Send me johnlock requests

he uses it as shorthand, as a statement he makes without words. as a movement that encompasses so much more than language ever could. i love you i adore you i will keep you safe. it means, i will wait for you. it means, i will carry you. it means, i will be here for always. 

he says this with a chaste press of lips, and he knows what he means. he means it like a promise. he keeps it like a vow.

and yet.

there is a difference between speaking and hearing. between knowing, and being told, and the first time sherlock leans down and presses his lips to john’s forehead, john’s breath stops. 

it’s late. it’s quiet. the fire has been dying in the grate for hours, and sherlock is a warm, heavy weight alongside john where they’ve been tangled together on the sofa for hours, trading dreams and wishes like pocket candy, places they want to go, things they want to do, everything they want to learn. sherlock is soft around all his edges, beautiful and tender with a wide-eyed wonder that never seems to grow tired in his eyes. 

sherlock moves first. you’re too tired, he says, a suggestion of a laugh in his breath. let’s go to bed. he stands, turns off the lights, locks the door. comes back for john, still on the sofa, and holds out his hands. john takes them and lets sherlock pull him to his feet. 

and sherlock pulls him just that tiny bit closer, and softly-gently-bashfully, so very quietly, so very carefully, presses his lips to john’s forehead, and leaves a kiss there.

and john hears him. 

there are some things that you can’t know until you are told. there are some truths that you think can never be yours, until someone whispers them to you. there are some parts of yourself that only exist to other people, that can only be seen when they are reflected back to you from the mirror of someone else’s eyes. sometimes, to see the whole picture, you have to take a step back. 

and when sherlock presses his lips to john’s forehead, for the first time, john hears everything, everything he’s ever wondered and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he’s ever thought he didn’t deserve, and what he hears is this:

you are home.

sherlock breathes in against him. the embers of the fire glow and smoulder. john’s throat closes up, leaving him breathless around the strength of a thing he’s always wanted and never known. 

John: “Oh, please, there’s just one more thing, right? One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t… be… dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this.”

*Orgasm text alert sound, about two graves away*