#mayprompts2024
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One More Time (With Feeling)
"Are you sure?" Sherlock eyed the familiar street with wonder.
"Completely sure." The man behind him in the big blue box smiled. He was leaning over Sherlock's shoulder, trying to get a peek ... "This the moment?" he asked, grinning wider.
"This was ... this was it," Sherlock stammered. His feet betrayed him, already eagerly stepping out of the box and onto the cobblestone pavement.
He made it two steps towards Angelo's before the thought struck him. "What if he doesnt-?"
"-Want you?!" The man mocked incredulity, shaking his head, "trust me ... you're irresistible." Then he shut the doors of the Tardis, and Sherlock had to move or risk being seen.
He took a deep breath, then heard the whir of the machine disappearing behind him.
This was it.
.
Sherlock straightened his suit jacket, running his fingers through his messy curls and ... decided to take the jacket off and make himself appear as much like his younger self as possible.
Next ... he shot a text to himself. Waiting until that Sherlock was out of the way in the loos, he stole into the same seat beside John.
"So ... you have a girlfriend?" John was just asking.
Perfect timing.
. ... God, how much he had missed this John!
. eager, and open, and .... waiting ... ?
.
"Not really my area." he answered, swallowing his fears.
He feigned interest out the window, keeping his minds-eye firmly fixed on John. Trying to capture and record every minute detail of this precious moment.
"Oh," John took a bite, and then looked up again quickly, "Oh? You ... have a boyfriend, then?"
Sherlock's eyes flitted towards John's despite his best efforts.
"Which is fine, of course!" John hurried to add.
"Of course it's fine," Sherlock answered, suddenly needing water. He took a deep drink and caught his eyes drifting back to meet John's.
"So you have a boyfriend?" John asked.
Hurried pulse. Short breaths.
John had even licked at his lips when he spoke, like he was nervous ... afraid to ask? ... how had he not noticed before ... ?
"Nope," Sherlock replied, deepening his voice to a purr. The effect was not lost on John ...
Dilated eyes.
. Cheeks turning rosy.
. Slight shift in his seat ...
"Not unless ... you are applying for the job?" Sherlock asked unconcerned, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.
John was watching his neck ... his pulse. Licking his lips again. His breathing hitched. Heavy.
This was hardly a fair game.
.
"Maybe we should go?" he asked, extending his hand.
Suddenly John rose with him.
Then hesitated.
"Did we need to-" John looked out the window, "... your murderer?" he asked, genuinely concerned they would let a criminal roam free if they left? It was adorable.
"Oh ... just passing the time," Sherlock reassured him with a dismissing wave of his hand, "it was a long-shot he would appear." Then ... as much as he wanted to stay and enjoy what followed ...
. Decided ...
He'd better go tell his younger, idiotic self .... the chances he was throwing away if he did not continue.
He would be understanding.
"Let me settle the bill," he lied, excusing himself to see John eagerly already out the door pacing back and forth with a smile on his face.
(psst! ... more is beneath cut!) - Liri
"You made it home, love?" John was smiling at him in a knowingly ... achingly ... more-than familiar way ... ?
"Did you ... miss me?" Sherlock asked cautiously, entering 221B. He closed the door behind him and stood with his back pressed against it.
Present Day.
Safely returned from his time-travel adventures.
He hoped.
"Did I miss you ...?!" John laughed. He was already taking Sherlock's hands in his, and sweeping him into the room.
Deftly, he danced them both around to the fireplace ... like this was just something they did, and had done ... a million times before?
Sherlock lost himself in the movement. Closing his eyes and enjoying the sensation that was John Watson, held in his arms.
He had only once before been able to steal that pleasure; Beneath the pretense of 'teaching John to dance'.
When at last, dazed, and more than pleasantly bewildered, they stopped swaying ... Sherlock dared to open his eyes.
A happy sigh escaped John's lips. Making him look even more ... irresistible?
"I take it you missed me too?" John teased. Pulling Sherlock down for a soft, delicious kiss. Sherlock melted into his arms. Giving John everything he had pent up inside of him, since leaving his younger self to carry on with the night before them ...
John's eyes opened wide as Sherlock finally released him.
"Where did that come from?" he asked, awed.
His fingers were on Sherlock's lips ... memorizing his face ... and then ... wiping a tear from where it traced down Sherlock's pale cheek.
"You have no idea ... how much I've missed," Sherlock replied at long last. His breath hitching against the words he struggled to free.
John kissed him again. More languid ... more painstaking possessive this time ... and Sherlock felt his knees weaken.
"Take me to bed, John?" he asked.
Genuinely wanting to know ... and to feel ...
. What their first time was like ... for himself ... ?
"Oh God, yes," John whispered.
. Leading the way.
..........................................................................................
For @totallysilvergirl request for the Angelo scene and @calaisreno prompt: Do-Over. Plus tossing in one more Doctor: (couldn't resist, mate)
@johnlocky @chinike @rhasima @raina-at @lisbeth-kk @jrow @khorazir @fluffbyday-smutbynight @topsyturvy-turtely @gaylilsherlock @a-victorian-girl @solarmama-plantsareneat @impalaparkedat221b @chriscalledmesweetie @friday411 @ghostofnuggetspast @sgam76 @janetm74 @peanitbear @masterofhounds @missdeliadili @loki-lock @meetinginsamarra @bs2sjh @gomielka @thetimemoves @thegildedbee @iwlyanmw @jobooksncoffee @amyreadsandstresses @kittenmadnessandtea @naefelldaurk @dragonnan @jolieblack @notjustamumj @jawnn-watson @dinner--starving @safedistancefrombeingsmart @weeesi @gregorovitch-adler @inevitably-johnlocked @dapetty @bewitched-bullet @theofficialinternetloner @keirgreeneyes @dontfuckmylifewtf @strawberrywinter4 @thalialunacy
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An Extra May 20 Prompt - Do-Over
Okay, I couldn't let today pass without writing an actual do-over, so I chose this scene to rewrite. Enjoy!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Let me through, he's my friend."
John could only sit there on the pavement as he watched his friend be lifted onto the trolley and wheeled away. The blood ran in rivers along the cracks in the pavement, forming a spider's web of red. Soon, it would all be washed away, leaving nothing to mark the devastation of this moment.
"John?"
The voice was nearby, yet he couldn't bring himself to turn towards it, to tear his eyes away from where the person who made his life worth living had just ended theirs.
"Come on, John. Up you get. You can't stay here. You're wet through." Hands wrapped around his arm, pulling him upwards off the floor. Sluggishly, he stood, his legs feeling like jelly, a hollow emptiness filling his entire body. "Come on. Let's get you warmed up." He followed the hand on his arm, his eyes never leaving the now faintly pink paving stones.
