I haven’t even touched TAB yeah, probably shouldn’t have made TAB honestly WTF did you expect after 90 minutes of watching a gay coke dream with multiple dick jokes and soft Sherlock and smoking hot badass Victorian john oh god I forgot about the flashlight-in-the-mouth and entire-box-of-cigarettes-in-mouth and tire lever I’m not going to touch The Fall, it was gorgeous writing and also extremely sad and gay john. Honestly Motifs… if you are trying to tell a story about two Platonic friends you are failing miserably.
Join our side and have some fun admitting to one of the greatest love stories of all time, that deserves to be proud of and shouting from the rooftops! My anger about john being nice in fins is boundless who are all of these friends he’s going to pubs with.
Lestrade has them come by NSW to fill out paperwork they’ve been dodging. They’re filling out forms and Rosie is playing by herself when she knocks over her toys.
“Mycroft” she mutters in clear disdain, as if it were a swear word. He swears he didn’t teach her that and begs John not to correct her since she’ll figure it out as she ages.
Jim, who has never been heard of before but supposedly works with Molly, asks her out to drinks on her blog. Jim later is revealed to have been lying about his true identity and turns out to be a main antagonist.
John asks, holding puppy in his arms, dodging her little paw when it swipes at his chin. He reaches out a hand to touch the wayward paw with one fingertip.
He holds out his arms, and john settles her, soft and wriggly and trying to sneak kisses, into them. As long as you don’t name her after a serial killer, it’ll be fine.
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Tom Trader VS The Blog, Sherlock’s best quotes from season 3 on one tee!... That Rosie coos when he’s back from work and Sherlock drops her into John’s arms.
(And if you didn’t love it, there are some wonderful pilot!verse blogs. John remembered them stumbling up the stairs and into the flat, Sherlock bustling around the kitchen preparing yet more drinks.
When he appeared again in the door from the kitchen to the sitting room, John recalled the way he had felt- awed. Sherlock’s curls were disheveled from his bar fight, and his cheeks had a high and rosy blush from drinking so much alcohol.
He wore a look of dopey happiness, and he swayed slightly to and fro like he was standing on the deck of a boat. Striding across the room in his long coat, he had kneeled down next to John, handed him his drink, and kissed him.
As unpredictable as a lightning storm, Sherlock had giggled, wiped his mouth and sat down in his chair like nothing was wrong. That is, until a few months after, when John had been thinking the night over, and the view of Sherlock’s gently closed eyes and long, sloping nose had suddenly flashed through his thoughts.
He squeezed Sherlock’s arm one more time, then glanced up and froze. Some cheeky bastard had tacked a sprig of mistletoe over their doorway where it couldn’t be avoided.
Sherlock’s face went hot, couldn’t seem to form words. John dropped his bag and wrapped both arms around Sherlock’s lean frame, one hand on the back of his neck, the other at the curve of his waist.
John’s arms tightened into a fierce hug, and Sherlock was on the verge of cracking wide open, his heart displayed, everything he felt for this man there for all to see. Then John turned his head, and pressed a single, slow kiss to Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone.
“Don’t worry,” John whispered, his voice pitched low. Sherlock’s watched in a daze as John picked up his bag and left.
Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall with a pained groan. It’s a nice laugh, long and low, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
John cast him a dark glare, pitching another bulb into the bin and slotting a new one in its place. ‘Yesterday, after you set fire to the jumper my mother knitted for me.’ John ramped up the tone of accusation.
Sherlock was abysmal at empathy, but if you pushed hard enough, it was still possible to send him on a very minor guilt trip. Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes took in the stately majesty of the Christmas tree, which was already filling the flat with the fresh scent of pine.
It had been carefully placed a safe distance from the fire, and while John felt marginally bad for sacrificing a living tree for the sake of Christmas, he didn’t feel contrite enough to go out and buy something eco-friendly and made of plastic. 'I don’t see the point,’ Sherlock muttered, reluctantly getting to his feet and accepting a bundle of fairy-lights from John.
'It’s tradition.’ John looped a strand around Sherlock’s neck, trying to stop the string from getting tangled as he slotted in the plug and grinned in satisfaction when they lit up beautifully. Sherlock’s skin was cast in gemstone hues: blues and reds and greens all adding festive cheer to his highly skeptical expression.
'John, dear, you’re meant to be decorating the tree, not Sherlock, ’ Mrs Hudson pointed out as she bustled in with a tea tray, some mince pies, and a considerable amount of sherry in a bottle. Books, scarves, a new alarm clock for his bedroom when his old one started to get fussy around the snooze button.
Last year he’d gotten him a pass to an underground, top secret shooting range, so he could practice with his gun and a couple of other firearms, in exchange for five solid favors for Mycroft. John had taught Sherlock how to stand and shoot, correcting his stance with a hand on his shoulder and on his hip, and the silence in the empty shooting range had been deafening, and three days later John had gone to Sherlock’s parents’ house and pretended to forgive his wife.
It’s blazing in…” He trails off as his eyes take in the state of the flat, dawning confusion on his face. Sherlock swallows and works up his courage with a deep breath.
But John looks warmly, softly beautiful in the flickering firelight, and sod the dinner, just sod it all, and he takes John by the hand and leads him to his chair. Condition of what?” A little curl of suspicion is starting to form on John’s face, and he looks for a moment like he can’t decide whether to laugh or make a run for it.
“Kiss me again,” Sherlock demands, because he’s out of words for the first time in his life and his chest is tight, and he’s ready to crawl out of his skin with anticipation. Sherlock closes his eyes, heart hammering in his ears and waits, waits, barely breathing until John finally kisses him softly, achingly slowly, his other hand sliding around the back of Sherlock’s neck to tangle in his hair.
“You love me and I have an internal organ of yours.” Sherlock says up to him as if it’s the most groundbreaking deduction of his life, his eyes practically ablaze with very heavy painkillers, “It’s Christmas. Oh, Father Christmas, you are brilliant, I never doubted your abilities, really, it was all just an act.