May 4 

This one should have had Reichenbachfeels or Star Wars references, instead you get Sherlock who is unable to fall asleep :P

No porn, Verity, I’m sorry. But I think you’ll appreciate this one all the same :p

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“Sherlock, stop fidgeting!” John pretended to still be asleep, but knew that Sherlock wouldn’t calm down again if he didn’t interfere.

A moment later, Sherlock sat up, grunted, scratched his neck and flung himself sideways across the bed; and John. John groaned in annoyance, trying to push Sherlock off without causing himself to wake up properly.

“Sherlock, it’s the middle of the night. If you can’t sleep, move yourself elsewhere.”

“I am trying, okay?” Sherlock sounded somewhat less annoyed than John.

“You’re doing this on purpose!” John opened one eye and tried to glare at him. All he could see was a sharp hip bone obscuring the view. “What the hell?”

Sherlock rolled over and spread his arms, now effectively cutting off the circulation in John’s legs while one hand pushed into John’s hair. John realised that Sherlock’s head must be hanging off the bed, so he decided to finally put an end to this chaos. Sitting up, he grabbed Sherlock’s hips and dragged him onto the bed again, pushing him down and throwing the duvet over him before he could move away again. Then he settled down, too, wrapping one leg around his hips. “Sleep!” he whispered into Sherlock’s hair, and he smiled when Sherlock inhaled deeply and stretched so that he could place one hand firmly on his bum.

May 3

Heh. I love that they call each other ‘idiot’.

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Sherlock rarely complained when John called him names for doing some incredibly stupid things. “Idiot” was one of the most common ones, because that was what Sherlock used on John a lot, too. Only John received the title when he behaved like a normal person; and Sherlock when he almost killed himself, or John, or, occasionally Lestrade, or that kitten the other day, or that man who carried a large glass frame across the street when Sherlock decided to yell ‘grenade’, testing his deduction that the man had served in three wars.

Sherlock didn’t complain, but he had wonderful words and phrases he fought John with when it came to the name calling; usually when they were back at home and John was removing sharp objects from Sherlock’s body.

“For science,” was the most popular. “It solved the case,” came right after. “I didn’t have time,” followed.

“It was stupid,” John would argue, wiping away the blood or pressing plaster against a scratch or cut.

“It was well thought through. The only option.”

“Insane.”

“Intelligent.”

“Suicidal.”

“Brave.”

Then John would kiss the top of his head and call him “idiot” again.

Very rarely, usually after sex, they would agree on a term which was ambiguous enough to incorporate both perspectives; they would agree that Sherlock was, among other things, very bold.

May 1

haha, rating is going up. yeah, I’m really just working towards what my brain will come up with for Verity’s prompt :p because I know she’d be hugely disappointed if it wasn’t NC 17 :p

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Sherlock did not usually dress up for cases, but sometimes he transformed himself in ways which made it hard even for John to recognise him.

Once he turned up at their door, abusing the doorbell and knocking simultaneously, proving to John that with enough annoyance and distraction he wouldn’t be able to tell that the man with the bushy beard, peyess and a kippah oh his head was actually Sherlock, returning from a case, wanting to test John’s observational skills.

Sherlock decided that John had none at all, which annoyed both of them, but for different reasons.

When Sherlock showed up as a technician, wearing a boiler suit and greasy hair, speaking thick Cockney, it took John the whole of five minutes to figure out that it was Sherlock. To John’s infinite embarrassment he only recognized him when he bent over. John playfully slapped him and then spent ten seconds being mortified that it might not be Sherlock after all; a sentiment which Sherlock deduced and served John on a golden platter while John tried to stop blushing.

That night, John insisted on being shown Sherlock collection of costumes, making Sherlock dress up for him. It was a very long and surprisingly satisfying night. In the end, one costume Sherlock would never again use without blushing was that of a butler.  

April 30

slowly raising the rating :p but not really. Janine was second, so she get’s one, too. After this I’m going home, otherwise I’ll fall asleep on my bike :p will use the other ones for tomorrow’s breaks :)

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“What?” John looked up from his book, unable to ignore Sherlock’s stare any longer. “Do I have something on my face? Am I thinking something which you desperately need to tell me about because I am oblivious?”

Sherlock scowled and looked away, clearly not amused with John’s touchy mood and not impressed with his implications.