John blindly followed. His feet moved automatically. Sometimes, he stumbled as his knees threatened to give out again; each time, an arm came around his waist to keep him upright.
"You're alright. We're nearly there now." The voice was vaguely familiar but distant like the voice was a recording playing through far away speakers.
You're in shock, John. You should have a blanket.
John shook his head. Hearing his best friend's voice already. Definitely a bit not good.
"Here we are, just through this door." John heard the door squeak slightly as it opened. The room was dark inside and seemed to be empty. "You'll be alright in here." The familiar stranger left the room and left John alone in the dark.
"Hello, John." John shook his head.
"You're not real. I just watched you die." Someone flicked the switch, flooding the room with fluorescent light.
"I assure you, I am very much real and alive. I have the bruises to prove it." Sherlock stood before him, a sad smile on his face.
Upon seeing his friend, John collapsed onto the floor, the stress of the last forty minutes leaching the last of his strength. Sherlock at once knelt before him. "You weren't meant to see. You weren't meant to be there. I am so sorry, John."
Sherlock folded John into his arms, holding him close, John gripping on just as tightly.
"Oh, God. You're really here. You're really here."
"I am. I really am. But we can't tarry for long. We have a mission, John, and I will need your help. I can't do this without you." John sat back, keeping hold but just far enough to see Sherlock's face. "It could be dangerous." John couldn't help but laugh, his body feeling a thousand times lighter for knowing Sherlock was alive.
"Only could be?" Sherlock smiled. "Were you actually going to leave me thinking you were dead?" The smile faded.
"That was one version of the plan. But I'd be totally, hopelessly lost without my blogger." As Sherlock's lips met John's, Mike Stamford decided his job was really done and walked away, a very big smile on his face.
An extra one-shot for @calaisreno's May Prompt Challenge.
#sherlock holmes#john watson#sherlock#221b baker street#johnlock#bbc sherlock#sherlock bbc#may prompt challenge 2024#may prompts 2024#221b ficlet#the reichenbach fall#do-over#mayprompts2024
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The Little Things
255 words / Prompt: Fire
It’s an unending conversation inside that brilliant mind that occasionally spills over.
The clock on the mantel reads twenty-seven minutes past four, but it’s after midnight. It always reads twenty-seven minutes past four because the ticking bothers Sherlock and John finally stopped winding it. He’s learned Sherlock well enough to understand how his brain works.
Now he’s lying on the sofa, motionless, his hands steepled in an attitude of prayer. Not asleep, he’s in his mind palace.
The room is perfectly still, no sound but crackling in the hearth, no light but the glow of the fire. Outside, John can hear cars passing, their tyres shushing in the rain.
John sits in his chair by the fire, reading. He’s only giving half of his attention to the book, though. He’s thinking about the man on the sofa.
Sherlock sometimes says things to John when he’s not there. This used to bother John because it wasn’t fair for Sherlock to expect him to know what they’d talked about while John was at the surgery and Sherlock pacing the floor at 221B, expounding on the evidence in his most recent case.
Once John drew a face on a balloon and attached it to his chair, just so Sherlock would have a face there to talk to. A John-substitute. And maybe he’d notice it wasn’t John.
He’s learned patience. He understands that his flatmate never prefaces his words or gives them a context. It’s an unending conversation inside that brilliant mind that occasionally spills over.
“That’s when I knew.”
Smiling, John closes his book. “Tell me more.”
And Sherlock does.
--
I'd been thinking about a sequel to Things, following them inside 221B and seeing how they carry on after the "thing" is said, two men who don't have to talk a lot to say what they mean. This little story will do, I think.
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Fire - May Prompts (21)
“Sherlock?”
He’s disappeared into an undulating sea of ribbon-wrapped sugar.
John finds him stowed away in the gents, holding a smouldering newspaper like a naughty schoolboy.
“What are you doing?” John hisses as he adjusts Rosie in her carrier. She gums at the toy duck she’d wailed over for the better part of an hour and hiccups, oblivious.
“I believe the preferred nomenclature is creating a diversion.” Sherlock holds the paper to the alarm above his head without needing to stretch. Tall git.
“By burning down Fortnum & Mason, apparently. You do know it’s Christmas Eve. They’ll haul you to the Yard for this.”
“I’ve had worse haulings on Christmas Eves. Give me a better one later?”
“Might do.” They kiss. It’s not even the weirdest location so far.
Sherlock pulls back. “We must escape unnoticed, John. Our lives depend on it.”
Someone’s been following them. A solid stone tumbles into John’s gut.
“What, seriously?”
“Seriously.”
John pulls out his phone to text Lestrade. “That dealer?”
“Worse. Far worse. The most horrifying sight I can imagine.”
“Oh god.” John tightens his grip on Rosie.
And there goes the alarm.
“Mycroft and my parents are currently on the third floor—” Sherlock tosses the paper in the basin before he pushes at the door, “—selecting our Christmas hamper.” He opens up his lungs. “FIRE!”
+
In case you're not familiar, Christmas hampers from F&M are, like, a thing. A very nice thing, actually, but Sherlock will not suffer being asked his preferences on jam.
Thank you to @calaisreno for the fun prompt series! Tags in replies. Thanks for reading! <3
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May Prompts (21) Fire
The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 21)
Summary: Rosie muses about her peculiar family, and gets invited/ordered to come to the pub.
Twenty-One Years Old
My family wasn’t exactly what you would call average or normal, but as Dad and Papa constantly pointed out: who wants normal. Certainly, none of us. Being an only child and without any cousins, I was mostly exposed to adults outside school. By now, I think you can agree that that wasn’t as boring as it sounded.
Uncle Myc made sure that our small family was extended when he and uncle Greg finally realised that what they had was too precious to ignore.
Papa tried to warn the DI in his normally dramatic flair.
“You know this is playing with fire, Gavin? Falling for a Holmes, means there’s no escape. You’ll be trapped for life, and our love is fierce and protective. A bit like that dragon. John, which film was it?”
“The Hobbit,” Dad answered and reassured uncle Greg that he had nothing to fear. “Deep down, they’re as fluffy as new-born kittens.”
This got him glares that brave men would’ve flinched under, but Dad only laughed and gave Papa a kiss on the forehead and uncle Myc a pat on the shoulder. No one knew how to deal with the Holmes brothers like my Dad.
Of course, this didn’t stop Papa’s attempts to abuse uncle Greg’s name but probably increased it. From that day, every name in the book was put to good use. Dad told him he was being childish, but Dad’s poker face in such matters was laughable at best, so he fooled no one. My uncles just rolled their eyes, knowing that arguing with Papa would accomplish absolutely nothing.
The less said about my aunts, the better, but I’m not exactly one who’s able to keep my mouth shut, am I...
