#The Reflexes of John Watson

[atlinmerrick]

Minutiae (Or 156 Things I Know About You)

The Reflexes of John Watson

Sherlock Holmes once worried that loving him was just a reflex of John's, that any kind man would have turned the good doctor's head.

Except Sherlock wasn't kind that night at Bart's was he? And Sherlock sometimes can't deduce worth a damn.

Thank god.

#minutiae #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock fan fiction #The Reflexes of John Watson

[thelazyecrivain]

Fluffbruary - Day 10 (strong)

Tenth day of @fluffbruary, using the prompt "strong"

Read on AO3

French version

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"He can't."

"Don't underestimate John, Lestrade."

"Never can he carry you, you're too big!" Greg insisted.

For the past five minutes, the two detectives have been debating John's strength. No one could remember how they got to this kind of topic, but when the doctor went to take a break to support his natural needs, the two men began to argue their point of view.

"There's only one way to find out." Said Sherlock mischievously.

Greg sighed with a tired smile. "I'd like to see John say yes to carrying you in front of my entire team." The image he creates for himself makes him want to laugh

"Who says I'm going to ask him?"

Greg wanted to contradict him when John walked back into the office. The latter stopped when silence fell in the room just after his entrance.

"Is everything okay?" John asks as he sees Greg's tired expression and Sherlock's grin. 

"Yes, yes. Sherlock still thinks he's right but I'm convinced he's wrong." Greg growled. John is sure that Sherlock will be the reason he retires. After several years of knowing him -supporting him-, he more than deserves his years of rest.

"Oh?" He said as he sat down. "On what."

"Nothing, it's forgotten." Says Greg, sending a look to Sherlock. Don't. The latter's smile widened. John frowned. He didn't like it.

But the rest of the hour went well. Sherlock complained, Greg grunted, John sighed. All normal after an hour of detailing every interview with the suspects in their ongoing investigation.

It was when they finally left the office, Greg accompanying them to the elevator, that the policeman realised what was going to happen. Sherlock stopped abruptly, John continued on his way, indifferent to his oddities. The detective smiled at Greg before launching himself at John.

"Catch!" He shouted, and Greg felt like he was in front of one of those magic shows where he feared for the assistant's life even if something like this were to happen, it would be removed from the final cut before it was broadcast.

John's reflexes take over and catch Sherlock as he throws himself on him like a kid trying to land on a mattress. He doesn't wobble, doesn't fall, and to everyone's surprise, John Watson, at five feet seven tall, holds a six-foot Sherlock Holmes perfectly without shaking under the weight of the dark-haired man. It looks so easy, like an adult carrying a newborn. 

Perched in John's arms, carried like a princess, Sherlock smiles proudly.

"Sherlock. Can you explain to me what you're playing at?" John asks, slightly annoyed with Sherlock.

"Graham was convinced that you couldn't carry me. I'm proving his assumption wrong."

Greg can't deny that he lost. It's been almost a minute and John hasn't moved. He promises himself never to underestimate his friend's strength.

"I'm not going to lie, I like it when you show your strength." Said Sherlock in a low voice so that only John could hear.

John smiled wryly. "I see. So if I keep you like this, you won't mind?" Sherlock winked at him. John turned to Greg. "Sorry Greg, but I think Sherlock is right for once."

"For once?" Said Sherlock, indignant. The two friends ignored him.

"Good thing I didn't bet anything." Laughed the policeman.

Everyone in the office and open space watches as the two lovers and their friend say goodbye and John continues to carry Sherlock to the elevator without looking tired. 

Once the doors are closed, he takes possession of John's mouth, Sherlock's arms around his shoulders holding him, even though the detective had no doubt of his doctor's strength. 

"I'll show you how strong I am once I get to Baker Street." John whispered between kisses.

"With pleasure, Captain Watson." 

During the next case, no one dared to insult Sherlock, at the risk of upsetting John.

(tell me if you wish to be tagged !) @topsyturvy-turtely @missdeliadili

#fluffbruary #fluffbruary 2023 #johnlock #johnlock ficlet #my fics #sherlock fics #bbc sherlock #Sherlock love when John's in his captain mode

[meetinginsamarra]

Whumptober Day 9 "You're a liar"

John gasped for air that did not find a way into his lungs, slowly suffocating on the monstrous terror that Sherlock might have died again.

Taking advantage of John’s momentary paralysis, Smith straightened up to look John dead into the eyes. In an attempt to distract and shock John even further, trying to gain valuable seconds in order to make an escape through the secret door, Smith bared his crooked teeth.

“Too late, Doctor Watson,” Smith sneered, “he’s already mine.” He released his hands from Sherlock’s face and held his fingers up, wriggling them in the way a party magician would do after having performed his best trick.

“Dead things, you know?” Smith chuckled happily.

However, this remark had the exact opposite effect on John. Clenching his hands, John’s combat reflexes took control, breaking the paralysis and banishing every shred of doubt.

I refuse to believe that Sherlock’s dead! I was made to watch him die before and every time he came back!

“You’re a liar!” John roared and sprang into action.

—

find the fic on AO3 HERE

---

Please tell me if anybody wants to get tagged or untagged (just say it, I won’t get mad).

@helloliriels @calaisreno @7-percent @lisbeth-kk @inevitably-johnlocked @peageetibbs @gaylilsherlock @totallysilvergirl @alexisnoir @blogstandbygo @jobooksncoffee @missdeliadili @kabubsmagga @mary-johnlocked

#whumptober 2023 #no.9 #you're a liar #Sherlock #fic #my sherlock fanfics #slowly suffocating

[storiesbytoria]

John Meet Jon

A fanfiction inspired by Frogwares’ incredible retelling of this beloved duo :) 

Warning: There may be some spoilers if you haven’t played Sherlock Holmes: Chapter One and The Awakened!

SUMMARY: John Watson has never inquired into Sherlock’s life in Cordona, though it is clear - in the rare, but tense visits from Mycroft - that Cordona holds a big role in the young detective’s past. One of the names mentioned by the Holmes brothers - Jon - is still an enigma, though Watson surmises the gentleman may be part of the reason behind the bittersweet tones with which Holmes speaks of Cordona. John knew all too well the pain that can come from reliving old memories - which is largely why he lets Sherlock alone - but his curiosity gets the best of him when he comes home to find Sherlock’s sketchbook open on their shared table.

JOHN MEET JON

Watson nudged the door to 221B open with his side, mail between his teeth and a box of pastries from the bakery nestled carefully in his arms. The baker’s fiancé had been sick for some time, and he remembered, during one of Watson’s weekly runs, that John was a doctor. John had agreed to see the fiancé and suggested some alternative medication and fresh air, which, thankfully, had the fiancé in much better spirits.

As thanks, the baker made him fresh pastries and twice as many for his visit today. There were some new items in the batch too, he said, that Watson could try and give his feedback. John was most looking forward to a raspberry vanilla tart he caught a glimpse of when the baker showed him the thank you haul. He imagined Sherlock might like the lavender scone with lemon glaze.

Heading up the stairs with the goods, Watson was ready to see Sherlock at one of his usual spots - folded over his chem station, or rifling through the archives. He wasn’t playing violin, he knew that much from the silence. But when he opened the door, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Watson fought down the reflexive panic.

“Sherlock?” he called around the letters in his mouth, closing the door behind him with his foot and heading to put the pastry box and mail on the table. It was more crowded than usual, he realized, as he noticed a black sketchbook splayed across some old newspapers.

“Sherlock, are you here?” he called again -properly now - as his gaze is drawn against his better judgment to the pencil sketches. There were some quick landscapes that looked reminiscent of how Sherlock described Cordona. On the opposite page were various perspectives of what looked like a male figure, a portrait of the young man’s face the focal point. He seemed a handsome fellow.

There was a scuffle of feet, and Watson straightened, feeling much like a schoolboy having been caught cheating.

Sherlock walked out of his room, hair mussed and gaze tired. Watson immediately surveyed the rest of him, looking for any sign of strain beyond just exhaustion. Sherlock’s cerulean gaze felt light, though, when he caught Watson’s stare, and it eased the tension that had been in John’s chest.

“Oh, John. Apologies, I didn’t hear you come in.” The detective’s eyes caught the open sketchbook on the table. John wasn’t sure he had ever seen embarrassment on the man’s face before, but there it was. The slightest pinch of his brow, the quick dart of his gaze. There really wasn’t any point in pretending he hadn’t looked, though.

Watson gestured to the sketches.

“They’re quite beautiful,” he said, though Sherlock didn’t acknowledge or deny the compliment. John usually refrained from asking about Sherlock’s past, but he felt a nagging curiosity as Sherlock crossed the room to stand beside the sketchbook. The young detective hesitated at the pages though, not closing it right away as John had expected. He took his chance.

“Cordona?” the doctor asked, moving closer and pointing to the landscapes. Sherlock paused briefly, but nodded.

“Yes, I…had forgotten it once. I suppose this seemed the best method to remember it by.” John was momentarily stunned, as he always was whenever Sherlock admitted something quite personal in such a straight manner. Especially when it involved his past.