A few seconds later, Sherlock was back to staring at John, who was decidedly not distracted by being watched so closely. “Sherlock, don’t you have something to do?” He stretched, feeling something in his spine pop. Something in Sherlock’s eyes changed; but John didn’t want to think about it more deeply.

“I am doing something.” Sherlock sounded somewhat annoyed himself, which did not help at all to lighten the mood.

“And what would that be?” John looked at him challengingly.

“I am deducing.”

“Are you, now?” John leaned back and winced in sudden pain when he felt the muscles in his neck cramp. “And what are you deducing?” John hoped the blush wouldn’t be as obvious as it felt. Having Sherlock stare at him this intently was never helpful. Quite the opposite. He shifted on his chair, hoping not to make it worse.

Sherlock silently got up and stood behind him, placing his warm hands on his tense shoulders. “I deduce that you need a backrub.”

April 29

My wifey Kafers was the first to answer, so she get’s the first 221b :p which turned out to be surprisingly low rated and somewhat cracky; as things sometimes do (just remember for Tea and Country :p)

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“I am not going to sit through that lecture with you.” John tried to sit harder on his chair, making it clear that any sitting he would do today would happen on this very chair. Just to stress his point, he took hold of his mug, hoping it would make him heavier, just in case Sherlock would resort to physical force.

“You said you would come.”

“Sherlock, I wasn’t even present at the time you brought it up. Ask Molly. She was there, and she pointed out that I am very interested in medical research in general, but, and I stress this again, I am not interested in the decomposition of vermin.”

“It might be helpful for future cases.”

“Yes, please, do go and pay attention. I will just sit here and remain blissfully ignorant.”

“Next time you choose a lecture.”

John was surprised that Sherlock wouldn’t let it rest. “You don’t mean that.”

“Anything you want.”

John grinned and Sherlock looked slightly scared. “Don’t tell me you want to go and listen to a lecture about fractures. That would be incredibly boring.”

“No, Sherlock.” His grin grew wider as Sherlock’s expression grew more worried. “I want to go to the botanic gardens.”He stood up, setting the mug down. “I want you to see how a caterpillar turns into a butterfly.”

April 29

can be read as a foreshadowing to Reichenbach in my verse; but that’s up to you.

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Sherlock looked sad. John watched him for a while, pretending to still look the small cut above his eye. He wouldn’t need stitches, but it had been bleeding a lot and while he had pressed a small cotton patch against the wound, he had noticed Sherlock’s unusual look. He had drifted off somehow, as if he was remembering something; something which made him sad.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, pushing curls out of the way so they wouldn’t fall against the wound.

Sherlock blinked, slowly, and then looked at John as if he was surprised to find him there. The sadness seemed to grow even deeper and he watched as Sherlock tried to repress that feeling and how he failed. With a sharp inhale, Sherlock suddenly wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, pressing his face against his stomach.

John wasn’t used to Sherlock suddenly breaking out of his shell; to be overcome with emotions he did not have words for. Something must have scared him, and John guessed that somehow it had to do with him.

“Sherlock? Talk to me.”

But Sherlock remained silent, unable to communicate what exactly it was that made him sad and John carefully ran his fingers through his hair, hoping that just by being there he would manage to make Sherlock feel better

April 28

221b, because of reasons.

reasons:

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John knew he wouldn’t kiss him for a day. He knew he wouldn’t even let Sherlock talk to him up close. He also knew he’d do the laundry as soon as they’d come back home. That, and pack Sherlock’s dress pants, jacket and shirt into a plastic bag which he would take to the cleaners the next day.

He hated cigarettes. He hated the smell of them, he hated the taste of them and how they tasted on Sherlock. But by God he loved watching him smoke. The way the cigarette hung loosely between his fingers, the way he closed his eyes when he inhaled, keeping the smoke in as long as possible, only to release it in a single long slow blow. Sometimes he’d purse his lips, sometimes his tongue would dart out to wet them, sometimes he’d run a finger over his lower lip, brushing away loose tobacco.

Sherlock was good at rolling cigarettes, but he had been distracted and a little high on nicotine already, so this one wasn’t quite perfect; and John hated how that imperfection made it all look even better.

