Johnlock Love Letters

(AKA - JL3 Declarations of Love from fan fiction) #779

This has probably been done a million times but I felt like it was time I contributed to the stag night / gay bar / fucking fix it genre.

John wavers on his feet on his way to the bar, squinting against the strobe lights, being careful he doesn't accidentally trip over anyone. Any men. Any fucking handsome blokes. The place is full of them. Naturally: it's that sort of place. One could, if one wanted, flirt, a lot. One could go home with a bloke, if one wanted.

Not that he wants to. Not that he would. Not now, anyway. Not since—well, he's supposed to be getting married. He's engaged. He's here to celebrate that, although he keeps forgetting. Mary. He's committed. He should be committed. To her, that is.

But Sherlock could, flirt, if he wanted. He could go home with someone, if he—does he? Given the looks he got as they were coming in, Sherlock could have his pick of the place. Of course he could, with his cheekbones and curls and his lithe-yet-muscular body and good God, John is drunk.

His head spins and his belly churns and he assures himself for the fifteenth time in five minutes that Sherlock wouldn't dare abandon him, not on his stag night. He's a dickhead, but he's put so much effort into planning everything. He brought them here because it's part of his murder theme. (Come on, John! You must remember the chef we found pulverised in the alley behind the restaurant across the road. Good times!)

It isn't, John assures himself, because Sherlock's looking to get lucky.

Sherlock doesn't feel things that way.

Unless he does.

It's that tiny spark of hope that John's been carrying in his chest, lately, that's keeping him on the knife edge of a decision tonight. He can't bear it, and he can't let go of it, either.  

Read the rest at ao3.

Tagging people who seemed to think this was a good idea under the fold.