February 2012
“When people hurt you over and over, think of them like sandpaper. They may...”
– Chris Colfer (via uncrythesetears)
Police: "Tumblr, you're under arrest."
life-imitates-art:
gokuma:
sageoflogic:
miss-lizzifer:
oh-mystarisfading:
Whovians:
Sherlockians:
Potterheads:
XMFC fandom:
Supernatural fandom:
Let's make Sheet Benedict the most reblogged gif...
elomelo:
they-took-to-their-boats:
Is John licking his lips again? Can you blame him tho?
*a friends speech on my wedding day*
friend: I still remember her hanging up a poster of him, and she told me that she was going to marry him. We laughed about it, but it turned out that she was right.
"Oh, you've redecorated!"
doctorwhoproblems:
colfricans:
breaking news a teenage girl was cured of her clinical depression after seeing a webcam picture of a person smiling and holding up a piece of paper more at 11
6 tags
Here is a 8 hour long Johnlock RP.
Stranger: Bored. -SH
You: ... Sherlock? - JW
Stranger: John? -SH
You: If this is a joke... - JW
Stranger: No, I assure this is not - well, it is unexpected. -SH
Stranger: How have you been? -SH
You: It can't be you. But I've been... getting by. - JW
Stranger: That night in the cab, when we first met, I thought Harry was your brother. -SH
You: I don't care what you say. I know what I saw, damnit. Sherlock is dead. - JW
Stranger: I am not dead, John. It was - a trick. A necessity to protect you.. -SH
You: No. You're lying, whoever you are. I don't like playing games. Can't you just leave me alone? Sherlock died, alright. I saw it. I checked his pulse. I was /there/ when it happened. - JW
Stranger: You saw what you were meant to see. I admit, I had a degree of control over many of the factors. -SH
Stranger: I need to see you. I - would that settle your doubts? -SH
You: No. Because there is no possible way that Sherlock is alive. So, there is no way you... Sherlock, I mean, would be able to meet with me. He. Is. Dead. - JW
Stranger: Please, John. -SH
You: Sherlock doesn't beg. You couldn't be him. - JW
Stranger: Think. Who performed the autopsy? Who had access to all the files? Why did Mycroft not come to the funeral? -SH
You: Mycroft didn't come because he was distraught, you bastard, whoever you are. - JW
Stranger: I think you would be surprised with what I am capable of doing.. -SH
You: You almost sound just like him. You could've had me fooled, you know. But, no. Sherlock is dead. Anything you say is hurting me. So shut up. - JW
Stranger: I don't mean to cause you distress but I owe you the truth, John. -SH
Stranger: Perhaps my little magic trick worked all too well. -SH
You: Sherlock never owed me anything. He /knew/ that. You're not him. Just... why are you doing this? What did I ever do to you? - JW
Stranger: You - asked me, once, for something. A favour. Do you remember John? You asked me not to be dead, to stop this. -SH
Stranger: I am not - sentiment is not my area of expertise. It confuses me. You confuse me. But. -SH
You: Shut up! You're not Sherlock! Stop imitating him. I'd almost forgotten, damn you. - JW
Stranger: John, your limp has returned as has the spasms in your left hand. The forefinger of your right hand has two parallel scars from an accident involving Harry and a pair of sewing scissors when you were fourteen. -SH
Stranger: Or sixteen. It has - been a while. -SH
You: ... It still can't be you. I saw you. Your blood. Your expression. I... No. Sherlock is dead. If he were alive he'd have contacted me sooner. - JW
Stranger: I did not wish to endanger you. Too many eyes, John. -SH
Stranger: You were disoriented. As was intended. -SH
You: Fuck you and the eyes, Sherlock! I waited! For two years I waited, you bloody bastard. I... no. What am I saying. Sherlock is dead. You /aren't/ him. - JW
Stranger: I understand that you are...upset. -SH
Stranger: Two years and you remain as stubborn as ever, John. -SH
Stranger: But I did not think you a coward. -SH
You: You fucking asshole. You... NO. YOU ARE NOT SHERLOCK. - JW
Stranger: Are you a coward, John? -SH
You: Shut up. SHUT UP. I... Sherlock, you fucking bastard. You. I hate you. - JW
Stranger: Good. It is easier this way. -SH
You: No. No. You can't just let me hate you, you don't get to do that. You fucking come here right now. I hate you... but please... come home, Sherlock. - JW
Stranger: The flat? -SH
You: You know what home is, Sherlock. - JW
Stranger: Do I.. -SH
Stranger: Are you home, then? The lights do not seem to be on. -SH
You: The door is unlocked, Sherlock. Come inside before I kill you myself. - JW
Stranger: Charming as ever.-SH
Stranger: Sherlock pulled the scarf tightly against his neck, eyes tearing in the cold despite himself. He braced himself and opened the door. He told himself the trembling was because of the withdrawal and not the thought of. Well. The foyer was warm and dark, and the light from the flat upstairs spilled onto the staircase. He slowly pulled down his hood, bloodshot eyes adjusting the the darkness, and made his way quietly up the steps. He paused outside the doorway, hesitating for a moment before rapping sharply, gritting his teeth against the impact of his bruised knuckles on the wood.
You: The knock surprises John, even though he has been expecting it. It causes the hairs on his arms to stand on end and for a moment, the doctor wonders if this is all a dream. A hallucination, even. Another few thuds chime against the wood and John jumps from his chair, the limp practically nonexistent. His hand reaches slowly for the doorknob, thinking, hoping. Inside him is turmoil, he cannot decide whether he is happy or mad, or some sick mixture of both which makes him nauseated. John swallows once and twists the handle, pulling the door inwards, the tension drying his mouth. Slowly, painfully, the entrance way becomes visible and for a second John cannot bare to look, to check, but his eyes inch upwards to the figure standing in the doorway.
Stranger: Sherlock represses the flinch as John opens the door. The flat is warm and smells of old rugs and comfort and rubbing alcohol and tea and John. John who slowly looks up at him, eyes raw and accusing. Sherlock prides himself in maintaining what little composure he has left after the cold and the tremors that run through him and the slight abdominal cramps that will continue for the next forty minutes unless he gets a hit. He knows he looks changed, still tall and lithe but gaunt, now, with his hair dyed a mousy brown colour that bleaches the colour from his haggard face. His clothes are nondescript and ill-fitting and far too thin for the snow that is melting in his ratty trainers. His eyes are painfully dry behind the dark contacts, and shot from sleeplessness and craving. "John," he says, softly, hoarsely, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides.
You: "You look like hell, Sherlock. Come in," is all John can say as he steps aside and gestures for Sherlock to enter, "Take your shoes off. Mrs Hudson would not be thankful to clean up tracks all over the floor."
As Sherlock follows his instructions, John clears his throat, and swallows back his anger. The only thing left now is acknowledgement of a feeling that he'd been repressing for what seemed like eternities. He retrieves Sherlock's coat, pulling it from his thin form and places it on one of the numerous hooks along the wall. As he does so, he feels the warmth of Sherlock's breath and it takes all of his will not to break down, because that is the only confirmation he needs. Sherlock is alive. His fingers grip at the coat, his muscles tensing, as he breathes out, "I missed you, you know."
Stranger: Sherlock swallows, hard, at the admission. It's honest and straightforward and so utterly John. He doesn't know to do with himself, suddenly a foreigner in this warm place. "I know," he says quietly, and it's probably the wrong thing to say but John always understood what he meant. John has always been the one constant, the one thing that was somehow both ordinary and completely ordinary in every way. "I know," he repeats and he means I've missed you too and I'm sorry but you must understand, it was necessary, you would've done the same or I hope you would've not that I expect you to and - he cuts off his thoughts, the chaos of them, with a sharp nod, waiting on John's move. He expected a fist in the face when John opened the door but his friend (the world is wholly inadequate but the English language has always been disgustingly limited in Sherlock's opinion) has always surprised him.
