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 Maggy's Johnlock

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Posts : 7560
Join date : 2013-10-06
Age : 17
Location : hell

PostSubject: Maggy's Johnlock   Fri Feb 21, 2014 4:17 pm

michigan lake blue, breast cancer awareness pink, nina's purple

did u mean "my writing at 2 am"

Last edited by helga on Fri Mar 14, 2014 7:54 pm; edited 1 time in total
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PostSubject: Before I Drift Away   Fri Feb 21, 2014 4:30 pm

Before I Drift Away
// or The Night of the Drugged Tea Leaves //

Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Johnlock (pre-Johnlock)
Rating: K+/ T (swear words)
Notes: oneshot; plot bunny; John’s POV
Prompt: cuddles at 221B / the first crush
Characters: sleepy!Sherlock, deniying!John
Count: 113 notebook rows / 1000+ words

Sherlock Holmes. You probably wouldn’t think that a man like him is cuddly. Well, neither did I. But I was proved wrong.
It was one of days: we went on a case - it was fairly easy, Sherlock finished it in about an hour - and it took us three more to catch the criminal. We were back home by midnight. Since my heart was still racing, of course I didn’t go to sleep, I couldn’t. And since Sherlock almost never slept, neither did he. Instead, we sat in the living room, me blogging and Sherlock watching a shitty TV show mumbling to himself.

“It can’t be the FATHER!” The utter horror in his voice made me chuckle, which earned me a glare. The next quarter of an hour went by in silence, only Sherlock’s occasional muffled grumbles and my keyboard breaking it. When the end credits rolled down and the instrumental of the theme song started playing, Sherlock sighed one of those overreacted, drama-queenish, over-the-top sighs. I looked at him above the top of my laptop screen and the look on his face ruined the entire episode to me.
“It was the father, wasn’t it”, I asked smirking with the corner of my mouth.
“It would’ve been better if the girlfriend killed him!” he exclaimed. Only with Sherlock. He continued talking, explaining his theory, out loud, but not necessarily to me, but I cut him off in the middle of his... idea? plan? scheme?
“You know, when people say Sherlock Holmes, they usually mean a sophisticated young man, with manners, but all I got was this very intelligent 5-year-old.” Because my comment was both flattering and insulting, Sherlock stood silent, his eyes fixed on the telly.
The after-case Sherlock amazed me. His dark curls messier than usual, from all the running, grey-blue-green eyes glowing from a successful case and his posture still tense, at the edge of the seat, like a cat preparing to jump.

It took me a couple of minutes of staring to realize I was, in fact, staring. But, you know, I’m not... gay. Or... whatever. It was not like I fancied or worse, loved Sherlock. I don’t think anyone can love that daft twat. But I was as close to a friend a man like him can have. The two minutes of staring turned into three so I shut down my laptop and got up.
“Care for a cuppa?” I asked glancing at him again. He was still focused on the TV set. Or maybe not. His face was blank, which meant he was in his Mind Palace. Again. Which meant he didn’t see me. Drat. I went to the kitchen and made tea while thinking. Wait, did I just think that? Did I want to be noticed by him? Oh dear Lord, John, don't be such a school girl. And you don’t have a crush.  I didn’t allow myself to do so. I didn’t want to spend my life like Molly, or, God forbid, pine for Sherlock. Just the thought of a man serenading Sherlock was enough to send me into giggles. I walked out of the kitchen. My Lord, I was a school girl. I just needed pigtails.
“Here’s your tee for which you so kindly asked for”, I said, my voice dripping out sarcasm. When he just took the cup, without looking at me, without a simple ‘thank you’, I continued.”Aaaaand for which you politely thanked for because you weren’t an arsehole.“  That made him talk.
“Sarcasm doesn’t fit you, John.”
For some odd reason, I liked when he said my name. Hell I liked my name even when he didn’t say it. It was common, both casual and forma, unlike William or Daniel, or, why not, Sherlock. But as much as my name fit him, Sherlock’s fit hem even more. It was unique, not unlike his owner.
“How would you know? You’re barely even here! You’re always in that blasted Mind Palace of yours! Sometimes I think you came with the flat! ‘Rent out a flat! Lovely position, huge amounts of murder in the neighbourhood! Comes with a free Sherlock!’” I parroted a salesman voice. I don’t know what came over me. Inner frustration, I guess. When I finished my mini-rant I noticed him looking at me and I realised something. He was tired. Not in literal sense (but that too, though). He was tired of arguing. He knew who he was. He was aware of all the cons of living with him.

