Johnlocked!

***

Sherlock is dead tired and just longs to get home to his two Watsons. He’s been in Paris for nearly a fortnight; hired by one of Mycroft’s associates to solve the theft of the crown jewels in the Louvre. The case had been excellent, apart from one significant thing: John didn’t have the opportunity to come with him.

Another thing that had irked him, was the timing regarding Rosie. A week before his departure, he had started to teach her La Vie en Rose. Tomorrow, she was supposed to perform it at school, which he knew she wasn’t capable of now, due to his long absence. Instead, she had to play one of the easier pieces she already knew by heart.

He feels like he’s failing her, even though John has assured him he’s doing nothing of the sort.

“It’s the Work, Sherlock. And you’re not the first parent who must travel and be away from – “

“But I’m not her parent, am I?”

“Perhaps not officially. Yet. But to her you are. And to me.”

***

His timing could not have been better, John thinks. Rosie has played through the piece nearly flawlessly two times already, and when she’s stretched and had a swig of water, it’s time for the last rehearsal of the day.

“Ready?” he whispers conspiratorially.

“Three is a charm, Nana says,” she replies.

“That’s my girl.”

Rosie lifts her bow and starts playing La Vie en Rose the second the front door closes behind Sherlock. John strains to hear if he’s ascending, but he also needs to pay attention to his daughter’s playing, so he nearly misses Sherlock’s appearance. 

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes almost inaudibly as tears stream down his cheeks.

Rosie prefers to face the window just as Sherlock does when he plays, and John isn’t sure she can see her Papa in the reflection of the glass surface.

John moves over to Sherlock who seemingly can’t avert his eyes from the playing girl. His hand covers his mouth, which probably is agape, and John decides to slide an arm around the man’s waist in case his knees give way.

***

Rosie, his beloved girl, is playing La Vie en Rose far better than Sherlock thought she would be able to do if he had stayed home instead of running off to France. How she’s accomplished that is a topic for another day or hour. For now, he revels in the beautiful music and how Rosie moves with it instead of standing ramrod straight like a pillar.

He feels John’s arm around him, but Sherlock is too absorbed in the music and the miracle that is Rosie Watson. Next month, his surname will be added, which he still can’t get his head around.

When the last tone has faded away, Rosie sets her violin and bow on the table and runs toward Sherlock. He falls to his knees and opens his arms to her. John mitigates the impact to prevent Sherlock from falling onto his back, by placing steady hands on his shoulders.

“I’ve missed you so much, Papa!”

“And I you, my heart. Your playing was extraordinary.”

“Yeah? Uncle Mycroft helped me a bit, and Dad found a tutorial video online who was really helpful too.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t be angry with him, alright?”

“I promise. For once, his aid was… noble.”

John chuckles behind him, and one of his hands – the left – ruffles his curls affectionately.

***

Later, when Rosie is tucked up in bed, John tells Sherlock about their daughter’s dramatic outburst.

“One more chance? Really, John?”

“Cross my heart. She takes after you, in my opinion.”

“Rude!”

“Truthful!”

“You are insufferable!”

“If you say so. And yet…”

“Yet what?”

“Aren’t you a genius?”

“Of course, I am.”

“Well, then?”

Sherlock sighs mock exasperated, buries his nose in John’s neck and whispers: “And yet, I am marrying you in sixteen days.”

“I should think so, my darling.”

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***

Some days later, I am using my shoelaces to tie up a rather volatile villain to keep him restrained until the Yard’s finest find it in themselves to come to our aid. It is not so much my own, but Sherlock’s aid I am referring to. The blasted criminal administered a blow to my beloved’s precious skull before I could tackle him to the floor. Had I not taken the Hippocratic oath, I am not sure I would have let the culprit live.

Because we are (almost) alone – the man on the floor is unconscious – I dare to use a less formal tone when I address my injured beau.

“Dear boy, how is your head?”

“Dreadful.”

“I am sorry I was unable to get to you fast enough, my dear.”

“Shh, John. I was at fault, not you. I thought his moves would be obvious. A miscalculation on my part, I’m afraid.”

