#johnlock ficlet

He gets up quickly, checking in the mirror to make sure that he's somewhat presentable, grabs his dressing gown from the chair, and opens the door. He only opens it a crack, so that whoever's outside can't see the bed where Holmes is still dozing.

Mrs. Hudson glances up and down at him. There's a small quirk to her mouth, but then it's gone in a moment.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," Watson says. "Is everything alright?"

"Oh, quite alright," Mrs. Hudson replies. "I've just received a telegram from Mr. Lestrade saying to expect him here in an hour or two."

"Well, it's good of him to warn ahead," Watson sighs. "I'll, er... I'll let Holmes know, and make sure he's awake. Don't trouble yourself rousing him."

"Mmhm." Mrs. Hudson gives him a meaningful look that he can't at all parse, and then turns to leave. He closes the door and returns to perch on the bed, where Holmes is gazing up at him from the pillows with a smirk.

"And what exactly do you find so funny?" Watson asks.

"Well, if Mrs. Hudson didn't know about us already," Holmes muses, "she definitely knows now."

"And how would she? I look completely presentable, and I made sure that she could not see you from the door."

Fluffbruary day 6

“I think we might have a cat in the flat,” Sherlock said flatly.

That would certainly explain the jumbled papers and the poo on the floor, John thought.

“Oh god.”

He was exhausted enough as it was after a trying journey home following a case up north, without having to deal with a feline intruder messing them about.

“Meow.”

John almost had to giggle at how fast Sherlock turned his head in the direction of the sound.

They both took a few steps through the kitchen to see.

And there, in the darkened hallway leading towards Sherlock’s bedroom, two pale green eyes were hovering a foot above the floor.

Sherlock slowly reached out his arm and switched on the hallway light, to reveal an entirely black cat sitting there, curiously looking them up and down, as if to determine if they were worthy of invading its territory.

As soon as it had made up its mind, however, it meowed once more, loudly, and came towards them, purring and bumping its head against Sherlock’s leg.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” John said, and dragged a hand over his face. He took in a long breath and slowly let it out again. “I feel dizzy.”

“Would you like some tea?” Sherlock said, overly friendly, without taking his eyes off the creature.

John sensed that Sherlock meant something else entirely, like “Let’s have a conversation about how to name this cat and which brands of food we’ll buy it.”

“You’re in love, aren’t you? And not just with me.”

Slowly, a goofy smile appeared on Sherlock’s face, apparently directed at the cat. “Excellent observation.” Then, looking back towards John, he added, “Don’t worry, I’m still in love with you also.”

Thanks for reading!

The prompts were: tea / dizzy / observation

Read all my @fluffbruary ficlets under the fluffbruary tag on my tumblr

fluffinity edition. 14-11-2024

(i wrote this yesterday i swear!)

prompts: cuddle - happy - spell

special thanks to @totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk and @fluffbruary for reminding me to write 😩🙈

i am sitting here in the armchair. my cold feet covered by the body heat of redbeard, our dog. his - sherlock's - head lays on my chest. arms wrung around me. i feel his deep breaths through my jumper, on my skin. even after all this years, it tingles.

the fingers of my left hand are raking through his slowly thinning, grey but oh so luscious curls. my other hand - on his belly. it had grown a bit. he isn't quite as skinny as he used to be. you can barely see it. but i love the feeling of that tum underneath my palm.

the dying embers are shining weakly into the living room. putting everything in a spellbinding light. always loved that. love it now even more it seems. i smile about that thought.

sometimes i still can't comprehend how i got so lucky. how i found this man. how he died for me and then came back for me. how he raised my daughter with me.

rosie - she will be here. only a few weeks until christmas now. we'll be having dinner. she will give both of us terrible christmas sweaters. i'm looking forward to that look on sherlock's face after i convinced him to wear it. absolutely completely miserable but then those odd, gorgeous features breaking a smile.

and i will be as besotted as i have been since the beginning.

i press my lips to his forehead, close my eyes, breathe in his scent.

being old and happy. what a beautiful thing that is.

read "that stuff called fluff" (fluffbruary ficlets) on ao3!

(if you could show some love to this i would greatly appreciate it as i am in a massive writer's block and seeing people reblogging etc. might actually motivate me to write. thank you ✨) (i sound desperate, but- well, i am. ngl)

☕︎☕︎☕︎

Fic Title:

"Still Black, Still You"

Summary:

Sherlock secretly dyes his greying hair for John. John finds out—and loves him, black curls or not. Fluffy, sweet love.

Fic glimpse:

It started with the curls.

They were as much a part of Sherlock Holmes as the violin or the coat. Dark, stormy, untameable things that matched his mind—brilliant, intense, a little wild. John used to tease him about them, back in their thirties. Called him "the shaggy genius" once, to Sherlock’s eternal smugness. And now, in their fifties, John still watched those curls with something like wonder. Because they were still dark. Still sharp. Still the same.