But he didn’t feel guilty enough to change his habits.

We stared at each other for a few seconds before going back to our tea. Warm tea, not unlike warm milk, made me sleepy. Well, it was about time. As I finished my tea, I glanced at Sherlock again (wow, I did that a lot). His eyes were closed, the tea in the tilted cup threatening to spill and his head leaning lightly from side to side, like a see-saw. He probably hadn’t slept for days. I carefully took the cup from his cold hand, from which I received an eye cracking open.
“Hmm?” he hummed.
“We’re going to get you to sleep”, I said standing up. For once, I was taller than him. It wasn’t as satisfactory as I thought. He didn’t respond.
“You’ll either go to sleep or I will put you to sleep. Now come on”, I pulled his elbow up, and for the first time in a while, he listened to me. I didn’t even have to play my doctor card. I half-carried and half-dragged him to his bedroom, and when we finally reached his bed, he just dropped on it. Like an astronaut who had been in space for so long he forgot about gravity.

And with that drop, my hand failed to let go of his elbow so I sort-of fell face-first on his chest. I’m not really all that light, and although he made a ‘thmph’ noise, he didn’t complain. Something was in that tea, because I felt so forlorn I didn’t want to move. Yes, Sherlock is not the first person I would choose to fall asleep on, but I meant what I said; I couldn’t move, nor think straight. When he didn’t tell me to move, I glanced up at him. I expected his eyes to be closed, but instead, here they were, staring at me like I was a dead body on the table.
That little bitch.

But soon tiredness caught up with him, so he closed his eyes muttering something.
“Hmm?” I asked, not understanding him.
“Cold”, he repeated, the letters tripping over each other in a slur. I reached down in search for a blanket, but found his thigh instead.
“Whoops”, I muttered blushing lightly. I finally found the blanket and pulled it over us, trying to adjust it so that it covered him completely, which was not such an easy task. He was like a bloody giraffe, for goodness sake! After a minute of me twiddling with the blanket, he put his hand over mine, taking the blanket away from me so I wouldn’t ruin it any further and fixing the blanket with just one simple pull.
“Show-off”, I said quietly and gained a short laugh from him. I didn’t hear it, but it kind of vibrated through his chest, similar to a cough.

It was probably a cough.

I was becoming cold myself so I nuzzled into his chest. He didn’t move. Neither of us bothered to change into PJs, so he still smelt of rain. I caught a scent of chase and adrenalin, as well, and strangely enough, it calmed me down. And even stranger, I noticed my hands wrapping around his waist. I was pretty sure he was asleep by then, but I felt his hand creeping onto my back and resting there.

Now people will definitely talk.

“I don’t mind”, he murmured, like he read my thoughts.
At that moment, neither did I.

And maybe, just maybe, I fell in love with Sherlock Holmes.


Early that morning, I was woken up by Mrs. Hudson’s yelling about ‘sleeping pills in her bloody tea leaves!’. I just lifted my head from his chest to check if he was really here. His breathing was slow, so he was still sleeping, but there was a smirk on his face.

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did u mean "my writing at 2 am"
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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Fri Mar 14, 2014 10:08 pm