Aunt Harry, the one who was still alive, just barely, by the state of her liver, according to Dad, another one playing with fire, had never been a part of my life. Just like Papa’s deranged and murderous sister, thank God. Dad gave Harry an ultimatum after we moved to Baker Street; get help to get sober or stay away. It sounds harsh, doesn’t it? I had started school when I learned of her existence. We got an assignment to make a family tree.
“Extended and chosen family can also be included,” our teacher told us.
I had no idea what she was talking about, and neither did my friends, so I turned to my main source of information, my parents.
When Dad told me he had a sister, dozens of questions were instantly on the tip of my tongue, but he cut me off before I could utter any of them.
“She’s only my sister by biology, not by heart. You can put her name on the family tree if you like, but she’s sadly not interested in switching the bottle for family.”
“What Dad means, is that the biological part doesn’t always matter. Chosen and extended family can be just as good, sometimes even better,” Papa explained.
***
I found it comforting when uncle Greg moved in with uncle Myc, because the older I got, the more I worried about uncle Myc’s solitary life. He deserved to be loved by others, not just his family.
The pair were even more peculiar than Dad and Papa. Dad and uncle Greg were much more similar, coming from the same upbringing and social class, while uncle Myc and Papa were posh gits. (Dad and uncle Greg’s words.) But still, they fitted together, just like Dad and Papa.
And where did that leave me? Somewhere in the middle, I guess. I wasn’t really that exposed to the upper classes. That was uncle Myc’s area. At least in the connection with his job. I had the advantage of being raised by people of both societies, though, so I coped better at posh events than Dad for example. Granny and Pops were quite down-to-earth people, who obviously rose to the occasion if need be.
***
Uncle Myc was unable to deny the love of his life anything, but he drew the line when it came to pub quiz nights. He didn’t budge a millimetre when uncle Greg tried to flatter him into participating.
“Myc, love. You would ensure that my team won the whole shebang. At least when the questions are about politics, language, history, mathematics et cetera.”
“Gregory, mon cher,” uncle Myc said softly and arched an eyebrow.
Uncle Greg admitted defeat and turned to me. I was twenty-one, drank alcohol on occasion, and was above average intelligence. Three good reasons to join the team apparently.
***
“So, do I call you uncle, Greg, or Lestrade?” I inquired before we entered the pub.
“Just avoid Gaylord and Grimmwolf,” he deadpanned.
“Those are his latest then?” I giggled.
“John said he looked up obscure ones online when he’d used up all the names in the book he found among Mary’s things.”
“Sounds like Papa,” I replied.
I had seen the book now and again, but I never knew it once belonged to my mother.
Luckily for everyone involved, Philip Anderson was no longer a part of uncle’s team Division. Sally Donovan was, but she and Papa had long since buried the hatchet, and she welcomed me quite civilly.
Uncle Greg mocked me the entire evening for my choice of drink.
“Sour beer has nothing to do with beer in my opinion,” he scolded looking disgusted at my pink brew.
“I don’t mind what you call it. Your Guinness looks more like tar than beer to me, so I guess we have to agree to disagree,” I retorted. “Now, do you know the answer to the fifth question or not?”
“You’re a good mix of Watson, Holmes, and yourself,” Sally told me after that.
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” I said. “Thank you. I take that as a compliment, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. That was the intention. They’re…um…good men and are evidently skilled at parenting. I’ll obviously deny it if I’m ever confronted with this,” she murmured.
Uncle Greg placed another glass of the “undrinkable” beer in front of me and gave Sally’s shoulder a pat.
“Getting sentimental on my, Sally?” he inquired with a smile.
“Hardly,” she scoffed and headed for the bar, but her soft expression gave her game away.
Also available on AO3
@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at @helloliriels
More tags in the replies
#mayprompts2024#may 21: fire#sherlock fandom#rosie watson#sherlock#john watson#mycroft holmes#greg lestrade#sally donovan#johnlock#bbc sherlock#sherlock fanfic#ao3 fanfic
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mayprompts2024,#20 do-over
Apparently there will be another AU happening. No beds but tats.
A Tattoo Shop AU.
I've no idea where this will go so I'll surprise us all. LOL
+++++
White Pony Tattoo - Part One (do-over)
Dr John Watson stood in front of 221 Baker Street and – for the first time in a very long time – felt anxious.
He was wondering why this actually happened to him right now. The London afternoon was mild and sunny, summer was about to begin and yet, an aura of foreboding seemed to hover around the well-kept Victorian building.
John shook himself mentally. This was completely ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid of. There was no danger.
For God’s sake, he had fought for Queen and Country in Afghanistan, had saved several lives and countless limbs in the field hospital and also on the battlefield under heavy fire. He had not felt anxious then. Wary, yes. Cautious, of course. High on adrenaline, surely.
He had been shot in the shoulder while he was on a scouting mission with his team and had woken up in his own field hospital. When his fellow army doctor had disclosed to John in blunt medical terms that he might lose his arm, then John had been frightened.
After a long rehab process the arm was functioning again but John had been honourably discharged because of an intermittant tremor in his hand that made him unsuitable to work as a field surgeon.
Two years ago, John had returned to London and after struggling for three months he had found work as a physician in a local clinic. He had soon met a wonderful nurse named Mary Morstan, fell in love with her and they had married quickly.
Which brought John back to the reason why he was standing in the middle of the pavement in front of 221 Baker Street, staring at the tattoo shop like a village idiot.
The tattoo on his right upper arm needed a do-over.
“White Pony Tattoo” was not what John had expected. It was located in a small shop with a red awning above its single window. There were no flashing neon signs or colourful and enlarged pictures of tattoo designs the artist had created. No advertising of the shop’s services whatsoever. Everything was clinical and sterile, even off-putting. Had it not been for the single metal sign placed in the middle of the window, no one would have thought a tattoo shop would be behind it.
Maybe it was the sign that made John feel so anxious.
It read “White Pony Tattoo” and showed a stylized white running pony on its right side. On the left the sign read “no arguing, no crying, no boring designs”. This did not bode well. Just by the look of it, John would never have thought about setting a foot in there.
Yet, John had done his fair share of internet research to find the best tattoo shops in London because he really did not want some would-be tattoo artist botch up his skin.
White Pony Tattoo had topped several lists. The only shortcoming that people regularly mentioned was that the artist was capricious. The lesser polite said that he was a total dick. However, Sherlock’s – John assumed it was a pen name -artistry was highly acclaimed and he had won several competitions over the last years. Getting an appointment was difficult and being accepted as a client was even more so. But sometimes, when Sherlock was interested enough, he accepted walk-ins.
John straightened his back, raised his chin, took a deep breath and opened the door of the tattoo shop. A melodious door bell chimed and announced his presence.
