For Day 3 of @johnlockweek2025
Combined prompts: KISS + SOULMATE AU (1,8k words)
[also on AO3]
When John comes back to work to find his stupid fucking soulmate alive in their living room, his first instinct is to punch him.
But he kisses him instead.
His arms are thrown around the idiot's shoulders and he's clinging—he knows—but God... he's alive. Sherlock is fucking alive. He's frozen, John realises—Sherlock, that is—and if it weren't for the tight grip on the back of John's shirt and the quickness of Sherlock's shallow breaths, John would think he's about to be rejected. But he knows better. Thank God he's known Sherlock long enough to know better!
And so, he pulls back a bit and cups the man's face with his hands. John's eyes are still shut tight, but he bets his entire savings account—as measly as it is—that Sherlock is staring at him. No matter. He'll relax. They just have to... process this. The both of them.
So John keeps them there, their lips pressed together but not moving at all. As long as they're wrapped around each other, it's okay. And they are wrapped around each other. Noses brushing cheeks.
Eventually, even though John's heart is still exploding in his chest, his breathing begins to even out. Everything feels more real than a minute ago. Sherlock feels more real than a minute ago. John had half-believed him to be a hallucination—wishful thinking. But now… now, John dares to drag his thumb across Sherlock's cheek without fear of the man disappearing into thin air if John got too self-indulgent.
Sherlock shivers. John smiles, and his lips move with it. Slowly but surely, they find a rhythm, and then they're kissing. Properly.
And it's so wonderful.
And it goes on for hours.
Kind of. That part is wishful thinking. It's more like… John never wants it to end. But if he has anything to say about it—and presumably he does—there'll be other opportunities to spend whole days kissing and lazing in bed. So he can pull back now. He can look Sherlock in the eyes. He can say, "This is nuts," and laugh alongside the man he's loved for years and years on end.
"It's not that surprising," Sherlock says against John's lips. "Statistically speaking, most soul-pairs end up romantically involved at one point or another."
"Took us a while, though..." John snorts after kissing him again. He's still holding Sherlock's cheek and doesn't plan to let go anytime soon. It's as much a comfort to him as he imagines—prays—it is to Sherlock. "But I wasn't talking about that…"
Sherlock frowns. "Oh?"
"You're alive." John's voice trembles as he says it. It's so obvious it should be embarrassing, but he lets himself have some leeway. And he knows Sherlock is the last person to judge him for this.
Sherlock just blinks. "Well," he mutters, "Well, yes."
"What do you mean 'well, yes'?"
[cont. under the cut]
"I thought... I thought you would guess I wasn't actually dead," Sherlock explains quickly. John's hand slides from his face to Sherlock's shoulder, and he grips it tightly. For support. "Your soulmark would have faded, John—"
"I didn't have the guts to hope." John can feel his eyes burning, and that is sort of embarrassing. Sherlock, though visibly affected by their kiss, looks rather unbothered by the emotional layer to this conversation.
And John must look worse than he first thought, because after a moment of long, awkward silence, Sherlock grabs John's hands and holds them tightly in his own against their chests. John closes his eyes for one, two, three seconds. Recomposes himself. Squeezes back.
"Surely Mycroft—"
"Is as much of a tight-lipped bastard as always," John finishes for him. "He wouldn't tell me a thing."
Sherlock stares at John, searching for… something in his eyes. John has no idea whether he's found it when he finally speaks, in a low voice. "I'm sorry."
John sighs. He really doesn't want to do this now. They'll fight about this, he knows—about Sherlock disappearing and faking his death and Mycroft not telling John anything, even though that's not really Sherlock's fault entirely.
There's screaming in their future. Maybe some thrown glassware. Definitely a mortifying scene of Mrs Hudson coming upstairs to yell at them for causing a ruckus. But John doesn't want to do this now. He just… Can't they just be soft for a bit? Revel in their reunion a little while longer? Bask in the discovery of the new aspect of their relationship?
Sure, it would be so easy to get all worked up, but John takes a deep breath and instead says just, "Thanks."
"I really am sorry," Sherlock replies immediately, because he wouldn't be Sherlock if he didn't push.
"I know, Sherlock," John says as slowly and as calmly as he can manage. He doesn't know how well it translates, but he does his best anyway. "And I appreciate that, but I'm kind of angry at you at the moment, so I don't want to tell you it's okay when I don't feel that." Sherlock, when John looks up, looks devastated. John sighs again, squeezes their hands tighter, presses a kiss to Sherlock's knuckles and then adds, "I'll... I'll forgive you eventually."
"Because I'm your soulmate?"