Stranger: *word is wholly inadequate
You: John nods and closes his eyes, his hands still gripping at the coat on the wall, not wanting to turn and face Sherlock. His throat is raw now, from fighting back all the emotions raging in his mind. John takes a deep breath, opens his eyes, and walks to their chairs, taking a seat and jutting his jaw at the world's only consulting detective to follow suit. For a moment, the doctor merely watches Sherlock, taking in his movements, his nuances. Remembering, reliving, every day when Sherlock used to be by his side. And then all the days that Sherlock wasn't. John's jaw visibly locks as he grits his teeth against the pain of Sherlock's previous absence. He blinks once and manages something akin to a smile, "I liked your old hair better. Much more you."
Stranger: Sherlock sits down stiffly though the sofa is incredibly soft and warm, and the last time he slept on something that wasn't hard, cold, floor or the edge of a metal skip was seventy-six long hours ago. He automatically catalouges the general details: the lack of slight indentations indicate that John hasn't sat on this sofa often (sentiment? grief? anger?), some of the rings on the table are only a few days old (has John had company? Lestrade? or maybe a girlfriend? a boyfriend perhaps? did he take him or her to his bed? did he show them the puckered flesh of the scar?), John's jumper is a pale gray-blue (slate, cashmere, expensive, warm, a present, a token, Mycroft, misplaced guilt, making amends). John's ever-expressive face is pained as it watches him, the lines of the tanned skin there folding and unfolding and stretching over a slight smile (not genuine, he's in pain, regret, humiliation, elevated heart rate, he should punch you, your teeth and blood on the carpet). He breathes. "Disguise," he says shortly. Another breath, this one more painful, rattling in his chest (early signs of pneumonia, a slight cold now, wheezing, don't let on, focus). "John," he begins firmly but falters. "Please. Just."
You: (Sorry, making dinner. Be back soon.)
Stranger: (Np. In case omegle dies, do you have tumblr perfect stranger?)
Stranger: (I'm elomelo.tumblr jsyk)
You: (I'm lazarus-james.)
Stranger: (Dying at your blog tbh. Superwholockomens. SPN. This is too good.)
You: "Sherlock, shut up and go to sleep. I can see you're in no state to talk. You look like you got hit by a truck," John retorts, his anger completely over-rode by the genuine care he had for the man sitting opposite him. Sherlock is speechless for a moment and John smiles again, and this time it's quite real. It's not everyday you get a genius to be at a lack for words. In fact, it's not everyday you get a genius, period. This thought darkens his expression, his smile slipping from his face, but he gets up for a moment to retrieve a blanket for the exhausted detective. He walks without a limp, and returns, gingerly laying the sheet over Sherlock, "Here you go," he murmurs warmly, and goes back to his own chair, closing his eyes, listening to Sherlock breathe, "I... I don't want you to sleep in your room," he laughs at himself a little, "I'm still not sure you're really here at all." His eyes open and seeks out Sherlock's, "Can you stay out here with me?"
You: (Btw, I think I liked one of your omegle posts before, just recently.)
Stranger: (Oh? Were you my lost John?)
You: (No, but I think I liked it. XD)
Stranger: (:P)
Stranger: Sherlock does not protest as John fusses, secretly reveling in the warm cocoon of the other man's concern. "Don't be an idiot, John" he says, brows furrowing but allowing a small smile to play at his lips to show he is teasing. "Of course I will stay here. With you." His tone softens on the last words despite himself and he clutches the blanket tightly for a moment. "You have questions," he says after a few beats of silence, "And - it is important that I remain conscious." As if on some sort of cue, the cramping begins as does the cold sweat on his neck. He grits his teeth against it, fighting the urge to scrabble at the sleeve of jumper, at the markings under the fabrics. "Tea, John. Dehydration. Blood sugar decreasing. Sustenance."
You: "God, Sherlock, you didn't... did you?" John asks, blinking rapidly, running his hand over the other man's shoulder, "I should've guessed. As soon as you..." he pauses, his mouth refusing to articulate Sherlock's 'death', "As soon as you left you fell in with drugs. Sherlock..." John shakes his head in disappointment, "Wait, just a moment, I'll boil some water." He rushes off for a second and then is back almost instantly, "Do you want anything to eat? I have some vitamins in the cupboard, if you need them." He totters between wanting to stand next to Sherlock and sitting down, but he settles with dragging his chair near Sherlock. He smiles down at the detective and says, "Tell me whatever you feel you need to, but don't hurt yourself doing that."
Stranger: Sherlock flinches as John touches his shoulders, those worn, steady hands brushing against the fabric with the casual ease of friend. He sees the hurt and disappointment etched into that face (twenty six, no twenty seven lines fold when he does that, does he know, does he know that I know, does it matter), and curls into himself a little. "Cocaine," he clarifies, closing his eyes for a moment, focusing and rolling against the pain like a judo blow, makikami, it helps a little). "Vitamins, yes. C, D and B12. White rice if we - you have it, with lemon. I don't think I can keep down much else. And the tea, yes." He resists the urge to reach out and touch John's denim-clad knee, to assure himself that JOHN is real, but he doesn't. Because he's upset John enough hasn't he and god, he's never understood the proper response to social situations. "John, I - your limp. I thought."
You: John is taken aback for a moment and thinks back over the last few moments, "I... yes, that is odd." His brows furrow, but he dismisses it after a few moments, unable to explain it, "I'll got make some rice, it'll take a while though." He slips off to the kitchen and clanging is heard. His head pops around the side as he talks back, "C, D and B12?" Sherlock nods his affirmation and John disappears from the man's view, but returns with two cups of tea and three small containers, all balanced precariously in his arms and hands. "Here, Sherlock, take your tea."
Stranger: Sherlock keeps himself awake by taking in as many details of the flat as he can (John moved that chair two days ago, moved the skull, took out my violin case three times last week, the dust on the mantle is heavier on the right than the left, Lestrade was here two weeks ago and had his children staying with him at the time). He breathes and leans back into the sofa, listening to the sounds of John bustling around the kitchen (I've missed him, this is dangerous, caring is not an advantage). When John comes back in after a few minutes, he's nearly dozed off but jerks into wakefulness as the sound of John's voice. "Thank you," he murmurs warmly, taking the tea. His hands tremble but John thankfully doesn't say anything.
You: John eyes the way Sherlock's hands shake and he silently takes it in. Withdrawal was like this, he reminded himself, slightly frustrated, and the only thing I can do is watch. Sherlock's absence for the past two years have completely fled John's mind, because the two whole years that had passed were far less important than the few minutes he could help Sherlock. John knows that Sherlock will get over it, but the way he lies on the couch, with the blanket tucked over him, sipping at the tea, makes John see a sense of vulnerability that most people only ever got rare flashes of. Carefully, he pops open the containers and hands two of each vitamin to Sherlock, watching as he gulps them down. His movements are so tired, John notes, watching Sherlock. The sound of the rice beginning to cook in the kitchen hisses in the background as John listens to Sherlock's breath slow in relaxation.
Stranger: Sherlock sips at his tea and all but melts into the sofa, arms sore, head pounding. Now that he's here, it's all becoming familiar again. He wants to wear his favourite bathrobe and play the violin and tamper with John's jam and watch the sunlight play through his gray-flecked hair while he reads the paper. "I have missed - this." He gestures vaguely at the both of them and flushes. "You have to, mm, keep talking. Ah." He hisses at the pull of the cramp.