IIt was cool and dim inside the shop and it smelled faintly of a fresh lemon fragrance. A thick purple curtain behind the wooden counter closed off the rearmost part of the shop. Quiet classical violin music played in the background.
“Hello?” John called out, taking off his jumper to let his tattoo show. “Is there anybody here?”
The curtain moved and a man stepped up to the counter. It was easy to recognize Sherlock from the few pictures John had seen on the internet.
“Hello, I’m here for a do-over…” John began.
“Shut up.” Sherlock commanded. His baritone voice was silky and opulent just like the luscious black curls that framed his aristocratic and unusual face.
John was so surprised that he closed his mouth with an audible plop.
Sherlock’s eyes roamed over John’s face and upper arms, then the rest of his body. Piercing blue grey eyes took in every detail, precise like an x-ray machine or better, like a computer tomograph. They missed nothing, pinning John to the spot and stripping him down to his very bones, unable to hide anything. It was uncanny. Disconcerting.
“Firstly, it’s called a cover-up, as you should very well know.”
Sherlock chided, frowning. His voice rumbled like the high-end engine of a race car and filled John with an unknown desire.
“Secondly, I’ve already deduced what you want. I won’t do it because it’s boring.”
+++++
The one(s) who know and tell me where the shop's name comes from will get a cameo in this AU (nothing bad, I promise). Are you game?
tagging @peageetibbs @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @lisbeth-kk @raina-at
#mayprompts2024#my sherlock fanfics#white pony tattoo#prompt number 20 do-over#no beta we die like (wo)men
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What are you doing?
I am currently outside because @consult-johnhwatson forced convinced me to go outside to Regent's Park because 'the weather is so nice today'. Although I do not understand why the weather is a significant motivator to go anywhere.
#mayprompts2024#weather#roleplay#rp#sherlock roleplay#sherlock rp#johnlock roleplay#bbc sherlock#sherlock holmes#johnlock rp#sherlock#john watson#sherlock cosplay#sherlock holmes cosplay#cosplay#sherlock bbc#sherlock x john#johnlock#sherlock bbc cosplay#bbc sherlock cosplay#photography#picture#photo#cosplayer#cosplay photography#sherlocks coat#belstaff#photographers on tumblr#sherlock holmes roleplay#regents park
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Family
my second ficlet for @calaisreno may prompts!! a nice Christmas at Baker Street, Ms. Hudson POV, hope you enjoy!
also on ao3 if you want to drop a comment there :)
2,005 words - Prompt: Family (no shit Sherlock)
The living room was scintillating from every corner, ornamented with stuffed reindeers and Santa Claus figurines, and a magnificent tree was taking up quite a lot of space next to the chimney. It was their second Christmas since John had moved back to Baker Street with Rosie. The doctor was the one who insisted they would decorate particularly heavily. “For Rosie” he said, but Ms. Hudson saw he was enjoying it as much as the little girl. Sherlock had seen it too of course, so he didn’t argue. He was even the one who put the colorful fairy lights up, the ones they had back from their first Christmas together. She had caught John looking over fondly at his partner as he was trying to detangle the wires. Ms. Hudson remembered thinking they had probably shopped for those lights back then, since it was not in the flat furniture. She was sure they were an item now, even though they were yet to say anything about it. But the landlady was more than a landlady and she did know them good after all.
The guests arrived for 6 o’clock and the room was filled of chatter and laughter. It was the usual crowd: Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade and even Mycroft was there! He had been bullied by John and Sherlock for over a month before giving in. Threats involving Rosie were made. In the end, it wasn’t really a surprise for Ms. Hudson that he caved in. Even if it wasn’t for the soft heart she knew he had under all these layers of expensive clothing and frigidity, the couple were legitimately scary. They were already before everything happened, but now that they weren’t wasting so much energy coming at each other, their connection was a dangerous weapon. Upon consideration, she was glad to have them on her side and feared the inevitable day they would join forces to mess with her.
The champagne was still flowing but the appetizers brought by Molly were long gone now. Rosie was channeling all the attention on her, dancing in the middle of the room in a cute sparkly purple dress. It was way past her bedtime but to everyone’s enjoyment the demon was still full of energy.
What a light this sweet little girl brought to their lives, Ms. Hudson thought. Oh, it had been hard on her: the death of her mother and her father doing the best he could that wasn’t quite enough. To his defense, the poor man had his fair share of grief to deal with. Still, it didn’t help that he had deprived his daughter of another pair of loving arms in the storm of it all. Ms. Hudson knew how John regretted his reaction toward Sherlock, so she kept those reflections to herself. During these times, there have been days of complete silence, which was about the scariest thing a young child could do. But then Rosie started crying again, and not only crying – thank God – but also babbling and squealing and laughing. She had a village of adoring people raising her now, and Ms. Hudson could only think of the joy she felt from being a part of it.
Martha never had any children of her own, too busy enjoying the high (and steam!) of her marriage at first, and then too busy trying to figure out a way out of the spiral down. She would probably never have wanted any with him anyway. He wasn’t the kind of man you could see being tender with children. She herself was not even sure she would be. She had always been pretty indifferent to these little screaming individuals. She found babies cute and wasn’t completely immune to their smiles (who was?) but she also didn’t find herself caring too much. She always felt clumsy on their company and could never figure out how to act around children. With Rosie she had learned. She loved the creature with all her heart, that helped.
They were tackling the cake by now, Rosie finally napping on the sofa after spending the entire diner running around and eating out of everyone’s plate. Ms. Hudson settled on observing Sherlock for a while. He had been incredibly appropriate and seemed at-ease all evening, even as the tiredness were visibly settling in. Maybe John’s hand occasionally brushing his thighs or settling behind the back of his chair had helped. Maybe the wine too: they were all such lightweight, she could probably outdrink them all. Not something to be particularly proud of, she thought then. “Must be the few glasses of whiskeys at the bridges sessions, nothing wrong with that.” Still, Sherlock had come a long way from the mess of a person he was when they first met. She drifted back to her memories as she watched with tenderness the man the self-labelled sociopath had become.
Martha was from a big family, the last one of six siblings. All her brothers and sisters had or were moving out when she was still little; she didn’t have time to form a strong connection with any of them. Her parents were nice but tired to their bones, she remembered the silence being an eminent part of her childhood. Friends she had a ton, but the one who mattered the most left early at her wedding. Everything changed after that, and moving to Florida cut the last remaining strings.
She was 34 when she settled in London, and she had felt lonely ever since. Martha Louise Hudson was a social one, but acquaintances stayed just that: acquaintances. It was at that time she really wished to have a family. There were a few men, but none of them felt right. Few men ever do when you’re an independent woman able to recognize her own value. And by God she was. Still, she longed for a meaningful connection. She did have a sister and a niece she visited sometimes, but the distance wasn’t making it easy. As she grew older and it was becoming increasingly sure she wasn’t going to have a child of her own, she always found herself wondering what a mother she would have been.