Grateful and curious, John allowed himself to point to the young man’s portrait.

“And the gentleman?” Sherlock shifted his weight, and for a moment, Watson thought the door to Sherlock’s mind was about to close.

“…that’s…Jon…”

“Jon…” At the start of their rooming together, Watson had heard the name in the rare times that Mycroft visited - the times that they argued - and had been confused until it was more apparent that they had not been referring to himself. He had no details other than the young man apparently being a part of Sherlock’s life in Cordona, though Mycroft often had a condescending tone when he was mentioned, and Sherlock seemed particularly shaken whenever Mycroft brought him up. But now…

There was a smile on Sherlock’s lips as he gazed down at the young man’s portrait, a slight but warm uptick at the corner of his lips. His gaze was equally affectionate and sad.

“You grew up together?”

“…in a way, yes…” Watson gave him a questioning look, but Sherlock didn’t elaborate.

“And Mycroft knew him as well?”

“No.” The word was sharp, though Sherlock’s tone often became clipped when it came to any talk or mention of his older sibling. “…but he thought he did.” Watson hummed in soft understanding…at least of the little he was piecing together so far. He flipped through another few pages.

“It seems you had quite the time together,” Watson said, smiling at a sketch of a younger Sherlock and John on a blanket in what looked like a garden. Another of them, older, sitting side by side on a wooden swing.

John looked up at Sherlock.

“He was important to you.” The detective’s jaw tightened just the slightest. He sank into the chair beside him, laced his fingers together and rested his chin on them with a measured but distant gaze. Watson could see the tired weight of his shoulders. He waited. Sherlock seemed to be debating his next words.

“He…wasn’t real, Watson.” As soon as the words left him, Sherlock seemed regretful, pained. He reconsidered. “Well, not by “normal” standards.” Not real? Watson flipped through the sketchbook again, all the detailed recounts, the intimate details, the obvious care, love, and freedom in the strokes that brought these…memories…to life.

Watson wasn’t sure he believed in a god. He had seen too much in his time in Afghanistan, but…an imaginary friend didn’t quite seem to fit who this Jon was - which seemed to be what Sherlock (or maybe Mycroft) was insisting upon as the explanation. But with their run in with the cult that had both gentlemen questioning reality, it was hard to discredit the possibility of Jon having actually existed - even if it was in a different, inexplicable, but much more benevolent manner.

With more thought though, and the way he remembered Sherlock talking about Jon, gazing at his portrait earlier, Watson realized it didn’t really matter what the explanation was.

“It’s clear he was real to you, Sherlock.” The young detective looked to Watson, obviously taken aback by the response - and likely the lack of judgment in Watson’s gentle gaze.

John realized this must have been why Sherlock rarely talked of Cordona. Cordona, despite the obvious place it had in Sherlock’s heart and mind, was also a reminder of what Sherlock feared so deeply now - the loss of his mind. His mother. Jon. The visions. It all felt like proof that he would always have to question his sanity - why he clung so desperately to facts.

Except…from all those memories…Jon, from what Watson could understand and sense and see in the sketches between his hands, felt like light. A light that Sherlock may have needed in that time. And he felt compelled to put a note of gratitude into the universe in the off-chance that Jon did indeed exist in a way to receive it.

Watson drifted back into the present, startled when he saw tears on Sherlock’s cheeks. His hand reached before his mind could process, palm cupping the side of Sherlock’s face.

“Sherlock?” Sherlock blinked, startled at the touch and seemingly unaware that he had even been crying. He seemed abashed then, cheeks warming beneath John’s thumb.

“I-I…” He pulled away. “Apologies,” Sherlock said, rubbing the back of his hand across his cheeks to dry them. John’s hand floated - uncertain and yearning - in the space between them. He dared to reach again, rested it at Sherlock’s back.

Watson felt warmth spread through his chest. His smile came easy.

“It’s quite alright. I’m sorry if I caused some turmoil.” Sherlock shook his head.

“No, no, it’s…it’s alright. I’ll admit today was not one of my better days. But…” The young detective glanced at the sketches beneath Watson’s hand again, but then his gaze found John’s - held it. “…this helped. Thank you…John.”

“Of course.” Squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder, John closed the sketchbook with care, albeit hoping that this wouldn’t be the first and last time they could talk like this. “Have you eaten?”

Sherlock’s silence was answer enough. And though he normally worried about the detective’s absentmindedness when it came to regular self-care, he didn’t feel in the mood for a lecture. John opened the box of pastries.

“You’ll need a full meal afterwards, but I don’t see a problem starting with dessert today.” The doctor waved Sherlock over, and he was relieved when the detective didn’t object, getting to his feet and making his way over to the assorted goods. John watched crystal blue eyes survey the treats.

“Is that a lavender scone?” John felt a swell of pride and a hint of a warmth that had been appearing more frequently in their time together.

“Yes! Please help yourself. Though I’m claiming the raspberry tart for myself.” Sherlock’s lips eased into a smile.

“Of course.”

NOTES:

Hope you enjoyed! I haven’t been inspired to write again until after playing these games, so it’s safe to say I was both relieved and excited to be writing again :)

I always appreciate comments and feedback, so please feel free to share any constructive notes or just share in my love of these characters! lol

I have other short works/vignettes in the works that I’m hoping to share soon as well, and you can find more of my work on A03 or Instagram! 

https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesbytoria/profile

https://www.instagram.com/victoria.m.draws/

(Extra note: I’m planning to start posting on my Instagram again in June, so bear with me until then! lol) 

#sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes chapter one #frogwares holmes #frogwares sherlock #frogwares #sherlock holmes fanfic #sherlock holmes fanfiction #fanfiction #videogame fanfiction #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock fanfic #jon #sherry and jon #john watson #sherlock and john

[fellshish]

I know youre not into bbc sherlock fandom any more, but are there any lines that still stick in your head? For me it's "He's my friend" from reichenbach and "It's you, John Watson, you keep me right." Six whole years since I swore to destroy Mofftiss on sight and those goddamn lines still pop into my head and make me Feel Things :/

Hahaha well ummm yes that happens all the time. First of all i’ll never not ship johnlock, to be clear, though it’s true i’ve moved on from writing them / being more active in fandom.

But yes there’s certain phrases that unfortunately trigger my fight or flight reflex. “Did you miss me” is a big one. The word “note” (this is my note!!), “it’s all fine”, i don’t know there’s just things i’ll always hear in their voices. :/

#esp with my partner we end up quoting it sometimes and then look miserably at each other lol #the way that show changed our brains… #sherlock #johnlock #my asks #also HE’S MY FRIEND 😭😭😭😭

[jenovacomplete]

Currently, the most popular “go-to” assessment for [self-injurious behaviours] in the autistic population is a Functional Behavioral Assessment or Analysis (FBA). An FBA is intended to develop and then test various hypotheses in order to eventually determine the “function” of a behavior, in this case self-injurious behaviors (Maurice, Green, & Luce, 1996). A Functional Behavior Assessment or Analysis is a method that is widely used in Applied Behavioral Analysis (ABA) therapy and is typically conducted by a Board Certified Behavioral Analyst (BCBA), in order to assume the function of a behavior. Applied Behavioral Analysis utilizes one very small subset of psychology called behavioral psychology or behaviorism as the premise for its treatment practices. The behaviorist movement began predominantly with John B. Watson and B.F. Skinner in the early 1900s. Behaviorists believe that all behavior is simply a reflex or reaction to our outside environment. These early behavioral psychologists insisted that what cannot be observed cannot be scientifically studied and measured, especially intangibles such as sensations, emotions, and thoughts (Myers & DeWall, 2017). The importance of thoughts, emotions, and internal processes became evident with the rise of cognitive psychology, which became more widely acknowledged in the mid-1900s. As a result, the principles of behaviorism that are implemented through ABA therapy do not take into account internal processes. Consequently, the FBA was designed to determine the function or cause of external behaviors by identifying external triggers or stimuli. ABA uses an FBA to try to determine the function of the behavior by using what is called “ABC”-antecedents, behavior, and consequences (Martin & Pear, 2011). An antecedent is stimuli that exists right before a behavior, and the consequence is what occurs after a behavior. For example, a child sees his friend (antecedent), the child runs to his friend and falls down (behavior), the child begins to cry (consequence). In this scenario, you can clearly determine one external function for why the child is crying-he is physically hurt. Now consider an actual case from clinical practice when a nonverbal child was asked to match photos of his family members. Every time he was shown a photo of his father (antecedent), he would throw the iPad (behavior) and thus he did not have to match the photo of his father (consequence). However, the real reason for the behavior was his parents were getting divorced and the father had just moved out of the house. Continuing with the chain of behaviors, the child avoids the task (antecedent), the behaviorist uses reward or punishment to make the child do the task again (behavior), and then the child throws the iPad again and becomes psychologically distressed (consequence). The cycle continues and as a result, the therapist continues to invalidate the child and exacerbate the child’s emotional and psychological distress relating to his parents’ separation. Now recall the first example, the child who falls as he runs to his friend may also be crying due to embarssment or shame, but this would not be an external, measureable factor and it no longer fits within the realm of behaviorism. Behaviorists might realize that the observable behavior is an expression of an internal process, but the understanding and treatment of the behavior is now beyond the scope of a behaviorist.

