepped in gingerly. He knew his son didn’t like people being in his room. “All packed?”

Hamish frowned slightly. “How did you know I was packing?”

“It was simple, Hamish.” Sherlock scoffed. He sat down on the bed next to his son and put a hand on Hamish’s knee, looking at the cap in his hands. “You received a letter yesterday that got you excited. You wouldn’t tell us what the letter was about - obviously it’s something we wouldn’t approve of. You flat-out ignored your dad too, which was very rude of you. You were asking where various things were, like the spare toothpaste. We only use the spare toothpaste when we go on trips. Therefore, you’re going somewhere away from us that may have been specified in your letter. So, I deduced that it was either a girl or something more… dangerous.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled. “Why didn’t you tell us before?”

Hamish bit his lip. “I should have known you’d figure it out.” he sighed. “I applied to be an officer. I’m going to be in the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. I thought that would be sort of ironic, since Dad was in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. But Dad won’t like it, will he?”

“Of course not. He’ll be furious.”

Hamish put his head in his hands. “Oh God… I don’t want to disappoint him, but I need to do this! I want this!” he glanced up at Sherlock. “Do you… like it? Are you okay with it?”

“I don’t like it, no.” Sherlock said slowly. “But you want this. You want to do this.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll respect that.” Sherlock smiled. “It’s your life, Hamish. You go if you want to. Explore the world, fight bad guys like in those spy movies you and your dad like. Just make good decisions, do what you think is right. And, most importantly… come home safe.”

Hamish looked into Sherlock’s eyes - the man was tired, older than Hamish had ever seen him. Hamish sniffed back a tear and hugged his father tightly, burying his face into Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’ll miss you.”

“We’ll miss you too.” Sherlock murmured.

“I’ll tell Dad when he gets home.” Hamish said.

“We’ll tell him together.” Sherlock smiled. “If he gets mad at you, don’t worry. I’ll tell him about the legs in the washing machine…”

(Alright, time to get back into the prompt game. I hope this is alright!! You haven’t been rude at all, I don’t think I’ve written many amnesia fics :) I chose Sherlock, if that’s okay - it’s just easier :) thank you so much!)

…

John held on tight to his friend’s hand. The hand was thin and white and bony, almost skeletal as it lay in his tanned palms. The arm it was connected to lay limp on the hospital bed. His friend’s body was wrapped in a blue hospital gown which made him seem even paler. The detective’s face was thin and hollow. His cheekbones stuck out even more, and his wild black hair fanned out across the pillow. Sherlock looked like he was dying.

John didn’t want to close his eyes for a single second. The heart rate monitor beeped consistently, telling him that yes, Sherlock’s heart was still beating, yes, Sherlock was alive - but for how much longer? How much longer could Sherlock hold on to that sliver of life? John couldn’t - wouldn’t - waste a single second, and if that meant staying up until all hours of the night, holding Sherlock’s hand just to feel the faint and weakening pulse, then so be it. So be it.

Dawn was breaking. John could feel the hospital room warming up as the central heating clicked on. He could see the bed slowly being cast in a yellow glow as the sun rose beyond the window. And he could see, if he looked closely, Sherlock’s eyelids flutter…

“Ugh… what… where am I?”

John jolted at the raspy baritone voice. His grip on Sherlock’s hand tightened. “Sherlock?” his own voice was sore. He noticed now that his eyes itched from lack of sleep, his legs ached from sitting in one place. But none of that mattered. Not when Sherlock’s hand closed around his for the first time in days and everything seemed to be finally finally getting better.

“Where am I?” Sherlock breathed. “Who are you?”

John’s heart fell. His blood ran cold. “It’s me, Sherlock. It’s John.”

“John…” Sherlock’s eyebrows twitched.

John contained a sigh - it was good to hear Sherlock say his name again. “Yes, I’m John. Do you… do you remember anything?”

Sherlock frowned in concentration. “I remember… I remember falling… there was a man, and he… he told me that he was bored, bored of staying alive. I fell… and now I’m here. How? How?”

Sherlock’s eyes were frightened. He suddenly looked younger, vulnerable, child-like. It scared John to see him like this.