And that was strange.

Because John Watson, in contrast, had gone fully grey by fifty-three. Not silver or salt-and-pepper—just honest, stark grey. The kind that said, "Yes, I’ve been through a war. Yes, I’ve aged. Yes, I’m still standing." Sherlock didn’t tease him about it. In fact, Sherlock barely said a word about John’s hair at all, aside from a soft look now and then. A hand in it when they curled up together on colder nights. No mockery. Just quiet fondness.

But Sherlock? Sherlock remained dark-haired. And John wasn’t suspicious, not really. Genetics, maybe. Or stress expressing itself differently. Or sheer stubbornness refusing to let Sherlock change.

Until one Tuesday morning, when John found the receipt.

He’d been clearing the table—Sherlock had made one of his messes again, writing theories in the jam stains on the back of a Tesco receipt—and as he gathered the scraps, one of them stood out. A receipt from some boutique cosmetic place in Marylebone. Regular visits. Black hair dye. One bottle per week. Cash paid. Same day, every time.

John stared at it for a long minute, trying to reconcile it.

Sherlock Holmes. Dying his hair.

Every week.

In secret.

The thought landed heavy, and somehow very small and very large at once.

Sherlock was hiding the grey.

John sat back in his chair, clutching the slip of paper like it was an unsolved clue.

Not because Sherlock was vain. No, Sherlock couldn’t care less what the world thought of him. But… maybe he cared what JOHN thought. Maybe he was keeping his curls dark because—

Huge thanks to @calaisreno for organising this brilliant community event! It's been a wonderful month full of laughter and tears and just about the most fun I've had in a long time. Thank you, everyone!

+

John weaves through the crowd, a sweating bottle of water in each hand. The day is bright and cloudless and absolutely boiling. He swipes the back of his wrist over the sheen on his brow and spots the top of Sherlock’s head, half-hidden behind a couple stood together across the street. 

That looks like…oh my god—

He hurries over. He wasn’t in bomb disposal, but across the years he’s gained plenty of practice of a similar sort. 

Sherlock’s face inhabits an expression completely new. It’s remarkable. 

And that’s not the least of it.

Mycroft is wearing a vest. 

And shorts.

“Alright, mate?” Lestrade greets John amiably. “This one could use a look-over,” he adds with a wink in Sherlock’s direction. “Might need to restart his heart.”

Mycroft is as pink and pinched as a summer prawn with a smear of suncream on his nose. “Hello, John. We were just—chatting.”

John grins. “You’ve short-circuited him.” He holds out a bottle for Sherlock, then cracks the seal on his own. “Nice togs. First time at Pride, you two?”

“Why are you here?” Sherlock pipes up, eyes narrowed in suspicion at his eternal foe.

“Isn’t it obvious, little brother?”

“Spying on us?”

“Hardly.”

“…Sentiment.”

“The word you’re looking for,” Mycroft lifts his chin, confident as John has ever seen him, “is love.”

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If you like what you see (lol), come say hello on ao3! These little ficlets are included in Calais' May Prompts collection. I have around 250K more words of johnlock too. I'd love to see you there :D

John gazed at Sherlock from across the table as they had dinner together at home.

Mariana had left for Spain this morning, because Christmas was just around the corner.

Sherlock and John had set up the Christmas tree together -- with all the decorations and everything -- and were just waiting for the Christmas Day to come.

The kitchen was dimly lit, and the table was surprisingly clean today.

John had been wanting to say something to Sherlock for a long time now. Talk about his feelings for him, specifically.

Ever since the two of them started their crime-solving journey, by solving the case of 'The Illustrious Client' together, Sherlock and John became quite close.

Over the course of time, John had fallen in love.

Who wouldn't? And no, this question was not just rhetoric. It was rather a challenge from John to everyone out there.

Anyone who got the opportunity to live with a guy like Sherlock -- lively, enthusiastic about almost anything the world had to offer, brilliant, kind, charming, and beautiful -- would not have it in them to resist him. Of this, John was absolutely certain.

John tried to bring himself back to the present moment and picked at his food on the plate with his spoon.

"It's not going to eat itself, Watson."

John looked up at Sherlock from his plate, and he was taken aback by the intensity with which Sherlock was looking at him, too, now.

Could it be that he too...?

John shook his head and sighed before finally starting to eat. "Yeah, of course." John sat straight and let out a fake laugh. "You're right."

"You're not here. Not mentally, at least," Sherlock declared. He leaned over the table and dropped his deep voice to a whisper. "Where are you?" he asked in a mock-scandalous tone.

That was it, John thought. He could not contain himself anymore. It was the season of confessions, after all. Or something like that. "Sherlock, I've been meaning to tell you something. This has been on my mind for a while now."