ABA therapists use an FBA to look at both the antecedent and the consequence of SIBs in order to hypothesize the function of SIBs. It is unclear why one would assume such an assessment/analysis would also be appropriate to assess the thoughts, feelings, and other internal processes that often determine the function of self-injurious behaviors (especially since we know this is the case for SIBs in the non-autistic population). Instead of approaching these SIBs and understanding them the way we understand SIBs in other populations, we have misapplied an FBA in an attempt to measure SIBs despite the fact that it cannot measure such a construct. This makes the assessment unscientific and methodologically flawed. Consequently, the misapplied FBA has sometimes obtained the same information and observation as the previously mentioned research (communication difficulties correlated with SIB), but the conclusions for the functions of SIB reached are varied, inconsistent, and without any scientific basis. Therefore, any treatment recommendations that are derived from an FBA should be considered unreliable since the assessment method in it of itself is unscientific, as it attempts to measure an unobservable construct, which is outside of the sphere of behaviorism and should only be performed by someone trained in psychology.

-> Treating self-injurious behaviors in autism spectrum disorder by Gary Shkedy, Dalia Shkedy & Aileen H. Sandoval-Norton

#speaking! #long post #actuallyautistic #aba therapy #psychology #anti aba #nd tag #reading.

[navybluee101]

It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been woken up at ridiculous o'clock; it wasn't even the first time he'd been woken up at ridiculous o'clock in London, in the comfort of his own flat. But as John Watson's fingers closed reflexively over the handle of the bedside drawer, yanked, and then plunged inside to close around the familiar weight of his side arm, he realised that it was the first time he'd been woken up by Sherlock Holmes silhouetted on the threshold of his room, with a feather in his hair, snapping his fingers peremptorily and announcing: "Gun. Now."

‎

#third person sherlock holmes is cursed #an ask? for me?

[mochiusagifanficchaos]

Sherlock x Mute!Reader •Part1•

„So, do you guys know what you want to eat?", asked John Watson in a slightly impatient tone. You could tell that he was hungry and did not felt like waiting any longer, just because the Holmes brothers made an eye-contact-battle.

Mycroft cleared his throat and gave the menu a quick look.

„Yes", he said and waved a young girl with a white apron over to the table.

You saw a man at a table right in front of the window waving so you quickly made your way to him. On the way, you struggled to get your notebook out of your pockets from the apron but had it in your hands, right at the moment when the man began speaking.

"One steak and one spaghetti.", he said and turned away from you again.

How rude, you thought, but nodded in a polite way and smiled.

Then you looked at the guy sitting on the right side of the table, wanting to know what he was going to order, but the man wasn't even looking up to you. His eyes were fixed on a paper that was lying in front of him on the table. You already knew him.

Since you have started to work at the Café you saw him now and then, always sitting at the same table, never ordering something to eat, rarely a cup of tea.

"Nothing for me, thank you.", he suddenly said and changed the pages of his paper.

Puzzled you let your pen slide back in your pockets, nodded once again and turned around.

"Why aren't you going to eat?", the men who ordered the food asked and just got a cold: "I don't eat when I'm working, digestion slows me down.", as a response.

"How did you know what I was going to order?", you heard one of the men asking as you walked back to the counter to give the cook your note.

You turned around again to face into the direction of the three men.

The man with the short dark hair, well the 'rude man' to put it into better words, just opened his mouth to say something, but got cut off by the guy in front of him.

"Your finger John, ", he said, his eyes still analyzing the papers in front of him. "It's on Spaghetti."

The man, called John, sighted and turned his glance to the window: "Obvious. Of course."

"WAITER!", someone suddenly yelled and you winced, nearly dropping your notebook.

You looked around to meet the gaze of two angry-looking men which were wearing expensive-looking suits and hats, black leather gloves and were smoking a strong cigar, you could smell it, even though you were on the other end of the Café.

Slowly you walked to the two men and bowed slightly, which was meant as an excuse.

"Not even an apology. Tsk.", the man with the cigar in his hand said and dumped the ash down into a vase.

You took the cigar out of his hand angrily but also carefully.

He rapidly stood up from his chair and crashed his fist onto the wooden table.

You flinched back a little but calmly pointed to a sign over the counter.

It showed a red crossed out cigarette.

Unwillingly he slowly sat down again, still glaring at you, but you just responded with a sweet smile.

You went to the counter again, putting the cigar into a trash bin and came back to the table, whipping your pen out and holding it over your notebook, ready to write.

Since none of them was talking to you, you looked the man on your right into his eyes, raised an eyebrow and tilted your head a bit. Your way of asking what he wanted to order.

After some seconds the man understood: " Two Cappuccino, please."

You nodded and gave him a polite smile again. Hearing the other man getting something out of his pocket, you looked at him, noticing that he just fetched a new cigar.

You gave him a warning look before bringing the cook the note with the two Cappuccino.

Right in time.

He was just placing two plates on the counter, took a peep at the note, looked at you and you nodded. Making the drinks was your job and you knew it, but the cook, or well the Chef, with his brown hair tied up into a plait, and his big belly, stretching the white shirt, always wanted to make sure. He was a nice guy, never being angry, even when you made mistakes, he was always calm.

And for some reason, the man that never eats here did not need to pay his orders, which also counts for his friend, John.

You learned that right on your first day here and embarrassed yourself.

The Chef went back into his kitchen and you behind the counter, making two cappuccino and some black tea.

You wanted to be attentive towards the man who was here so often and thought it would be a good idea to bring him a cup of tea. He does not need to pay it anyway.

You took the water boiler off of his socket and poured the hot water into a cup with a black teabag.

And over your hand.

You pulled your hand back out of reflex and squeezed your eyes tight, whimpering silent because of the pain pulsing in your right hand.

Fast you let cool water run over it and flinched as the water hit your burned spot.

With tears in your eyes, you grabbed a little can of milk and poured a bit into the tea.

Blinking the teardrops away you grabbed the two plates in your left and the tea in your right hand, bringing it to the table with the 3 men.

You placed the food in front of John and the 'rude-man' and the tea in front of the other man.

He was still looking at his papers, ruffling his hands through his brown, messy hair.

"Thank you.", he said in his warm voice while continuing to dead glare the black letters on the paper. "And hold your hand under lukewarm water, because of your burn."

You nodded, confused, about the fact that he knew that you burned yourself but put it off with the explanation that he saw your red hand.

Over 30 minutes had passed now and your hand still felt like it was burning. You placed it under water, put ice on it, holding it under water again but it just wouldn't get better.

It even got difficult to carry plates and glasses with your right hand, forcing you to go more often to a table because you couldn't carry it all at once anymore.

Luckily the Cafè wasn't well patronized today so you could spend some time on cooling your hand.

You just wiped your hand dry as you noticed John and the other men standing up from the table.

Hurriedly you wrote the price of the steak on a paper from your notebook and ripped it out while rushing to them, giving the 'rude-man' the bill.

He looked at you with a raised eyebrow: "Why do I have to pay? I thought Sherlock gets free food here.", he said arrogant and wanted to return his bill, but you already wrote something on a new one and showed it to him: 'Fiat from the Chef, sorry".

Groaning he pulled his wallet out of his pant pockets and gave you the exact sum.

You looked at him disappointed. Not even a little tip. Are you this bad at your job or is this guy just as rude as a tart?

"Where's Sherlock?", John suddenly asked and looked around the Cafè. You also looked around but he was nowhere to be seen. "He already left?", John asked again but you just shook your head before going to the counter to put the money into the till.

From the corner of your eye, you saw someone moving next to you.

You looked up and saw Sherlock standing next to you with your Jacket over his arm.

Wondering you replied his eye contact and tilted your head again like you always do when you wait for an answer.

"Come with us. I already talked to the Chef, don't worry. John needs to look at your hand, he is a doctor.", he said and walked to the front door.

Confused you took of your apron and hung it onto a hash on the wall, following Sherlock, who was already waiting outside.

Your mother always told you not to go with strangers, but it felt like you already knew him for a long time.

Well, you knew which kind of tea he liked with how much milk if that isn't something.

Sherlock was heading for a door left from the Cafè with the Number "221B" written on it.

He unlocked the door and went in, the 'rude-no-tip-man' called for Sherlock: " Are you going to attend the matter??"

"Yes, yes, maybe.", it came out of the house.

"It is from national concernment!"

"I know Mycroft."

Sighing he turned to John: " Goodbye, Doctor Watson.", and turned to the street to wave for a cab.

"Goodbye.", he responded.

You followed Sherlock into the house, John gave you the advantage so you needed to look around for the door in which Sherlock went by yourself.

But since only one door was open, you found it easily.

