#sherlock bbc

@yiferr

And another @moriartyfortheevening1 reblogged it with the tag "he's three apples tall leave him alone"

So I make this doodle

No. 527

He's a smol precious bean

Clenching his small fists in anger

Sherlock Holmes

Sucker for pain -(Sherlock finds out that his little sister is self harming)

Marvel 

Mistaken 1 2 - (Robert Downey Jr finds out that his daughter is dating his co-worker.)

Personal Multiverse - (Reader goes to ‘No Way Home’ studios to keep her brother, Tom, company. But end up falling in love with another Spider Man.)

Brooklyn 99

Work this out - (Jake and the reader have a friends with benefits relationship and suddenly she starts to act strange.)

Rain over London, at night. The cab's windows, traced with running drops, had fogged to a blur; it was rather like riding along underwater.

Sherlock and John sat in mutinous silence, faces turned to opposite windows.

It had started at the crime scene — a quarrel over something trivial, which had escalated to grabbed collars, at which point Lestrade had waded in with all the ceremony of a man separating fighting dogs and thrown the pair of them into a cab together.

Ordinarily, after a case solved that brilliantly, there would be the quiet, pleasant hum of it, and John to talk it all over with.

John was glaring out of the far window, one hand planted on the seat to brace himself. Sherlock dropped his gaze to those fingertips — and then planted his own hand on the seat, the same way.

Fingertips almost touching. Not touching.

Sherlock felt his own go warm, a low charge gathering under the skin.

The last little distance was as far away as the stratosphere.

The taxi slowed and stopped. The engine died, and there was only the rain, softly drumming on the roof.

Without warning his scarf was seized, he was hauled over hard — and before surprise could finish arriving, his mouth was taken. John's dry lips; one instant of hot breath. Sherlock's heart slammed against his ribs.

John paid as though nothing whatever had happened, and got out of the cab.

Searching his desk for something else entirely, Sherlock opened the second drawer down and stopped at the sight of a small wooden box.

It was an antique, irises carved fine into the lid — a present from an aunt, long ago. Inside it lived the things he had never quite managed to throw away: a trilobite fossil dug up at summer camp, a toy gold coin stamped with a skull.

On a whim, he opened it. On top of the clutter, quiet as anything, lay a single rose, dried brown with age.

He had lifted it onto his palm before he knew he was doing it. And as he looked at it, a remembered racing of the heart came back through him — something between pain and gladness, impossible to file as either.

◆ ◆ ◆

The case had been a level eight, seriously difficult, and solved beautifully. Sherlock and John left the scene still riding the height of it.

It wasn't far from the flat, and John — who had things to say about the brilliance of the deductions — proposed they skip the cab and walk. His praise landed, every time, exactly where Sherlock most wanted to be praised; it was very like music, and walking fast side by side, Sherlock couldn't quite keep the corners of his mouth down.

Their route cut through a market. John spotted a little flower stall, said "Wait here a moment," and — with a naturalness that simply flowed, the whole thing taking perhaps three seconds — bought one white rose and came back with it.

"Here. For you, if you'll have it."

"—What is this, John."

"It's a rose. Never seen one?"

"Obviously I have—"

"You were something else today. Thought you'd earned a present. Is it weird?"

"No — thank you."

John laughed, easy and open, put an arm round Sherlock's shoulder, and they walked on.

To hide his face, Sherlock bent to the pure white rose. The scent of it — green, young, drenched with freshness — filled him to the top of his breath, until his chest ached with it.

◆ ◆ ◆

"Hey, Sherlock — did we have batteries?"

A knock, the bedroom door opening, John coming in.

Sherlock moved to get the dried flower back into the box. Too late; John's eyes were quicker.

"What's that? A dried flower?"

"Nothing."

"Let me see — hang on. Is that the one I gave—"

"It's nothing!"

John reached for it, grinning. Sherlock twisted out of reach, laid the dried rose back in the box, and shut the clasp.