“You need to more careful, you realise,” I whisper in his ear, and plant a soft kiss to his temple. “If I lose you, I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something saccharine - if the fond look in his eyes is any indication - but of course, the police choose that moment to burst through the door.

***

Thankfully, Sherlock shows no signs of having a concussion, so I let him sleep once I have divested him and arranged the blankets around him like he prefers. He is asleep before I reach the threshold, which speaks volumes about his fatigue.

In the morning, I wake to a blissful warmth. I can admit that my body is no longer as young and robust as I would like – it aches in most places – due to the tackle I performed the previous evening. Being enveloped in Sherlock’s tight embrace, helps immensely, though.

I try to turn in his arms, but his grip on me tightens, indicating I should stay as I am.

“Not yet, my heart. My head is fine, but your body needs more rest, and I find that I am quite amenable to stay in bed for a while longer.”

I hum contentedly lifting a hand to cover his.

Soft and warm lips are pressed to my nape and then Sherlock inhales.

“I have come to a conclusion,” he informs me.

“You have?”

“Indeed. I have decided to throw all sense of logic overboard when it comes to you.”

“Dear me! Should I be worried?”

He huffs exasperated but kisses me again all the same.

“Last night, you correctly ascertained that I was not concussed, which meant I was able to observe you closely when you weren’t focusing on me.”

“I see. You did not think it impudent?”

“Why on Earth would I think that? I observe you constantly!”

“Very well, then. Do continue.”

“I would if you could stop interrupting me repeatedly!”

“I am merely making conversation, Sherlock.”

“You can count yourself lucky I adore you so much.”

“Oh, I do, my precious love, I do.”

“John!”

“Yes, my darling.”

I turn in his arms now; I miss seeing his beautiful face.

“Tell me. Please,” I whisper and pecks his lips gently.

“It was as clear as day, John. If I had been severely hurt by that villain, you would have served time for your actions. That is how much you love me, and I decided to stop questioning it. I realised in that moment, that everything can’t always be properly explained. It just…”

He stops speaking, as if lost for words, but I have an inkling of what he wants to convey.

“It is what it is?” I suggest.

“Precisely, my dearest John.

“Quite obvious, that,” I murmur, just to get in the last word – if he will let me.

In lieu of answering, he cups my cheek, gives me an intense look, and kisses me until we both forget anything but each other.

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@solarmama-plantsareneat @the-cat-writer @futurewr1ter @copperplatebeech

***

The mirror in Marguerite Vernet’s boudoir was the most ordinary, yet fascinating object Sherlock knew.

“It is just a mirror, brother mine,” Mycroft sighed when he found his little brother in front of it for the umpteenth time that week.

“It’s not! Sometimes the surface flutter. And it can change colour. If you look at it from an oblique angle.”

“Nonsense!”

But his brother disapproval didn’t stop Sherlock from seeking out the mirror when he visited his grand mère.

“Somewhere out there, its jumeau exists, mon trésor,” Marguerite whispered.

“A twin? Mycroft says it’s never twins,” Sherlock protested.

“Oh, but Mycroft does not know everything.”

This wasn’t exactly news to him, but it was rather jarring to hear it said out loud so matter-of-factly.

***

The week before John was shipped out to Afghanistan, something strange happened. He was visiting his parents for the last time in God knew how long. The mirror was still in place in his old room, looking harmless as it had done for years and years. But when he was about to climb into bed, something happened. A dark and unfamiliar voice reverberated through the room.

“Grand mère promised me that I should have it, and I intend to bring it back to London, Mycroft!”

“What the hell,” John muttered.

He placed himself in front of the mirror, but he could only see himself. The voice didn’t speak again either. To John’s incredulity the baritone stirred something in him. A yearning, leaving his chest empty and aching.

“You should’ve gone easier on the whisky, Watson,” he berated himself.

“It’s the twin mirror and most likely it’s owner you heard,” his brain unhelpfully informed him.

The following days, nothing happened, which left John slightly nauseous and definitely disappointed.