With an uncomfortable feeling, you stepped into the room.

It smelled like cigarette smoke and it definitely needed to be a window opened to let some fresh air inside. On your right side was a big yellow Smiley drawn on the wall with... holes.

You wondered what they were but Sherlock already answered: "Gunshots."

You looked at him blank.

Your head slowly tilted to the side and you furrowed your eyebrows.

He waved the sentence with his hand out of the air and pointed to a grey leather armchair, next to a brown-red fireplace.

"Sit down, John will take care of your hand.", he said and walked into what looked like a kitchen.

You set down on the armchair and sank into it. It was really comfortable, you had to admit

and you liked the big red carpet right under your feed.

John came through the door with a small white box in his hands. He smiled at you and kneeled down before you.

"Give me your hand", he said, opening the box with his right and carefully grabbing your hand with his left.

He sprayed something on it which smelled like sanitizer then rubbed a white cream on it and bind your hand with a bandage.

You smiled thankfully at him and tried to move your fingers, but a sharp pain rushed through your hand and made the once cold cream felt burning hot.

"No, no. don't move it. I am going to give you a new bandage with cream tomorrow and in 2-3 days it should be better again.", he informed you and closed the white box again.

Then he stood up and slumped into the red armchair in front of you.

"So, what's your name?", he asked you, still with this warm smile on his face. It seemed like he still hasn't noticed that you were mute. You automatically grabbed to your pocket, to get your notebook, but it was empty.

Then you remembered. You forgot to take it out of your apron. Goddammit!

Now you were sitting there, helplessly looking back at John Watson.

"She is mute.", Sherlock said, coming out of the kitchen and walking over to a messy desk, taking a paper and pen from it and giving it to you.

"Oh.", John answered surprised. "I thought she was just very shy. How did you notice?"

"She didn't talk one word back in the Cafè, even when she was scared. Do you remember? The two guys with the cigar? "

You scrawly wrote something under your name on the paper and showed it to Sherlock.

'I was NOT scared!'

"Of course, of course."

"That's all why you knew she is mute?", John asked again and got a disappointed look from Sherlock.

"My good friend, John, you are the doctor here. I assumed that you would notice the characteristics of a mute human-being! Especially because she got a thin scar on her throat."

"Yes, yes! My god Sherlock, I admit that I am a man with a small little brain which is, like you say, boring inside.", John huffed. " What was her name again?"

"Y/N.", Sherlock answered.

"Why are you letting her sit on your chair anyway?"

"Because she is hurt."

"You normally never let someone sit in your chair, no matter if they are hurt or not."

"She brings me tea."

"Mrs Hudson also brings you tea."

"Mrs Hudson isn't making the tea right."

"Ah. Of course.", John rolled his eyes at Sherlock.

He just ignored him and gave you something, which he was holding in his hand the whole time.

"For the tea.", he said with the same expression on his face like always. It wasn't a deadly serious expression, just a nonemotional, even though you thought his eyes were looking more gentle than usual.

Part two will be up next weekend! 😊

#fanfiction #sherlock #bbc sherlock #sherlock fanfic #sherlock fandom #sherlock x y/n #sherlock x reader #x reader #reader insert #wattpad

[froody]

How I think certain Sherlock Holmes characters would react to seeing a ghost.

John Watson: *Reflexively tries to shoot it.*

Sherlock Holmes: *Initally thinks he’s  hallucinating and ignores it, gets curious later.*

Mycroft Holmes: *Ignores it completely.*

Mrs. Hudson: *Doesn’t fuck around and gets it exorcised immediately.*

#holmesposting #Holmes and Watson have indepently come to the conclusion Baker Street is haunted #they’re worried the other will think they’re mad if they share this

[dearsherlocked]

You ran out of milk - A Sherlock Smut Imagine

Hi! I’ve been kind of down lately, haven’t been able to write a lot. This one is a smutty one, inspired by a rather larger fic I am writing (who am I kidding, I am not at the moment), but someday I’ll finish it and feel confident enough to post it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! :) 

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Warnings: mention of violence, smut

Masterlist

Slowly drawn from a deep sleep by the curious feeling of being observed, Y/N’s gaze falls on Sherlock’s ice-cold eyes. The early morning light penetrates the room, and the enveloping darkness draws a veil over what happened between them the previous night. She can barely make out the features on the detective’s face; only his pale irises reflect the daylight. She feels a numb distance growing between their bodies. It’s not a hard task to guess his incredulous traits; he’s confused. Innocently, she stretches herself in his direction, trying to break this unbearable silence. She keeps wondering why she suddenly feels torn at the idea of losing him.

‘Morning,’ she whispers in a broken and mellow voice, pulling the sheets closer to her naked body. 

But he only sees this mischievous light in her eyes. The bad, the ugly, the irritable feeling that she’s in fact very dangerous, much more than he believed at first. She won the game, he ruminates, she broke him in a way he had never been broken before. He’s just staring at her with an odd expression. He doesn’t know why she’s still there and why did he allow this reckless assassin - who have made the past weeks impossible to live without worrying - in his bed. He wonders in silence, speechless. Silence is eloquent in the face of the unknown. 

‘You should go,’ he finally declares. 

It should be an order, not a suggestion. However, he doesn’t even know if he wants her to go. He worries about what will happen next. By staying there, time seems frozen. He’s safe between the four corners of his mattress. Y/N stays still, locking her hazel eyes into his. There is something wrong with her, she feels different. The previous night, they both fought, she was the intruder, breaking every code of intimacy by infiltrating herself into his bedroom, uninvited. She just wanted to observe him for a while, like he was some sort of experiment. She is fascinated with Sherlock Holmes, but can’t help herself but wanting to feel superior to him. His wild side took over him. Sherlock let himself show the darkness within, and now there is no way back. 

‘I should,’ she replies, but doesn’t move an inch. 

He’s like a magnet to her, pulling her to him, she can’t stay away and she hates herself for it. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Her boss was clear, destabilize the man, don’t get involved. Well, they are both destabilized now. She presses her forehead on his, and she can feel him stiffening. Nothing is vain yet, he’s still lying next to her. He could have gotten up, pushed her out of his flat for all he cared, but he’s not doing any of that. He’s also testing himself. Showing anger would only confirm emotions and give them a voice he can’t allow to infiltrate his train of thoughts. He wants to know why didn’t he resist the night before. He wants to know if it will happen again. He can feel her warm body pressing, her hips looking for his. Out of a sudden, he grabs her head with his hands and presses his lips violently on hers. Soon, Y/N feels his body on the top of her, and she closes her eyes and abandon herself to his touch. He’s giving in again, why can’t he help it? 

His hands are searching her, she can sense his long fingers running their course. One and the other he’s changed or he’s playing a game. Either way, she’ll know how to react. She’s frail to his touch, but her reflexes are not lost. She could kill him right now if she wanted, she automatically knows the vulnerable spots. 

It is odd, she thinks, that with a man like him, she would have believed that he would be mechanical, but he’s incredibly instinctive. Y/N runs her hands in his messy curls, and she presses her lips into the crook of his neck. His skin is warm and tastes salty. His breathing gets heavier now, but is shallow. He’s anticipating how her body reacts to his touch. 

She can feel it, the fighting, with all his might, that natural and logical response of the mind, the shyness and the shame, the insufferable feeling of being just another vulnerable man, deprived of his will to not act on instinct and impulses. She can appreciate how this feels, she’s been there too. But lust isn’t a sign of weakness, like her mentor tried to teach her during her training, lust is human nature, and it’s a duality between mind and soul that she stopped fighting a long time ago by taking control of it. She can feel his hardness between her legs now, the incredible feeling of warmness nearly approaching her. He’s hesitating still, overthinking, and so she pushes her hips and he’s immediately inside her now. Y/N’s head tilt back into the mattress, and a shy moan escapes her lips. 

‘Hey, Sherlock?’ shouts a voice in the background.

Y/N’s eyes widen. She looks at the detective; he’s petrified, and terrified. 

‘Shit!’ she mumbles under her breath, pushing Sherlock’s body away.

She swallows her pride and silently throws herself on the floor, trying to squeeze her sweating body under the bed. 

‘Hey, you okay?’ asks Doctor Watson, stopped in the doorframe. 

Y/N bites her lower lip in apprehension, afraid something is going to give them away. 

‘Yes, why wouldn’t I be?’ replies the detective. He sounds like he has it under control, but deep down, Y/N feels the worry and hesitance in his voice. 

‘I thought we were supposed to go and see Mycroft this morning?’ says the doctor.

‘Please John,’ replies Sherlock, ‘you know I can’t stand that name first thing in the morning.’

John scoffs.

‘What time is it?’

‘Just past 8.’

‘Right,’ sighs Sherlock. ‘Let me jump in the shower, I will be ready in a minute.’

Is there disappointment in his voice? John clears his throat.

‘Well, I guess I’m going to make coffee, then.’