She immediately felt a weird pull when she met Sherlock, passed out in the street two blocks away from her flat: she felt a need to protect the boy, almost viscerally. So she took him home to fed him tea and biscuits. The discussion they had was one of the strangest she ever had at the time (strangest things had happened to her since then). As it turned out, he was the one who could protect her: her bastard of a husband had figured a way out of jail and was threatening to come get her. Sherlock promised he was not going to let it happen, and he didn’t. She became attached to this smart and arrogant junkie, who was just as lonely as she was, if not more.
She visited him in a rehab center a couple of times, that’s how she met Mycroft. She remembered quite clearly the way his glances were sending chills to her spine. Sherlock visited her a few times too, after he got out. Sometimes he only dropped off a stolen item from a crime scene he thought she might like, sometimes he would stay for tea and biscuits. He usually liked to narrate his cases to her: Ms. Hudson was a very good listener. She shouted, gasped, and laughed right on cue. Other times, less frequently, he was letting her talk about the neighborhood gossips and the new members of her bridge club. When her tenants moved out, she naturally offered the space to him and he accepted without hesitation. God knows where he had been living before! He would always refuse to talk about it.
It was well into the night and Greg and Molly had just left but the walls of 221B Baker Street seemed to be retaining their laughter. It was just the two of them now with Rosie asleep in John’s chair. “Well, the four of us really” she thought. They were seated in the living room, letting the weariness of the evening washing through them.
Ms. Hudson could not have guessed this was going to be what her Christmas would look like when she greeted John Watson on the entrance of her house, a bit more than 5 years ago. Maybe she had hoped for it a tiny bit. She thought John and Sherlock were perfect for each other since the first glance she casted at the doctor. Gosh, it has been a long time coming! And nothing was perfect, nothing ever is, but this was the closest they might ever get to a perfect night. Martha sighted.
She avoided thinking about the years when Sherlock was dead, and she knew John was doing the same. They had a silent agreement not to talk about it either. But it didn’t mean she had forgotten. On the contrary, she remembered very distinctly the silence that had fallen on Baker Street like a curse. She used to put the TV at full volume all day long, without getting herself to actually watch it. Ms. Hudson hushed those memories away, frowning. John was singing a soft lullaby to Rosie who had just woken up crying.
The first Christmas after John had moved back in with his daughter, they had spent the day in cardboard boxes. John and Sherlock had gone out on a Christmas dinner at Molly’s while she had stayed minding for little Rosie. Sherlock had been home early and visibly upset. He didn’t answer when she asked him what was wrong. That night John came back late and drunk, and she had trouble falling back asleep after that. They still had a lot to sort out at that time. But wasn’t it what it’s all about? Ups and downs. She realized now: that was the proper of families. And she had never been so glad to have found one.
“What are you smiling for, Ms. H?” Sherlock asked, scanning her face.
“Nothing my boys, just happy to have you here.”
“Where else would we ever want to be?” John answered, grinning.
#mayprompts2024#bbc sherlock#ficlet#bbc sherlock fanfiction#ms hudson#sherlock holmes#john watson#rosie watson
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Fascinated
Her wide blue eyes shine with desire
She's near as her two fathers tire
Don't touch, they advised
Still she's mesmerized
By racing glow worms in the fire
You like content? Get yer content here on ao3. We love ao3.
@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @weeesi @helloliriels
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Open
“Open up.”
Rather predictably, unfortunately, Sherlock gets no response.
Sherlock rubs an exasperated hand through his hair. “Listen,” he says, calmly, reasonably, trying his utmost to keep his frustration out of his voice. “We both know how this is going to end. In the end, you will cooperate. All you are doing right now is prolonging the time we both have to spend on this. So open. Up.”
Blue eyes glare at him with a stubborn recalcitrance he is unfortunately very familiar with.
“Watson. This is irrational. You have to eat. You want to eat. You like carrots. So do it please.”
“I have to ask, does that ever work?” John asks, leaning in the kitchen door. He looks rumpled and tousled from an involuntary nap on the sofa. His feet are bare and he looks domestic and relaxed and at home.
Sherlock deliberately refocuses on a still unfed Watson, unsure whether any of the fierce gladness he feels whenever he sees John be at home in Baker Street again is showing on his face.
“Watson is not an animal, John, she has capacity for rational thought.”
John says nothing, he just moves into the kitchen and drops a casual yet affectionate hand on Sherlock’s shoulder in passing. “Tea?”
“Obviously,” Sherlock answers, then refocuses on the younger Watson, both to get her fed, and because he needs to hide how shivery it makes him when John touches him so casually, yet so wonderfully. It’s been happening with increased frequency since John and Rosie moved in with him after Mary scarpered off to parts unknown, hopefully never to return.
Watson is chewing on her play spoon, watching him warily. “Ba,” she says. “Ga.”
“Eating is mandatory, unfortunately,” Sherlock says, taking up the spoon with the carrot mush again. “Believe me, I wish it wasn’t. If it were up to me, we would live on thought alone, but since the vessels our brains are unfortunately trapped in need sustenance…” He trails off, holding the spoon out to her.
Watson looks at the spoon, then grabs it with both hands and stuffs it into her mouth.
“Well done, Watson,” Sherlock says with a smug smile that melts off his face when she removes the spoon from her mouth again and with devastating precision flicks the carrot sauce right into his face.
“This isn’t funny,” Sherlock grumbles as he hears John snicker behind him, but he knows his voice lacks bite, because he’s smiling himself. He nods at Rosie. “Well played, Watson. Well played.” He turns to John. “And you can stop laughing now.”
John moves around the table towards him with a clean kitchen towel, obviously contrite, but still smiling. “She has good aim,” he observes quietly.
“She’s a Watson, I would expect no less.”
Sherlock puts out his hand for the kitchen towel, but John surprises him again—how does he always surprise me?—by stepping up to his chair and gently cleaning the carrot mush off Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock can’t suppress a shiver. John is so close, his hands are so warm, his eyes are so—
Sherlock swallows. They’re suddenly very close.
“Sorry for laughing,” John whispers.
“It was objectively funny,” Sherlock says, aware that he sounds as shivery as he feels.
“It was, wasn’t it?” John’s voice is warm and low and close, his tone is affectionate, his eyes—
Kiss me, Sherlock thinks. Put me out of my misery and kiss me already. Or never look at me this way again.
For a few moments, they’re trapped in limbo, John’s hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, Sherlock grabbing at John’s elbow to prevent him from moving away. John is watching him, waiting. Sherlock suddenly realises that there’s a slight tilt of a challenging smile to John’s lips, but also an obvious hesitation.