“You’ll be alright, Sherlock. Your memory will return, in time. You just… need time.”

“How long?”

John looked down at the skeleton that used to be Sherlock Holmes. He smiled grimly. “As long as it takes.”

(I’m loving this prompt so much! Do you mind if I centre it around Sherlock? I’m more comfortable that way. Thank you!!)

Book: The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkein
Words: heart, dragon, chair

…

It was approximately 3am when John woke up and realised that Sherlock wasn’t beside him. The room was warm from the radiator and heater Sherlock had insisted on having on during the winter months, but the bed beside him was cold. It wasn’t unusual - more often than not, Sherlock slept on the sofa after doing an experiment of some kind. Lately he’d been sleeping more in the bed, which John liked. It was domestic, something that the consulting detective would never have done before John. Hamish, their little 10 month old, slept in John’s old room upstairs with the baby monitor - and, John realised with a jolt, it was the monitor that had woken him.

It was silent.

His heart pounded - the monitor wasn’t picking up anything. No breathing, no sound whatsoever. John panicked. Not only was Sherlock missing, but so, he thought, was Hamish. He shook the monitor, expecting it to be turned off or out of battery or something, but it was working perfectly. Something was terribly wrong with his baby.

John swung himself out of bed and tip-toed out of the bedroom. He paused, then decided to grab a cricket bat that he kept under the bed. He didn’t go for his gun - it might wake Hamish, wherever he was. John slowly made his way out, half-expecting Sherlock to be in the kitchen looking at the microscope. But he wasn’t. John’s blood ran cold. Where are you? Sherlock, where are you? His heart thudded painfully, drumming against his chest. He felt cold, and it wasn’t just from the weather.

“Sherlock?” he whispered.

“Shh!”

John jumped. He looked over into the living room - and sighed in relief. He put down the cricket bat. “God’s sake Sherlock! You scared me!”

Sherlock was sat in his armchair, cradling Hamish in one hand while he held a slim volume of ‘The Hobbit’ in the other. He was reading softly to the baby boy, who was gurgling happily and trying to slap Sherlock’s nose. The elder Holmes smiled at his husband. “Hamish was crying. I thought I’d regail him with tales from Middle Earth.”

“Have you got to the dragon yet?” John walked over and perched on the arm of the chair, poking Hamish’s little toes until the boy squealed. “That’s my favourite part.”

“Not yet. Do you want to read it?”

“Nah, you’re the best at the voices.”

Sherlock smiled and continued reading: “As they sang, the hobbit felt the love of beautiful things made by hands and by cunning and by magic moving through him, a fierce and jealous love, the desire of the hearts of dwarves…”

(Okay I need to get back into writing prompts, and this is my first attempt in a while. I hope you like it!)

…

“Don’t move.”

“I’m not bloody moving! Just get it out of here!”

“Alright John. It’s alright. Just don’t panic.”

“Oh I’m not panicking. I’m definitely not panicking.”

“Then why are you up there?”

John Watson glared at Sherlock from atop the kitchen table. “BECAUSE THERE’S A BLOODY SNAKE IN THE FLAT!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s not going to hurt you. It’s hardly a King Cobra.”

“Oh do forgive me for not knowing my snake types!” John snapped. “I haven’t had much use for my reptile knowledge in the center of LONDON!”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic.” Sherlock sighed. He had been in the middle of his experiment when the snake (affectionately named Susan) had slithered free of its cage. John had been blogging, and the snake had spooked him right onto the kitchen table. Now, Sherlock got onto his knees and checked under the table, then crawled around the kitchen looking under the various machines and counters.

“Here Susan,” he cooed. “Here girl.”

“It’s not a dog!” John huffed.

“Excellent deduction. Now shut up.”

John kept babbling: “I’m being practical here, Sherlock! I just know that that bloody snake is going to come out while we’re sleeping and bite our ankles!” John pointed the mop handle down at the floor and accidentally jabbed Sherlock’s head.

“Ow!”

“I’m not sorry. This is all your fault. Why do you even have a snake here anyway?” John frowned.

“It’s for an experiment. I wanted to see how snake venom affects human blood.”

