A/N : This is me being cracky.
John realized that something was awry the moment he stepped down the final stair into the living room of the flat to find it spotlessly clean. Every paper, every months-old clue tacked on the wall, had been either straightened or completely hidden from view, and the doctor nearly went back up to his room and into bed at the sight of it. Sherlock was in front of the far window, playing something light and energized on his violin, completely ignoring him.
Prompt: (not exact because I’m too lazy to go look for the exact prompt) John gets drunk at Lestrade’s Christmas party.
*ended up less humorous and more fluffy but whatever*
Drunken Christmas Party- John Walks in on Sherlock -pre-production
- John finds Sherlock’s trousers - extremely confused but unable to back down from challenge. Currently milling aimlessly around mind palace
- Sherlock in John’s bed- Starry, message me about this one.
- Irrational Fear John -Mapcrunching in the mindpalace. Attempting to find the inspiration wing.
- Mycroft’s umbrella- headcanon already created, need to write it out.
- Harry x Sherlock addictions -meh.
ALSO:
- Next Chapter of A Hopeless Place- violently digging holes of frustration in the lazy gardens of said palace.
- Next drabble for Starry and I’s fic- Half done, laughing manically at the shenanigans of the AHP chapter.
Prompt: John finds Sherlock’s deductions extremely sexy while still struggling with his own sexuality.
This ended up way longer than it should have.
Prompt: Harry dies of alcohol poisoning and Sherlock has to comfort John.
(please excuse my typos, I sprained two fingers slamming my hand in the door and they are currently taped together)
Hey guys I was asked to create a masterpost for all my minifics, so here you go.
All of them are tagged under “minific” for future reference. :)
Sherlock Doesn’t Believe in Fairytales
oh hey look! Links to my new Oneshot Fic!!!!
Hope you enjoy.
Prompt: Sherlock doesn’t believe in fairy tales. (Warning, this one is pretty fucking angsty. xP)
Prompt: It’s wintertime, maybe even Christmastime, and Sherlock is finding sudden fascination with being outside in the bitter cold and snow and just letting himself be covered in snowflakes, like the child he is. Lots of fluff can result, such as cozy Johnlock cuddles with blankets and hot cocoa, Sherlock obviously getting sick because he doesn’t know how to take care of himself, leaving John to care for him, gift-giving, etc.
He could smell it the moment he stepped out of the steamy bathroom, towel around his neck. It cut through the flat like a blade, the smell of it. Acrid, choking. He was going to murder him. Quickly crossing to their dresser, he pulls out an old army sweater, pants, and a pair of dark jeans, running the towel through his short hair as he crossed into the living room.
Whatever John was expecting to find, it was not what was actually waiting for him. Sherlock was sitting in the open window behind the small Christmas tree, one leg hanging languidly out over the windowsill, the other braced against the wooden frame, knee propping up a clipboard of papers, which he was scribbling at intently. In his other hand balanced the culprit of the smell, a cigarette. The fact that he was sitting in the window wasn’t so surprising, neither was the smoking, considering how much stress Sherlock had put on himself recently, but John stopped in his tracks when he saw him there because he was shirtless, wearing only a thin pair of flannel pajama pants John had gotten him because it was the middle of fucking winter and it was snowing outside. And Sherlock was half naked with the window open.
“What are you doing?” His voice was somewhere between groaning and chastising. He was already beginning to get goosebumps in the cold air, but Sherlock looked completely relaxed, muttering to himself as he violently erased something on the packet. John pinched the bridge of his nose and walked up next to him, waving a hand in front of his face, “Sherlock…”
“Can you not see I am busy?” He snapped back, glaring at him. John scoffed in reply, and Sherlock took an angry drag from his cigarette, turning the gray eyes back to the papers in front of him. “I do not understand why Mycroft felt it necessary to invite quite so many people. Or why we were put in charge of their assigned seating.”
John sighed and snatched the board, glancing at the little circles that had clearly been written around and erased multiple times. The only names that were there were theirs, Mycroft’s, and Harry’s, written neatly in order along one side of the rectangle in the center of the page. John chuckled, “You’ve made such fantastic progress.”
“Yes, thank you so much.” Sherlock snapped, snatching the clipboard back. John laughed and kissed Sherlock’s temple lightly.
“Oh come on, you’re stressing out about this and it’s completely uncalled for. Now come out of the bloody window or you’ll freeze your limbs off and then what will I put a ring on?” He gently took Sherlock’s arm and pulled him from the window frame, snatching the cigarette and tossing it out into the snow before pulling the window shut. Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice, plopping angrily down in his armchair, worrying a thumbnail with his teeth while he flipped between the list and the empty chart. John sighed and shook his head, tossing a blanket over his shoulders.
“Why are there so many people invited?” Sherlock repeated, annoyed.
“Because that’s what happens when rich boys with well connected families get married. Now can you give it a rest, please?” John kneeled in front of Sherlock, resting his chin on his knee, dark blue eyes staring up at him and the detective sighed and tossed the clipboard across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying thunk.
“Are you sure this is what you want? Because we could easily just go into town and fill out the paperwork and—”
“Sherlock, we’re doing this right. Okay? I asked you to drop it.” It was very hard for Sherlock to protest against his fiancee when he used that tone of voice, and so he sighed, raising his eyebrows as if to say so then what do you want? and frowned. John fiddled with one of Sherlock’s hands, light touches effectively causing goosebumps to raise on the pale arms more effectively than the snow did, and John laughed and shook his head. Sometimes being able to be physical with Sherlock, to just touch the strange, languid body without feeling awkward. A year ago, John wouldn’t have even known it was what he wanted…but now…
“You’re dressed.” Sherlock pointed out, and John gave him a confused look, “You are dressed, in jeans, which means you were planning on going out.”
