#eventual johnlock

‘You look nice.’ His eyes meet yours as he sits down. ‘Thank you.’ He replies, a bit stiffly, as he’s not used to being complimented on his looks. Despite this, he eventually thanks you and tangles his fingers with yours above the table, holding your hand. You, instead of lingering on the topic, decide it’s best to give him his present. Reaching down, you grab the small paper bag you’d taken with you and hand it to him. ‘I didn’t know whether you wanted to do presents, but I saw this when I was in town…’ You say when he reaches into it and takes out the small box. You look at him intently as he opens it, revealing a pair of cufflinks and a matching tie bar. They’re a simple silver colour with a black square at the end of the tie bar and a small black square in one corner of the square cufflinks. He looks down at them, taking them in. ‘I know they’re not exactly the most classic but-’ ‘I like them.’ Mycroft interrupts you. ‘You don’t have to say so just because I got them for you… I still have the receipt, so if you want to exchange them-’ ‘Stop it. I just told you I like them.’ Mycroft stops your rambling and you look down when his gaze meets yours. You can feel the heat creeping up to your cheeks, something you rarely experience, so you go quiet.

When you glance up, you can see he’s taking off the cufflinks he’s wearing. ‘What are you doing?’ Your voice is more quiet than intended. ‘Putting on my present.’ He replies casually, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. Your gaze follows his hands as he puts the new cufflinks through his shirt’s cuffs and puts the tie bar in place. He puts the ones he was wearing before into the box before placing it back into the bag and setting it down next to him. 

‘What do you think?’ He asks. ‘...looks good…’ You say, still a bit flustered that he had just put them on immediately. ‘Well… thank you for this very thoughtful gift, my love.’ He says, reaching across the table to grab your hand before bringing it up to his lips and kissing your knuckles. The heat that had subsided slightly comes back in full force, rushing up your neck and to your cheeks.

‘You’re blushing.’ He observes after a beat of silence. You resist the urge to bury your face in your hands and groan. ‘I fear you’re making it worse.’ You mutter and he lets out a soft laugh.  ‘I was thinking…’ he says, changing the topic swiftly but smoothly, ‘how about we get out of London for a bit until the end of the year? Drive up to the country… spend some time with just the two of us.’ ‘Drive up to the country?’ You sit a little straighter. ‘Yes. I have a cottage near the north of England… we could go together. Stay until the end of the year.’ That would mean just over a week. Just the two of you. Leaving London behind. Would it mean leaving Spike behind too? Even if it’s just for a moment? ‘That… I would like that.’ You quirk a smile as you reply. Mycroft’s gaze softens when you agree. A visible sign that he cares. That he wants you there. Well… Charlie. Not you for you. He wants the version of you that you present to him. The version of you that has been tailored to him like one of his suits.

‘My love.’ His voice pulls you out of your thoughts. ‘We can leave tomorrow if you’d like. We can drive by your place tomorrow morning and start heading up north once you’ve packed your things.’ You smile. ‘Yes, I think that would probably be the best course of action.’ His thumb brushes over your knuckles. ‘I have a present for you too.’ He says before reaching into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulling out a small box as well. When he hands it to you, your fingertips brush past his. You hadn’t quite expected for him to have a present for you as well, and when you slide the top off of the box, your eyes widen. Inside sits a Cartier Trinity bracelet with a black cord. 

‘Mycroft… have you gone mad?’ You look up at him quickly, surprised. Perhaps even shocked. ‘I haven’t.’ He replies calmly. ‘I thought it would suit you.’ Your mouth opens and closes a few times like a fish out of water, and, before you can come up with a witty response, the waiter sets down the starters and pours wine into both of your glasses. He starts explaining something about the food, but you’ve zoned out, staring at the box in your hands.

The feeling of Mycroft’s hand taking the box out of yours takes you out of your thoughts once more. Rather than giving you the opportunity to protest, he moves the bracelet over your hand and onto your wrist before tightening it. ‘There.’ He huffs, grabbing his glass of wine. ‘And don’t you dare protest.’ He says before taking a sip, stopping you just as you’d open your mouth to say something about how ridiculous it is for him to buy you such an expensive gift. ‘Fine.’ You agree, albeit reluctantly.

