Nov 27, 2022
Look at this soft bitch being so smug, I can't handle this
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Look at this soft bitch being so smug, I can't handle this
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The WHOLE dialog of "Holmes, you have misdiagnosed" on TAB actually
Just. All of it. The "ah ah ah". The finger in the air. The use of "misdiagnosed". Watson's pronunciation so confident so sure. Sherlock's whole entire actual fucking face. "Then correct me, Doctor" like he's saying "Have me over a table, Doctor" actually and also meaning it. Watson explaining it demonstration and all, so confident so sure. Holmes smile eyes shining oh my god he's observing fjshsjd-ass face.
the way john bumps into stamford and is too unhappy to keep up the mask of polite respectability. He is so bored and testy and kinda rude so he's like who would want to live with me? subtext being: there's a reason i have no friends i could barely remember your name and i am off putting. so of course mike is like 💘👼boy do i have the perfect guy for you 🥰
Ok Im going to watch trf so let me see... it's not on netflix anymore uhm I must have a copy in my computer what the hell? no I don't have it? Ok let's check my external drive uhm yes here it is that's it omg why are you corrupted wtf so let's see ah yes I own the dvds so let's use them for like the first time ah yes hello John so good to see your beautiful face oh no you're crying Oh no oh god please stop my boy my tiny son wtf am I doing
“Whatever it’s worth, it’s loving you, However it works, it’s agreeing with you… Whatever it is, this is what it is. You get it, you love it, Crying on my shoulder, you’re here with me, my friend” - Fernando Pessoa
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“Let’s just forget about it.”
“Forget about it?” John repeats incredulously, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice at Sherlock’s seeming aloofness. He watches the man roll his eyes as he unceremoniously slumps down on the sofa, arms folding across his chest, hands tucking under opposite armpits. “You—” John starts, but his throat suddenly feels impossibly dry. Sherlock is decidedly not looking at him, his eyes fixed at some point above John’s head, indifference etched on his face. Something allied to hurt lodges in John’s chest at the man’s nonchalantness, but he grits his teeth, ignoring it. He is not going to let this go. Not this time. Not anymore.
His first impulse is to grab the man by his shoulders and shake him until he drops his act of stubborn indifference, but he wills himself not to lose his composure. Closing his eyes, he draws in a sharp breath, and forces himself to continue with his eyes pinched shut. “You kissed me.”
Sherlock heaves out a bored-sounding sigh, and John’s eyes snap back open. “Yes, yes, an excellent observation, John,” he spits out, his voice thick with mocking sarcasm. “You, if anyone, should know it was the adrenaline after the near-death incident. My inhibitions were momentarily loosened. I apologise. I assure you it won’t happen again. Now, if you no longer wish to share the flat with me—”
“What the hell are you talking about?” John cuts him off. “Why would I not want to…” he trails off as he sees something akin to sadness flit across Sherlock’s face before it returns to its usual inscrutable indifference. “Sherlock…” John hesitates, taking a step toward him. “What if I don’t want to forget about it?”
“Wha--” Sherlock blinks, momentarily caught off guard.
John swallows, closing the distance between them, his fists clenched at his sides. “I said,” he whispers, “I don’t want to forget.”
For a moment, his words hang in the charged air between them, their eyes locked on each other, neither of them daring to so much as breathe. And then, in a blur of motion, they both move simultaneously, Sherlock standing up, John’s palms reaching to cradle Sherlock’s face, Sherlock’s hands gingerly wrapping around the nape of John’s neck. One of them lets out a desperate gasp, their breaths hot and humid in the narrow space between their lips, and then they are kissing, ever so gently, and it is clumsy, and perfect, and crushingly intimate, and John is falling and falling and falling. But he isn’t afraid, because this time he knows that Sherlock will be there to catch him. And so, he lets go.
untouchable
Just something to think about: some days, John is terribly exhausted but will pretend otherwise. John falls asleep on the kitchen table, after a terrible day at the clinic (full of patients who know better, so he says) and a rather awful number of knots in his back. Sherlock ignores him for a while, steals a few glances at his face, how soft it looks while having that well-deserved kip, no biggie. Then, when the doctor seems to be deep in sleep, enough not to wake up by the sounds surrounding the flat, Sherlock feels daring. His hand moves casually, almost by accident, and brushes the blond hair that’s almost on its way to grey. Enough to feel its texture, not enough to rouse John. It’s truly the only time he can imagine they have this, this type of intimacy. He hopes that someday, he’ll muster up the courage to say what John does not know and has not guessed, after such a long time.