John rolls his eyes. "Because you're you, Sherlock—my impossibly brilliant roommate who accidentally saved my life. I'd have forgiven you even if we weren't soulmates." John bites his lip. "We're soulmates because I would have forgiven you either way."
"I... I don't know what to say to that," Sherlock confesses.
"You don't have to say anything," he says gently, shaking his head. "Just... Are you back for good then?"
"Yes," Sherlock nods immediately. "I missed London. And I... I missed you, John. It was incredibly difficult staying away from you."
John's stomach flips on its head, his heart bursts into a billion crackling pieces of fondness, and he feels his mouth pull into a grin entirely unconsciously. "That's the soulbond for you."
"No," Sherlock murmurs, "I think it's just you."
John can't help himself. He has to kiss him. "Copying me, are you?"
Sherlock's smile gives him away. John kisses him again and only then lets him reply.
"I'd rather simply say that our feelings are mutual," Sherlock says and shrugs. Their shoulders brush against each other with how close they're standing.
"When did you become such a smooth talker?"
Sherlock purses his lips. There's another smart answer at the tip of his tongue, John can tell. But instead, the man's face smooths out. He presses a kiss to the corner of John's lips and drops one of his hands to run it along John's spine. It settles low on John's back.
"You have been," Sherlock says slowly, avoiding eye contact, "systematically ignoring my smooth talking for the better part of our friendship for the fear of developing a crush on me."
What? "What? Really?" John gapes at him. The observation, at first, sounds completely insane. But then he thinks about it. And he thinks about Sherlock—the smooth talker, the flirt, the man who could read your entire life in three minutes or less. And then it kind of starts making sense.
"I mean," John starts, then clears his throat. "I… We are soulmates. And as you said… Usually, pairs of our age… at least try it out. You know… for size. But you didn't seem interested even though… even though I always found you… attractive."
"I know."
"You—You know...? So we could've been... romantically involved this whole time? You were aware of my... interest?"
Sherlock sighs and leans forward until his forehead is pressed against John's. He's closed his eyes and, like this, bowed and curling in on himself, he seems so weighted down, so tired. John suddenly feels like the biggest shithead for pressing the issue that isn't even an issue anymore. Didn't he decide they weren't going to fight tonight?
"There was always something going on, John," Sherlock whispers, and John wants to yell at him to shut up. He doesn't need to justify himself to John. Really, John is thrilled by the latest developments between them, but it isn't like he wasn't happy just being friends. He'd been living perfectly contentedly with his soulmate, with whom he got on perfectly. Not everyone is quite that lucky. He… He really hadn't spent all that much time pining after the 'what-ifs'. Mostly because they'd felt so awfully out of reach since the very beginning.
"I couldn't afford..." Sherlock whispers again. "Us being soulmates was already..." he clicks his tongue, sighs, and then moves his head again until it falls onto John's shoulder. John hugs him.
"And now?"
"And now Moriarty is dead. For good."
A huge fucking stone slab falls off John's shoulders. He turns his head and kisses the closest bit of Sherlock's skin he can find: his jaw.
"Does that mean you're retiring?"
"Oh no, not at all." John always loved the way Sherlock laughed when he was happy. It always dripped with delight. "Wouldn't want to get bored, would I?"
"' Course not," John replies. "Silly of me to suggest some peace and quiet around here."
"Please." John can practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes, but the man pulls back to do it again, to make a point. They smile at each other, and then Sherlock continues. "As if you haven't had enough of that for the past two years."
John swallows thickly and then nods. "Yeah, you're right."
"Aren't I always?"
"—full of yourself? Yes."
There's mischief brewing in that brilliant head of Sherlock's, that much is obvious. His eyes sparkle. He bites his lip and then licks it, and then looks at John through his lashes.
"Well... I could be full of you for a change."
John chokes. "Excuse me?"
"What?" Sherlock asks, entirely unashamed, but the only thing John can concentrate on is the feeling of his cheeks absolutely burning. "Didn't think I was a blushing maiden, did you?"
"No but..." he stutters, "I didn't expect..."
"Me to be this forward?" Sherlock reads John's mind, as is often the case. "We're soulmates, John; I have been waiting for this for... years."
It strikes John then that they've both been waiting for this for years. Tiptoeing towards and avoiding it in equal measure. Always seconds away from stumbling over the cliff. Seconds away from screwing up their chances of even having it. They've been so overly cautious, for who knows whose sake.
But now Moriarty is dead. And Sherlock is alive and back in London, back at 221B Baker Street. He's back for good.
And if anyone's ever deserved something good to happen, it's Sherlock, so if he's tired of running away from it, who is John to deny him?
He pulls on Sherlock's hand until the man catches the hint and bends forward. Their lips brush, but John's careful not to connect them.