You: John wonders in Sherlock has gone lucid from the withdrawal symptoms, but accepts Sherlock's words anyway for they fill him with warmth. Always the doctor, John notices when Sherlock winces from what appears to be a cramp of some sort and John can't help but feel useless as he drinks his tea. Keeping him talking? John wonders silently and then he smiles, "I don't need to know what happened, Sherlock. I..." he clears his throat and takes a deep draught of tea, "I'm just glad you're back. But I need to keep you somewhat awake. So, here - rack that genius brain of yours and tell me your favourite memory, if you haven't deleted it."
Stranger: Sherlock blinks in surprise, his heart clenching suddenly in his chest. He doesn't understand the warm curling in his stomach, that sudden aching fondness he feels for John and tries to focus on the task at hand. His mind palace is chaotic and knife-edged but he pushes through, searching, before gasping as the memory comes to him. John shifts a little, probably thinking it as a gasp of pain but still when Sherlock holds up a bony hand. He closes his eyes and recites the memory as it comes to him. "I am seven. The grass is a little wet, the sun is bright. I am lying down, panting, out of breath. I've just learned how to tie seventeen different nautical knots and can swear quite well in Mandarin Chinese. For once, the mess in my head is clear. I can see it all before me in white words and numbers, clear, perfect, whole. I am convinced that I will be a pirate." He breathes as the memory ends and opens his eyes, looking at John over the edge of his teacup. He feels like he's unfurling and doesn't know why.
You: Without a thought, John grasps the hand Sherlock holds up, even if it wasn't intended for the purpose and the grin he shares with Sherlock is filled with adoration and genuine joy, "That's so unquestionably you, Sherlock. You must have been the most amazing child. The other kids must've clamoured to be your friend." John's eyes glaze over with imagined situations involving a smaller, younger Sherlock who is vibrant and alive and quite possibly the only child on Earth who could possibly have actually been a pirate, if he had chosen too. His smile grows larger as he grips Sherlock hand, "I miss telling you your amazing, you know."
Stranger: (oh god John)
You: (I know. And just. Ugh.
Stranger: Sherlock feels his heart thud painfully against his ribs as John grips his hand, harder still as John speaks, words warm and genuine and god, he's falling, into what he's not sure. He swallows and shakes his head jerkily. "I didn't have the luxury of friends. Too freakish. They'd run the other way. Mummy said they were intimidated, by my gift, she called it. I didn't understand how a gift could. Well." He mumbles, then squeezes the hand over his own. "John, I - I don't deserve this. Any of this. I'd much rather you dislocate my jaw. One punch, your left hand is stronger, one fast swipe, 47 degrees. The blood will hit the table, none of the carpet, promise."
Stranger: *on
Stranger: (They are killing me in the best possible way)
You: John falls silent, but places his other hand over Sherlock's and rubs his thumb against Sherlock's fingers, "I wanted to before, when you were trying to tell me you were... you. I wanted to hit you so hard that you wouldn't wake up for a week. But now you're here and you need my help and I'll be damned if I'm going to hurt you now. You need me now and I'm not taking that away." John closes his eyes and lets out a breath of air to calm himself, "Kids can be cruel, Sherlock. I don't understand why they wouldn't have liked you. If I had known you when we were children, I'd probably be as equally fascinated and astounded as I am whenever you talk."
You: (I know. I'm dying.)
Stranger: "T-That's because you're not an idiot, remember?" Sherlock smiles unsteadily, unconsciously relaxing against the feel of John's calloused hands smoothing over his. "You -- you're different." He breathes. "Children are indeed cruel. I was no different. When they laughed at me, called me freak, I told them about St. Nicholas and toothfairies and what the noises coming from their parents' bedrooms meant. Mummy wasn't pleased at all."
You: John laughs dryly, "No, I could imagine she wouldn't have been. Your mother must've had quite a time, what with you and Mycroft. I don't know how she survived. You're mother must've been quite a woman - beautiful too, I think."
Stranger: "Yes, Mummy was quite the force, still is though she really ought to tell Mycroft to -." He paused. "Beautiful?"
Stranger: (bom chika wow wow /sorry couldn't resist)
You: (XD Hahaha!)
You: John's face reddened slightly and he cleared his throat, "Ahem, yes, well, you've got... quite the cheekbones... a trait I think would be particularly," he coughed, "Um, well, attractive, in a woman. I'd say. And she'd almost certainly have your... well, hair - which would also look quite," he cleared his throat again, "Ahem, yes, nice."
Stranger: Sherlock pulled back his hand smoothly, somehow both stung and warmed, curling it around his teacup and taking a long slurp. "Yes, Mummy knew the importance of making an impression. You would like her I think. She's very -- no-nonsense, I suppose. Though your age may not help matters."
You: John leaned back into his chair, vaguely hurt by Sherlock's retreat, and he raised an inquiring eyebrow, "What are you trying to say about my age, Sherlock?"
Stranger: "That you would be twenty years too young for my mother," Sherlock said quite steadily.
You: "Why- I-" The words popped out his mouth in gurgles, but John paused to recollect himself, "I wasn't trying to hit on your mother, God, Sherlock. I was trying to compliment-" John stopped speaking, and then continued, "I was only trying to compliment her."
Stranger: "Good, that's - good." A pause. "Because that would make for incredibly uncomfortable Christmas dinners." He finished his tea and set down his cup on the table, hands no longer trembling, instead (foolishly) craving the warmth of John's own hands.
You: John smiled as he took another sip of his tea, suddenly noticing it was near empty, "Are you inviting me to family Christmas dinners, then?" Before Sherlock could reply, the metallic sound of the rice-cooking-pot popped and John turned his head to the kitchen, his eyes widened in realisation and he stood, collecting Sherlock's tea-cup and heading over, "You wanted lemon on your rice, didn't you?"
Stranger: "Y-yes, lemon, rice, right," Sherlock blurted, all but tripping over the words in the wake of John's rather cheeky and almost flirty question. His hands were trembling now but with a different kind of exertion. He recognized it as the rush of the game, the thrill of pursuit, though what he was pursuing of, he wasn't quite sure. He did know he wanted to see John smile again like they hadn't seen each other in two years (well he had seen John, across streets, in cafe windows, then in blurry photographs and CCTV clips Mycroft provided him in guilt).
You: "It'll be right out, just a second," John mentioned as he pulled two bowls from the cupboard and dished out two serves. His eyes fell to the fruit bowl and he noticed that it was pathetically missing fruit. I should just call it a bowl, he thought idly, and then he opened the fridge. Luck! There was some lemon juice left from only God knew when, but it would do. He poured a generous amount onto both serves, quickly made up another set of tea and carried it all in on a platter. John placed the platter on Sherlock's lap for a moment, his hands skimming Sherlock's which were resting there, and then dragged the table over. Sherlock positioned the platter on the table and John let out an irritated sigh. The consulting detective shot him a curious stare and John replied, "Forgot to get cutlery. A moment."
Stranger: Sherlock almost pulled John against him as their hands brushed (though he wasn't sure what he'd do next if he'd done it) but restrained himself, considering that the other man was holding far too many hot things to be the recipient of an awkward and probably unwelcome embrace. At John's sigh, he looked up, wondering if he'd offended him somehow but John was saying something about cutlery. Sherlock smiled, warmly, thinking, god does he know how frustratingly endearing he is when he does that - fussing, mother-hen thing.