If you want your kiss, Sherlock Holmes, you will have to come and get it.
Sherlock surges up and takes the unspoken invitation by pressing his lips to John’s.
John hesitates for a split second, but then he kisses back, winding his hands into Sherlock’s hair and pulling him in for a serious sort of kiss, one that sparks through Sherlock’s body with a tingling warmth, making him feel alive down to his toes.
It’s heavenly. It’s also far too short, because Watson, masterful in her timing as always, starts wailing, hitting John with her play spoon.
They break apart and both start laughing. John turns a bit to his daughter and whispers, “You’re the worst wingman ever.”
Sherlock giggles, nerves and happiness and tension releasing between them in spurts of hilarity. “I think Watson is hungry after all.”
John rolls his eyes mockingly at Sherlock. “All these bodily needs, right?” he asks, a teasing smile playing over his lips.
Sherlock grabs John’s hand and presses his lips to John’s palm. “I may have underestimated the appeal of bodily needs.”
John’s eyes go dark and he visibly shivers. “Later?” he asks, his voice husky and barely there.
Sherlock smiles, feeling nervous anticipation spark over his body, but also a bone-deep certainty that this is right, and true, and wonderful. “Later.”
-------
Thank you so much @calaisreno for doing the May challenges this year. I'm not sure whether I can manage al 31 days this year, but I'll try. This was great fun last year, so thank you so much for doing it again this year.
Tagging a few people who might want to join. As always, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.
@jrow @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @lisbeth-kk @catlock-holmes @meetinginsamarra @discordantwords @totallysilvergirl
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The secret, tender, quiet moments
My first, but May 11th from @calaisreno 's prompts
Be well Bubbles <3
@totallysilvergirl @helloliriels @dontfuckmylifewtf @sussexinchelsea @loki-lock @topsyturvy-turtely @matixsstuff @ohlooktheresabee @boredsushi @ohmrshudsontookmyskull @nathan-no @astudyin221b @oetkb12 @psychosociogentleman @darkkitty1208 @zira-and-crowley @beesholmes @mydogwatson @liv-olive-oliver @tiverrr @peanitbear @sunshineinyourmind @a-victorian-girl @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes
(Any changes to the taglist, just tell me!)
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Open: May 1 Prompt from @calaisreno
The cloud-covered gloom that neutralized the moon's incandescence doubled the chill of the early morning air, and the indifferent glow from the streetlamp did little to illuminate the surrounding area of damaged roadway and pavement. John pressed his back with care against the crumbling wall of the building furthest away from where it stood, holding his body completely still as he strained to pick up any sounds to factor into his calculations. Discerning nothing, he slid down the night vision glasses atop his black knit cap to rest on the bridge of his nose, and almost imperceptibly turned his head from side to side, scanning the street in measured increments, until he caught a glimpse of a body crossing a threshold a block away on the other side of the street.
He drew in a sharp breath at the sight of Sherlock, whose body language would appear to be nonchalant to a casual observer, which John was not; he could read the tension in the way the forefinger of Sherlock's right hand pressed against his thumb. Sherlock turned to step away opposite from the direction where John was placed, pausing briefly to shake out his hand, and then smooth it over the worn surplus jacket that covered his torso. After his first footfall there was a slight hitch in his next step when the forward movement placed him in a spot from where the shadows had fled, when the clouds suddenly abandoned the moon.
John's focus crystallized, knowing there were only seconds left to take cover and maneuver for an open shot. Moving swiftly, he crouched next to the rear wheel of a battered sedan, one knee on the ground, and the other bent, allowing him to set his elbow on it and aim his rifle. There was no need for a silencer; he would have one shot, and one shot only, and if the trajectory was true, then in the immediate aftermath of the surprise of the hit, he would melt away backwards, unnoticed, slipping around the corner of the building to the alley just beyond.
He tamped down the fury that threatened to rise up as he spied a movement from inside a parked car a block ahead of Sherlock, where an assassin behind the wheel was placed at an angle beyond Sherlock's immediate line of sight. John breathed in, and on a count of three, pulled the trigger, sending the bullet flying through the windscreen, shattering the glass into crystal fragments, and exploding the head of Sherlock's adversary into a halo of blood.
John knew that Sherlock would have stopped and instinctively leaned toward the scene of the hit, and then immediately have pivoted in reverse, to deduce from where the shot had been fired. But there would be nothing to see, as John would have vanished, leaving no trace of his presence.
One more city; one more mission; one more night which Sherlock would survive, as the long, tedious, and painful untangling of Moriarty's web continued to unspool.
@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl
#mayprompts2024#calaisreno#sherlock bits and bobs#may prompts 2024#johnlock#not sure if I did this right (?)#sigh
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Under the Weather
There are days when everything goes wrong. I don't mind, as long as you're with me.
1731 words / Prompt: Weather
When John pushes the door open, he’s hit with a Baltic blast of air from within. This is surprising; it’s a cold day, but generally 221B is a bit warmer than outdoors.
“What’s going on?” he asks the bundle of blankets on the sofa.
“Not much,” Sherlock replies. “Lestrade called with a case. I solved it over the phone.”
John lets out a sigh; it becomes a small, vaporous cloud. “I mean, why is it so cold in here?”
“The temperature outdoors is minus seven degrees. In here, it is four degrees above zero. Eleven degrees warmer. You ought to be asking me, why is it so warm in here?”
“I mean,” John says, keeping his jacket buttoned and sinking into his chair, “Why is it bloody four degrees inside our flat?”
“Oh. Why didn’t you say that? The boiler’s broken.”
“Have you rung someone?”
The blanket bundle sighs. “Mrs Hudson is away, visiting her sister.” He’s using his patient voice, which means that John is going to have to shout if he wants an explanation. “I don’t know how to fix a boiler, and there’s no service tag on it, so I don’t know who to call.”
“You might have looked in the phone book. They do list people who fix boilers, you know.”
Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. The hand is wearing a purple mitten, which probably came from Mrs Hudson’s knitting basket. “This is 2010. Who uses phone books these days?”
“Maybe the internet knows who fixes boilers?”
Sherlock wags mittened hands at him. “Fingers frozen. Can’t type.”
“And all day you’ve been waiting here for me to come home and save you from freezing to death?”
The pile of blankets mumbles.
“What?”
“I said, you’re better at dealing with boilers.”
“It doesn’t take a genius to call someone to fix a boiler, Sherlock.”
“Exactly.” A pair of grey eyes and a pink nose peep out of the blankets. “The electricity still works. Can you make tea? That might thaw my fingers.”
Cursing softly to himself, John fills the kettle. At least the pipes haven’t frozen, though that might be next. He sets it on the base, and flicks it on. The light remains unlit. “What did you do to the kettle?”
“Oh, erm. Why do you ask?”
“It’s not working.”