John put his head in his hand wearily. He hated being deduced and Sherlock knew it. “Yes, I thought I’d get some last minute shopping done.” he finally admitted, scowling.
“Shopping? But I thought we weren’t exchanging gifts this year.” The dark eyebrows knit together, and John felt about ready to punch him. He glared at Sherlock for a long while before understanding finally flickered across his angular face, “Ah. You were going to surprise me.”
“Yeah, emphasis on the past tense.” John scoffed, turning around so his back was against Sherlock’s knees, crossing his arms in frustration. Sherlock gingerly placed a hand on his head, fingers running through the short wet strands, exactly as John had planned.
“Well…that’s hardly fair. I took you very seriously when you said no gifts. Now I will look like a fool for not getting you something…” He could hear the frown in the deep voice, and he fought against giving a smug grin.
“Making you look like a fool will be gift enough.” he muttered, but he leaned his head back to settle between his knees, resolute. Sherlock sighed dramatically and began to fiddle with John’s ear absentmindedly. His mind was wandering, John knew him well enough by now to read the signs. “Will you forget about the goddamned seating chart?” John groaned, covering his face with his hands tiredly.
“I will forget about it when it is settled.” Sherlock quipped, sounding a bit like an insolent child.
“Sherlock the wedding is in April! Give it to Mycroft if you don’t want to do it.” John gave him a look when Sherlock pulled his hands from his face and leaned over so his head was hovering just above his own. His eyes were narrowed, clearly letting him know that he would never give such a task to his brother, who had already done enough damage by sending out invitations to various members of both of their extended families that they didn’t approve of.
“I’m going to the store with you.” Sherlock finally said, standing up, managing to knee John in the back of the head as he crossed the room and disappeared into their bedroom, kicking the clipboard on the way. John rubbed the back of his head, huffing.
Fifteen minutes later Sherlock strode out of the room in a deep emerald button-down and dark fitted jeans, tossing John a coat and gloved before pulling on his own. John sighed, shaking his head, pulling on the coat and gloves. “How do you expect me to shop for you with you right there?”
“Easy. You pick out what you want, I what I want, and we give them to each other next week and pretend to be surprised.” Sherlock replied, wrapping a scarf around his long neck.
“That’s hardly fun.”
“I could deduce what you want and actually surprise you. But that would not require me to come, and I need to get out of this flat.” Sherlock shrugged and held out a gloved hand to John, who took it with a little huff of defeat.
John didn’t feel like taking a cab into town, settling for walking the few blocks down the road to some of the antique shops, leaning his head against Sherlock’s shoulder as they walked. The tall man seemed actually chipper, blowing his breath outward so as to make the most amount of fog in the cold air; he was so childlike sometimes, John had to laugh. He looked fondly up at him, admiring the fallen snow that had caught like crystals in his dark curls. The icy gray eyes caught his and he looked bemusedly down at him.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” John laughed, “Just you.” Sherlock smiled and squeezed his hand.
The shopping, of course, was a disaster. Sherlock hovered over John, scoffing at everything he picked, and probably would have purchased, had he not had such a fantastically annoying shadow at his hip. John finally got frustrated, conceding that they were back to the original plan of no gifts, storming out of the store with his hands in his pockets. Sherlock trotted easily after him, smug, and John wondered if this had been his plan all along. A long arm was suddenly wrapped around his shoulder, but John shook him off, annoyed.
“Someone is being sensitive…” Sherlock muttered cheerfully, sliding his hand to the small of John’s back.
“I cannot take you anywhere!” John snapped, glaring at him, which only made Sherlock grin more.”I’m serious, Sherlock! You can’t just annoy me until you get your way.”
“Why not? It’s been working perfectly. In fact I’m fairly certain that when we get home I can convince you to do the seating chart.” He sniffed, smug, cocky, and John laughed humorlessly.
“Oh no, no Sherlock that’s your problem. I’m not doing it, I refuse.” John scowled at him, and Sherlock got a very sly look on his face, not saying anything. They were silent for the rest of the walk back, and John pulled out his keys, stepping up to the door, when he noticed Sherlock had paused a few paces back to tie his shoe. He turned to look at him and was greeted by a snowball directly to the face.
If looks could kill Sherlock would have died twice. John wiped the ice from his face, opening his mouth to yell at him when another hit him in the shoulder. Sherlock laughed loudly and stooped to make another snowball when John tossed his keys down on the mat. “That is it.” He snarled, quickly retaliating. He rarely missed, mostly because Sherlock’s tall, darkly dressed body was an easy target, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t have a fair amount of military training at throwing things and hitting their mark. By the end of it they were both panting and laughing hysterically, dripping wet. They managed to climb their way up the stairs to their flat, still giggling, stripping off the wet clothes before Sherlock pounced on John, holding him close on the couch, kissing him lovingly, still short of breath. He pulled the blanket from this morning firmly around them before resuming his gentle kisses along John’s face and throat, determined to warm them both up. They kept at it for what seemed like an eternity, both of their hair sticking up in odd places from drying in their position on the couch, and Sherlock moved his lips to John’s ear, gently kissing there.
“Do the chart for me.” he whispered, and John scoffed and shook his head. “John…do it for me.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No, Sherlock.”
Sherlock sighed and gently pulled his earlobe between his teeth, breath hot against the sensitive skin. “Please, John?” he turned so his icy gray eyes were large and pleading just above him, and John scowled.
“I will help you with it.” he finally conceded, and Sherlock grinned in triumph.