You: Sherlock's smile momentarily caught John off-guard, but he grinned back, warmed beyond reason. He quickly shot off to the kitchen and returned with two spoons and two forks, just in case the rice wasn't cooked exactly right. John sat back onto his chair and reached for a bowl of food at the same time Sherlock did, their hands resting together, but John quickly withdrew, his face hot, and picked up the other bowl, "Hope it tastes alright."
Stranger: Sherlock shivered at the contact (not unpleasant, not at all) but kept his expression neutral. "It's rice, even you can't botch that up." As soon as he said it, he nearly smacked a hand against his face. The plan was to charm the other man, not to insult him. "Sorry, uncalled for," he murmured, digging into his rice, "Mm, yes, it's very-." Several words came to mind: underdone, cheap brand, a little stale actually, but he chose: "-warm."
You: "I'd hope so, it just came out. If you said it was cold, I'd either have to call an ambulance or check the rice-cooker. Or both," John replied, amused. He brought a spoonful up to his lips, tasting the citric buzz of the lemon juice through the rice. He resisted the urge to laugh; Sherlock had obviously picked the only word he'd thought wouldn't be insulting. A small chuckle escaped his mouth as he conceded the only good thing about the meal, "Yes, you're right. It /is/ warm."
Stranger: Sherlock was barely aware of the speed with which he was attacking his food. The uncertainty of your next meal had put a new perspective on food for him and he barely paused in between each mouthful.'
You: John glanced down at his own bowl, only a few spoonfuls were gone, whilst Sherlock was practically finished. He smiled, I'm not even hungry anyway, "Do you want mine? I think I've become a social-eater. You should probably take it."
Stranger: "If you're sure," Sherlock rumbled but he had already taken the bowl and was halfway through before he came up for proverbial air. "How is, um. How are things? How is Mrs. Hudson?"
You: "Oh, she's fine. Healthy as ever. Had a heart-murmur a couple of months back, though. But she's good now. Paid for a vacation for her," John replied, taking pleasure in watching Sherlock complete such a menial, mundane task as eating, "I think she met a nice man there too. Hasn't told me much though. I can't blame her. I haven't been much company lately."
Stranger: "That's good, her, um, finding someone. Though she had a tendency to gravitate towards the more dangerous ones. However, she is a phenomenal woman." A pause. "You make for...very good company," He added softly. It was true but it felt strange, almost embarrassing voicing it. He felt like he was saying a well-kept childhood secret outloud. How did John all but douse him in compliments if this is what it felt like?
Stranger: "You're wearing a rather expensive jumper, one that was given to you, one you don't particularly like but know flatters you and makes your eyes brighter. Are you going on a date, John?"
You: John's brain stopped and a rather unattractive burble of noise escaped his mouth as the cogs ground to a halt, "I-uhh-well-me-um-you-ye-n-mghygdf," he cleared his throat, his face extremely red, "Ahem. I wasn't. I was going to dinner with an associate and I thought I should at least clean up, I cancelled though. I'm glad you, uhh," he coughed, "Um, appreciate the effort."
Stranger: (dying John you're too precious for this world)
You: (I basically keyboard bashed for the last word thing there. XD)
Stranger: (accurate though!)
Stranger: "It is a flattering look, I suppose, but it's from Mycroft." He said the name with obvious distaste, though he had to force some of the disdain. For the last two years, his brother had been his only connection to John, the only sure way he had of ensuring John's safety and wellbeing without being noticed. "I much prefer you in that horrid pastry-looking thing. The cable knit? It's much more you."
You: Unable to think of a coherent reply, John hid behind his tea cup and nodded back.
Stranger: "Not that you're horrid in it," Sherlock amended hastily. "Or pastry-looking. Well a bit but it's not." He exhaled noisily, frustrated. He could recite the Fibonacci sequence in French, German and cobbled Russian but he was horrid at small talk. And complimenting. John looked entirely uncomfortable already.
You: John coughed and sipped at his tea, his ears hot, "I... uhh, thanks for your thoughts."
Stranger: Well, this was not going as smoothly as he'd planned. He wondered if he should tell John that his eyes changed colour when he was pleased or that Sherlock wondered the dip between his cupid's bow tasted like (salt, perspiration, lemon, cold tea, home). Somehow, he didn't think normal people said those sort of things to each other.
Stranger: "John, I - I'm not good at this. Sentiment is not my area of expertise. But I do have um. Well towards you. And."
You: John, curious, leaned forward, his heart randomly beginning to race, "Yes?"
Stranger: He braced himself and hoped that if John was terrified and never wanted to see him again, he'd have the strength to escape from the warm cocoon of blankets and the smells of home. He licked his lips and began, " I know that I've hurt you but I intended to protect you and I fear that I have permanently damaged our friendship as a result. I meant what I said John - you are my only friend. Yet, it frustrates me to no end but I find myself unable to think clearly with you this close to me. I know that I said it would be easier if you hated me because John, I don't know what I'm doing or saying right now but all I know is that I want to lock you away from the rest of the world and burn anyone who so much as look at you because I can't bear the thought of you touching anyone else."
You: John felt like the breath had been knocked out of his. He'd been in war, he'd seen death, but this was affected him more so than anything in his life. When he was finally able to speak, the only words that came out of his mouth, dry as it was, were, "It sounds like you love me, Sherlock. I hope that's true otherwise what I'm going to say next will sound very idiotic. And here they are - I love you."
Stranger: Sherlock blinked. He'd honestly been expecting that punch anytime soon or maybe a laugh, a oh-get-off-it-and-finish-your-rice sort of brush-off. He hadn't expected this. So he hope he would be forgiven for whatever came out of his mouth then. "Of course I love you, you idiot. You're just - you're perfect." He hesitated. Was this the part when people kissed? Or was it an embrace that came first? He was terribly confused. It was one thing to see it on television or in casual observation but to be there, with someone who made him lightheaded and grounded him all at once, was - just bloody confusing.
You: An abrupt fit of laughter escaped John's mouth. He couldn't believe it. Sherlock and love and... did Sherlock just call him perfect? John's face was hot when he replied, "Sherlock, I hardly think it's me that's perfect. You're the amazing one. You're a genius. I'm... just John. And oh, god, please say it again."
Stranger: "That you're an idiot? Because you are. Just John, really, that's just - well, it's pedestrian! You're-!" He gestured at him wildly. "Look at you!"
You: John blinked and laughed, "No, no. Say you love me again, Sherlock."
You: (Brb)
Stranger: "I love you. I think we have already established this."
Stranger: (Me too, grabbing breakfast lol)
You: John smiled and reached for Sherlock's hand, holding it between two of his own, "I just like hearing you say it. It's... refreshing."
Stranger: Sherlock smiled nervously in return. "I think I like saying it. My stomach does a strange flipping motion. Look." He took John's hand and pressed it to the dip of his stomach. "I love you. Did you feel that?"
Stranger: (Sherlock is so romantically awkward oh lawd)
You: (Oh, god, yes, he is.)
Stranger: (I'm assuming you're going to do something and John will say something when you come back. Don't leave me hanging bro or this will progress into some freaky mpreg territory I cannot deal with D:)
You: (Oh, sorry, yes.)
You: John's face went red-hot as his hand came into contact with Sherlock's midsection, he coughed a little and cleared his throat, "Ah-e-hem. Yes, I... uhh, that felt, yes, definitely."
Stranger: Sherlock hummed in agreement and let go of John's hands. He wanted to hold them, wanted to curl closer to John's warmth actually but he wasn't sure what would be considered appropriate and what wouldn't. Judging by the alarming shade of red John was turning, perhaps the stomach-thing had not been the best course of action but he had been sincere. "John, I - I've never done this before. Any of it. I don't know what to do." He curled and uncurled his hands restlessly. "Can I - can we - um, embrace?"
