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AUTHOR'S NOTES:
This is the first Johnlock story I have ever written, so it may be a bit forced. It's also the first fic I've written in five years, so my writing may be a bit rusty. I appreciate and welcome constructive criticism with open arms. WARNING: This story has homosexual relationships in it. If you don't like it, don't read it and go stand in a corner being afraid of your close-mindedness. Thank you.
It was rare for it to snow a lot in London, but, yet, there it was. Big, fluffy pieces of cloud were falling through the sky, piling with the couple inches of snow that were already lying on the ground. The sidewalk was slippery, and John Watson had a fair amount of trouble balancing the groceries and himself. Not to mention that his fingers were freezing, so even then, he was quite surprised that he could hold the bags.
John knew that he could have taken a cab, but he really didn't feel like it. The store was close to 221B Baker Street, and finding a cab in this weather would be a nightmare. He was beginning to regret his decision, and he could feel his cheeks beginning to hurt from the cold wind. All he could focus on was the fact that in a few more blocks, he would be home. He could only hope that Sherlock remembered to keep the fireplace going, because he was looking forward to sitting on his chair, warming himself up.
He finally made it home and managed to open the door to the flat, which he thought a small miracle since his fingers were almost frostbitten. Climbing up the stairs to the flat, John was surprised that he couldn't hear a sound. Usually, he'd hear Sherlock working on one of his experiments, playing the violin, or typing away on his laptop. Opening the door, he could not see Sherlock at first, but then he noticed the curly, dark locks of his friend on the armrest of the couch.
Sherlock rarely slept, and John did not have the heart to wake him, so he put the groceries away and sat down in his arm chair by the fire, which had thankfully not gone out. He began to warm his hands, and he was so lost in his thoughts, that he jumped when a deep, groggy voice said, "You're back."
John looked over at Sherlock. "You said the police don't consult amateurs," he replied with a smirk.
Sherlock ignored him. "Want me to warm those up for you?" he asked John with a smile, as he watched him rub his hands together.
"That would be marvellous."
John walked over to the couch and sat down next to Sherlock, his knees touching the other man's thighs. Sherlock took John's hands and laid them on top of his chest. One hand covered John's hand and the other one stroked his freezing cheek.
"Poor you, having to go out in this weather. Why didn't you at least take a taxi back?"
"Couldn't find one," John replied through Sherlock's fingers which were stroking his lip.
Sherlock's eyes met his, and they both leaned forward just until their lips brushed together. Sherlock's hand moved over to the back of John's neck, and he stroked the short hair there. John began to let his hands roam around Sherlock's chest, but Sherlock's hand took his and put it over his heart. John could feel Sherlock's heartbeat, something that he thought he would never feel or hear again. But here was Sherlock, real, kissing him, and warm.
Sherlock pulled John closer to him, and slowly began to lie down on the sofa. He could feel John getting hard through his pants, but decided to ignore it. He was really way too tired to start anything right now; they had just finished a very complicated case of a triple-murder.
"John," Sherlock mumbled as John began to grind his hips against his, "not now... Tonight. But let me sleep now."
"You never let me sleep," John replied.
"You're too irresistible and I can hardly keep my hands to myself."
"So don't."
Sherlock scooted down just a little bit, letting John rest his weight against him.
Sherlock began to pull his lips away, eliciting a small groan from John's. He looked up and saw John's puppy dog eyes staring at his.
"John, tonight, I promise."
"But I want it now."
"Too bad. You want me rested for tonight, don't you?"
"Well, that depends on what we're doing. I don't think I'm up for another case, Sherlock."
Sherlock smiled as his thigh ghosted along John's erection. "No, you're not."
John shifted up so his head could rest on Sherlock's chest. Hearing Sherlock's heartbeat, his breathing, the deep rumbles of the contented sounds he was making... John had never heard such a wonderful sound.
Sherlock pulled the blanket off the back of the couch, and draped it over himself and John. Wrapping his arms around John and pulling him closer, he let his eyes close. He felt John's hot breath through his shirt, and his chest rising and falling with his breathing. Giving into the moment, he allowed himself to fall asleep.
John shifted his hips so Sherlock could no longer be the tease he was. Seeing Sherlock sleep was one of the rarest, most wonderful things in his life. John could see how Sherlock's lips parted, see how the small worry lines on his forehead smoothed out, and hear the tiny little moans that Sherlock made in his sleep. Seeing Sherlock in this state was not something many people had seen, and he felt almost honoured to be allowed to experience it.
Looking at Sherlock's face, John realized the rarity of the situation. It is rare for it to snow too much in London. It is rare to see Sherlock Holmes asleep. It is rare for people to come back from the grave... but Sherlock Holmes had somehow managed to come back to John. And with that thought, John drifted off on top of his closest friend, colleague and lover.
Please review!!!
This is the first Johnlock story I have ever written, so it may be a bit forced. It's also the first fic I've written in five years, so my writing may be a bit rusty. I appreciate and welcome constructive criticism with open arms. WARNING: This story has homosexual relationships in it. If you don't like it, don't read it and go stand in a corner being afraid of your close-mindedness. Thank you.
It was rare for it to snow a lot in London, but, yet, there it was. Big, fluffy pieces of cloud were falling through the sky, piling with the couple inches of snow that were already lying on the ground. The sidewalk was slippery, and John Watson had a fair amount of trouble balancing the groceries and himself. Not to mention that his fingers were freezing, so even then, he was quite surprised that he could hold the bags.