John went a funny shade of purple. “JUST GOOGLE IT!” John roared. “Why don’t you use that big bloody brain of yours and think for once!”

Sherlock ignored him. He eventually found poor Susan under John’s chair, and picked her up by the tail to present it to John. She hissed at him, unhappy at being upside down. “Found her.”

“Good. Now get rid of it.”

“But the experiment-“

“SOD THE EXPERIMENT!”

Sherlock jumped at the outburst - and consequently dropped the snake. She slithered under the kitchen table, and John let out a yell. Sherlock chuckled.

“Help me Sherlock!” John whimpered. “What do I do?”

“Google it.” Sherlock smirked, walking into his room.

“You’re leaving me here?!” John yelped.

Sherlock closed the bedroom door with a grin.

“John, I have an announcement.”

Sherlock’s declaration made John look up from his laptop screen and towards the sofa. Sherlock was sat on the edge, his hands folded neatly over a bulge on his stomach.

John knew this would not be good. “What is it?”

“I am pregnant.” Sherlock called out, his eyes shining and his cheeks glowing with pre-natal roses.

John just sat there, unflinching. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I am! Look!” Sherlock stood up. The bulge on his stomach was now more pronounced, if a bit square, and rolled round like a football. The detective stroked the bump fondly.

“You’re not pregnant.” John sighed.

“You’re the father, John.”

John nearly fell off his chair. Sherlock ignored him and said: “If it’s a girl, Molly. If it’s a boy, Hamish. Just some ideas, not definite.” he beamed proudly.

John was not so easily fooled. Recovering from the father comment, he stood up and walked over to his friend, stuffing his hand up Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock squirmed and protested, but eventually John pulled out the pillow he’d stuffed under there.

“It’s a boy!” Sherlock exclaimed.

John tossed the pillow to the ground. “You’re high.”

Sherlock picked up the ‘baby’ and held it above his head. “SIMBAAAA… REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE…”

(Sorry this is so late! I hope you like it!)

…

The screen of John’s laptop burned his eyes as it shone brightly in the dark living room, but he didn’t care. His bottom hurt from sitting on it too long, but he didn’t notice. His head was starting to ache from lack of sleep and his throat was starting to itch from thirst, but John was oblivious to his physical pain as he continued to scroll down his Tumblr dash, absorbing all the crazy images and laughing quietly at the hilarious fanfiction that popped up on the dark blue screen.

I am afraid to say that John was a blogger, and not only was he in several fandoms, but he was also a fanfic writer and an amateur hipster. His blog had only ten followers (including Greg, who was an Avengers fan, and Mike, who reblogged pictures of fat cats), but John was proud of his little blog, and kept running it despite (or maybe because of) the addictive nature of the website.

Before John knew it, dawn approached beyond the windowsill. Sunlight was starting to seep through the curtains, but John didn’t notice. Sherlock wandered out of his room, yawning, dressed in a large white sheet and (John’s) slippers. He frowned at John for a long time.

“Have you been up all night?” he asked.

The red rims around John’s eyes confirmed the hypothesis, but John replied: “I dunno. Is it morning?”

“Yes.”

“Then yeah.”

Sherlock walked over to John and peered at the laptop. “Tumblr?”

“It’s a magical place.” John grinned without a hint of irony. “I’ve got ten followers now.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Fantastic. Congratulations.”

“And look, look!” John scrolled up a bit. A gif of a cat rolling around on the floor popped up. “Mike reblogged that just now.”

“Fascinating.” Sherlock yawned. He went and laid across the sofa.

“Oh my God!” John exclaimed.

“What?” Sherlock turned his head sharply. “What’s wrong?”

“The new Star Trek movie is out next month!”

“Oh.” Sherlock frowned. “Is that all?”

John’s mouth fell open. “IS THAT ALL?! Sherlock, you could be a bit more excited! It’s Star Trek!”

“I don’t care about silly science fiction shows.” Sherlock snapped. “You do know you’re wasting your time on that website? It does you no good. I need you to be awake and alert for cases, not… nightblogging.”

“But nightblogging’s fun!” John grinned. “You nightblog all the time.”