It was strange to look at himself in the mirror wearing his uniform. His posture straightened on its own accord the second the last button was in place, and it felt almost solemn to put the beret on his head.

“Are you real?” 

John physically recoiled from the mirror when he heard the deep voice from days prior. He couldn’t see anyone but himself, though.

Nonetheless, he asked, oh so tentatively: “Who’s this?” 

He got no answer, and hours later John found himself under the Afghan sun.

***

“Be careful, soldier,” Sherlock mumbled when he realised that the man in the mirror couldn’t see him.

It was clear that he was the owner of the twin mirror, but Sherlock had no idea where it was situated. The man was British, at least, but that didn’t say much. Unfortunately, the background behind the soldier was rather blurry, so there was nothing for Sherlock to deduce. The only thing he knew for certain was the magnetic pull he felt. It all but radiated from the other man.

“Who are you, and what are you doing to me?” he whispered with an unfamiliar ache where his heart was.

No one had ever had that effect on him. It was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

Sadly, the soldier never asked Sherlock to be careful, and when the cocaine called, he forgot all about the mirror and its twin. Curiously enough, it was the thought of the other man that helped him through rehab three years later.

“Surely, I would have felt something if he – “

His mutterings were interrupted by a burning pain in his left shoulder, and Sherlock passed out.

***

“A bit different from my day,” John remarked to Mike as he surveyed the lab at Barts.

“Tell me about it,” Mike sniggered.

“Ah, Mike. Can I borrow your – “

John’s knees almost buckled, and his ears started to ring loudly when he heard that voice. The one from the mirror. How was that even possible?

“You made it,” the man the voice belonged to murmured almost reverently.

John’s vision was not as affected as the rest of his body, and he gazed at the approaching man, who looked impossibly young. He was also devastatingly gorgeous; the voice fit him perfectly.

“I did. Barely.”

“Your shoulder?” deep baritone asked.

“What? How do you – “

“I felt it. Six weeks ago, yes?”

“Yes,” John whispered.

Surely, he was dreaming. But then the warmth of the man’s presence engulfed him like the softest shock blanket.

***

“Are you real?” John asked him the next day when they met at Baker Street.

Sherlock took his hands in his and let his thumbs stroke John’s knuckles.

“Does this feel real to you?” he asked softly.

“It does, and still - “

John never got to finish that sentence, because Lestrade texted, and then they were running after a serial killer, over rooftops and down dark alleyways.

“Now, that felt real,” John panted when the black door to 221 closed behind them.

“How about this?” Sherlock whispered and leaned in to cover John’s lips with his own.

“I think I need more data,” John grinned when Sherlock drew back, and pulled him back in to snog him properly.

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***

“John, dear, will you – “

“He’s busy,” Sherlock interrupted.

“I’m not, Sherlock,” John protested and sighed exasperatedly.

That was a promising start, I thought.

“What can I help with?” John asked politely.

Sherlock had a lot to learn from John when it came to manners.

“Only a light bulb, dear. But my hip won’t allow me to climb the ladder today.”

The impressive eyeroll Sherlock gave me did not go unnoticed, but it certainly went uncommented.

“No problem, Mrs H. Lead the way,” John said; still polite. 

“I have already estimated the time frame for this endeavour, Hudders,” Sherlock muttered darkly.

“Don’t you worry, dear. I will hand your precious blogger back to you unscathed,” I teased, which made John’s ears turn dark pink alarmingly quick.

***

When John busied himself with changing the light bulb, I put the kettle on. I knew John never refused tea, no matter the hour. The shortbread I placed on a porcelain plate, made his eyes sparkle, and a genuine smile appeared.

“I haven’t had those in ages,” he stated emphatically when I urged him to taste the biscuits.

He closed his eyes and sighed happily while he chewed. This smoothed out the lines on his face, and I could easily picture him as a boy and a teenager.

“So, John, do you like it here? Sherlock isn’t driving you around the bend with all his quirks and oddities?”

I tried to sound innocent, making conversation rather than interrogating the man.

His face lit up, and I knew he was telling the truth when he gushed about the low rent, the excellent location, and he also made sure to praise my baking while he was at it. 

