Frek

gaytectives:

reapersun:

30 Day OTP Challenge: Day 1 (Holding Hands)

Day 2

okay let’s do this

All he’d planned on doing was getting some bloody bread.

That was absolutely it. Tesco, bread, home. He hadn’t had any left for breakfast in the morning and he was off work, so a bit of air, a brisk walk, and he’d be set for tomorrow.

The whole trip went well enough - he got the bread, even treated himself to a gallon of stupidly expensive juice that Harry always goes on about, and walked back home. The bloody sun was even shining.

Then he got home, unlocked the flat, missed the small trackings of mud leading to the stairs, and headed up to the sitting room without a second thought. He didn’t think about the adjacent door or look into the lounge before walking into the kitchen to toss the bread on the counter and the juice in the fridge. He let himself be routine and normal and he didn’t think about looking for details because that isn’t what he does.

Now, of course, he’s regretting it, because having a bit of premonition might have made this part a bit less difficult.

John can feel his hands shaking - along with his chest, seemingly incapable of taking in a steady breath - and he can’t work his jaw enough to get out a single word. Sherlock is waiting for something, his eyes bright and wide, hair curling down in tendrils, too long and beginning to cover his eyes, lip split, eyes dark. He hasn’t said anything either, though. He hasn’t said a single word, and that, John is almost positive, is the reason his heart is pounding twice as fast as it ought to.

The proof isn’t conclusive enough, or… Something like that. Sherlock used to go on and on in situations that didn’t make any sense - there wasn’t enough evidence to support the hypothesis and that’s really horrible right about now, because good, solid proof would be just perfect right now.

Solid.

Still trembling, John lifts his hand and gives a small shove to Sherlock’s shoulder and oh, god, he’s right there and he’s… real, solid flesh, alive and right in front of me and alive.

And then, before he even thinks about it, he’s retracting his hand, and then pulling back his arm, and his fist collides with Sherlock’s face with a shout of, “You prick!”

The bastard doesn’t even flinch. His eyes shut and he stands still until John’s knuckles meet his nose, and then he exhales sharply as blood drips onto his lip and John stares, gawping. The previously deceased reaches up and wipes roughly over his lip before making eye contact with John, who’s wavering and breathing heavily, with gathering tears that are angry and despondent and overjoyed, for fuck’s sake, but he’s so angry.

John pulls his arm back again and propels forward, but Sherlock acts this time and grabs his fist, all too aware that if he allows John to go at him again there will be a time after that, and after that, again and again and again. The counteraction makes John’s breath catch in his throat and he shakes his head, fist twisting in Sherlock’s grip but never getting free. His other hand come up but Sherlock takes hold of that one as well, gripping tightly to both of them until John loosens the tension in his fist and Sherlock can twine his gloved fingers through the spaces in John’s bare ones. His grip is bordering on painful and he won’t stop staring at John like he’s the most guilty person on earth, and it’s too much because John can hardly breathe. He has to remind himself to let air in, and he takes in a gasp of breath that comes back out as a dry sob.

John ducks his head to get away from Sherlock and his blood and that look, hoping to calm himself down even the slightest. All he succeeds in is taking too many short breaths in a short period of time, and he’s dizzy and quite sure that he’s hiccoughing, only adding to the shaking of his bent form.

“John,” Sherlock whispers - his voice rasps and it sounds as though he hasn’t spoken since their phone call three years ago.

Three years.

“You - ” John gasps, inhaling in a quick burst, “you were dead.”

“You know better than that,” Sherlock tells him. It has the same tone as an admonishment, with concealed layers of apologies that he still hasn’t spoken.

John digs his fingernails into Sherlock’s gloves and lets his head rest against his friend’s chest.

“I hate you,” John chokes out.

Sherlock keeps his hands tight. “And I know better than that.”

[This ficlet is here [x] on AO3, and is the only one I’ll be posting on tumblr!]