The dinner passes quite quickly. Despite there being several courses to eat, they’re all quite small. Mycroft seems to be enjoying himself immensely, not just because of the food, but the company as well. He tells you about his family, not just Sherlock, and where he wants to take you to see near his cottage. Apparently, he’s quite fond of walking in his free time. He also asks you about how your training has been going, not just the running but also the kickboxing. You answer him honestly, that you’ve been pretty consistent, though are hoping to pick up some more kickboxing classes in the new year. Work had been interfering the past few weeks, but with things quieting down, it should go just fine. He smiles at that. 

Just as you step outside after dinner, Mycroft’s phone rings. He lets out an annoyed sigh, but pulls out his phone. Looking down at the screen, he realises it’s his brother. ‘I should probably take this.’ He says apologetically. ‘Yeah, of course.’ You close your coat and reach into its pocket to grab a cigarette. Due to recent stress, you’d started smoking more often again. You know you shouldn’t. That it would be better if you didn’t. Yet here you are, lighting one up as Mycroft talks to Sherlock on the phone. From the corner of your eye, you see the man glancing at you and you offer him one. Holding the phone between his ear and shoulder, he accepts it, placing it between his lips. You light it for him and he thanks you by quirking his lips into a small smile, not wanting to alert his brother. So, for the next few minutes, he stands there, talking to his brother whilst smoking. The bag with his cufflinks hangs loosely between the fingers in his other hand, swinging back and forth ever so slightly.

‘Sherlock, please… I would rather not hear about your latest case right now.’ He says. There’s a moment of silence before he says something again, seemingly responding to Sherlock’s words. ‘Go talk to Mrs. Hudson if John has gone after his girlfriend to make things up to her.’ He rolls his eyes and he takes a long drag. You smile slightly at his annoyance. ‘No Sherlock, I don’t care. I’m busy.’ You step a little closer to Mycroft, looping your arm through his and leaning your head against his shoulder as you take another drag. As you let smoke trail from your mouth, you breathe it back in through your nose. You can hear Sherlock’s voice through the phone now, saying something about Mycroft not having any friends so he couldn’t possibly be doing anything that’s remotely of importance. Hearing this, you let out a soft chuckle. Sherlock was clearly still in denial that his brother does, in fact, have a life outside of his work and family (him—cough, cough). 

The car pulls up and he says something to Sherlock before hanging up the phone. ‘Sorry about that.’ He murmurs, putting away his phone and turning to you, pressing a kiss to your temple. His breath is warm against your skin, especially in the cold air of winter. Before you get into the car, you both put out your cigarette with the tip of your shoe. He follows you in, staying closely behind you before taking his seat next to you. Once the door is closed, he instructs his driver to drive you both to his place.

The ride itself is mostly silent. You lean your head against his shoulder and look outside at the buildings you pass by. He, too, looks out of the window, but his hand is on your wrist, his thumb playing with your new bracelet. It’s almost possessive, how he holds your wrist, though it’s not tightly. It’s peaceful. Perhaps too peaceful. But, you suppose you’ll enjoy it for now, even if it’s just momentarily.

The following morning, after sleeping in, Mycroft wakes you around ten. He’d gotten up around eight that morning to take a couple of work calls regarding Egypt, making sure not to wake you so you would have the opportunity to catch some more sleep. He shakes your shoulder slightly, whispering your name.

When you finally do wake, you slowly open your eyes and blink at him. He, seeing you awake, presses a soft kiss to your lips. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb drawing small circles near your temple. ‘Morning, Myc...’ You murmur, still half asleep. ‘Morning, dear.’ He replies. ‘Did you sleep well?’ You nod and close your eyes for a few seconds before opening them again. He’s still there, crouching next to the bed and looking at you. His thumb stills for a moment as he admires you. You lean up and press a soft kiss to his lips. When you part from him, you sit up, letting the sheets pool around your waist. You’re wearing one of his old jumpers that’s quite large on you, as well as some shorts you’d left here last time. ‘Would you like oatmeal again?’ He asks before adding, ‘I have some blueberries and strawberries in the fridge.’ ‘That would be lovely.’ You slowly move your legs over the side of the bed before getting up. Mycroft, who had stood up moments before, offers his hand to you and you accept. 

