I’d almost forgotten how this website worked while I was… off. I keep starting one of these posts, stopping, closing out of the browser and giving up. I don’t want to talk about it, and even trying makes things— I don’t want to talk about it.
It’s been a long while.
He left over the weekend and he’s still not back… I’m a little worried, I will admit. But he is a grown man, and he can manage himself.
That’s decidedly unfair, given that Sherlock is ten times the man Moran is. Nevermind the fact that I don’t trade in people.
Oh, funny, very funny, so funny. You should take up comedy, you’d make a killing.
Life is quite nice, yes, and everything is beautiful, yes.
You know what, maybe I will get aggressive. All over that creepy boyfriend of yours. Moron-whoever.
With work and the amateur-detective hobby (if you can even call it a hobby!) I’ve picked up from living with Sherlock. It’s gotten easier to balance work and crime-solving with practice, but I continued to neglect this blog because… oh, I don’t know. I don’t need it like I used to, I suppose.
Anyway, short shift today so I thought I’d post something.
You? Boil water? You’d burn the kitchen down.
I— I missed you too.
{ In which John wants to say more, fill the cup of apologies and drink it down, but he finds his mouth unwilling. }
Do you want a cuppa? I was going to put the kettle on.
I’m… glad you think so?
Are you watching through the windows or something we’re not exactly masters of public affection
john-watson:S Holmes: john-watson: scienceofdeduction-: { In which a week passes like it’s a…
john-watson:scienceofdeduction-:
{ In which a week passes like it’s a millennium, and Sherlock is on edge for exactly seven days, snapping at everyone who looks at him wrong and…
{ In which John can’t help but loose the smile tugging at his face when Sherlock holds him closer and then Sherlock presses his lips roughly on John’s neck and he loses it (whether he ever had it to begin with is the question), and his knees buckle a little and he grabs at Sherlock to steady himself and hopes that Sherlock won’t notice. But that’s a lost cause, isn’t it? He’ll always know. And that was what John had missed; in the desert, in Afghanistan, he hardly knew the people he lived beside, cramped in like sardines. He missed— well, he missed a lot of things. But he missed someone— Sherlock— knowing exactly what he was thinking as he thought it, and knew what he needed when he needed it (except when he didn’t; but those times were rare and to be treasured in their own right). He used Sherlock to lever himself standing, and then brushed his nose on Sherlock’s. }
Hey. You. I’ve missed you. Could we go— go upstairs?
Maybe have some tea{ In which Sherlock must stop himself from smiling too widely, must contain his joy and awe at the events unfolding - Mrs Hudson is standing right there, of course. }
I-
absolutely.
{ In which he all but drags John upstairs, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s shrieks of protest at the bags left in the entrance. When he and John’s arm reach the top of the stairs, Sherlock taps his foot impatiently, waiting for the rest of John to make his way up the stairs and rejoin his limb, currently the only connection between them both. When John finally does reach the flat, Sherlock shuts the door behind them, and, much like after The Pool Incident, kisses John soundly on the mouth, pressing him against the door. It’s short and mostly chaste and Sherlock had almost forgotten what it was like. }
Christ, John, I-
I missed you. I’m…
{ In which Sherlock suddenly panics - what are the circumstances of John’s return? }
you’re all right, aren’t you?
{ In which John is dragged bodily up the stairs (not that he’s resisting; he’s not, not by any means), out of the hall, out of Mrs. Hudson’s tirade of “Not your housekeeper, and I’ll not be taking these bags up for you two!”, out of everything and into the flat— their flat. Sherlock slams the door and pushes him against it, pressing a (mostly) innocent kiss as he does so.
And it’s good, it’s all so good. When Sherlock moves to separate himself from John, John holds him close and pulls him in. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to, doesn’t need to.
Christ, John, I-
I missed you. I’m…
you’re all right, aren’t you? }
I’m fine. Really— I’m fine. Great, in fact, but all the better for being home.
{ In which John can’t bring himself to let go of Sherlock, even though he knows he should, knows he really should. There’ll be time enough for that later. Man up, John. It’s only been six months. Some couples— Christ, we’re a couple, that will never cease to amaze— don’t see each other for years at a time.
Even so, he finds it hard to unwind his arms from around Sherlock. }
Source: scienceofdeduction-
Irish knit sweater cookies by A Dozen Eggs1 on Flickr.
Mmm.
