#gloriouscumberbatch

TRAUMA Trau-ma: noun; a deeply distressing or disturbing experience.

–

Quiet reigned supreme along Baker Street as the snow continued to fall, it’s powdery blanket muffling the harsh edges of London’s streets. A solitary cab sat stranded at the road’s edge, long since deserted by horse and driver both, the carriage itself and ever fading hoof prints the only sign they had ever disturbed the snow.

Holmes stared out at the silence, wondering if this was the first instance in which he had appreciated a form of precipitation so thoroughly. In it’s overwhelming strength, the storm made it almost impossible for all but the most hardy and dedicated to leave their homes and so, naturally, Watson had gone out, the note he left stating something of vague importance about Mrs Hudson’s stock of wood or some other such rubbish.

Holmes had awoken to find the other side of the bed quite bereft of the sleeping man he had been anticipating, and that was a rather disconcerting few minutes for him. Perhaps, even after the events that had unspooled between them that night, or more correctly, that morning, Watson had changed his mind - this thought had plagued him for long minutes before he strove to find Watson and adress the issue. Obviously he had left, his hooks on the coat and hat rack vacant. The note had settled him somewhat, but he required a physical presence to make any logical conclusion and had been standing at the window, waiting, draped in nighshirt and dressing gown, ever since reading it. That had been maybe two hours ago, and night had now fallen. Watson himself had yet to return.

“Whatever are you musing about over there? I think I may finally understand what you meant about thinking loudly my dear fellow, your thoughts at the moment are positively cacophonous.” Watson’s voice, clearly lilted with the force of his grin, drifted over as the sound of his entrance and the shutting of the door finally registered in Holmes’ head.

“Cacophonous? Do I detect a hint of the morning crossword?” Holmes jested, an answering grin lighting up his face as snow covered boots were removed by the door and hat and coat forsaken. He had come back. “I’ll have you know I have an extensive vocabulary, but I cannot argue the matter with you at present, my woolens are soaking - did you know that the front door is frozen quite shut? I had to jimmy poor Mrs Hudson’s window” Holmes focused on the door across the street from theirs, noticing now the signs of freezing and refreezing that would have caused trouble for those trying to open them as Watson’s voice grew distant (Changing out of his wet clothes, his brain supplied readily) and then close again “but I of course stayed to stoke the fire, never mind a bit of cold and wet for me, a lady of Mrs Hudson’s years should not be subjected to the same, which is why, my treasure, I had to leave our bed in the first place, though you must know I did not wish to.“

Holmes’ thoughts stuttered to a stop. He blinked. “Too presumptuous? I understand, of course, if you wish to forget about the events of last night, and if I have made you uncomfortable I do apologize.” Holmes spun to face him, regardless of the heavy blush that had settled on his cheeks and nearly buckled at the knees. How he had not thought to see this coming he couldn’t determine, but the sight before him very nearly had him on the floor.

“I take it this means you wish to remember it?” Watson chuckled lowly, stalking across the room to meet him.

“John.” He choked on it, the relief of Wats- John’s continued affection a soothing balm for the nerves he had torn to shreds all afternoon waiting like a pirate to receive judgment. Last night had meant something, the risk they had both taken, the way he had felt, the way he still feels (his soul is ravenous for this man.) Even to his own ears he sounded wrecked, a far cry from the humour of only moments earlier.

John’s eyes flared with empathy, and he was wrapped tightly in his dressing gowned (It was Sherlock’s own, John had gone to change in his room, their room?) arms in seconds. “Oh Sherlock, surely you must know how I had longed for an opportunity to know whether my feelings were one sided, that last night was the culmination of years of yearning for you, that I would never, in any world there is where you and I dwell together, ever let you go once I had you?”

“I had thought perhaps last night was, for you, an aberration. We did not discuss so much as… Demonstrate, and I had hoped that upon waking we would speak on it further. However, you were gone by that time and I was… unsure.” Sherlock’s voice trembled into John’s hair , soft as the snow still falling outside.

When he replies, John sounds fierce, and certain of the truth in his words. “Sherlock, I have been waiting such a long time to be able even to hold you like this, but if you wish it I will return to the manner in which I regarded you before last night, and nothing need change” A small noise of protest escapes his throat and John’s hand finds it’s way into his curls, soothing gently. “However, if you would have me, I would much rather spend the rest of my days at your side, in your heart, and when the occasion allows for it, in your bed. Do not doubt that I wish to be with you because that is my singular dream. If I could tell the world, I would. You terrify me Sherlock Holmes, such is the depth of my affection for you.”

Sherlock quivers in his arms, overcome already, and John strokes his back gently, simply holding him and waiting for an answer. “I could think of no other way to spend the rest of my life than with you as my closest companion, a friend and lover all in one infinitely undeserved blessing.” Tentatively Sherlock encircled John’s sturdy hips in his hands and held him close. When their lips met, it was with hope, like the world itself was righted, and the journey from living room back to bed was made hand in hand because tonight as the world slept, these two were free to love and be loved in return.

17. things you said that i wish you hadn't

I do

The words continued to echo in his mind as Sherlock pulled his coat on as he walked down the path away from the reception hall, leaving John and Mary’s wedding mostly unnoticed. 

I do

The words had been echoing through his mind most of the day: On the phone with Mycroft, giving the best man speech, watching the Bride and Groom Dance, standing in the middle of the dance floor all alone with no one paying him any attention. 

I do

Those two simple words had put him out on the step again, he was now going to be alone once more with himself. His own worst enemy. He couldn’t be angry with John for choosing to be with someone else other than him, not after what he had done on the rooftop. He had misjudged John’s reaction to his death and this was his and now he was suffering the consequences. 

Awww, You’re so sweet. So Sorry I am just answering this now. I’ve been stuck on mobile for while

“Mycroft has a word with Lestrade, tells him to never let the army doctor go chasing suspects on his own.”

John knew he had made a horrible mistake. That wasn’t what was bothering him. In fact, the slow act of dying really was not bothering him at all. He lay on the ground, the gunshot wound bleeding profusely from his abdomen. He couldn’t move and he could barely breath without the pain increasing. So he just lay there and waited.

Lestrade’s voice echoed down the dark alley and then he was staring down at John, the anger dissipating from his face instantly, and replaced by worry and dread.

“Jesus! Hang on, John, an ambulance is coming!”

John groaned and blinked tiredly as his vision blurred. The pain was quickly becoming too much, but it didn’t scare him. He was going to see Sherlock after all.

Lestrade pressed hard against John’s wound. John tried to push him away and tell him to let him be, but he couldn’t even raise his voice loud enough. He coughed painfully and weakly shook his head.

“Sh-lock,” he barely muttered.

Lestrade didn’t hear him. “Just stay with me,” he demanded.

John could hear faint sirens in the distance, but his vision was now rapidly blurring. Lestrade looked down the alley, only to gasp sharply and harden his gaze. Footsteps echoed against the wet pavement, and then a figure was pushing Lestrade aside and gently grazing John’s skin.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing here!” Lestrade yelled.

John blinked rapidly and tried to focus on the figure. The man leaned forward until his face focused; John gasped as he recognized Sherlock. 

Finally! Finally!

“Oh, Sh-lock...” John murmured. He coughed again and cringed. The pain was becoming too much now.

“John. Stay with me, please,” Sherlock begged. “Don’t die.”

John didn’t know how to tell him that it was okay, that they will be together again soon. Before he could even think some more, the world around him faded and Sherlock’s desperate shouts became lost.