He holds your hand as he leads you down the stairs and to the kitchen. His grip is firm and warm, reassuring almost. If the circumstances of your relationship had been different, it would have been reassuring. If you hadn’t been the person you are, it would have been different. There’s this impending sense of doom looming over you that you are very much trying to ignore. You know that at one point this all will blow up in one way or another, and yet, you are starting to realise that you don’t want it to. You want to be here, with him, in his presence. You have to admit it now. After weeks—no, months—of denying it to yourself, you have to admit that you like him. Actually like him for him. Not just for the mission you’re trying to complete. Not just because Jim told you to get close. And, as you drive to Baker Street later that morning to go get your things you realise that you are completely and utterly fucked.

Taglist: @h-malacus @thegirlwhosimpstoomuch @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @briars-glenn

I kept waking up to violin versions of The Cure songs. No need for an alarm when you’ve got Sherlock Holmes and his instruments, I supposed. It was about 7:15 in the morning when I woke up this time. He was plucking individual strings with no true melody. After living with Sherlock for a week, I knew this meant he was in a more… unstable (?) state of mind. I slipped out of bed and greeted him in our living room.

“Hey, mate. Everything alright?”

His eyes didn't meet mine and kept staring at a blank point in his vision. “No. Lestrade hasn't called me.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I was a bit confused because he always seemed irritated with the detective inspector. Well, he was now, so nothing out of character. 

He was yelling now, but not in a tone that seemed like he was angry with me. “Yes! Yes, it is, Watson! He has all the cases—all the puzzles to solve. Even if ninety percent are bloody boring, it's better than having nothing."

I crossed my arms. “I’m going out to get a coffee. Maybe coming along will distract you a bit? I’ll get you one too, of course.”

He finally caught my gaze. “Coffee tastes like shit.”

“Soy chocolate milk?”

“... Fine.”

A quick change of clothes later and we were out the door. Sherlock had a different band sweater on, and I wore my half-arsed patch jacket. I haven't had the time to find more patches to put on it, especially since I’ve left secondary school. I didn't recognize the band on him, so I asked.

“What's the band on your sweater?”

Sherlock looked back at me baffled as we walked down the street. “You don't know Destroy Boys?” I shook my head; he sighed. “They're a punk-rock band; I guess I shouldn't have assumed you knew them since they're not very popular. That's also why I made the sweater myself. I mostly like their album "Make Room.” Crybaby’s been a favorite song of mine from that album since I was twelve.”

“Then I’ll listen to them the moment we’re back in the flat,” I answered to his info dump while stopping in front of my favorite coffee shop. I opened the door for Sherlock and stepped in after him.

We took our seats in the corner as Sherlock naturally gravitated towards it, which I found a little funny.

I put my bag down on the chair. "Okay, so a soy chocolate milk for you?”

He nodded, “with ice as well.”

“Odd. I’ll be right back.”

We enjoyed our drinks and continued conversation about Destroy Boys. I can't remember everything he said about them (I wish I did), but I can definitely recommend you lot to listen to them!

When Sherlock reached the end of his iced chocolate milk (does that even taste good? Who the hell drinks cold chocolate milk? It’s called hot chocolate for a reason), and his phone began to ring. When he picked up, a smile spread across his face, and he ran out of the cafe. The owner looked at me confused; I apologized and went after him.

“Yes, I’ll be right there,” Sherlock panted and stopped by the side of the street. 

“Sherlock!” I yelled after him, “What the hell are you doing?!”

He quickly tapped on his phone and looked up at me. “I—no—we have got our hands on a lovely murder case!” Sherlock was smiling ear to ear; I had to suppress my own smile in response to his because it felt inappropriate to seemingly be happy about someone's death. 

Suddenly, what I assumed to be an Uber pulled over, and Sherlock rushed me inside. 

“Didn't know you were an uber type of guy—"

“I’m not,” he cut me off. “I called the taxi driver my brother said was always ready for me.”

Can hitmen do that?

“Anyway, Watson. We need to get there as fast as possible. It's best when the body is fresh.”

I swallowed; I couldn't think of anything to reply with. Luckily, I didn't have to when the car abruptly stopped in front of a Starbucks. Sherlock practically jumped out; I followed.