Stranger: (Oh the poor thing is hopeless)
You: (OMG. I'm going to die from the cute.)
Stranger: (I will be here to perform virtual CPR a la major angst if necessary ;D)
You: John swallowed and nodded, almost too dry-mouthed to reply and taken off-guard to say anything else. He slid his hand into Sherlock's again and brought his other arm around Sherlock, pulling him into a hug, their bodies in full contact. John immediately became aware of Sherlock's warmth and he resisted the urge to pull him in tighter, lest he hurt him.
You: (It may be necessary.)
Stranger: For a moment, Sherlock felt the wind had been knocked out of him and clung tightly to John. John who was warm and smelled of shaving cream and tea and clean skin. But then he relaxed, arms wrapping around John in turn, and pressed himself closer. Oh, yes, well this was nice. Very nice. A little frightening too, like he was standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down, wondering if he'd fall, but exhilarating because he knew John would be there to catch him. "You smell wonderful," he murmured into the fabric of John's sweater, "I mean you always smell wonderful but this is - you smell like every wonderful thing in the world." He was aware that he was babbling but John didn't seem to be pulling away from him.
You: John forgot his worry about hurting him and wrapped his other arm around him, holding him tighter, reaching a hand up to play in Sherlock's hair. His fingers spun in the short curls and Sherlock's lemony breath whispered towards him. John took in everything about the moment. Noted down the way Sherlock felt in his arms, how much this moment meant to him. John breathed into Sherlock's neck, "You're amazing, Sherlock. I'll never tire of saying it, you know."
Stranger: "And I'll never tire of hearing it," Sherlock quipped, making a surprised but pleased humming noise as John's fingers stroked through his hair. He reached up his own hand and mimicked the movement exactly though it didn't work quite as well with John's hair which was shorter and much straighter. The contact was all a bit dizzying, almost like a game. He was always good at those. John had complimented him too. He searched his head for one for John - not that he didn't have a list of things he loved about John, tucked carefully into the corner of his mind palace dedicated to the man - but he needed to choose one that was both genuine and flattering without being too socially inept. "I could watch your hands at work for hours, catalouge every movement and commit it to memory. Oh, that would be - yes, brilliant, quite brilliant. The way you hold a scalpel or a towel or a gun or toast. You're absolutely fascinating."
Stranger: (This is only cute because HE says it, anyone else and you'd probably run the other direction. And get a restraining order.)
You: (Nawwww, it's so adorable!)
You: John chuckled, pulling back, "Out of all the things, you /would/ pick that, wouldn't you? Not my devilishly good looks or my down-to-Earth charm. No. You compliment my hands, Sherlock. And that is one of the reasons I love you," he closed in the distance between their faces, they could feel each other's breath on their lips. John's heart leapt to an astounding pulse and he wondered, for a moment, if he were having a heart attack. His mouth felt dry, his hands all clammy. This was worst than when he'd been a teenager.
Stranger: (Oh John~!)
You: (So cute. Going to die.)
Stranger: Sherlock was about to say something about said good looks (I know the exact angle of the ridge of your nose and I know that it was broken twice when you were in primary and it's really quite lovely) but then John was incredibly close and the world seemed to focus in on his face and his lips and his breath against Sherlock's. "Citrus limonium," he breathed, leaning forward to clumsily press his closed lips against John's partially parted ones. Their noses bumped awkwardly and Sherlock pulled away quickly, feeling like his heart was about to burst out of his chest.
Stranger: (I know, I just want to draw hearts all around them.)
You: (MY HEART JUST EXPLODED FROM CUTENESS.)
Stranger: (:D)
You: John was almost out of breath, even thought the kiss had lasted little more than a second. His blood felt as if it might jump out of his veins. Trying to regain his composure, he leaned his forehead onto Sherlock's shoulder, his breath tickling at the other man's neck.
Stranger: (I sympathize with John right now.)
Stranger: "John, are you - are you alright? John?" Sherlock wondered if he'd done something wrong. Maybe it was a horrible kiss. Oh, no, he'd botched it up, hadn't he? John was breathing shakily against his neck which felt all kinds of pleasant but --
You: "Oh, I'm fine. Just a bit... um, overwhelmed," he coughed and looked back up Sherlock, drowning in his eyes.
Stranger: Sherlock smiled, incredibly pleased. He'd overwhelmed John? Must have been a good kiss then. Yes, a rather good one indeed. He tried to look less manic as he looked down at John. "Should I try another compliment?" He half-teased, already selecting a few from his list. "I can count twenty-seven distinct lines in your face when you frown and I'd like to spend an hour discovering each."
Stranger: (Can't be tamed)
You: (OH, GOD. Sherlock's ideas of compliments are so creepily endearing.)
Stranger: (My headcanon, it has a mind of its own really.)
Stranger: (The cute/scary thing is he actually means it and he's not even pulling out the really creepy stuff.)
You: (I can see that. XD)
You: John didn't know whether to feel flattered or not, but he settled with a smile and kiss on Sherlock's forhead, "You're so adorable when you try to compliment me, Sherlock."
You: *forehead
Stranger: Sherlock scowled, nose wrinkling. "Try? Adorable? /Me?/" But he blushed fiercely when John kissed his forehead. "Um, could you," he gestured at his mouth, "Kiss me here?"
You: (WHAT. SHERLOCK. YOU'RE EXTREMELY SEXUAL TODAY.)
Stranger: (I KNOW. WHAT A HORNDOG. DOWN BOY. DOWNNN.)
You: John chuckled a little bit, "I'll get there sooner or later, Sherlock. Learn some patience. After all, I did."
Stranger: Sherlock frowned at this. "What, by dating every woman this side of London?" He didn't meant to sound petulant but - well, it couldn't be helped. He'd told John that he was sorely tempted to burn anyone who looked at John. He'd meant it.
You: "Since it seems you've kept an eye on me, did you ever notice how they were all somehow similar to you? I didn't until Lestrade pointed it out the other day," John murmured, pulling back from the embrace, but leaving his hand resting possessively on Sherlock's lap.
Stranger: Sherlock squirmed a little, John's hand seeming far too warm (electric) on his thigh. "Lestrade?" He said, voice a little higher than normal.
You: Noticing Sherlock's obvious discomfort, John decided to play a little, letting his fingers drop down in the dip between Sherlock's legs, "Yes, he came over the other day. To see how I was. You know. What friends do, Sherlock."
Stranger: (Oh you tease~)
You: (Hahaha, you started it. ;D )
Stranger: Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Oh two could play at this game. He leaned back slightly, unbuttoning a button of his shirt peeking out from under his jumper, than another, so his throat was exposed. He then leaned forward, rubbing absently at the skin there. "Oh? And you spoke of dating women who looked like me?"
You: John's mouth went dry, his eyes automatically targeting the exposed, milky and smooth skin. His pulse sky-rocketed and he cleared his throat as he met Sherlock's eyes, "Hot, are you?"
Stranger: Sherlock felt his pulse jump in his throat, seeing John's tongue dart out to wipe at his bottom lip, but he blinked innocently. "Oh, yes, it's far too warm in here. Mind if I take this jumper off?"
You: "Oh, by all means," John replied, swallowing, trying to stop his breathing from accelerating, "And, um, yes, the women all shared similarities to you, somehow."
Stranger: "Hmm." Sherlock peeled off said jumper and tossed it carelessly behind him. "I don't know if I should be flattered or ask you fetch my revolver."
You: John sat helplessly as he watched Sherlock's muscles tense, whilst removing the said jumper and he took a deep breath to calm himself, "Flattered, I think."