“It is a very old kettle. They don’t last forever, you know.”
“Oi!” He holds up the base. “Why is the cord no longer connected to the base?”
More mumbling. He catches the word experiment and something about microwave not working either…
Cursing a bit louder, John opens his laptop and searches for someone who will repair a boiler. He casts an evil look at the sofa as he dials the first one he finds.
A minute later he ends the call. “It’s after hours,” he announces. “And the weekend is just starting. I left a message.”
He tries three more numbers, then five more, leaving increasingly desperate messages.
For a moment he sits, eyes closed, and contemplates the long, cold weekend that lies ahead. Maybe the telly works, at least. He takes the remote and presses the power button.
“Cable’s out too,” Sherlock’s voice says. He still in his blanket pod, but knows John well enough to anticipate his thought process. “Ice on the lines.”
“Well,” John says. It’s all fine for Sherlock, who is in a cocoon, unaffected by the weather inside the flat. “I’ll be upstairs putting on my arctic gear.”
“I’ll call for takeaway,” Sherlock says.
John’s room is even colder than downstairs. This is mainly because water has been leaking through a hole in his ceiling. The hole is a surprise, an unhappy one. Not big enough to see sky, but enough to let water in. This morning, before it started to rain and the temperature began to drop, followed by ice and snow, the ceiling was intact. His room was nice and warm—and dry.
There’s no way he can blame Sherlock for the age of the roof, the weather’s bad timing, or the bad luck that hovers over John like a small, dark cloud.
He curses loudly as he opens drawers, hunting for his long johns and wool socks. Finding them, he sits on the bed and curses again as water soaks into his pants.
“Bloody buggering hell! What did I do to deserve this!”
The fates have no answer for this.
Finally, having discarded his wet pants, donned his long johns, wool socks, a pair of corduroy trousers that fit over the long johns, a polo neck pullover, and the warmest jumper in his drawer, he heads down the stairs, cursing at a volume loud enough for the other resident of the flat to hear.
The sitting room is silent, the lump on the sofa unmoving.
“There’s a hole in the roof!” he announces. “My bed is soaked through.”
“We could make a fire in the hearth,” Sherlock suggests. He’s poking his head out now, looking like a curly-headed turtle.
“By we, I assume you mean me.” John grabs the blanket off the back of his chair and wraps it around his shoulders before sinking into the chair. “Do we have any firewood?”
“A relevant question.”
“Look, I won’t mind burning some of your books if it’ll keep me warm.”
“My books are valuable. You might try burning some of those idiotic spy novels you read. But there’s some firewood downstairs, by the back door. I’m sure Mrs Hudson won’t mind us using it. Better than coming home and finding our stiff, dead corpses—”
“Let’s not talk about corpses right now.” Not while I’m thinking about killing you. “Did you order some food, I hope?”
“Angelo’s is closed, due to weather. I ordered Chinese.”
“Thank god.” John leans back in his chair. Every muscle in his back is tight from a very long day, and he’s shivering hard, wishing for a cup of tea.
He hears movement from the sofa and opens his eyes. Sherlock stands, shedding his blankets. He’s dressed in a pair of John’s tracksuit bottoms, John’s Christmas jumper, and wool socks that look suspiciously like they came out of John’s sock drawer.
He’s glaring down at John with concern (if such a thing is possible). “Stop shivering.”
“Involuntary response,” he replies, teeth chattering. “That’s my jumper you’re wearing.”
“I didn’t have anything warm enough.”
“You made fun of that jumper at our Christmas drinks thing.”
“Well, it’s more appropriate now, isn’t it?” He arranges one of his blankets around John, tucking him into his chair. Then he strides out the door.
When he returns with a bundle of firewood, John is reflecting that there won’t even be hot water. No bath to warm him up. Just Chinese food and blankets.
The fire is looking somewhat robust by the time the doorbell rings.
The Chinese food helps, though it’s been in transit long enough that it’s not very hot. Sherlock apologises for the tea kettle. And the microwave. When they’ve eaten, he collects the empty cartons and takes the leftovers into the kitchen.
“Fridge still works,” he calls out. “Just warning you, though. It will probably stop when the indoor temperature drops below freezing.”
“Look on the bright side,” John replies. “We’ll be stiff, dead, corpses by then. Beyond caring about milk for the tea we can’t make.”
Sherlock comes back with a bottle and two glasses. “Here’s something to warm us up.”
He hands John a glass and pours. “Happy anniversary, John.”
John laughs. “Right. One year living at 221B. I didn’t expect you’d care about things like that.”
“Why not? One year is the longest I’ve managed to cohabit with anyone. It’s been… good.” He sits down, his face pink in the firelight.
“It has been good,” John admits. He remembers the first time he came through the door, saw Sherlock’s clutter, and wondered what he was getting himself into. He remembers carefully probing, trying to determine whether Sherlock might be interested…
Well, nothing ever goes to plan. That’s the story of John’s life.
He leans back, all the weariness of the day dragging his eyelids down.
“John, wake up.”
“Mm?” He sighs and opens his eyes.
Sherlock is standing over him. “You can’t sleep in your chair. In the morning your neck will hurt.”
“True, but my bed has become an ice floe.”
“Sleep in my bed.”
“What? Oh, you’ll take the sofa.”
Sherlock shakes his head. “Self-preservation, John. Body heat.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We must sleep together.”
“Together?”
“It’s the only way.”
“You want to sleep with me?”
“Science, John. If your core temperature drops too low, you die. And all the firewood is gone, so we have to improvise.”
Improvise, indeed. The bedroom is colder than the sitting room, but the bed is large and, more importantly, not a frozen slab of ice. Keeping their clothes on, they crawl under the covers and move towards one another. Sherlock’s arms go around him, and John lays his head against Sherlock’s chest.
It feels like something they do all the time. Or something they should have done months ago.
John shivers a bit, not from the cold. Sherlock smells like kung pao chicken and expensive scotch.
“Skin-to-skin might be warmer,” Sherlock says. “We shouldn’t take chances.”
John giggles. “Is the boiler really broken?”
“Of course. Did you think I was only trying to get you into my bed?”
“Sherlock.” He feels Sherlock’s nose with his own. It’s like an icicle. “You could have had me in your bed a long time ago, if that’s what you wanted.”
Sherlock is silent. He buries his face in John’s shoulder. “Really?”
“I didn’t think you wanted that.”
“Neither did I.”
“Do you?”
“Everything went wrong today,” he whispers. “And then you came home.”
“This was an especially bad day.” John snuggles into him. “The surgery was full of snotty kids and over-protective parents. Nothing interesting, just mucus and vomit. I didn’t get any lunch. The bus was late. And when I came home, it was freezing. But you were here.”
“John.”
“Hm?”