As I said: a polite man.

Before I got the chance to ask about the queries he hadn’t answered, he continued.

“Sherlock…God, where to start? He’s obviously brilliant and extraordinary. A bit mad. Extremely untidy. He’s got no boundaries, you know. But that brain of his…”

He stared into space for a long while, and then he smiled broadly as if remembering a particularly fond moment.

“But it’s more to him than that. I felt it the second he stood next to me in the lab at Barts. There was an invisible connection between us. Utterly curious. Electric, almost. I didn’t even know his name yet, but I knew that my life was about to change. For the better. I was so sure of it.”

“And now?” I prompted when he fell silent again; my patience was wearing thin at that point.

“I was right. My life is getting better by the minute. Being allowed to live and share space with him is…more than I could ever have hoped for. He gives me purpose. I feel valuable, needed; cherished even. Sherlock saved my life that day and I can never repay him. He scoffs at that, of course. Tells me I saved him as well, which I found utterly ridiculous. Until I learned about…his previous troubles. The drugs.”

“I know, dear. So, you will stay, then? You will break his heart if – “

“For as long as he’ll have me.”

Forever, then, I thought to myself. There was no way Sherlock would throw John out. He was already head over heels.

John bid me goodbye, and I heard Sherlock’s deep voice complaining: “She interrogated you. More subtle than Mycroft, but still. Insufferable busybody, is what she is.”

“She just looks out for you, Sherlock.”

“Did you…”

“No, but I think she’s clever enough to figure it out. At least if she dusts upstairs.”

“Oh, she definitely will. Probably the next time we leave the flat. Mark my words.”

“Agreed. Now, how about…”

The talking stopped, but the muffled sounds I heard before I closed my door, were convincing enough. My job was done, and I decided to celebrate with some Stilton, port, and Moulin Rouge.

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Merely two hours later, I feel I’ve jinxed it. The ‘nothing ever happens to me’ gibberish, I mean.

I’m currently in front of my laptop. My brand-new blog is on display; the cursor is blinking mockingly, impatiently, as if it says: “Go on, you numpty. Start writing, already. Things have finally happened to you!”

And my is that cursor right. But still I have no more idea what to write now, than the last times I’ve been sitting in front of a new blog entry. It’s likely due to the fact that too many things have happened to me in quick succession. I feel it needs processing before I put words to paper, metaphorically speaking.

I’ve got my prompt, though. The one Ella couldn’t (or wouldn’t) give me.

A meeting. No. Two meetings, actually. 

I know I’m dawdling, but I can’t seem to decide on a title, and I desperately need a title. Even in school, I couldn’t write a damn thing before I had a title. Little has changed in that department it seems.

It needs to be something that foreshows what the blog post is about, so the word ‘meeting’ should definitely be in the title; plural or singular. 

I start typing. Trying it out.

A Meeting in the Park

A Surprising Meeting

Two Meetings at Different Locations

Meeting a Doctor and a Madman

A Strange Meeting

I read them over and decide on the last one. It’s not that meeting Mike wasn’t significant – it was after all that particular meeting that led me to Barts and Sherlock Holmes – but it was the meeting in the lab that changed my entire world.

How to describe him? Sherlock Holmes, that is. Mike Stamford hasn’t changed much since our days at Barts. He’s gained some weight, but he’s as jovial now as he was when we first met years ago. Some would even say, he’s easily forgotten; normal.

‘Normal’ is not a word I would use to describe Sherlock Holmes. On the contrary. 

He’s most likely human, but his capabilities to observe – not to mention speak so rapidly you feel like you’re boarded a carousel out of control – are quite extraordinary and otherworldly. By just a perfunctory onceover, he knew almost everything about me.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” was his first question.

For once, I was immensely relieved that I had my cane to lean on. 

After I’d told him it was Afghanistan, he rattled out my entire life story, as if he read it out of a book. He did get the gender of Harry wrong, though, but I didn’t tell him that. Maybe I’ll surprise him with it some other time. Because I am meeting him again. The man that looked 12 when I first laid eyes on him. Tomorrow we’re off to look at flat together. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.

