PrettyArbitrary

Am i the only one that love the pairing John/Mycroft?

youcantsaymylastname:

enigmaticpenguinofdeath:

markgatissallovertheworld:

Tell me ‘nope’, please! PLEASE! *Fangirling*

It’s a tiny ship but it’s pretty.

I am a bit partial to it, depending on the day. ^_^  I even wrote a thing one time.

Reblog if you’re jealous of everyone at 221B-con right now.

kmaryarty:

marsdaydream:

random-nexus:

kayjaykayme:

GREEN!

Vividly.

Positively emerald.

Glow-in-the-dark jealous.

Well, if they’re going to go off and leave us, then they don’t get smutty sneak peeks:

This time, Greg brought down the hammer after they’d finished clearing the dishes into the sink.  “You know what I’ve been thinking about all evening?” he said casually over his shoulder.  Too casually, maybe, because John’s shoulders stiffened instantly.  Just can’t get the hang of that. Greg gave himself a philosophical mental shrug and rounded on him.  He felt the wolfish grin bloom on his face at the way John backed up at his advance, cool and wary.  John didn’t believe in going down without a fight.

“I’ve been thinking,” he continued when John’s back hit the wall, “about how you lied to me.”

“It’s not-”  John stopped when his hands were pinned next to his head.

Greg leaned in to keep them there with his weight.  “I know it wasn’t your idea,” he answered silkily.  “But you know better than to withhold evidence.  I should run you in for it, god knows.  But instead, tonight you’re getting an object lesson in proper procedure.  Turn around, and put your hands behind your back.”

John didn’t obey immediately, even after Greg released his hands.  He gave John the moment. It wasn’t insolence; John was sorting something in his head, and Greg had found that giving him the time to think always paid off.

Sure enough, it only took a few seconds before John sighed quietly, his shoulders settling with the exhale, and turned to press his chest against the wall.

Greg braced him with one hand on his back, and stripped both his shirts off together.  His hair stuck up adorably in its wake; Greg couldn’t resist reaching up to pet the soft strands down, even though John’d be a mess again by the time Greg was done with him.  Then he smoothed his hands down John’s bare arms and bent them up to put on the speedcuffs, locking his hands crosswise, palm to wrist, at the small of his back.

Startled, John jerked at them a little.  The position Greg’d locked him into immobilized his upper body beautifully; he couldn’t so much as twist one wrist without it working both arms and shoulders.  John’s shoulders strained and rolled, trying out the limits of his movement, and Greg kept on eye on that pretty sight while ducking around the kitchen doorway to grab supplies off the shelves there.

He set his police baton down on the kitchen table as softly as he could manage, but John caught the sound anyway, and froze.  He couldn’t know what it was; just that Greg’d broken out some kind of equipment.  Greg slid up behind him and put his hands on John’s belt.  “Maybe I should make you guess what it is,” he teased.

John flashed his teeth cheekily over his naked shoulder.  “You mean deduce it?”

“Oi!”  Greg seized him by the hair and pushed him hard against the wall.  “Watch your mouth, cocky little bugger.”  John’s laugh cut off with a yelp as he was nearly jerked off his feet by a fierce tug on his belt.  Greg freed it from the rear belt loops on a second yank, then swung it up to catch the other end and give John a good solid thwack across his bottom with it.  “Now behave, or there’ll be more where that came from.”

(Source: johnwatsonismyspiritanimal)

BBC Sherlock tumblrfic for Songlin

april-likes-things:

prettyarbitrary:

songlinwrites:

PA here!  You said you wanted sickfic, so I wrote you some. Sort of. ^_^

Sherlock thought he’d been the soul of patience, but the third time John came hovering at his elbow with a cup of tea with honey in, he snapped.  ”I am fine, John.  It’s just the flu!  I’m a healthy 34 year old man in excellent physical condition.  Do you realize the statistical improbability of it turning into anything dangerous for me?”

“Well, it won’t if you take care of it,” John pointed out reasonably, and held the tea out.  ”You should rest.  Drink lots of fluids.  Eat properly.  NOT spend hours faffing about in a chilly morgue and haunting the Met like the ghost of bronchitises past.”