“I don’t mind all the things that are wrong, as long as you’re with me.”
“Not that I want more misery, but…” John kisses his nose. “You’re the one I want to share it with.”
Sherlock kisses John’s nose, then his lips, lingering. “Let’s get these clothes off before we freeze to death.”
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Do-Over - May Prompts (20)
He squints out the window at the John-shaped blob as the tarmac rises up beneath them. The Mary-shaped blob has vanished.
Yes—she would have to, wouldn’t she, make some hasty excuse and disappear like a dandelion seed since she’d worked for—but John doesn’t know—and the baby isn’t his—
Fine. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Sherlock will fix it. Sherlock isn’t going to die in exile in six months. He’s going to die in John’s arms in sixty years if he has anything to say about it now.
“We’ve landed, Mr Holmes. You’re free to leave,” comes the pilot’s voice, as far away as the dark side of the moon.
This is it.
Sherlock practically trips over his own feet as he hurries down the aircraft stairs. He wants to swoop in, the redeemed hero, every shade of cool self-possession, but instead he’s an ungainly foal learning to take its first steps, still slicked up and trembling from its passage from one world into another.
John’s face is unreadable.
“I want a do-over,” Sherlock blurts, still in motion.
Their eyes meet like magnets. Sherlock stops just short of an arm’s length away and blows all the air out his lungs.
“Yeah.” John stares into him like he’s the sun. “Me too."
Sherlock opens his mouth.
John says it first.
+
Thank you to @calaisreno for the fun prompt series! Tags in replies. Thanks for reading! <3
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[for the @calaisreno May Prompts Tour, which affords me the opportunity to be supremely self-indulgent]
(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) 13: laugh
Is this still the number for John Watson?
John pauses, thumb hovering. Before he can choose a response, another message flashes in.
It's Harry
He nearly drops the phone. Or maybe he nearly throws it against the wall. Hard to say.
His reflex to caretake wars with his lingering resentment of her absence. But he knows he would regret ignoring an olive branch… or whatever this is.
Hi
Everything okay?
No small talk, got it
Yes I'm fine, good in fact
and no I'm not going to ask you for money
He breathes in deeply.
I'm glad things are going well for you
And he is, at least in the abstract.
Thanks
I know this is the part where I'm supposed to ask how you are
But you know I'm pants at texting
Can we just have coffee or something?
John taps his phone to his lip absently and considers his options. A public reunion seems like it could be a volatile mistake, not to mention it's 7pm on a weekday. Sherlock is at the lab, Rosie is having her after-supper blanket time, and John is catching up on charting.
And to be honest, he's pretty bored.
Come to mine for tea?
Harry's three dots wibble for a while, which John supposes is fair.
Right now?
With my schedule, I have to take opportunities where I can
Okay, yeah, I'm free
He sends her the address, feeling both pleased and annoyed. One would think that hitting his own rock bottom would make him more sympathetic towards his sister. But really, it just piles helpless anger on top of guilt on top of anger, ad nauseum.
He's not even sure she knows he's a father, for Christ's sake.
Turns out, she doesn't. She walks through the door he holds open for her, and stops abruptly when she sees Rosie. 'Oh my God,' she breathes, staring. 'Oh my God. You--' She turns to John, eyes wide. 'She-- Johnny. She's yours?'
He nods, and despite everything, he feels his face curve into a proud smile. 'Her name's Rosie.'
'Can I--' Harry indicates the blanket with a sharp movement. 'Can I say hello to her?'
'Yeah, course.' He follows her, and folds himself down behind Rosie. 'Sweetheart, this is your Aunt Harry.'
Harry makes a bit of a squawking noise, probably at the 'aunt' bit, but tamps it down. 'Hi, Rosie,' she manages, her voice rough but determined. 'It's lovely to meet you. What are you playing with?'
'Avocados,' Rosie mostly manages to say, then holds one up for Harry without hesitation. Harry takes it with a giggle, and before long they're thick as thieves with a pile of emoting avocados between them.
Harry glances up at him when there's a lull. 'So. The dad life is treating you well, yeah?'
He hesitates, then nods. 'It is now.'
She eyes him, but doesn't ask about what came before now. Instead, she says, 'I'm just going to ask, alright -- who's the other parent?'
He raises an eyebrow. 'Why d'you say there is one?'
Her eyes twinkle. 'Because you do not have the fashion sense to have bought her this outfit. Your bird rich, then?'
He coughs. 'Well. No.'
She waits, though he can see she's trying not to be annoyed by his reticence. She's never understood people wanting to keep things private. 'No?'
'My… flatmate. He's able to buy her things I don't give a toss about, yeah.'
She blinks. 'You have a gay flatmate?'
John feels his ears heat up. 'I do, yeah.'
She seems weirdly impressed. 'You've come a long way from being a rugby lad, haven't you?'
He snorts. 'I'm learning how to do plaits, if you'll believe it.'
'She's not got enough hair for that yet.'
'Sherlock--the flatmate--insists it's a useful skill, though I've no idea why.'
She doesn't reply, and he looks up from where he's helping Rosie with her current avocado. 'What?' he asks, though he knows it's useless. Harry is no Sherlock but honestly, she doesn't have to be, because his emotions have always been written all over his face. It's a curse and a blessing.
'Oh holy shit,' she breathes out.
'Language,' he admonishes reflexively.
'Sorry, I mean-- Holy noses, Johnny.'
'Don't be smug.'
'Oh, I take no credit for this, I always knew the overcompensating locker room talk was hiding something.'
He rolls his eyes, but his lips are twitching. 'Yeah, insecurity about willy size.'
'Okay, ew, first of all. Second of all-- What the--' He gives her a warning look. 'Ever-loving heck.'
'Short version?' She nods quickly. He decides to also give her the slightly-less-mad-sounding version. 'Got married, got pregnant, had baby, wife passed away, realised I had feelings for my flatmate. Who is a man. And who is effectively fathering my child.'
She claps her hand over her mouth, and for a moment he fears she's going to cry, but then realises she's laughing.
'Oi, that's just not on,' he protests.
'But it's ridiculous!' She holds out a hand to him placatingly, speaking through continued laughter. 'It's lovely and sad and all that, but you have to admit--'
There are tears escaping the corners of her eyes, and he feels it begin to bubble up in his chest, too. Her laugh has always been a thing of beauty, of loud, annoying, contagious, unforgettable beauty, and he can't help it.
And she's right, really. It is kind of ridiculous.
He lets out his own laugh, finally, and reaches for her hand.
[❤️]
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mayprompts2024, #19 weather
It's limerick time today, YAY
+++++
Wether the sun shines hot and cruel
or rain pours down into a pool
the weather is irrelevant
the Belstaff's always prevalent
to pop the collar and look cool.
@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk @raina-at @peanitbear
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