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It had been an ice-cold January afternoon. The darkness outside was absolute, and Sherlock was about to close the salon for the day. Nobody would venture out if they didn’t need to; Sherlock knew the residents of Arboreta Combe, they were nothing but predictable in their actions. So, it surprised him to no end when the bell over the door chanted and a man stepped over the threshold, closing the door firmly behind him. He rubbed his bare hands together and brought them closer to his face to blow hot breath into his palms.

The man was at least five inches shorter than Sherlock. His hair was blond with streaks of silver. His blue eyes widened when he recognised the colour palette of the salon, but he didn’t remark on it.

“Do you have a spare moment to cut my hair?”

“As you can see, the salon is quite empty, but I don’t think I am the right hairdresser for you.”

“Cheeky,” the man chuckled, then smiled up at Sherlock.

This changed his face completely. He looked ten years younger, and his shoulders finally relaxed, though Sherlock detected something sorrowful lingering in his posture, nonetheless.

“I have rules and standards,” Sherlock explained.

“Do you now? Let’s hear them, then.”

There was a challenging undertone in his voice, which made Sherlock’s stomach flutter slightly.

“If I don’t like your suggestions, I won’t cut your hair. I know what suits people, and I refuse to let them walk out of here looking like morons.”

“I see. Do you enjoy playing God in this little kingdom of yours?”

The challenge had turned to steel, now. Sherlock shivered before he huffed in annoyance.

“It is my salon, and I do as I please. If you don’t like my terms, please feel free to bugger off.”

This usually did the trick, but this man was stubborn, and he didn’t look the least bit perturbed. The fluttering in Sherlock’s stomach intensified.

“So, tell me why you think I want a haircut you don’t approve of.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock said and rolled his eyes. “You’ve had the same style for what, fifteen years?”

“Fourteen, actually.”

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Tagging some who might be interested to read when the time comes.

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The scent of Sherlock sometimes overwhelmed John completely, and all he wanted was to lean his head on the other man’s shoulder and inhale deeply. Maybe place a kiss to his neck or run his fingers through those curls.

Sherlock in turn, became dizzy when John crouched down next to him; his calm presence paired with the intrigue of the grim scene before him, made the great detective want to snog his blogger senseless.

They did nothing of the sort, of course. The Work came first, and they were (mostly) professionals. 

But the thrumming energy between them needed an outlet, so when they walked away from the scene, both searched for an acceptable space behind the lights from the police cars and, more often than not, the emergency lights from the ambulance(s).

“The alcove,” John whispered, reaching for Sherlock’s hand.

“Perfect,” Sherlock praised and hurried after him.

Sherlock hunched down a little, widened his stance to make some sort of barrier between the street and the opening. In the dim light, his dark figure, dressed in his long coat, completely hid the alcove.

John was mindful of wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist inside the Belstaff; his bare hands would stand out against the dark fabric. To hide what they were doing, Sherlock needed to rest his arms and gloved hands on the wall, which intensified the experience tenfold. He hated that he couldn’t touch John, but he knew it would be worth the wait.

They kissed frantically for some glorious minutes, but when John spoke, Sherlock had to end the rendezvous.

“God, Sherlock, I can’t wait to have your hands on me. You’re gagging for it aren’t you? I can feel it. It’s so bloody sexy, you’ve no idea.”

It was a herculean effort to part from John’s lips and warmth, but Sherlock thought he would come in his pants if they kept it up much longer. They had run all over London for days, with only a few hours to spare for sleep, and he was harder than he’d been in a long while.

“Home. Now!” he growled.

John’s wicked chuckle did nothing to ease the arousal that was building with alarming speed. Luckily, a taxi approached them seconds later. Sherlock was quite certain he would have a hard time walking properly; his tailored trousers were becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

Neither of them was sad to see the emergency lights disappear behind them, and John wondered if it might be time to reveal their secret soon, though he found it indecently exciting to rile Sherlock up. Not that he was unaffected himself, but he had the benefit of slightly wider trousers than his vain boyfriend.

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