“Starbucks? Really? That stuff isn't even remotely close to coffee. Not to mention the company’s a load of—"

“Detective Inspector!” Sherlock greeted him, cutting me off (again).

“Sherlock, nice seeing you again.” The man answered, extending his hand out for Sherlock to shake. “How's living in your new flat going?”

He ignored Lestrade’s hand and small talk. “How was dinner with my brother last night?”

Lestrade’s face flushed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright, alright. Go and take a look at the body.” Sherlock disappeared within seconds.

The D.I. turned to me. “And who might you be? Boyfriend?”

“Oh!” I had to collect my words before blurting out something stupid, I think. "No, it's err… It's not like that. He's been my flatmate since last week.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, but please, call me Greg.”

I shook his hand. “I’m John Watson. I’ve seen you on the news, big fan of your work.”

Lestrade chuckled, “Then you have found yourself also being a fan of your very own roommate. Sherlock's behind a lot of it; you should see him.” 

Before I could reply, Sherlock shouted from the top floor of the Starbucks asking me to come over. Lestrade only gestured his hand towards the stairs as a way to silently tell me “You’ll see what I mean.”

I approached Sherlock, who was looming over the body.

“Sherlock, no touching the body without gloves! Are we clear?”

He stood up straight. “Crystal, Lestrade. Have you identified the body?”

“We're on it right now; we can't figure out how this guy died. There isn't even a scratch on him.” A voice from further away said. 

“Shut it, Anderson,” Sherlock replied. “Watson, can you tell how long ago this person died?”

How he knew I was able to do that before university started is beyond me. I started inspecting the body nonetheless.

“Hmm… okay. At most 2 hours old, I wouldn't be surprised if even less.”

“Spot on! Allow me to explain what has happened to them.” Sherlock crouched down to the body’s neck and picked two pieces of lint, both different colors from one another. “This is a man in his twenties. He's a student at King’s College London or is very close to a student from there. His cause of death is strangulation, though there are no hand marks on his neck.” 

Lestrade jumped in, “Now hold on—"

“After finding two oddly specific colors that just so happen to be the colors found in the scarf of King's College, red and dark blue, it is clear that he was strangled to death by one.”

“... That's brilliant. But a scarf?” I looked at him amazed. 

“It's possible. Especially if you've got good arms.” He turned to Lestrade. "Did you let all the customers leave the cafe again?”

“No,” he sighed. “We didn't because you complained we let everyone out last time.”

“Excellent. I will find our murderer in a few moments, then. The scarf should be in the bathroom to the left.” Anderson ran over to the bathroom with a plastic bag for evidence to retrieve the scarf. 

Sherlock grabbed me by the arm and dragged me downstairs; almost immediately, a woman in what I assumed to be her early twenties was in tears in front of us.

“Are you the police? Can you tell me what's happened to him?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Sort of. What do you want? We don't give information such as this to strangers.” 

“He’s my boyfriend." She wiped her tears away with her thumb. “Is he okay?”

My heart sank. It’s as if reality sunk in and everything froze. Sherlock was also stuck in place; he opened his mouth to answer but seemingly couldn't find the words. I put my hand on the small of his back and answered for him. “He’s unresponsive. I’m sorry. We’ll have more information for you in a moment.”

She stopped wiping away at her face, and two twin streams fell down her cheeks. We couldn't help her much; it would have been wrong to lie. “We will find whoever did this, I promise you.” Sherlock nodded as his own way of adding to the conversation. She whispered a thank you and broke down on the floor; another customer came to comfort her, and Sherlock bolted to the cashier. There were two people behind the counter, a woman with split-dyed hair and a man with dark hair cut into a mullet. What their appearances had in common was that they were both in clear distress.

“Sorry, we're not serving any coffee right now—"

“We're not here for coffee.” Sherlock eyed the both of them, then stuck on the man with nice hair. He frowned a little. 

“You,” he came closer to the man and pointed his finger at him. “You go to King’s College, right?”

He looked confused. "Yeah?"

“Good. "You're under arrest." Sherlock held him in place. “Lestrade, get over here! I have your murderer!” 

The D.I. ran down the stairs after hearing his yell, “Can't arrest without evidence or confession, if you recall.”