(via kittenthepaladin)

deducemysoul:

scienceofcumberbatch requested john and sherlock at the beach

(via ivorylungs)

maskedfangirl:

“Tea would be nice right now, wouldn’t it?”

“No. Get back down here.”

“Sherlock, I’m thirsty.” 

“And I’m comfortable. You’ve got a phone. Ring Mrs. Hudson, have her bring some up.” 

(For anononthewater’s prompt “Cuddling, in bed, with limbs so tangled that it takes some effort to understand whose legs are where. John wears pajamas; Sherlock doesn’t.”)

(via zincesaucier)

running-withthe-doctor:

areyoutryingtodeduceme:

thescienceofobsession:

voodooling:

Another lazy doodle.

the sentiment behind this is blinding.

this is one of the most brilliant pieces of Sherlock art I’ve seen O-O

Agreed. Automatic reblog.

(via sherly-acceptable)

cumber-porn:

isaiddangerousandhereyouare:

erinpaint:

The rain and the wedding.

Sometimes beautiful works, like this one, just stick with you.  Those moments in life when there are 2 paths - the one you’ve taken and the one that had could have been.  Bravo eRin! 

omg! this is just stunning!

mirabilelectu:

mindpalaceofversailles:

tummy raspberries!

Sherlock Holmes was many things: a consulting detective, a genius, a man of surprising depths and less than surprising failings, and above a human being who wished more than anything he wasn’t. But there was one other thing that Sherlock was, one facet of the multitudes of humanity that went unnoticed among the scorn and biting insults, one thing that John and only John knew about the cold and brilliant detective that could bring him to his knees were it ever to be made public.

Sherlock was ticklish. Very ticklish.

John hadn’t meant to find out, honestly he hadn’t. It wasn’t like he’d been lying in wait, planning and plotting for the perfect opportunity to tackle Sherlock to the ground and find out whether or not he could be something so human as susceptible to tickling. No, it had been an honest to goodness accident, one that had happened at the absolute worst possible moment when John had been frantically running his fingers over Sherlock’s abdomen in search of broken bones or contusions after a particularly nasty blow to the stomach by a lead pipe. There hadn’t been any permanent wounds thank goodness…but there had been a staggeringly tell-tale reaction as Sherlock had jerked away and huffed out a gasping breath of what could only be described as pained laughter.

The murderous glare on Sherlock’s face had told John it was best not to bring it up. If he knew Sherlock at all, and he flattered himself that of all the people in the world he knew Sherlock best, asking about the mere possibility of being ticklish would result in shouting, a tantrum, and more broken valuables than John liked to think about. Or perhaps even worse, Sherlock would simply stop speaking to him. No, it was better to let the matter lie no matter how desperately John wanted to dig his fingers into that long expanse of tempting flesh and leave Sherlock breathless and gasping and so very vulnerable - or maybe it was better to just not think about it. Right.

But then such trivial concerns vanished in a haze of new-found emotions and passions and a sudden explosion of what could only be described as lust. Skin was for kissing and touching with gentle reverence and sometimes even biting, and gasps were breathed out around the moans, and fingers had so many other uses that brought about so many more pleasurable results. But when the sweat was cooling and the clothes were rumpled and limbs were heavy with satisfaction and languid luxury, when Sherlock was sprawled with careless abandon across the bed and in pyjamas so hastily put on that a long, open, tempting expanse of stomach was laying bare and inviting before John’s eyes…well, he couldn’t be blamed could he?

Especially not when the results were so…adorable.

(via bennyslegs)

cumber-porn:

How gorgeous is this!

elcabello:

How I like to imagine the first night Sherlock returns goes. 

(via mylittlecornerofsherlock)

rileystark:

Finished custom commission for the winner of the Baker Street Babes Twitter contest that wrapped up a little while ago.

A cozy night of reading in Baker Street. (Who doesn’t love to curl up by a fire, in a comfy chair, with an interesting book?)

Painter 12.

(via zincesaucier)

(via bennyslegs)

archiaart:

I feel like one touch would shatter you, except I know first hand how strong you are.

(via cumber-porn)