He’s annoyed with Sherlock, Y/N thinks. She hears his footsteps as he’s heading to the kitchen and she squeezes herself out from under the bed. She fights the urge to laugh out loud, feeling like a teenager. Sherlock looks panicked, he, on the contrary, doesn’t feel like smiling.

‘Go!’ he mumbles under his breath, frowning and pointing at the window. 

But she can see the corners of his mouth twitching briefly upwards. Wrapped up in his sheet, he disappears behind the bathroom door and Y/N hears him running the water, this is her cue to leave the flat without the unexpected visitor hearing her. She looks at her clothes laying on the floor, right next to the open bedroom door. It’s a risqué operation to retrieve them, John could be standing in the hallway and see her. She smiles and slides the bathroom door silently, and pull the shower curtain. Sherlock jumps in fear. In this diffused morning light, his body dripping in hot water, she feels compelled to join him. 

‘What are you doing?’ he whispers angrily.

She presses her lips on his, indulging on the wetness of the kiss. 

‘Shut up,’ she replies, ‘or he might hear us.’

She’s giggling now, kissing him vehemently, her right hand running lower on his chest, until she reaches what she is looking for. God, she is crazy, he thinks. She gently strokes his cock, and she can feel it harden in her hands. Sherlock rests his head on the tiles behind him while she slowly pumps his sex. She starts placing strategically kisses on his chest, then on his stomach, feeling his ribcage move each time he’s breathing. She works her way down, finding herself on her knees, and looks up to him. He’s lost, he doesn’t know if he should fight it, stop her, or push her away. She licks the tip of his cock and his mouth parts a little. Then, she envelopes it as he exhales as silent as he physically can, while his hands both systematically rest on the back of her head. She has control now, he’s at her total mercy and he knows it. He’s scared, but excited. She’s sucking him quicker now, taking it all, running her lips around it, tasting it, feeling every stretch into her mouth. He’s on the edge, soon enough she feels the warm liquid filling her mouth and she licks every last drop. He’s trying to gain his spirits back. He exhales and run his hands on his face.

‘I’m going to go now,’ she whispers as she exits the shower. 

‘Good idea,’ he mumbles under his breath.

When he gets back into his room, he looks around him. The messy bed, the airless smell in the air. He tries to dress without thinking about what just happened, readjust the rebels damp curls on his head and walks to the kitchen, John is sitting at the table, reading the news on his mobile, sipping on the last drop of coffee.

‘Oh, by the way, you ran out of milk,’ the doctor says, placing his empty cup on the table. ‘Shall we go?’

Sherlock nods and looks around the flat. He feels like he’s coming out of a dream. He just doesn’t know if it is a nightmare yet.

#sherlock #sherlock bbc #Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock Holmes fanfiction #sherlock holmes smut #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock smut #sherlock x reader #sherlock imagine #sherlock x reader smut #john watson #sherlock x you #sherlock x reader fanfiction #sherlock x reader fanfic #sherlock fanfic #sherlock holmes fanfic #john watson x reader #john watson fanfic

[mizjoely]

17. Deadlocked (I wonder in what way it came to be thus word, how can it be *dead* locked)

There are two definitions of "deadlock":

1. a situation, typically one involving opposing parties, in which no progress can be made. ("an attempt to break the deadlock")

2. (British) a type of lock requiring a key to open and close it, as distinct from a spring lock; a deadbolt.

I used it as a placeholder name for a fic where Molly and Sherlock have the ability to see and communicate with spirits. They're brought together when her brother dies in Afghanistan. This one is a mystery fic involving John Watson, Sebastian Moran, Sherlock working as a government analyst for Mycroft, and his and Molly's reluctant romance.

Here's a snippet:

Part 1: Meeting Henry

“Hey.”

Sherlock Holmes, Government Intelligence Consultant, flinched. He couldn’t help it; even his highly refined reflexes reacted to unexpected stimuli. Especially when said stimuli consisted of a voice coming from inside a flat previously known to be empty of other life than his own.

Knowing who – or rather, what – he was about to see, he braced himself, then turned.

As expected, a ghost was 'standing' in the middle of his flat. It was not, however, the ghost he’d expected to see, unless the framed military portrait he’d received in the post minutes earlier - along with the cremated remains he’d also received - was of the wrong man.

Instead of a stern, ash-blond man in his late 30s wearing the uniform and insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corps, he faced a smiling dark-haired man at least half a decade younger, with brown eyes instead of blue and Military Intelligence insignia discreetly displayed on his uniform.

“You are not Captain John H. Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” he said flatly, studying the apparition with clinical interest. “You are, however, an Afghan war victim from the same regiment. I presume your presence here indicates some further military mix up?”

The ghost raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean, ‘further’ mix up, Mr. Holmes?”

That stilled the next observation he was about to make; the ghost knowing his identity was intriguing. “I'd presumed,” he said slowly as he continued to study his unwelcome visitor, “that I received Captain Watson’s remains due to some sort of clerical error on the part of the army. However, your knowledge of my name leads me to conclude that your presence here is no accident after all. Whoever you are.”

#dis is mine #sherlolly #mizjoely talks about her writing

[butterysalt]

A Silent Fate | John Watson x Mute!Reader (Pt 1)

Pairing: John Watson x mute!reader (gender neutral)

Summary: On one’s 18th birthday in this world, a message appears on their forearm, reading their soulmate’s first words to them... You were never one to worry too much about the laws of the universe until after what seems to be a devastating accident at the art studio, you find that fate had much more different and rewarding plans for that day.

Contains: big crash/impact

Word Count: 1,203

A/N: I had this fic idea for a while but am now getting around to polishing it a bit! This will be a multi-part oneshot so look out for more updates! :)

<><><><><>

Part 2 (WIP)

<><><><><>

You walked around the art studio, watching all the students sculpt and shape their mounds of clay into unique busts. It was a comfortable silence among the brightly lit workspace. Nothing but the shuffling sounds of crusted aprons and the soft plops of scraped clay.

Descending the modern steps of the upstairs studio, you entered the main room again on the ground floor. In your arms, you carefully held a tall plant. Downstairs, the owner of the art studio, Mr. Fell, acknowledged your entrance and his eyes lit up.

“Y/n! Ah, thank you dear for moving the plants around up there. I’ve been meaning to redecorate the place with a more floral touch,” he explains with a light-hearted chuckle. You smiled kindly at the older man’s delight. He appointed you to the collection of plants and bouquets outside of the building. It was mainly just leafy decor and old sculptures or easels to be donated.

Even with the gloomy London weather, there was just something that made your day more magical when you were surrounded by the arts and creative environment. It was the closest thing to a dream job for you.

You placed the old plant beside the outdated sculptures and moved around some decorations. While you were separating and sorting the materials, you sensed a commotion coming up behind you.

Leaving you with no time to react properly, there was a shout and a huge black blur tumbling right past you. The force of the giant mass sent you falling back onto the materials and into the wall. You let out a soundless scream as you curled up protectively, squeezing your eyes shut and bracing from the impact.

Thick smoke billowed up into the air, hiding the building from everything else. The sound of a blaring engine and tire screeches grew smaller and smaller as the blurry vehicle seemed to drive away.

“....Y/n! Y/N!” The owner of the art studio shouted for you. He coughed in the midst of the dust clouds, waving away and looking for you. The old man huffed a sound of relief when he found you in your defensive state. Certainly shaken up, but safe.

“Oh, good heavens!” He kicked away scraps of baked clay shards and stray leaves as he pulled you out of the rubble. You didn’t even realize you were still deathly clutching onto that plant with your dear life. Standing up on your feet again felt like a foreign action. Is this air safe to breathe? It’s making me dizzy...

What once was the gorgeous glass studio with the clean display of student creations and painted masterpieces was now a hot heap of shattered glass wreckage and broken materials that drilled holes into the buildings strong walls. It felt like a part of your heart had been nicked at.

The longer your eyes roamed around the broken infrastructure and busted clay pots you felt your stomach sink lower and lower. Blast that bloody devil hound’s vehicle from hell for bustling its way over to your studio. Grief was quickly dissolved into fury bubbling underneath your skin.

You quickly snapped your eyes shut and grimaced. It barely felt like you were even alive after such a close hit. Take a deep breath… it’s more important to process everything first and figure out the next rational thing to do. Then worry about grievances.

A pair of padding footsteps grew louder but you couldn’t see much through the smoke that still lingered. The dirty cloud eventually split apart to reveal two men racing through the scene of the accident, seemingly chasing after something.

One of the men, a dark mop of curls atop his head and a flitting black coat trailing behind him as he zipped past the entrance of the art studio in a rush. The second, a dirty blonde and shorter of the two, took the time to glance within the building, locking with your eyes. His run came to an abrupt stop as he panted heavily, catching his breath.

He hobbled over to you, flipping out a pocket-sized notebook from his jacket. He paused in front of you, bowing over to take a deep breath.

“So sorry about all this! How much for the damages?” The man huffed out in sections with an apologetically British voice. You felt your entire body stiffen.