John knew that he could have taken a cab, but he really didn't feel like it. The store was close to 221B Baker Street, and finding a cab in this weather would be a nightmare. He was beginning to regret his decision, and he could feel his cheeks beginning to hurt from the cold wind. All he could focus on was the fact that in a few more blocks, he would be home. He could only hope that Sherlock remembered to keep the fireplace going, because he was looking forward to sitting on his chair, warming himself up.
He finally made it home and managed to open the door to the flat, which he thought a small miracle since his fingers were almost frostbitten. Climbing up the stairs to the flat, John was surprised that he couldn't hear a sound. Usually, he'd hear Sherlock working on one of his experiments, playing the violin, or typing away on his laptop. Opening the door, he could not see Sherlock at first, but then he noticed the curly, dark locks of his friend on the armrest of the couch.
Sherlock rarely slept, and John did not have the heart to wake him, so he put the groceries away and sat down in his arm chair by the fire, which had thankfully not gone out. He began to warm his hands, and he was so lost in his thoughts, that he jumped when a deep, groggy voice said, "You're back."
John looked over at Sherlock. "You said the police don't consult amateurs," he replied with a smirk.
Sherlock ignored him. "Want me to warm those up for you?" he asked John with a smile, as he watched him rub his hands together.
"That would be marvellous."
John walked over to the couch and sat down next to Sherlock, his knees touching the other man's thighs. Sherlock took John's hands and laid them on top of his chest. One hand covered John's hand and the other one stroked his freezing cheek.
"Poor you, having to go out in this weather. Why didn't you at least take a taxi back?"
"Couldn't find one," John replied through Sherlock's fingers which were stroking his lip.
Sherlock's eyes met his, and they both leaned forward just until their lips brushed together. Sherlock's hand moved over to the back of John's neck, and he stroked the short hair there. John began to let his hands roam around Sherlock's chest, but Sherlock's hand took his and put it over his heart. John could feel Sherlock's heartbeat, something that he thought he would never feel or hear again. But here was Sherlock, real, kissing him, and warm.
Sherlock pulled John closer to him, and slowly began to lie down on the sofa. He could feel John getting hard through his pants, but decided to ignore it. He was really way too tired to start anything right now; they had just finished a very complicated case of a triple-murder.
"John," Sherlock mumbled as John began to grind his hips against his, "not now... Tonight. But let me sleep now."
"You never let me sleep," John replied.
"You're too irresistible and I can hardly keep my hands to myself."
"So don't."
Sherlock scooted down just a little bit, letting John rest his weight against him.
Sherlock began to pull his lips away, eliciting a small groan from John's. He looked up and saw John's puppy dog eyes staring at his.
"John, tonight, I promise."
"But I want it now."
"Too bad. You want me rested for tonight, don't you?"
"Well, that depends on what we're doing. I don't think I'm up for another case, Sherlock."
Sherlock smiled as his thigh ghosted along John's erection. "No, you're not."
John shifted up so his head could rest on Sherlock's chest. Hearing Sherlock's heartbeat, his breathing, the deep rumbles of the contented sounds he was making... John had never heard such a wonderful sound.
Sherlock pulled the blanket off the back of the couch, and draped it over himself and John. Wrapping his arms around John and pulling him closer, he let his eyes close. He felt John's hot breath through his shirt, and his chest rising and falling with his breathing. Giving into the moment, he allowed himself to fall asleep.
John shifted his hips so Sherlock could no longer be the tease he was. Seeing Sherlock sleep was one of the rarest, most wonderful things in his life. John could see how Sherlock's lips parted, see how the small worry lines on his forehead smoothed out, and hear the tiny little moans that Sherlock made in his sleep. Seeing Sherlock in this state was not something many people had seen, and he felt almost honoured to be allowed to experience it.
Looking at Sherlock's face, John realized the rarity of the situation. It is rare for it to snow too much in London. It is rare to see Sherlock Holmes asleep. It is rare for people to come back from the grave... but Sherlock Holmes had somehow managed to come back to John. And with that thought, John drifted off on top of his closest friend, colleague and lover.
Please review!!!
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When John Watson first met Mary Morstan there weren't bright sparks or life changing glances. There was a slight crash, a box of flying pasta, a mumbled apology and nothing more. It was when they bumped into each other a second time in the same shopping center that John started to get suspicious. He helped her collect her items for a second time, suggested that she replace the can of beans after its second swan dive across the aisle and offered his number.
She bit her lip and accepted. It wasn't perfect, but it worked.
They went out for coffee a week later. Wandering lazily around London's streets with paper cups in hand. Shy smiles were ex
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Sherlock had needs.
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John was a difficult love, or more or less obsession as it was becoming. The consulting detective had the urge to be around him contantly, he wanted to be at his work and in his room when the door was locked and on his dates. That was, perhaps what had drove the detective so insane, the dates. Sherlock could handle w
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Prompted: Professional
If possible bring supplies from surgery.
SH
Immediately John wondered if that was going to end in yet another one of Sherlock's experiments. He only saw the text an hour after it was sent because he had forgotten his mobile on his desk when he went to Sarah's office to do a consult for her. It was rather unusual for Sherlock to not send at least one follow up text if he didn't reply in a 'timely fashion'. Odd.
Also, what exactly did Sherlock mean by 'supplies'? That could mean anything from a packet of band-aids to examination gloves and syringes. Usually he was a lot more specific than that.
John was only scheduled to see
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John is tired and cold from a trip to the supermarket.... Thankfully, Sherlock is at home to warm him up. Slashy Johnlock fluff.
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oh my... so cute!! <3