Stranger: "Can't I do both?" He put a hand on John's shoulder, circling his thumb against the muscle under the fabric, leaning forward slightly. In all honesty, he was going with his instincts. He didn't really know what he was doing or how John would respond to it but so far, the other man seemed to be fine, aside from the obvious dilation of his pupils and the increase in the rate of his breathing. "So were any of these women sufficient substitutes?"
You: "I think the fact that I was going to dinner with a work-mate today is answer enough," John answered, the feel of Sherlock's thumb echoing into his body, having a lot more effect that he would've thought possible.
Stranger: "Hm, yes, I suppose," Sherlock murmured, utterly distracted by the flush of blood in John's neck, fingers brushing past the collar of his jumper to rest lightly on the bones there. He leaned forward and licked the skin with a quick swipe of his tongue. Salt, heat, soap, the faintest tinge of cologne. "Fascinating," he breathed.
You: John almost jumped, the hot flash of Sherlock's tongue on his collar-bones shocked him, sending tingles throughout his body, he took in a quick uptake of breath and glared at Sherlock, his face red again, "What was that for?"
Stranger: "I wanted to taste that spot right there. It tasted like how you smell of, well sort of, but it was very you. You still use the same soap though you've changed your cologne to something a bit more subtle which means you were not meeting anyone in a romantic context." At John's almost panicked look, he wondered if he was supposed to compliment him again. "It tasted lovely," he said, nodding slowly.
You: (WHAT. SHERLOCK IS A CREEPER. I LOVE HIM.)
Stranger: (AND HE LOVES YOU. KUKUKUH.)
You: John decided to accept this and smiled back, "Your response is very reassuring, Sherlock. I'm glad I could taste... lovely for you."
Stranger: "Of course you taste lovely," Sherlock said very seriously. He didn't know if John knew how pleased he was, to have John so /available/ to him, like something otherwordly and beautiful under a microscope. He took John's left hand in his own, fingers brushing across the various nicks and callouses, noting them in a low, fervent murmur. "Gun magazine. Trigger. Burn, four weeks, most probably tea. Kitchen knife when you were, yes, fourteen. Scalpel, experimentation, not quite self harm, more curiousity." He kissed that particular scar quickly. "Tried guitar in pre-med, never caught on. You did play the clarinet, quite well actually or at least you thought you did judging by the amount of hours you spent practising -- 278, give or take."
Stranger: (I am having way too much fun seducing John a la being too bloody clever. Please tell me to stop anytime.)
You: (Oh, it's fine. Btw, I'm horrible at writing smut. I get like... I don't know all... awful.)
Stranger: (Oh I seriously doubt there are ready for that at this point.)
Stranger: (So I think you're good.)
You: "Stop it. Stop that. You're doing the thing with your cheekbones again," John muttered, reaching his fingers up to trail over Sherlock's face.
You: (Oh, thank god. XD Somehow, these stories jump in sex and I'm just stumped sometimes.)
Stranger: (Well, smut can be fun but yeah, no, it'd be so out of character for any of them to jump into bed this moment.)
Stranger: Sherlock felt his face heat up but he smiled a little smugly. "Is that a problem, John?"
Stranger: (brb!)
You: (Ok.)
You: "Never, but you should stop it. It makes me want to kiss you and never stop," John grinned back, letting his gaze drop to Sherlock's lips, his fingers dipping down and running over them.
Stranger: "I, uh, would be amenable. To the kissing and the um." His mind stuttered as John's fingers brushed across his lips. His tongue darted out slightly to brush across them. Skin, a little bit of lemon, Pears soap.
You: John had been expecting it this time and wasn't as startled. He raised a genuinely curious eyebrow, "Still as lovely as my collarbone?"
Stranger: "No, the, um, taste. It's stronger, there, obviously. Unless, I, um, you let me lick your fingers."
Stranger: (Btw Sherlock has no idea half the stuff he says is innuendo. It's just him being frank oh dear.)
You: (I know. Sherlock. You're so. God. Let me love you and your innocence.)
Stranger: (Of course, John. [Holy are we meta RPing now?]
You: John's throat is once again dry, but he knows that Sherlock is practically naive in this and is just... intrigued. He swallows, but this time it does nothing and his voice is hoarse when he asks, "Do you really want to?"
You: (God, yes! [OH GOD, I THINK WE ARE.])
Stranger: "I - yes. I mean, if you are comfortable with. I don't - yes." Sherlock nodded and waited patiently.
Stranger: (Oh, dear, god, John, pull rank for me. [Cracky meta rp, can't be tamed fffff])
You: (I like it when you deduce the shit of stuff, god, yesssss. [Lolwut, whatever. I regret nothing.])
Stranger: (I'll deduce the trousers off of you then, SIR. [Regrets, what are those exactly?])
You: John smiled and placed his hand into Sherlock's control, letting him do what he wanted, "Go ahead."
You: (Good job, private. [I don't know a word people use for things they wish never happened. Never understood it.])
Stranger: Sherlock grinned blindly for a moment before raising the hand to his lips. He flicked his tongue at the tip of the index finger before taking the digit into his mouth, scraping it slightly with his teeth. John jumped a bit at that, which was strange. It couldn't have hurt. He pulled back, releasing the finger with a slight pop. "Mm, no, your collar is still the lovelier of the two." A little frustrated puff of breath. "You wash yours hands far too often, John, even for a doctor. I can barely taste the tomatoes you cut this morning."
Stranger: (Oh god, John, the things you do to me. Would you like me on my knees, Captain? [IDEK. I love how they're on the verge of ripping each other's clothes off here while their more IC counterparts nervously fumble around and lick each others fingers platonically.]
You: John knew that Sherlock had no idea just how arousing the action he'd just committed was and John was struggling not the show it. He smiled a bit, and remarked, "You're amazing, but really you should stop."
You: (On your knees, private. But first, fetch the riding crop. [IKR. We're terrible! AND I LOVE IT.])
Stranger: Sherlock froze up, pulling away his hand. "Oh, I, my apologies." He hadn't meant to get so carried away but John was completely fascinating. Perhaps he had gone too far. Maybe he should try kissing John again. The press of lips had been a little awkward but exciting. He knew it progressed beyond that, involving tongues which was utterly unhygienic considering the sheer amount of germs in the human mouth but it was John and Sherlock was curious to see what John's mouth tasted like. If the other man would let him, considering how he'd reacted to everything else.
Stranger: (Yes, sir. And the handcuffs too? [OH YUSSS.])
You: (You didn't address me by my title. You will be punished, private. Fetch the riding crop and the handcuffs! [LOL. OMG. I'm making him like a commando control freak.])
You: "Ahh, Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked, as Sherlock appeared to be closing the distance between their faces.
Stranger: (Yes, Captain, sorry Captain. Right away, sir! [Sherlock loves it, his military kink is out of this world.])
You: (On the double, private! [What time is it there? XD How long have we been RPing for?])
Stranger: "Kiss you, obviously," Sherlock said drolly but stopped. "Unless you don't want to." He kept his tone neutral though he was starting to feel foolish. John's body language indicated that he was interested in Sherlock, very interested actually, and he had observed John kissing many girlfriends and a few boyfriends. Was he repulsive? Was he too freakish? He swallowed, hard and started to pull away.
Stranger: (Here, Captain. Please punish me as you see fit, sir. [It's 9:30 AM, I've been up all night doing various things haha. I think we've been at it for a good few hours. What time is it where you are?]
You: "I just don't want to move too fast, Sherlock. You're new to this whole relationship game and I don't want to, well, frighten you off. And I would very much like it if you kiss me, Sherlock," John replied, pulling the detective back to face him and drawing their faces in close again.