Maybe it was because of the soreness and stinging from being blasted in the accident or because you felt a specific force of intimidation from his peculiar charisma. But your best bet was probably the way that those familiar words sent a sharp pain through your chest.

No, it wasn’t exactly the painful sharpness that made you want to scream in pain. This sharpness was the kind that caused the cogs in your brain to halt and go blank. It was the kind that made the skin on your forearm tingle and burn in an unfamiliar way that felt borderline intrusive. This sharpness tickled your heart daringly, making it dance and leap within you.

Your jaw dropped at this quick realization and you tried to utter something to this man, but of course, to no avail. The adrenaline that was now rushing through your veins made you forget that you were holding the plant as you attempted to sign in BSL.

The blonde man swiftly lunged forward to catch the plant as well as Mr. Fell who helped stop the plant from shattering onto the ground. “Y/n! Careful, now!” A part of your brain stopped, shocked that you did something so ridiculous. Thank goodness the new guy had sharp reflexes.

You cursed yourself mentally and pressed the pot closer to yourself, desperately locking eyes with these very special blue ones in front of you in hopes of communicating something to him that way. The man opened his mouth to say something back to you except he was quickly interrupted by his previous running partner with the dark curly hair.

“Come on, John!! God’s sake- we have a runaway car to catch!” The tall man yelled briefly before disappearing into the smoke again. “John” hissed impatiently, muttering angrily under his breath as he scribbled something messily on his notebook then ripped the page out.

“Ah- this is our contact information. You can send us the fines and we’ll cover everything, alright? Uhh m-make sure to go to a hospital too in case there are any serious injuries! Sorry- I really must go,” the shorter man promptly explained then ran off after his friend again.

He had stuffed the paper between your fingers, sending an electrical jolt through your body. You shivered and wondered if he had felt the same sensation when your hands brushed against one another.

John. So that was his name if you had heard it correctly. You needed to find him again. God knows how many men named “John” there were in this city. Mr. Fell took the plant from you and suggested that you sit down somewhere safe. Your eyes followed the shrinking figures of John and his partner. Somehow, you needed to figure out how to find the man that fate intended for you to meet again. You had finally found your soulmate.

#bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock fic #john watson #john watson x you #john watson x reader #john watson x y/n #john watson fanfic #john watson fic #john watson imagine #sherlock fanfic #sherlock fic #sherlock imagine #reader insert #fanfiction

[stygianflood]

Star to Every Wandering Bark  (Ethan x F!MC)

Hi everyone! I’m here with my very first fanfic. I’m really nervous about posting this, and have been changing my mind every hour. But I suppose I’ll just do it. I would like to thank Ruby (@starrystarrytrouble) for her encouragement and appreciation, and also for prereading this.

Summary: Set somewhere in the time jump in 2.18. Ethan surprises Aparna by asking her to add her name beside his own, on paper.

Also my submission for Choices January Challenge 2021 day 30 prompt, “Hope”

Words, rating- 1.2k, Teen

Genre- Fluff, with minor angst at the beginning

Open Heart Fanfic Trope- And they were Soulmates

Disclaimer- Characters belong to Pixelberry.

We need to talk. How about tomorrow, at my place?

Aparna had been pacing the locker-room for the best part of an hour, ruminating the full import of that text. And knowing Ethan, she had an inkling what it was about. She now wondered if she should have asked for more. 

With the recent exigencies at the hospital, even when they managed to be at his place, sleep overtook them the moment they hit the bed. And there was the added business of life after Edenbrook, an issue Ethan was skilfully eluding for some time now. 

Between going through the prospects and the plummeting vacancies in other hospitals, and wondering if she had completely misconstrued Ethan’s view of their relationship, Aparna was amazed she still retained her sanity.

When Marlene informed her that Mrs. Watson had responded to the antihistamines and was finally sleeping, Aparna knew she was only playing for time. 

Ethan had been checking the time every fifteen minutes over the last couple of hours. She must be miffed at his non-responses this week. And then there was the other matter he was planning. But just as he was about to call her, the buzzer and then Jenner’s excited barks broke into his reverie.

‘Hey.’ 

Her smile was weary, the circles under her eyes darker. A few unruly strands had escaped her messy plait. And Ethan had never settled his eyes on a more calming sight. 

But today he saw something else. 

Could it be caution? 

When she returned his embrace with a one-armed hug, and almost deflected the kiss, he wondered if it was only because she was tired, and Jenner, a little too distracting.

‘Why don’t you freshen up first?’ He asked as Aparna and his dog completely divested themselves of his presence.

She scratched behind Jenner’s ear one last time before answering, ‘I think I would prefer the talk.”

‘Of course.’ Ethan gestured towards the couch as he pondered over the wine rack. ‘I’ll just get the wine.

His motions were untroubled, leisurely.

‘Ethan, I don’t have time for this.’ Aparna replied through gritted teeth.

‘But,’ Ethan flinched, perplexed. ‘You said you’re free.’ 

‘Not free enough to break up over your fancy wine.’ she snapped, turning away to face the dusk that smeared on his windows. 

A fraction of a second passed before Ethan gathered his completely disarrayed thoughts.

‘What the… Have you lost it, Apu?’ 

He walked down to her, wary but resolved. And almost as a reflex, his hand caressed her arm. It was their dance. Choreographed and familiar. And when she did not object, he dipped his chin on her shoulder.

‘Come on…’ Ethan whispered into her hair, and though she avoided his gaze, she did not refuse. He took that as a sign to steer her to the couch. 

‘I thought we’d discuss our prospects after Edenbrook. Among... other things.’ Ethan tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and sighed.

Aparna looked up. Timid and sheepish.

‘And you aren’t breaking up with me? Or leaving the continent?’ She asked, her ears reddening by the second.

‘Seriously, where’s this coming from?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Aparna mumbled, before quickly defending herself. ‘But Ethan, you don’t just tell people you need to TALK... Ugh! I need a shower.’

After a hot shower and voracious gulping of pizza, Aparna found herself looking at Ethan in his element. She had seen him dressed to the nines, and in other more private occasions. But she knew her favourite version of him was the one before her, speaking of the future of medicine, and in no uncertain terms, her future in it. He finished with the fundamentals of the hospitals she had chosen, and turned to face her.

‘Of course, I’ll follow you after you’ve made your decision.’ Ethan laced their fingers, before continuing, ‘That is to say, if you want me to.’

‘I have my reasons for avoiding this at work.’ Ethan put down his glass and edged closer before continuing. ‘I know we aren’t hiding anymore. But I stand by what I said. Your professional development is far too important. And I won’t tolerate people saying you were matched to a programme because I had anything to do with it. 

‘That.’ Ethan smirked before sweeping her into his arms. ‘And food.’

The steady thrum of his pulse beat a tattoo on her forearm as she stared at him. 

Ardent and doe-eyed. 

Reminiscent of Miami. 

Hope was treacherous and liberating, she realised. 

And for the first time since they had known each other, Aparna was at a loss for words. But when she closed her lips on his, she hoped he would know. 

A few more glasses later, they were sprawled on his couch, Jenner snuggling close to Aparna.

‘They might suggest one of their research assistants.’ Ethan continued, hoping she would take the hint. ‘But I already have-’

Purple remnants of the day lingered on the window panes, and the dimmed lights cast a strange, dreamlike aura on the living room.

‘I meant to ask you something else,’ Ethan ventured with trepidation in his voice. ‘My book is getting a second edition. John Hopkins and Novartis had rudimentary talks of sponsoring the research that’ll go into updating the data. 

‘Ethan, are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

‘Yes.’ He grinned. ‘And legally, you’d be the second author.’

‘But… But I’m just a second year resident!’ She was back on her feet.

‘With experience on my team, and the first authorship of a paper on phage therapy.’ He said as though it was self explanatory.

And it’d be our first co-authored book, he told himself.

Ethan sat with bated breath as his eyes followed her nervous pacing across the living room.

Absentmindedly, or perhaps drawn by some intuition, Aparna reached for Ethan’s copy of Diagnostic Principles, and ran her hand across the title page. 

Her thoughts were muddled by her younger self furiously scribbling along the margins of his book, every whirlwind circumstance that had brought her to this beautiful man, and the inebriating realisation that her own name could accompany his, on the same plush paper.

And in that moment, Aparna knew something had changed. Irrevocably. She was no longer the only one fighting for their future. 

‘I must be mad to agree to this. But… Yes, Ethan.’ 

And she was as certain as the day she chose medicine, her first utterance in a lore she had composed for a decade.

Ethan felt before he knew he had walked across to her. Pressing his forehead to hers, he caressed her cheek. And with a surge of pride, he realised he had long wed his life’s vision to the woman he had held in his arms in Miami. 

And you have only detoured in vain ever since. 

And he kissed Aparna as he had never kissed her before, soaking in the honeysuckle of her hair, the wine on her tongue. Fervent. Ravenous. And then slow, and delicate, until they were both out of breath.

They stood teetering on the spot, drunk on each other, Jenner staring at their antics. And a warm glimmer doused the scene, and curled itself about Dr. Ramsey’s minimalist living room.