Sherlock finished the cigarette and pressed the stub against the glass ashtray, smiling lazily at the suspect. “Wanna join me outside?” he drawled, making John both jealous and causing him to reconsider his smoking ban.

April 27

oh look, NC 17. It’s been a while. ahem.

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Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. When he had proposed to go to bed, he had actually thought of sleeping.

Being deprived of Sherlock next to him at night for a week had apparently led to John getting enough sleep, but not enough sex.

He had been exhausted. The only sleep he had gotten was on the couch when John was out. Somehow he had found the idea of pretending to not sleep for a week interesting enough to pursue it. Now he knew that he hadn’t fooled John; because had John believed that he had not slept at all, he would most certainly not be sitting on him, slowly riding out the orgasm he had been desperately working towards for the past four minutes.

Sherlock hadn’t realised how desperate John had been until he had found himself on his back with John shamelessly using his body for his own pleasure. And now he was still going, but much slower, wanting to drag out the moment of ultimate pleasure while making sure that Sherlock would understand that he might skip food and sleep in order to function (which John knew was nonsense), but that neglecting his boyfriend was just not on.

And then his concentration slipped when John moved faster again, and he needed all his energy in order to keep breathing.

April 26

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For days Sherlock had been reading through files, stared at photographs for hours on end, texted god knows who for information and hadn’t eaten a single thing.

John had been worried after the second day, but now they were approaching the fourth and John was sure that Sherlock had barely slept and the only things that had entered his mouth had been tea and pencils on which he had started to chew. That in itself told John that he would need for force feed him somehow, but any request was shot down vehemently.

On the fifth day John could see that Sherlock was barely able to keep his eyes open and when he stood up, he held on to the edge of the table. John decided that no matter what Sherlock said, this went too far, even for his standards. So he made chicken soup, filled it in a cup and when Sherlock sat down on the couch to resume reading, John forcefully removed the file from his hands and simply sat on his lap, grabbed his hair tightly to keep him still and set the cup against his lips.

Sherlock spent the rest of the day complaining about a tummy ache and lack of concentration, but John smiled to himself, knowing he had managed to make him feel much better.

April 25

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“No!”

“No?”

“No.”

“Wh …”

“I said no!”

“But John!” John could swear Sherlock’s lips were quivering. If he’d start crying now he’d laugh at him; and probably give in.

“Sherlock. No.”

“It wouldn’t be fast enough to run away.”

“You would start experimenting with it.”

“I wouldn’t kill it?”

“Only chop off his tail to see whether it grows back?” John stood a little straighter.

“His?” Sherlock smirked. “You’ve already decided on the gender then?”

“Fuck off.”

“Come on, John. It won’t be in the way.”

“It will die of neglect.”

“You could make sure that it won’t starve.” He sounded hopeful and John knew he had lost before he had properly begun fighting. Sherlock’s hand was on his cheek and he turned his face so he had to look at him. “You’re so good at taking care of … people. You could take perfectly good care of him.”

“But you want it. You take care of it. God, I am speaking to a child here.”

Sherlock’s face lit up and he let go of John’s face, pushing open the door to the pet shop. “We’re taking him,” he said, pointing at a tiny green chameleon.

So half an hour later Nikodemus, as baptised by Sherlock, silently made his way towards Sherlock’s scarf where he settled down and slowly turned dark blue.

April 24

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The blood seeped out from under his hands. The warmth felt treacherous, life turning to death. John pressed harder, praying that the ambulance would arrive in time. It had to. He wouldn’t lose him. The noise of the traffic was deafening.

He felt the moment when consciousness returned, so he started to talk. “Don’t move. Just stay the way you are. It’s alright, just don’t move.”

It didn’t matter. The man pushed his hand away and sat up.

John felt sick. He could see the blood soaking his shirt. “Don’t!”

With speeding cars all around them, the man crawled away from John, trying to rise to his feet, managing a few paces before another car hit him.

*****

Sherlock didn’t say anything when John returned home; but John could tell that he knew how upset he was. They had tea, and Sherlock returned to his experiment, leaving John to stare out of the window.

After a while, Sherlock looked up. “John?” His voice was almost gentle. “He wanted to die. He did not want to be saved.”

John could feel his hands shaking. He felt the helplessness return and then a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly before disappearing again. “You did what you could, but not what he wanted. But what you did, risking your own life, that was incredibly brave.”