Welcome! (Prompting: part i)
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This is a fic prompting meme based around the BBC series Sherlock, written by Stephen Moffat & Mark Gattis.
( Read more... )
Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post
This is a fic prompting meme based around the BBC series Sherlock, written by Stephen Moffat & Mark Gattis.
( Read more... )
It is on a Sunday Evening that Sherlock Holmes shares his first kiss with John Watson.
This is the story of the week that happened in-between.
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Love is not an understanding, after all, but an existence of euphoria. love this line
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The imagery is breath taking! I long for mooore.
And pining Sherlock is irresistible.
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They go out for dinner that night because Sherlock, in a rare display of human emotions, feels like a cad. The guilty turn of his mouth and flickering frown are not uncommon for him - he’s done plenty wrong for the cause of, not justice but, the gamefor him to be familiar to these - but the slight pull to his heart, like fine invisible hands were pulling it downwards with great weight, is. He finds it rather unsettling.
John looks sceptical when Sherlock makes the offer for no real reason, and Sherlock can’t really blame him, but they wind-up at an expensive restaurant that Sherlock knows will serve food unworthy of their ludicrous prices. He allows it, though, because this is what and where John wants to eat and in the end, this entire night is for John.
This notion strikes Sherlock as soon as he’s thought it and if he’s a little overwhelmed by it, he doesn’t have time to respond because John’s already chatting and for some absurd reason, Sherlock finds he can’t, doesn’t want, to miss anything ( ... )
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JOHN. FOCUS. COME ON. THE MAN HAS A RAGING... LOVE FOR YOU.
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This is absolutely wonderful.
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/brb, crying a thousand rivers
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Tuesday 4:54pm
There’s no light in England, not today. Instead, there are rolling clouds of thunderous grey and ink spirals of gutter pipe black that drip heavily onto the backs of coats. The rain is sharp like arrows of ice and attacks at a diagonal to pierce the sludge spirals so that they burst wildly and are smeared by the howling wind that has made everyone’s face numb to touch.
Sherlock does not want to be here. It is cold and it is miserable and the smell of industrial waste is particularly nauseating as it carries on the wind and he is sick and tired of Anderson and Donovan’s immature little snipes.
But then he looks over at John completely dominating his field of expertise - and really, Sherlock has never seen someone so accurately state the time of death right to the very second before - with confidence and ease that ( ... )
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