Thank you so much for reading this!

Title inspiration-

Tag list:

@starrystarrytrouble @potionsprefect @schnitzelbutterfingers @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Prompts tag list:

@choicesjanuarychallenge2021 @lucy-268

Let me know if you want to be added.

#choices open heart #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey #open heart fanfiction #choices fic writers creations #choices january challenge 2021 #fics of the week

[the-pen-pot]

'We don't have time for this!' he snapped as pain trapped his temples in a vice. 'We need to look for Sherlock before Mary gets too much of a head-start.'

Mycroft looked back from where he was talking to a couple of no-nonsense people in bullet-proof gear. Agents, maybe, giving some kind of report as they handed over an object John could not make out. 'Patience, Doctor Watson,' he urged, his voice more clipped than soothing. 'You'll be no good to anyone if you rush off to Sherlock's rescue only to collapse from a brain haemorrhage. Please allow my staff to assess you.'

'Do we even know where she's taking him?' he demanded, grudgingly permitting the medic to do a more thorough job of checking reflexes and pupil dilation.

He was going to kill Mary when he found her. Not just for blowing the bloody warehouse he was standing in sky-high, but for daring to snatch Sherlock. If she'd harmed even one hair on the posh git's head... 'Please tell me you've got something. GPS from his mobile? A microchip tracker he doesn't know about? Something!'

Mycroft reached into his pocket, pulling out a familiar, sleek black device. A cobweb of cracks burst across the dead screen, and the case had split to reveal the guts of its circuitry: Sherlock's phone. Someone had brought their boot heel down on it and then seemed to have run it over for good measure. They would get nothing of use from it.

'Shit.'

Chapter Twenty-Five Of No Clean Slate On AO3

Chapter Twenty Six On Patreon ($2 or higher tier)

#Johnlock #Sherlock #No Clean Slate

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hey, lovely!! Do you have any Johnlock or Mystrade fics with one of the them having a disability? I'd also appreciate any genderswap fics that you may have, regardless of their topic. I find the lack of femlock disturbing :)

Anonymous said to inevitably-johnlocked: Hi! I have been in the mood for some good whump fics lately. Would you happen to know of any that include sherlock getting a life changing disability (paralysis, amputation, blindness, deafness, loss of speech, etc…) Thx

Hi Lovely and Nonny!!

Ahh, I’m so sorry, I don’t have a LOT of fics, and the ones I do have are only Johnlock (don’t really care for Mystrade so I don’t read it), and I haven’t read any femlock so sadly I don’t have personal recs, though you can check out my blog tag to see what I do have on my blog. SO SORRY!

And Nonny, your ask came just in time for this post, so I’m attaching your ask to this one, because this whole list is any of the disabled fics I have, and I’m also linking you to the recs I have for Deaf/Mute/Blindness since you asked for them, though I believe I’ve added them all to this list… In case I didn’t, you can check out those lists too

DISABILITIES or MEDICAL CONDITIONS (Apr. 2020)

See also:  

Deafness 

Deaf/Mute/Blind Sherlock/John (Dec 2019)

New World, Old Words by thedeafwriter (G, 641 w., 1 Ch. || Deaf Sherlock, Sherlock Whump, Pining Sherlock, Marriage Proposal, Fluff, Always John) – It was disconcerting to experience. One second, he was laying on the table, breathing in the gas that would make him sleep, the next, he was dragging his eyes open to look around the bright room, trying to wake up.

Angel by MrsNoggin (T, 1,513 w., 1 Ch.  || Winglock, Friendship, Chromoesthesia, Drugging) – John is an angel. That can be the only explanation. A response to the challenging request for a realistic wingfic one-shot.

One in Ten Thousand by Blind Author (K+, 1,856 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TGG, Friendship / Pre-Slash, Discussions of Violence, Worried then Curious Sherlock, Scars/John’s Bullet Wound, Medical Anomolies) – John seems to have unusual mobility for a shoulder wound…

Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil by PipMer (T, 1,895 w., 1 Ch. || Deaf John, Mute Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, Romance, Fluff and Angst, Character Study, Morse Code, Love Confessions) – John is deaf. Sherlock is mute. There are no two people more suited for each other.

Those Days by StillWaters1 (T, 2,663 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD / Sensory Attacks, Caring Sherlock) – If Sherlock had danger nights, then these were John’s danger days.

Reversed by whitchry9 (K+, 3,072 w., 6 Ch. || Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Medical Anomolies, John Gets Shot) – The man pointed his gun at John’s chest, right at his heart, and shot.’ Wherein John is shot, and Sherlock is the one panicking.

Speaker for the Bees by antietamfalls (M, 14,649 w., 3 Ch. || Deaf Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Fluff, Sign Language) – It isn’t always easy assisting a deaf detective. Luckily for John, they make a pretty good team.

carrying up his morning tea by darcylindbergh (E, 34,504 w., 5 Ch. || Post S3, Minor Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Wakes/Funerals, Estranged John, Pining Sherlock, Depression/Insecurity, Slow Burn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Chronic Pain/Injury, Reconciliation, Awkwardness, Loneliness, Scars, Angst With Happy Ending) – His fingers tremble as he dials and he can’t force them steady. Familiar number, even though he hasn’t used it in two years. He isn’t even sure he should be calling it now, but she’d asked. She’d made him promise.

Thermocline by J_Baillier (M, 83,557 w., 14 Ch. || Scuba Diving AU || Adventure, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Marine Archaeology, Asexual Sherlock, Horny John, Relationship Drama, Technical/Scuba/Wreck Diving, Slow Burn, Underwater /  Medical Peril, Doctor John, Hurt Sherlock, Anxious Sherlock, John POV, Protective John, Body Appreciation, Diabetes) – John “Five Oceans” Watson — technical dive instructor, dive accident analyst and weapon of mass seduction — meets recluse professor of maritime archaeology Holmes. As they head out to a remote archipelago off the coast of Guatemala to study and film its shipwrecks for a documentary, will sparks fly or fizzle out?

Just To Hold You Close by sussexbound (E, 70,841 w., 18 Ch. || Autistic Sherlock, Alternate First Meeting, Sherlock POV, ASD Sherlock, PTSD John, Demisexual Sherlock, Bisexual John, Cuddling/Snuggling, Platonic Cuddling, Enthusiastic Consent, Bed Sharing, Love Confessions, First Kiss/Time, Sexual Tension, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cuddle Negotiations, For a Case Until It Isn’t, Hair Petting, Sexual Negotiation, Anxiety, Trust Issues, Slow Burn, Panic Attacks, Frottage, Hand/Blow Jobs, Referenced Self Harm / Abuse / Suicidal Ideation, First Kiss/Time, Anal) – When a woman is murdered and the last person to see her alive is recently invalided army vet turned reluctant (and prickly) professional cuddler, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is pulled into a world of intimacy and intrigue he never could have imagined. John is a conundrum and mystery: frank yet reserved, tender yet angry, open yet afraid. Sherlock is instantly drawn into his orbit, and begins to feel and desire things he never has before.

Maintenance and Repair by patternofdefiance (E, 106,650 w., 71 Ch. || Future AU, Augmentation || Augmented John, Depression, Body Modification, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, Sci-Fi, Self-Care, Body Dysmorphia) – John wants to explain the rush of sensation and data, which is just another form of sensation (or is it the other way around?). John wants to say:Augmentation circuits report temperature, pressure, various forms of quantitative input. Sudden changes are reported as pain, since sudden changes are dangerous, and pain is the quickest way to encourage reflexive extraction. But all John can manage is, “Nng.” Because this sudden touch is not reporting as pain. Part 2 of STATIC

Breakable by MissDavis (E, 117,627 w., 34 Ch. || Established Relationship, Major Character Injury, Fluff/Angst, Depression, Paralysis/Disabilities, Hurt/Comfort, POV Sherlock, Mental Health Issues, Drug Use, Happy-ish Ending) – After John is seriously injured, Sherlock struggles to figure out how to help him, keep himself sane, and maybe, just maybe, get their life back to the way it’s supposed to be. Part 1 of Breakable Not Broken

The Bang and the Clatter by earlgreytea68 (M, 137,049 w., 37 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Baseball AU || Slow Burn / Dev. Rel., Possessive/Obsessive Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Body Appreciation, Depression, Closeted Sexuality, Family, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Ogling Each Other, Anxious Sherlock, Panic Attack, Drunkenness, Talk of Forever, Big Feelings™) – Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it’s a baseball AU. Part 1 of Baseball

Proving A Point by elldotsee & J_Baillier (E, 186,270 w., 28 Ch. || Me Before You Fusion || Medical Realism, Insecure John, Depression, Romance, Angst, POV John, Sherlock Whump, Serious Illness, Doctor John, Injury Recovery, Assisted Suicide, Sherlock’s Violin, Awkward Sexual Situations, Alcoholism, Drugs, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn, Body Image, Friends to Lovers, Hurt / Comfort, Pain, Big Brother Mycroft, Intimacy, Anxiety, PTSD, Family Issues, Psychological Trauma, John Whump, Case Fics, Loneliness, Pain) – Invalided home from Afghanistan, running out of funds and convinced that his surgical career is over, John Watson accepts a mysterious job offer to provide care and companionship for a disabled person. Little does he know how much hangs in the balance of his performance as he settles into his new life at Musgrave Court.