“John, you do know that that is impossible? How can you nightblog in the morning?” Sherlock sighed. He was getting annoyed now.

John bit his lip - he could tell Sherlock was irritated. He kept quiet. After a moment of scrolling in silence through red pants and Johnlock and somewhat arousing Thorki, he came across a post that he genuinely smiled at. “Sherlock?”

“What?”

“I want a fluffy chicken.”

(YES. I LIKE THIS PROMPT. Thank you so much! I hope you like it!)

…

“Daddy, can I go in the ball pit?”

Those eight words were the beginning of a war. The Ball Pit War, as it would come to be called by those involved, was fierce and cruel, sparing no prisoners, raging on and on for what seemed like forever (but was in fact five minutes). And this is what happened.

Sherlock and John Holmes and their son, Hamish Holmes, entered the battlefield (a local McDonalds restaurant) at exactly 6:43pm-ish. Hamish spotted the fated ball pit about halfway through their meal (he had a hamburger with the gherkin removed; John had chicken nuggets because he distrusted the sign declaring the burgers to have 100% beef; Sherlock didn’t eat). He spent the remainder of the meal staring at the ball pit and drinking his cola silently, watching the other children in the restaurant play happily among the colourful balls.

“Daddy, can I go in the ball pit?”

Those fateful words were succeeded by Sherlock’s affirmation: “Of course. Be careful.” and John’s comment: “I’m going to get ice cream.”

Hamish plodded towards the ball pit and tentatively put his hand into the sea of colour. He glanced around - a few mothers and fathers who were watching their own children smiled at him. Hamish got in slowly, and soon he was swimming and shuffling and diving and throwing balls at the other kids like it was snow. Laughter filled the restaurant, and the watchful parents soon felt safe enough to turn their backs.

They turned too soon.

For that was the moment that John and Sherlock walked over to the ball pit and announced that it was time to leave.

Hamish did not take this news well.

“I WANNA PLAY!” he screamed, and dived into the ball pit once more.

“Hamish, we have to go!” John sighed. No response from his son, who was still under the surface. “Hamish, come out or I’ll drag you out!”

A red ball came flying at John’s head - it rebounded off his forehead and dropped onto the floor, making the other children in the pit squeal with laughter. John growled. He stepped into the ball pit and started fishing around, but alas, Hamish was not to be found. The parents at the side hurriedly ushered their children away from the crazy man, and soon the whole restaurant was staring at the ball pit.

“COME OUT HAMISH!”

“I WANNA PLAY!”

After a while, Sherlock got bored. He stepped into the ball pit too and helped John find Hamish - but no sooner had he walked in, he realised that this was a mistake. His legs were taken out from underneath him, and Sherlock disappeared under the surface. John yelled out as he too disappeared, and for a few seconds the balls undulated and writhed like waves on the ocean as the three Holmeses struggled to either resurface or evade detection. The latter proved impossible, however, since there was a consulting detective present. Sherlock eventually grabbed Hamish’s collar and got them all out of the pit - they stood, humiliated, in front of the restaurant diners and staff, who were laughing their heads off.

“You’re in big trouble, Hamish.” John growled. A yellow ball flew at his head, and he ducked just in time.

(Thank you so much for the prompt!! I hope you like it!)

…

John stood in the corridor, his two suitcases beside his feet and his rucksack draped on his shoulder. This was the room, no doubt about it, but there was something odd - every other door had stickers and posters and notices pinned onto them, but this door was completely blank apart from the plaque declaring the room number. John didn’t believe in omens, but if he did he might have run away right then. As it was, he summoned his courage and knocked hesitantly on the door to his new dorm.

“Hello?” there was no response, so he tried again. “Hello? Anybody home?”

The door swung open violently, and a sharp voice snapped: “What?”

John stared at the tall boy in front of him. “John Watson, hi. Is this 7B?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Good. Can I come in?”

The boy glared at John for a long moment. They stood in silence. John, now incredibly awkward, took the opportunity to glance over the new boy. He was younger than John, but taller, slimmer and more angular; his skin was pale and his cheekbones were high, defined by the slanted grey eyes that seemed to grow colder as John looked into them.