Sherlock's face became guarded. He looked down at his plate. "Really? Because I also want to tell you something."

John put down his spoon and held his breath. "Oh? Go on, then. You first."

Sherlock looked up at John through his long lashes with his big, brown eyes filled with an emotion John couldn't quite put his finger on.

"I wanted to tell you that... that when you sometimes sleep in after a long case, I come upstairs, over to your room, and I stand in the doorway to watch you sleep for a few moments."

John's heartbeat picked up speed, and he flushed up at Sherlock's words. "Why - why's that?" There it was -- his classic stutter, every time a situation like this came up.

Sherlock's eyes then hinted at some mischief. John did not miss Sherlock's subtle smirk either. "Because you snore so much. I think we really need to take you to a sleep clinic sometime." Sherlock bit his bottom lip, probably to resisting an urge to burst out laughing.

John rolled his eyes. "Alright, whatever. I'm going upstairs." He placed his hands on the table and made to get up and leave.

Sherlock dropped his silverware on his plate and grabbed John by both of his wrists, making him stay where he was seated. "Okay, okay. That's clearly not what you want to talk about right now. Tell me what it is."

"Promise me you won't laugh it off, even if you don't like what I'm about to say to you." John turned his wrists to hold Sherlock's hands in his own. He tried to appear dead serious.

Sherlock's face changed from looking amused to quite earnest. "I promise." He squeezed John's hands in reassurance.

"We've become quite close since we started solving crimes together, haven't we? So much has changed since then."

Sherlock gave him a silent nod.

"From me finding you really annoying in the beginning because of your late night violin playing sessions, among loads of other things, to..."

"To?" Sherlock demanded. His voice became hoarse.

John gazed into Sherlock's eyes some more, trying to gather enough courage to spit it out already. He inhaled deeply.

"To me now having come to a point where I can't imagine the rest of my life without you. To a point where I feel so scared when I don't see you around at home in the mornings for whatever reason." John swallowed. "Sherlock, I would feel so lost if you were to leave me at some point in the future, as though I were stranded in a desert. Completely alone."

Sherlock was staring at John with his lips parted. His face was still unreadable. "Why's that?"

"Can't you deduce it?" John said with his brow furrowed. "You do have enough data at this point!"

Sherlock shook his head. "I want to hear you say it. I need you to spell it out. You know I'm not the best person when it comes to reading between the lines." His voice was shaking.

John nodded in understanding. "I love you."

There, he said it. It was all out now.

John squared his shoulders, feeling oddly confident in that moment. Whatever the consequences, he felt ready to face them all.

"I - me too." Sherlock visibly swallowed. "Everything you said just now -- I feel the same way."

Sherlock looked like he wanted to say more, so much more, but he was not in the state to be more eloquent than that just yet.

John didn't need him to.

John smiled and leaned in towards Sherlock over the table.

Sherlock met him halfway and tilted his face to kiss John on the mouth. His lips went from hesitant to intense to desperate in a matter of seconds.

John mirrored all those feelings and much more. He grabbed Sherlock's face and began to pour all the passion and love he had been feeling for this man into the kiss.

They broke off the kiss after a while, feeling out of breath.

Sherlock and John locked eyes with each other and exchanged a knowing smile.

They continued to have dinner with their fingers intertwined.

Both of them were aware of the unspoken promise waiting for them—the rest of the night, perhaps even the rest of their lives.

**

Prompt: Confessions by @fluff-cember

John opened the door to the apartment and was met with a symphony of noises coming from the kitchen.

Splash. Crash. "Whoops." Bang.

"Sherlock!" He bemoaned, "I just cleaned up your experiment from yesterday, this morning."

He heard the sound of a pan hitting a rack in the oven. Oh Jesus, he's about to set the flat on fire. John burst through the door to the kitchen to reveal chaos and experiments.

However, this time not those of his husband.

Rosie wore an apron that was covered in flour, a bowl in one hand, an electric mixer in the other. Batter dripped from the mixer paddle onto the floor as she moved across the kitchen. Rosie set the bowl down on the table where Sherlock sat. He dipped a finger into the batter and licked it clean.

"Hm, could do with less salt, I think." Sherlock analyzed.

"Ah," John let out, realizing what was happening, "Didn't know Rosie's bake shop was opening up in our kitchen." John was quite pleased his daughter chose such a delicious hobby, he just wished it didn't mean nonstop experiments in the kitchen. "It looks like The Bear in here."

"Why would there be a bear in central London?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

"Dad, we need more baking powder, please." Rosie announced, placing a kiss on his cheek as she continued moving through the kitchen.

"Alright then, I'm off to the shops." John started off.

His kitchen would never be clean. He couldn't be happier.

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