On Pins And Needles Series by 7PercentSolution, J_Baillier (E, 598,184 w. across 15 works || Sick Fic/Medical Realism, Guillain-Barré syndrome, Autism Spectrum, Medical Procedures, Whump, Romance, Slow Burn, Big Brother Mycroft, Mental Health Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Drama, Friends to Lovers, See Story for Additional Tags) – His immune system is decimating his nervous system - a civil war raging inside of him. Is there a reaction he’s supposed to be having to this news, now? Something normal: cry, scream, pound the wall? Shake his fist at the uncaring universe? John can’t stop this. An uncomfortable bed at some hospital ward isn’t going to stop this. They keep telling him that this will most likely pass, but no one is answering the most important question: how will he be able to endure the uncertainty and the long wait? (TO READ)

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #disabilities #my fic recs #hgranger414 #medfics #sick fics

[azurethevampire]

Could you write for Sherlock? Perhaps she’s had an argument with him and consequently ignores him for the rest of the day until he gets her to speak to him and it’s all fluffy? Not sure if that’s too vague. Let me know if you need more!x

I deeply apologize it has taken me this long to write this. I hope you still like it! 

Words: 1600

Warning: There is a mention of pig body parts stored in a fridge (it’s Sherlock!) so if that unsettles you, just maybe skip the part where sherlock realises what he has done or skip reading this altogether

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

It was a wonder he noticed. You had thought that the chances were one in a billion. Not because you thought less of Sherlock, you didn’t. Of course, you didn’t when he had been the closest thing you got to a family for a far longer time than you were ready to admit. Usually, Sherlock just didn’t tend to notice these kinds of things. 

When you were younger, you had thought it was because he didn’t understand how human emotions worked. These days, you were slightly smarter and knew - despite popular belief - that Sherlock was not as ignorant about emotions as he pretended to be. 

But still. 

Sherlock never noticed when he had upset you. 

Okay, fine, you were lying. It was not never. But still, the times when Sherlock had actually apologised for his behaviour could be counted with the fingers of one hand. He tended to notice you were upset, but for someone who had the intelligence he had, he was a bit slow to realise when the cause of your upset was him instead of something or someone else. 

Like now. 

This morning you had woken up feeling quite content with yourself - some might have even say that you felt happy. This was the reason you decided that the morning warranted something special for breakfast. You settled for pancakes.

You were humming the last song you'd heard as you gathered what you needed to make your breakfast. When you had everything else in your reach, you went to get milk and eggs from the fridge. 

You had opened the door - and closed it immediately with a small shriek. 

In a second your previously happy mood dove low. Now you felt both annoyed and betrayed. There would be no pancakes for you today - in fact, you would not set a finger on that fridge again. Ever. 

Anger drove your actions as you slammed - a bit too hard, perhaps - the ingredients you had already gathered back to their regular place, and marched to jump on the couch. Fishing your phone out of your pocket, your fingers quickly typed: 

Bring me back some food when you get home - Y/N 

John Watson who had currently been having a break in his work, stared at your text with brows drawn together. Briefly, the ex-army doctor wondered what Sherlock had done this time to upset you. Still, he knew you knew that you were not supposed to take it out on him. 

Excuse me? Young lady, where did you leave your manners today? - John

Whoops. You thought, closed your eyes for a second and took a couple of deep breaths while reminding yourself not to take your frustration out on the good doctor. 

Sorry, John. You typed. Then sent it and started a new one: Would you please bring me back some food when you get back from work? Pretty please? I'll pay you back even :) - Y/N

John thanked you and promised to get some takeout on his way home, and you were satisfied that you would not go hungry the whole day. 

You were still extremely unsettled by what you had seen in the fridge. And you were fuming with Sherlock who had promised you there would not be any unpleasant surprises in the flat anymore. 

You felt like crying, then shouting in anger and throwing things. Oh, how you wanted to yell at Sherlock. But you knew it would not affect the man much. 

Instead, when Sherlock Holmes finally decided to appear home to 221B Baker Street, he found you lying on the couch, turned towards the wall and music blasting through your headphones so loud he could make out the lyrics all the way from the stairs. 

He greeted you but thought nothing wrong when you didn't respond. 

It was almost an hour later when John had come back and you had all but devoured the food he brought you - all the while avoiding even looking at Sherlock's direction - that the consulting detective had an epiphany - of sorts. 

At first, he thought someone had upset you and for a blink, he was so angry with whoever had hurt his precious Y/N so much you hadn't even so much as uttered a word to him. But then he remembered. Usually, you sought out him, when you were upset. Regardless of the fact that Sherlock had never been the coddling type he certainly seemed to have a knack for lifting your spirits up. 

But today had been different. So much so that he only now realised you had not greeted him when he came home. 

You had never given him a hug or a peck on the cheek when he came home. You had yet to even look at him. He couldn't blame it on you being too focused in your phone and music either as you had greeted John with a bright smile and thanked him of the takeaway. This lead only to one conclusion. 

Pointing you and then himself, Sherlock mouthed to John: "my fault?" 

John coughed - and it suspiciously sounded like he would have said "Probably" behind his cough. 

Frowning, Sherlock stared at your back. What did I do? 

Well, whatever it was, he knew he needed to fix this. Sulking had never been a fitting look on you. The man who called himself a high-functioning sociopath much prefered it when you were babbling on about this and that, a smile brightening your face or your giggles echoing in the flat. 

Raising from his chair, Sherlock came over to the couch you had conquered and - quite unceremoniously - plopped himself down at your feet. He would have landed on top of your feet had you not had the reflexes to pull your knees up. Still, that was the only acknowledgement the dark haired man got out of you.

“Y/N”, Sherlock said. No response. He repeated your name again but still no answer. The third time, he reached out his hand hovering just above your ankle as he called you out again. 

When you still didn’t say anything back, he curled his fingers around your ankle, fingers dashing back and forth in the area. 

You could not help the tiny squeal that escaped your mouth - even if you wanted to. It was instincts at this point and you tried to kick Shelrock’s hand away with your free foot - only for him to grab that foot’s ankle as well. 

“Sherlock!” You whined slash scolded while trying to squirm your feet away. 

“Ah” Sherlock said, grinning. “She speaks after all. Hello to you too, miss Y/N.” 

You narrowed your eyes. It would take more than a few tickles for you to forgive and forget Sherlock’s actions this time. He had given you his word and while Sherlock wasn’t good at remembering many mundane things, at least his word had always been something you could rely on. 

Until now, that is. 

“Y/N talk to me”, Sherlock said a hint of rarely heard desperation in his voice. “What happened? What did I do or not do this time?” 

You shuddered as the memories from this morning resurfaced. Feeling like you might actually get sick from just thinking about it, you had no other choice than to sit up on the couch - Sherlock releasing your legs as you did so. 

Sherlock saw how you paled as you recalled something. Then it hit him, you only reacted like this to one thing. He slammed his hand to his forehead. “Oh! Tell me I didn’t- but I did, didn’t I?” 

You hugged yourself and nodded, finally meeting the man’s gaze for the first time today. 

The expression on the great consulting detective’s face resembled that of a puppy that knows he has done something wrong. 

“To be fair, they are pig legs”, he said. 

You threw a pillow at him. “I-I don’t care! You promised me I wouldn’t find any nasty surprises in the fridge again!” 

Of all the annoying habits Sherlock had, storing his ‘experiments’ in Baker Street fridge had always unsettled you to the point where you had downright refused to even set one foot to the kitchen for a while once. 

Sherlock pursed his lips as the words he so rarely spoke, made their way up his throat. “I’m sorry, Y/N” and the look he had on his face could only be described as a pout. 

You bit your lip. You wanted to still be mad at Sherlock, you really did, but - how could anyone stay mad at that face? Instead, you raked your hand through your hair and said: “Just, please, I don’t want to walk into that again, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock reached for you, positioning your smaller frame easily against his side and under his arm as he enveloped you to a hug. “And you won’t”, he reassured. His hand going up and down in a comforting gesture. “Are you alright, now?” 

You managed to smile a bit, snuggling yourself closer to his warm chest. “A bit better”, you admitted - and you were. You had, after all, had the whole day to process the unsettling event. 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment after you said that. Then. “Would some of that ice cream you love make up for it?” 

Now you just grinned. Because maybe ice cream wouldn’t wipe away from your memories what you saw in the fridge but it definitely would make you a bit better. 

Sherlock, seeing your brightened face, smiled himself slightly. Suddenly his fingers dug to your sides, making you let out a surprised giggle. “Ice cream it is then”, he stated. 

Still, you would not set a finger on that fridge for at least a few weeks. 

#Sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #john watson #reader #platonic!reader #bbc sherlock