“Sherlock Holmes.” the boy drawled. “Are you my new room-mate?” he spat the words as though they were poison.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“You think so or you know so?”

John frowned. “I… know so.”

Sherlock glanced over him, appraising the smaller boy. He smirked. “If you’re going to be my room-mate, you have to adhere to my rules.”

“Alright. What rules?”

“Firstly, the room must be kept exactly as you find it at this instant. You cannot touch my belongings. Secondly, you must not disturb me if I’m thinking, and I will ask you to leave if you do. Thirdly, if you have sexual partners in the dorm, clean up after yourself.”

John’s cheeks tinged pink. “Sexual partners?”

“Correct.” Sherlock kept his cold eyes on John’s face. “Do you agree to uphold these rules?”

“Hold on.” John crossed his arms. “If you have rules, then I can have them too.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Sherlock’s voice wavered - he wasn’t used to this.

“Firstly, you have to respect my belongings too. Secondly, if YOU have sexual partners, you have to clean up too.”

Sherlock laughed once. “I will not be having partners. Not my area.”

“So you don’t have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

Sherlock paused. He smiled properly. “I like you, Watson. You may enter.” Sherlock held the door open for John to step into the room.

John grinned and picked up his suitcases. “Thanks. Call me John.” and he shut the door behind him.

(PK I’VE MISSED YOOOOU! Thank you so much - I hope you like this!)

…

John shook the frying pan, making the omelette shiver. He felt like a real professional chef - he had an apron on and everything - and he grinned as he tossed the omelette into the air, catching it neatly in the pan. A few more minutes and the thing would be done.

John had come home to an empty flat. Sherlock hadn’t left a note or a text saying where he would be, so John assumed that he was on a case. It had been a nice break, actually, to have a cup of tea, update his blog, get bored, borrow an apron off Mrs Hudson and end up doing some cooking practice, the results of which were now safely discarded in the biohazard bin beside the fridge. This omelette was the first thing he’d made today that hadn’t been a danger to public health, and John was immensely proud of it.

But then Sherlock had gotten home and started complaining about the case, and now the detective was laid on the sofa with his violin in his hands while John stayed at the oven. Or that’s what John thought, until he felt a pair of cold, strong hands on his shoulders.

“Got bored of the sofa?” John asked calmly.

“I noticed your apron.”

John glanced down - the apron was pink, with some sort of slogan across the front. He hadn’t really paid much attention to it. “What about it?”

Sherlock suddenly twisted John’s shoulders so that the man was completely facing him. He grinned. “It says ‘Kiss the Chef’ on it.”

The next thing John knew, he was being dipped like a dance partner as Sherlock kissed him deeply on the lips. After a moment, Sherlock set them both upright and stepped back with a smile. John just gaped at him.

“What the Hell?!” John yelped.

“The apron says ‘Kiss the Chef’, so I obeyed.” Sherlock looked so smug that John wanted to punch him.

“It’s not a literal invitation!” John barked.

“I’m confused.” Sherlock frowned. “Why would you buy that apron if you didn’t want to be kissed when you’re cooking?”

“It’s Mrs Hudson’s apron, not mine.”

“So Mrs Hudson wants to be kissed when she’s cooking?”

“I assume so.”

Sherlock looked down at the floor. “I wanted to kiss you, apron or none.”

John felt a tingle on his spine - he looked away too. “Well, you could have given me some warning.”

“I’ll keep it in mind next time.”

Before John could protest, Sherlock turned away and went back to the sofa. He sniffed in the air like a dog before flopping onto the sofa. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“I think your omelette is done.”

John turned back to the frying pan - only to see a pile of ash where his omelette used to be. “DAMN!”

(Oh honey you’re more awesome ;) thank you so much! Sorry if this is crap - I’m very rusty on prompts. Hope you like it!)

…

Sherlock glared at the laptop screen. The room was dark - the digital clock at the bottom of the screen read 11:43pm. John’s blog was open in the browser, the 1895 hit counter still frozen and reflected in Sherlock’s eyes. The last post on the page read: “Sherlock solved the Terence case with no problems - though he has to replace that poor girl’s bike! Small update: it’s my second date with Sarah tonight. I’m rather excited, to be honest!”