"Do you..." he murmurs, because he always loved a tease when he could afford it, "wanna go to bed then?"
Sherlock sways towards him as his eyes close. "Thought you'd never ask."
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for @johnlockweek2025 day 5 prompt: Vampire AU
(@its-the-allure I owe you my firstborn child<3)
[also on ao3]
Some would call the great Sherlock Holmes getting bitten by a vampire a thing long overdue. The reckless abandon with which he tackles cases was bound to get him in a spot of trouble sooner or later, right? So maybe his lucky streak has finally ended.
John, though, just calls it unfair.
Mostly to him. Sure, the first twenty-four hours after the change were an absolute clusterfuck that took half-a-dozen people to get under control, but Sherlock's vampirism—once they figured it out—is just another quirk for John to get used to rather than a life-changing inconvenience.
They adjust. Of course they do; they have each other. Well, each other and the research Mycroft loaned them semi-illegally.
In truth, John doesn't have much to complain about. The worst part was sourcing the blood bags. The second worst part was convincing Sherlock that blood types other than O-negative are actually palatable and nutritious.
But those are now the problems of the past. For one, they've managed to agree on a more sustainable source of food, and for another, Sherlock was very easy to persuade to settle for regular old A-positive if that A-positive came from John.
But still… there are some things Sherlock is a bit too meticulous about. Usually, John is the one waving around medical paraphernalia in their flat, but it's Sherlock now who just needs to make sure that John's body is in optimal condition to donate blood. As if John doesn't know his own body. Again, as if John is not a doctor. When Sherlock starts to fuss, though, the easiest course of action is to simply… let him.
So John's letting him.
He's leaning back in his armchair with Sherlock crouching in front of him, retaking his blood pressure for the third time in the last half an hour. There are already notes on his body temperature, his heart rate, his haemoglobin and oxygen levels. There is all sorts of nifty equipment scattered around their living room just in case something unplanned happens and either of them ends up in a medical emergency.
They're over-prepared and it's making John more antsy than if he'd just walked up to Sherlock with a cut on his arm and let him drink his fill. If something goes wrong now, it feels like it will be ten times worse—it will have to be ten times worse to get around their carefully planned crisis strategies.
John is so not looking forward to what feels like an inevitable disaster. It's as if the possibility of it looms over him, heavier and heavier the longer everything is going right. The adrenaline already pooling in his veins is making him shaky. Twitchy. Agitated.
He's not really an impatient man—not usually—but John's never been good at checking all the boxes before diving into things. He's never been good at planning ahead, at making sure, at double, triple checking. He's never been good at being good around Sherlock.
"Sherlock," he mutters when Sherlock finishes jotting down another piece of information about John's (perfect) health.
"Hm?"
Sherlock barely glances up at first, but when he sees John watching him, he turns to him fully. John's never quite figured out if Sherlock knows that John likes this— when Sherlock's attention is solely on him and him alone.
Their eyes meet, and it's enough for John to lose his patience.
He kisses him.
Impulsively.
To distract him.
To get his attention.
The BP monitor drops to the floor in a clatter. Sherlock catches himself on John's knees to avoid falling. His claws pop out without warning, pin-pricking John's trousers. John bites Sherlock's lip.
Sherlock hisses and kisses back harder. John pulls at his collar. Pulls him forward. Pulls him up. Sherlock collapses into him. It's weird to expect heat and be covered instead in cold hard flesh, but it's Sherlock—Sherlock's wild curls under John's hands, Sherlock's insistent lips on John's, Sherlock's hard cock pressing against John's hip.
John slips him the tongue. Sherlock bites John's lower lip. His fang catches against skin. It's pierced. And then there is a drop of blood—only the faintest hint of metal inside John's mouth—but there is a drop of blood.
Sherlock pushes himself away immediately.
Their eyes meet again. Sherlock's are wide open, pitch black as the night, focused on that one beading drop of blood at the corner of John's mouth.
Sherlock licks his lip. He swallows thickly. He shivers. He blinks, oh so slowly.
And then,
in a flash,
he's on John's neck.
The pain bursts. Burns. Takes over all other senses.
It takes only a second for Sherlock to bite harder, for his fangs to sink deeper, and distantly, John is aware that the man will have to be convinced not to feel guilty about this later.
But that's for later, because right now, all John is chanting in his head, cradled in Sherlock's palm, perfectly angled, is finally, finally, finally.
House and Wilson wake her up after coming home late; in the name of redemption, Cuddy makes them satisfy her.
Rating: Explicit
Relationships: Lisa Cuddy/Gregory House/James Wilson
Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Smut, Humor, Consensual Somnophilia, Banter, Vaginal Sex
read on ao3
💞 all my love to @degloved for being the best (beta) a girl can find 💞