You: (On all fours, private. [It's 12:27am here. XD I think we've been at this since about... 6pm.])
Stranger: (Oh god yes. Captain. [Trolololo we're so fierce, what is this quality.])
You: (Good, now spread your legs, private! [Hahaha, I know. Oh, god. This is wonderful. This has been the best like 6 hours of RPing that I've ever written.
Stranger: "I, yes, well." He swallowed once, then twice, dropping his voice to a quieter register. "I don't know what I'm doing John. I'm feeling in the dark, I suppose. I just know that I love you and I want you and I, um, would like /you/ to kiss me." He was almost whispering as he finished, trembling a little in his nervousness.
Stranger: (Yes, Captain, oh god, yes. Is this alright, sir? [Aw thank you, I am really enjoying myself too
Stranger: ([I also have a pretty dark RP on hold where John is doing the exact opposite of what your John is doing and taking things too far to punish Sherlock. It's disturbing but all kinds of fun.])
You: John couldn't help but smile at the weakness that Sherlock was showing, as he brushed his lips against Sherlock's ever so lightly, his voice vibrating against Sherlock's lips, "I could kiss you forever and never get tired, so don't feel afraid to ask, Sherlock."
Stranger: "Oh god yes," Sherlock murmured, tasting John without really touching him, the sensation sending shivers down his spine. He made sure their noses wouldn't bump this time, tilting his head slightly as he pressed forward, mouth parting slightly to taste John again him.
You: (A little wider, private. [I love your Sherlock, he's so naive! And playful.
Stranger: (Yes, sir, of course, Captain. Aren't you going to handcuff to be the railings, sir? [Isn't he just? /squishes/ But John, oh John's so earnest and good and just JAWN LET ME LOVE YOU. Martin's Freeman's face, really, I can't. And oooh angry John. That shouldn't be as hot as it is -- but it is.])
You: It surprised him that he was the first to take initiative, sliding his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, exploring it. He closed his eyes and entwined his hands in Sherlock's hair. He wanted to remember every sensation of Sherlock, every taste, every touch.
You: (Don't question me, private. We'll get to the handcuffs later. Hand me the riding crop, immediately! [I know. God. Just. Lovey-dovey Jawn is so damn cute.])
Stranger: Sherlock gasped slightly at the sensation of John's tongue in his mouth, hot and slick against his own, his fingers curling in Sherlock's hair. He moaned lightly and despite the urge to watch every movement and nuance in John's face and body, his eyes slid close, and he found he could better concentrate on the taste and feel of John against him. His hands, trembling, came to rest at John's waist, digging slightly as John deepened the kiss. God, John tasted wonderful - beyond wonderful. The sharp tang of lemon, the neutral undertone of rice, the slightly sour-warm tinge of tea and something slightly spicy he couldn't place that was utterly John. His mind was a warm, pleasant hum behind his eyes, cataloguing every detail - welcome additions to the ever-growing space in his mind palace. The other part of his mind was less coordinated, more a chaos of taste and touch and smell and johnjohnjohn.
Stranger: (Yes, sir, of course sir! God, John... [I want a pocketsized John - who can shapeshift into a hedgehog because of reasons])
You: (Now, ten should do it. One, two, three... [Yes, this pleases me.])
Stranger: (Oh fuck John yes god. [And otter!Sherlock because of other reasons. They can float down streams and rivers and wide baththubs to solve crimes and things.])
You: John is lost in the kiss. He can't tell where he starts and Sherlock ends. The world is a dizzying kaleidescope of Sherlock and the taste of him. The smell of him. The feel of him. Everything is Sherlock and his hands on John were starting to creep down. John's heart was pumping so fast, his blood ready to burst from his veins. But he didn't want to moment to end, he never wanted it to end. Sherlock was here and Sherlock was his and, oh, god, Sherlock was /so/ good.
You: (Four, five, six! You better be feeling that, private! [Otters are the cats of the sea. I can accept otter!Sherlock. This is good. Yes.])
Stranger: Sherlock pulled back slightly for breath, panting against John's mouth, mumbling, "God, love you, you wonderful perfect idiot, mine, mine," before laying back on the sofa and pulling John atop of him, joining their mouths together, his hands grasping fistfuls of John's jumper.
Stranger: (Oh fuck John Captain yes harder please god. Harder, sir. [:D!])
You: (Oh, you want it harder, private? Take that! Eight! Nine! Ten! And one for good luck! [What am I even writing anymore. I don't know. I've become a monster. XD])
Stranger: (Ah fuck yes John please I can't I need you inside me John now. [Please unleash the best! See what I did there. And lol if my smut becomes too much, please let me know trolololo :D])
You: As John falls onto Sherlock, he loses all control of thought, "Amazing, forever, you," he murmurs against Sherlock's lips before he deepens it again. Taking pleasure in their contact, the feel of his body against Sherlock's. All of it is almost too much. There is no longer John. All there is, is Sherlock.
You: (Let me handcuff you first, private [Oh don't worry, I have plans, darling. ;)])
Stranger: Sherlock growls at John's words, fingers scrabbling at clothes and hair and skin, trying to touch as much of John as possible. If he could, he'd undo John's ribcage and somehow fit into the space there and never leave. It thrilled him, the thought of being a part of John, of being in his blood. He growled again, flipping them over and straddling John's waist. Panting, he looked down at John who was equally flushed and out of breath, hair mussed, lips swollen and slick with spit. He cupped that face, leaning forward to rest his forehead against John's. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I want to map out every inch of you and mark it somehow because you're mine."
Stranger: (Oh god yes John please [Ohohoho, come at me~])
You: As John gazed up at Sherlock, at the messy haired, skinny, frail, milky-white, man sitting on him, he knew it was the truth. He belonged to Sherlock and, "You belong to me too." He pulled the oh so delightful man back to to kiss him, folding his arms around Sherlock's back to pull him close. The contact of their bodies only made John want to kiss the detective more.
You: (And there. Now, I leave you here, private. Punishment, I said. When you pick the lock, come see me in my office. [LOL. Yes, I just did that. Also, I can't write REAL smut, like full on stuff. I'm fine with the kissing and shit, but anything beyond that and well, yes.])
Stranger: Sherlock who has been enjoying the contact immensely so far gasped, though this time no in pleasure. John had pulled him against him a little too tightly, pressing against the bruised rib Sherlock had been resolutely trying to ignore that evening. But the slight pressure made him pull away from the kiss to bury his face in John's neck and shudder, in pain, fingers twisting in John's sweater. "Ah, a moment," he mumbled against the hot skin, closing his eyes against the sudden tears at what felt like sharp blades digging right under his chest.
Stranger: (John! Wait you're not - oh you bastard. You - five minutes, John Watson, and I will have you on that bloody desk and make you SCREAM. [Your John is too much a tease~~ So many feelings. And ha it's alright ;D It's all in the subtext. And angst returns!])
You: (I wait for that moment, private. [Hahah, thanks. XD I love some angst. But I like have uni tomorrow, pretty early. So, um. I need to sleep soon. Half an hour, tops.])
You: "Are you alright, Sherlock?" John asked, sitting up, cradling the man's back, his eyes wide with concern, "Did I hurt you?"
Stranger: ([No problem at all, I need to get started on those readings hohum and answer my dark!John properly...])
Stranger: "Not intentionally, no," Sherlock wheezed, "Just - bruised rib. It's alright. Give me a few moments, yes?"