“You don’t sound like a doctor, you sound like my mother!”  Sherlock’s answering snarl turned into a coughing fit that felt like the universe smugly taking John’s side.  In a fit of pique, he threw down the folder he kept getting distracted from reading.  Pages flew everywhere, cranking his sour mood downwards another notch.  He should make John put them back in order.  It was his fault.  ”Did some dear relative of yours die traumatically of pneumonia or something?  You are obsessed!”

For a moment, John just stared at him, face carefully neutral…and then his expression crumbled ever so slightly, into something quietly, stoically devastated.  ”My grandfather,” he said softly, eyes focused into the depths of the mug he held.  ”Yes.  It wasn’t…  Look.  It’s why I became a doctor, alright?  I don’t want to have to go through that again.”  His jaw firmed, he set the tea down, and turned to walk away.  ”So just.  Drink your goddamn tea, will you?  And bundle up if you go out.  Just for me.”

“John…”  Mouth fallen open, Sherlock struggled for words while he watched John retreat back into the kitchen.  What did one say in moments like this?  ”That was…,” he managed after a moment, “the most shameless attempt at emotional manipulation I think I’ve ever encountered.”  Sherlock was fairly proud of his own skills in that direction, but with that big-eyed kicked-puppy look added on top, John could apparently put him to shame.  ”Do you normally try to guilt trip your patients into cooperating with you?”

There was a clink of glass and the sound of pouring liquid, and then John came back out with a bowl of broth and a devilish grin.  ”It usually works.  Now eat up and I’ll consider putting that folder back together for you.”

LOOK WHO’S THE BEST

I don’t know if this even really counts as sickfic?  But what the hell, so long as you liked it!

Timely for me, as I’m sick with a cold. Ugh.

Awwww, April, let John guilt-trip you all better. <3

BBC Sherlock tumblrfic for Songlin

songlinwrites:

PA here!  You said you wanted sickfic, so I wrote you some. Sort of. ^_^

Sherlock thought he’d been the soul of patience, but the third time John came hovering at his elbow with a cup of tea with honey in, he snapped.  ”I am fine, John.  It’s just the flu!  I’m a healthy 34 year old man in excellent physical condition.  Do you realize the statistical improbability of it turning into anything dangerous for me?”

“Well, it won’t if you take care of it,” John pointed out reasonably, and held the tea out.  ”You should rest.  Drink lots of fluids.  Eat properly.  NOT spend hours faffing about in a chilly morgue and haunting the Met like the ghost of bronchitises past.”

“You don’t sound like a doctor, you sound like my mother!”  Sherlock’s answering snarl turned into a coughing fit that felt like the universe smugly taking John’s side.  In a fit of pique, he threw down the folder he kept getting distracted from reading.  Pages flew everywhere, cranking his sour mood downwards another notch.  He should make John put them back in order.  It was his fault.  ”Did some dear relative of yours die traumatically of pneumonia or something?  You are obsessed!”

For a moment, John just stared at him, face carefully neutral…and then his expression crumbled ever so slightly, into something quietly, stoically devastated.  ”My grandfather,” he said softly, eyes focused into the depths of the mug he held.  ”Yes.  It wasn’t…  Look.  It’s why I became a doctor, alright?  I don’t want to have to go through that again.”  His jaw firmed, he set the tea down, and turned to walk away.  ”So just.  Drink your goddamn tea, will you?  And bundle up if you go out.  Just for me.”

“John…”  Mouth fallen open, Sherlock struggled for words while he watched John retreat back into the kitchen.  What did one say in moments like this?  ”That was…,” he managed after a moment, “the most shameless attempt at emotional manipulation I think I’ve ever encountered.”  Sherlock was fairly proud of his own skills in that direction, but with that big-eyed kicked-puppy look added on top, John could apparently put him to shame.  ”Do you normally try to guilt trip your patients into cooperating with you?”

There was a clink of glass and the sound of pouring liquid, and then John came back out with a bowl of broth and a devilish grin.  ”It usually works.  Now eat up and I’ll consider putting that folder back together for you.”

LOOK WHO’S THE BEST

I don’t know if this even really counts as sickfic?  But what the hell, so long as you liked it!

momotastic27 said: 

That sounds great. Is it part of servicemen or something different?

[keeps hitting refresh on your a03 page, waiting for said glorious porn]