Sherlock pouted. Everyone John knew had commented on the post: “Well done!” “Go get her, tiger!” “Best of luck!” “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” “Go on son!” - all of them extremely irked Sherlock. Sarah wasn’t special, intelligent, funny… and yet she’d taken over John’s life. No-one else could see it. The last entry had been posted two months ago, and since then John had gone on at least a dozen more dates with Sarah. That wasn’t even the worst of it. Sherlock shut the laptop lid and reclined in the desk chair, staring up at the ceiling with a frustrated expression.

Sherlock hadn’t seen John in nearly two months.

He knew where John was - either in Sarah’s flat or at work - but the physical absence of John made Sherlock uncomfortable. It was like something was missing from 221B - it was cold now; the old red chair opposite the fireplace was empty and dusty. Sherlock sighed, gently nudging the front legs of the chair off the floor and swinging on the back legs. He nearly lost his balance; he grabbed the desk and pitched forward, his heart racing from the near-fall. Sherlock glared at the shut laptop. He whipped out his phone, contemplated a plan, and decided to put it into action.

John, we need to talk. SH

Sherlock waited half a minute before the reply came: John’s asleep. This is Sarah. Who is this?

Sherlock ground his teeth. Sherlock Holmes, John’s best friend. He felt a sense of pride as he pressed “send”.

Hello Sherlock. What do you want?

I just - Sherlock paused. Then he grinned. - I was wondering if John was still up for our date tomorrow.

Your date?

Yes, John and I are going out. Didn’t he tell you?

No!

Well we are.

I don’t believe you.

Sherlock sniggered as he sent the enemy a picture of him and John - it was a harmless photo, just John and Sherlock posing outside a pub in Edinburgh (Sherlock still remembered the case - it had been interesting, but not as interesting as John’s proper laugh), but he knew Sarah would interpret it as anything but harmless.

The reply came half an hour later: WHAT THE HELL SHERLOCK?

Is this John?

YES

Where’s Sarah?

SHE LEFT ME

You don’t have to shout. Frankly that’s the best bit of news I’ve heard all day.

FUCK YOU

Sherlock waited a moment before sending another text: Do you want to meet up?

It was morning by the time John replied.

Yes. Angelo’s?

Perfect.

(Hiya! Thank you so much for the prompt - I hope you like it!)

…

Cambridge University looked like something off a Christmas card - the turrets were capped with white and sparkling snow, and the trees were dripping with icicles. The pathways had been walked on so much that the snow had turned slushy and brown, and the grit on the roads crunched beneath John Watson’s feet as he made his way towards the huge stone building. 

John tried not to feel intimidated as the university loomed up in front of him. His brain kept nagging at him - you don’t belong here! - but John pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, thinking determinedly about his best friend, whom he was here to see: Sherlock Holmes, recently accepted into this prestigious school. From his letters, John had deduced that Sherlock hated it here (possibly because everyone was a snob), so he’d decided to pay him a visit.

A car zoomed past John - it was big, black and sleek, and it sprayed a flurry of snow onto the road underneath its wheels. John glared at it, but then an idea started forming in his head. He grinned, and stooped down to the floor, gathering up a large handful of snow…

Meanwhile, Sherlock was busy being bored in the library. His homework finished, he was now stretched out in his chair like a cat, his brain ticking slowly as he counted the number of tiles on the ceiling. He grew tired of that quickly, and moved onto thinking about other things. He wondered when John would get here. John would certainly liven things up a bit - this place was dusty and boring. He wondered what John would do. Maybe he’d beat up the bullies in Sherlock’s class. That would be fantastic! The anticipation made Sherlock smile - John always made things fun. 

“HEADS UP!”

A cold blast to the face made Sherlock leap out of his chair - snow was caked in his eyes and mouth, and white dust covered his hair. John stood a few paces away, laughing silently. Sherlock wiped the snow from his eyes.

“What was that for?!”

“Traditional Watson greeting.” John smirked.

“There’s no such thing.” Sherlock scowled.

John just laughed. He walked up to his friend and clapped a hand onto his shoulder. “It’s great to see you, mate. Did you miss me?”

