#faunlock

Faunlock? In 2024? It's more likely than you think

Young Faunlock

I was going to wait to post this until my next faunlock story was completed - however I’m not sure when it will be finished as I have a sudden project I have to do for a client which will eat up a lot of free time.

Anyhow think of this as a teaser for the story!  It will be set during Sherlock’s childhood when he’s 14 and involves an incident with some humans.

You can read my first story here:

I am going out of my mind with boredom and want some new roleplays to entertain me!

Here’s another commission, for @johnlockinsmyreligion :) It’s a scene from chapter 8 of their fic The last dandelion of summer. 

(I admit that Faunlock - or Fawnlock - is not my thing, but I was intrigued to draw it nonetheless. So, thank you so much for commissioning me! ♥)

Johnlock Love Letters

(AKA - JL3 Declarations of Love from fan fiction) #1055

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2 Years Earlier:

It was nearly been 2am by the time they'd finished up at the field and had staggered back to the hotel. Sherlock had left hours earlier so John had offered to remain behind with Greg while they had filled in the local constabulary; a greying man a year out from retirement along with his replacement-in-training.  Well out of his jurisdiction, and glad of it, Greg had suggested a stop at the hotel bar before heading off to bed.  John had been more than happy to erase the evening in alcohol and they'd ended up having several drinks before finally splitting off towards their respective rooms.  The room he shared with Sherlock was dark when John wrestled his key into the lock and swung the door. Opting to spare his vision, he switched on only the bedside lamp – filling a corner of the room with with a warm yellow glow.  The bed was empty, of course.  The bar had been empty of everyone save himself and Greg so it was anyone's guess as to where Sherlock had wandered off.  No doubt burning off the events of the night in his own way, John didn't dwell on the other man's fluctuating mood – moving instead towards the loo... only to find the door locked.  

“Sherlock?”  A double rap of knuckles met only silence.  “Sherlock, you alright?  Open the door.”

“John?”  The soft warble of his voice was enough to push a shot of adrenaline through John's chest – alarm pushing him to rap the door a bit more firmly.  “Sherlock, let me in.”

“John?”  The voice came behind him this time; Greg rubbing at his forehead and looking about as wrung out as John felt and far worse than he should be feeling after 3 pints.  Granted, it had been preceded by drugged mist, explosions, and giant dogs.  

“It's Sherlock.  Not sure what's going on,” he filled in softly.  Greg, for his part, moved to rubbing his eyes.

“Well, aye, he's probably just paggered.”

An odd scramble followed Greg's comment.  And then there was the sound of breaking glass.

“Shit,” setting his feet, John didn't hesitate in throwing his shoulder against the door – forcing it open onto another shadowed room.  More scrambling followed – like something hard scraping against wood – and then Sherlock gave a short yelp and the shower curtain collapsed just as Greg blasted the room with the overhead light.  John winced at the retina blinding afterimage – groaning as he pressed his palms against his eyes.

“Christ, ta for that...”    

Eyes slow to adjust with the near blinding, it took John a moment to focus on the figure wrapped up in plastic.  The curtain, with its pattern of small frogs in sailor hats, jutted up in a way suggesting something sharp was tenting it. Now fully in the tub, Sherlock had curled into himself as much as the limited space would allow.    

“Please, don't...  I'm fine.”