You: "Oh, Sherlock! You've should've told me. Damnit, let me go and get some ice to put on it," John hissed, slipping out from under Sherlock and tucking him back into his blanket. Agh, I should've known he had injuries. I should've been gentler! John practically mentally hit himself in the face whilst he was fetching some ice. After finding some, he rolled it in a tea-towel and wet it ever so slightly. Rushing back, he asked, "Where does it hurt?"
Stranger: Sherlock tried stopping John, tried returning to the wonderful kissing but his vision was going a bit white around the edges with pain and the exhaustion that was catching up to him. He lay back, breathing in stuttered gasps, clutching at his side, legs curls. "Right side, upper part of the rib."
You: John gently, but firmly applied the ice and rub Sherlock's shoulder with his other hand. As the coldness came into contact with him, Sherlock flinched, but remained still. John furrowed his brow, "Is that better yet?"
Stranger: "Cold," Sherlock mumbled childishly, pressing his face into John's jumper. "I liked that kissing bit. Could we, ah, oh, ah, ow, again?"
You: "No," John replied sternly, "No more kissing for you until that bruise rib is healed up. Are there any other injuries you have that I might accidentally make worse that you haven't told me about, hmmm?"
Stranger: Sherlock made a low whining noise before melting back into the sofa, arms limp. "A few bruises on my thigh, the /obvious/ bruises on the inside of my left arm but that can't be helped, the pain I mean." He paused, frowning up at John before blinking innocently. "There's a cut, on my neck, right here." He unbuttoned his shirt halfway and pulled at the fabric to reveal said cut, red and raw. "Saliva is a natural antiseptic, John."
You: "Yes, it might be, but I have real, medical ones in the cupboard and they sting. A fit punishment, I think. You should tell me about this before we do... physical things, Sherlock," John remarked, patting Sherlock's hand and then heading off the get the science and hygiene approved antiseptic.
You: *to
Stranger: Sherlock sighed noisily. He'd licked John's neck - surely, the other man could return the favour. Didn't /he/ wonder what Sherlock tasted like? Besides, the tongue of that tongue that had been in his mouth (glorious, wonderful) on his neck was well, it made him warm and a little dizzy. Usually a nuisance that made everything appear in hyperdetail, for once, his excellent memory was a gift rather than a curse. He curled into his mind, into the very fresh memory of John's finger in his mouth, his skin under his tongue, then, John's mouth against his own, that tongue on his mouth. He hummed, warm and flushed and cozy, and nearly dozed off as John returned.
Stranger: *the thought of that tongue (oh lawd grammar wut)
You: "Now, this is going to hurt a little bit, which is good, I think. Lesson learnt," John commented, pouring a dab of the liquid onto a small piece of cloth. He then proceeded to gingerly run the cloth over the wound on Sherlock's neck, cleaning it. After he was done, he gave a quick glance, "It's probably best to let it breathe now."
Stranger: Sherlock hissed. The sting wasn't too bad, he'd fared against worse, but he was rudely interrupted in the middle of a particularly interesting daydream about John kissing him in between bites of tangy raspberries. "Boring," he muttered, "I'd rather kiss you some more."
You: "No. I told you. Anyway, you were falling asleep. I think it's best if we both do. We've got... an interesting day ahead of us, explaining your sudden existence," John smiled wryly, holding Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissing them, "Come on, off to bed."
Stranger: "Bed?" Sherlock murmured, blushing to the tip of his ears, but yawned, proving John right which should have been irritating but was endearing because god, John knew him like no one else. He took John's hand and allowed himself to be led upstairs.
You: "I hope you don't mind. We're sleeping in mine tonight, I haven't gone into your room... And I asked Mrs Hudson to keep it the same, so the sheets are... well, dirty now, I suppose. You don't mind, do you?" John asked, as he walked to his room, turning the knob and pushing in the door.
Stranger: "No, of course not," he said quietly. What he really wanted to say was of course not, don't be an idiot, I want to sleep in a bed you've slept in because then I'd be completely surrounded by you and yours things and it'd be perfect. He kept that part to himself, twining his fingers with John's.
You: "Alright," the door completely opened and he gestured Sherlock to go in first, "Welcome to my humble abode."
Stranger: Sherlock /had/ been in John's room before, two years ago, to wake him for experiments or cases or, that one odd time, to record his breathing patterns during a nightmare and then wake up him from said nightmare and explain his presence by saying he'd heard John cry out. The room was a little different now, with more papers and folders (he caught glimpses of COLD CASE and SCOTLAND YARD), but still incredibly neat and simple, the bed done up severely, the sheets tucked in hospital-style. Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt, pulled off his trousers and socks, till he was only in his boxers, and flopped onto the bed, face first, inhaling the scent of John and laundry detergent and coffee.
You: John blinked once and then grinned, sending Sherlock a parody-version of a sultry smile, "I'm going to change into something a little more... comfortable."
Stranger: Sherlock bought up his head a bit to smile shyly at John, peering up from under his eyelashes. "Of course."
You: When John returned he was wearing full striped pajamas, nothing at all close to sexy. He did a small stretch and then joined Sherlock on the bed.
Stranger: Sherlock instantly curled towards John, looping an arm around his waist and locking their ankles together, burying his face at the back of John's neck. "Mmm, mine," he mumbled sleepily.
You: John laid his hand over Sherlock's and closed his eyes. This was the most comfortable he'd felt in three years.
Stranger: "John?" Sherlock asked, almost half-asleep, twining their fingers together on John's stomach.
You: "Yes?" John all but yawned, his eyelids beginning to drag down.
Stranger: "Can we snog properly tomorrow, hm?" He mumbled against John's neck, pressing a sloppy kiss there. "And could you eat raspberries? And wear nothing but that hideous lumpy sweater?"
You: "Yes, Sherlock, we can do all of that and more. Now, get some sleep so we aren't tired when we do that, ok?" John replied, letting out a satisfied sigh.
Stranger: "Sleep is boring ngh." But Sherlock's breathing slowed and he was soon asleep, warm and full and content.
Stranger: (Aw they're spooning in a bed I can't
You: As soon as the gentle snore of Sherlock drifted over him, John was out.
You: (LSKJDLKJSD. SO CUTE.)
Stranger: (Aw do you have to leave or are we going to more drama?)
Stranger: *have
Stranger: (It's alright if you do ofc ;D)
You: (Babe, it's 2am here. XD And I have uni tomorrow. :P How about this? I'll make a little wordpad online for us to continue on. XD)
Stranger: (Lol! I was just teasing ofc, education and all that RL stuff is important I suppose :P And sure! Lovely! I think Mrs. Hudson is going to be scared when she comes in with breakfast for John :o)
Stranger: (Just send me a link)
You: (LOL! http://piratepad.net/spooningjohnlock)
You: (Mrs Hudson is going to have a heartattack! XD)
Stranger: (Perfect title is perfect!!
Stranger: (Oh this has been amazing, we will waste er more spend more time together soon I hope despite our different time zones lol.)
You: (I knew you'd like it. ;D)
Stranger: (Oh before you go I have no idea how it works)
You: (THIS HAS BEEN SO MUCH FUN! And yes, I intend to spend much more time despite our time zones.)
Stranger: (Do I just bookmark the link to come back to it or?)
You: (Yeah, bookmark it. Unless you can remember the address. XD)
Stranger: (Also, not to be creepy but where are you from? So we can work out time zones without being insomniacs? I'm from Canada, my timezone is -4 EST or something)
You: (I'm from Australia and I have no idea. XD)
Stranger: (Lol! Okay gotcha.)
Stranger: (Well it was lovely meeting you of course. Get some rest
Stranger: (See you soon~)
You: (
You: (Pleasure to meet you too!)
Stranger: (
You: (