“Okay, please find me another King's College student in this coffee shop you could attempt to press a confession out of.” Sherlock looked at me while he adjusted his position to be holding the alleged murderer from behind. “Other than Watson. Obviously couldn't have been him because we were having much better coffee a few blocks away.” A smile plastered on my face, he got me.

Lestrade looked around for anyone raising their hand, claiming to be a student of my future uni. Not a single hand up in sight.

“I would like to go back to get another iced chocolate milk, so before you ask further questions, The man killed one of his old mates because the girl he loved liked his friend and not him. Quite dramatic, but love does make people blind, doesn't it?” I nodded; he saw and smiled. “Not to mention his name probably being embroidered on the inside of his scarf: Dylan Jones, a pretty basic name, which I can confirm is his because I—" He pulled something out of Dylan’s back pocket. “Have his wallet, and in it his ID. Right there: Dylan Jones.” Sherlock held it up for everyone to see. Anderson had just come down the stairs and held up the scarf, which did indeed have his name embroidered.

“Dylan?” The woman from earlier said, face still wet from crying. “Have you lost your mind?” Tears threatened to fall again, and an older woman held her to show her support.

Lestrade called someone over to cuff the murderer up. “You know we could have been better.” And that was that. He was taken away to Scotland Yard to never be seen again.

On the way back to the flat (holding Sherlock’s second iced chocolate), he noticed I was a bit shaken from the case. “John, you don't have to come with me to all of these if you wish. I know it's a lot; I do not want to make you uncomfortable.”

I shook my head. “It was thrilling, Sherlock. I don't remember the last time I felt this much adrenaline. And seeing you put everything together is… amazing. I wouldn't miss it for the world. I’m just worried for the young lady, I think.”

“I see." He smiled as he turned the key to open up 221B. “Do you still want to listen to Destroy Boys?”

“Hell yeah.”

–

I’m coming to shore.

I want her.

We were hanging out in Sherlock’s room, listening to the album as promised. It’s a great album, I’d say. The song Vixen was playing now; the album had started from the top again about 2 songs ago.

Lull me to sleep, please.

Say anything to me.

I liked the lyrics a lot; I figured this was my favorite from the album, at least for now.

I looked around Sherlock’s room as the song continued; he had one of those special shelves made for storing CDs. You know, the one where there's a latch you can push down on and the CD pops out? Anyway, he’s a massive collector of them; the amount was endless. His shelves also had loads of books, and to my surprise, a few manga as well. Sherlock didn’t strike me as the type to read manga—let alone watch anime.

Paint your hands over my uniform.

I was sitting on the floor, my back against the end of his bed with my laptop propped up on my lap. I looked up at Sherlock, who was lying stomach down there facing me. He was reading a small book by Oscar Wilde; Only Dull People Are Brilliant At Breakfast. 

Lust and love can take the same form.

I realized I could see myself staying in 221B Baker Street forever.

Ello ello ello! (Please catch this reference, or I will look stupid)

Hope you enjoyed this entry;stupid.) sorry it took a bit to get out. I unfortunately own a Nintendo Switch and the new game Tomodachi Life LTD. I can not put it down. 

Thank you for your continued support; I promise to keep journaling online. :)

BONUS: SHERLOCK AND I FINDING YOUR GUYS’ FAN WORKS

SH: John. What the hell is #wokelockholmes??

JW: What are you on about? 

Sherlock turns his laptop to me, showing a Twitter search with the hashtag wokelockholmes.

JW: Looks like we have a fanbase… Is that all fanart of you?? 

SH: I don't know. One of them really looks like me. How'd they do that with only your description?

JW: No idea. Hey, they drew you WAY more than me!!!

SH: The readers don't even know you have a septum ring and dirty blond hair cut into a mullet. They’d have to guess.

JW: Whatever… Why is the hashtag wokelockholmes, though?? 

SH: Do I really look that… queer?

I chuckled.

JW: Have you looked in a mirror, mate?

SH: Well, you look as gay as I do then, you with your septum piercing.

JW: I’m bisexual; there is a difference.

This is chapter 6 of Beyond the Dying Light, which is the 2nd part of my ongoing Sherlock series All is Violent, All is Bright. A BBC Sherlock fanfiction set in a dystopian London of the future where technology has advanced to a point where brain implants and augmented reality are the norm.