Sherlock shrugged calmly. “Not particularly.”

John punched Sherlock’s shoulder playfully before rising onto his tiptoes and pecking a kiss onto his cheek. “I missed you.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock mumbled. He pressed a proper kiss onto John’s lips, then leaned back. “Is there still snow outside?”

“Lots.”

“Snow angels?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” John grinned.

John closed his eyes tightly. He’d never been more infuriated in his life. “What. The. Hell.”

“Rawr.”

John bristled with anger. “What the HELL?!”

“Rawr.”

“Fuck this!” John growled. “Damn it Sherlock! I put up with your butterfly phase. I put up with your train driver phase. I even put up with that ridiculous Batman phase. But this is the last straw!”

“Rawr.”

“WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!” John stormed out of the living room.

Sherlock, sat in his chair wearing a baggy T-Rex costume, removed his mask.

“It means ‘I love you’ in dinosaur.” he whispered.

Sherlock Holmes had an imaginary friend.

The friend didn’t have a name. He was simply “Friend”. Sherlock had made him up one day when he discovered he was alone. Friend was there when Sherlock needed to talk; Friend was there when Sherlock needed to cry; Friend went away when Sherlock got angry, but always came back with a happy smile. Friend been hanging about all of Sherlock’s life, which should have been annoying, but it was oddly comforting.

When John Watson arrived, Friend started to fade. One day, he vanished completely. Sherlock was scared for that first day - he’d never been without Friend, and he was lonely again. But then John was there, and he was there when Sherlock cried; he was there when Sherlock needed to talk; he went away when Sherlock was angry, but always came back with a frown and a long lecture. Sherlock was happy again.

And when Sherlock Holmes died, it was John Watson’s turn to need an imaginary friend.

(I’M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!!!!!! I’m seriously rusty… Sherlock just wouldn’t cooperate :/ but I hope you like it!)

…

John stood in the 221B doorway, his face frozen in a bewildered expression. The flat was transformed - it was neat for once, with a lavish feast of fish and chips set up on the table in the centre of the room. Candles lit up the place with a romantic glow, and, most surprising of all, Sherlock was stood beside the table with a smile that creased his face adorably.

“Welcome home, John.”

“What’s all this?” John slipped off his jacket and hung it up.

“This is for a special occasion. Mrs Hudson thought it would be more appropriate to do it here rather than at Angelo’s or the Yard.” Sherlock sniffed.

“To do what?”

Sherlock just smiled. He pulled out a chair from under the table and gestured for John to sit down. The doctor complied. 

“Sherlock, what-“

“John, please.” Sherlock frowned. “You’re ruining the moment.”

“Sorry.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. He stood beside the table, trying not to look tall and failing. “John. We -” he paused. “On second thought, this is ridiculous.”

“No, keep going!” John nodded. “I’m intrigued.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Fine.” he took a deep breath. “John. We’ve known each other for five years. Before I met you, I was a wreck, as Lestrade would vouch for. I wasn’t… I didn’t feel human. But when you appeared, you were something new - you made me human. When I left-” both men winced. “-I felt mechanical once more, and I knew that I had to finish my mission and return to you. I’m glad I did.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled for half a second, then they were cold and grey once again. “I never want to be parted from you again.”

“Where is this going, Sherlock?” John frowned.

“John Hamish Watson.” Sherlock smirked slightly. He knelt down onto one knee, looking up at John. “Will you marry me?”

“WHAT-“

“Well, obviously not marry, because that’s not particularly legal, no matter what Mycroft can do.” Sherlock shrugged.

“You want to be - partners?” John yelped.

“Not good?” Sherlock’s face fell. He looked like a kicked puppy.

John gaped at his friend. “I thought you didn’t - I mean, it’s not your area, that’s what you said!”

Sherlock shrugged. “I said girls weren’t my area. Girlfriends. But while I don’t understand the point of a marriage or whatever this will be, I do know that I want you, John.” he took John’s hand gently. “I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe. And I want you to be mine.”

There was a pause. John smiled. “You don’t have to worry, Sherlock. I’ve always been yours.”