W A R  H E R O E S
There are a lot of types of war.
AU: in which hospitals aren’t made just for jumping.
1. V I D E O  T A P E S
I don’t really remember war. Everything is a blur. I remember people, but I don’t seem to recall most of the events. Maybe because I fell into a routine. Follow orders. Heal the ones who needed me. Be there if someone was lonely. Yes. I was an army doctor, but at the same time I was their everything. Doctor. Friend. Therapist. And occasionally, a drinking partner. I always smile when I think about the times we got out hands on some beer from the locals. They didn’t mind. They understood. As I mentioned before, I remember people. The people who gave orders, like Marks, our unit leader. He and I were the only ones left. I’d usually stop thinking there, but if I intend to write, I might as well give you the whole story. The boys in my unit. I say boys because none of them were men yet. There was Patrick, the red-headed Irishman who wouldn’t stop talking about his girlfriend Lisa. Jackson, the toughest guy in his former high school, the strongest one in the unit. But he was also afraid of the dark. Leo, who liked to sing “We’re off to see the wizard” when we were heading out. Chris who was extremely intelligent, but had all sorts of allergies which annoyed him so much he’d not talk for days. Joe. Aiden. Tim. Most of them were younger than me, although it varied- But they were all so young, too young... And when I said I don’t remember events, I mean, I feel like someone has filmed us and I was watching those video tapes. Nothing was from my point of view, so most of the time I couldn’t tell the reality from the images my mind created. I don’t even remember half of my schooling for a doctor. It all narrowed down to basics: get the bullet out of the body, cover the wound so it wouldn’t get infected and stitch up the wounds from sharp objects. I don’t remember all the sphincters in a human body {which I should, considering it was in my final). It all disappeared and more important things took over. Without them, I’d probably be dead. Like the others.
We didn’t suspect anything. It was just another usual day, a bit quieter, but still in range of normal. Then the bomb went off. I wish I could say I saved every single one of them. Oh, how I wish I could say that. Since Marks and I were discussing latest news from the base, we let Joe lead. He was really careful about every single detail. But he couldn’t foresee this. I didn’t here the boom, just white noise peeping in my ears. I dropped down in the dirt, falling on something sharp. I heard voices through the high-pitched sound.
2. U N A N S W E R E D  Q U E S T I O N S
“John! John!” the voices gradually faded into a gentle poke. “Dr. Watson.” I opened my eyes lightly just to close them again; the blinding white walls surrounded me.”Ah, good, you’re awake”, the relieved voice said. I carefully opened an eye, feeling like my sight is being attacked by white again. I looked on my left. A nurse with dark hair pulled in a ponytail was looking at me.
“What? Where am I?” I asked, downright confused.
“You’re in hospital, Dr. Watson. In England”, the nurse said cautiously, watching my face for reactions. I read her nameplate.
“Listen, Jess...a-lyn? Jessalyn, is it?” I asked squinting towards the light.
“Jess”, she answered, glad I was still, ha, sane.
“Jess”, I repeated. “What happened, are the boys okay? Where are they?” I asked once more, feeling something strange on the back of my shoulder. It was uncomfortable. No, more than that, it hurt. I groaned quietly in pain, looking at Jess with my eyebrow raised.
“When the bomb exploded, you fell directly onto a rock”, she explained, switching back into her professional voice. She then started talking medically, and I really didn’t need that at the moment. The pain in my back grew until it was so intense I blacked out. The last thing I’d seen was Jess leaping towards my bed and a bed next to mine. I remember a man with curly hair sleeping on it. Then dark.
I woke up feeling dizzy. It had passed a couple of hours, I could tell, and I felt a pain killer numbing my back and my senses. Quite annoying, actually.
“Now, I’d call you a sissy, but considering I know many men whose nerves were wrecked by war, I’ll stay quiet”, I heard Jess. Who let that girl become a nurse? But I was glad she was honest. “To continue my exhausting and detailed description of your injuries...” she started talking again, so I stopped listening. I studied her instead. Her ponytail was really neat, not a single hair out of place. Her eye colour matched her hair, dark chestnut brown, and she wore a standard dirty- white uniform. I could tell she was a bit older than me, but that was about it, so I tuned into her monologue again.
“Your injuries, of course, aren’t permanent, but will leave a scar. At least you’ll have something to show off your bravery with”, she said, her tone venomous.
“What about the other soldiers in my unit?” I tried again, since she hadn’t answered it. The look on her face told me everything. I gasped, the cold air hurting my throat.
“No. No! Who?” I stuttered. Who died? Was it Aiden? Jack?
“Your commander-“she started but stopped to look at me. “Your commander, Mr. Marks, and you are the only ones who survived.” With those final words, I felt all the painkillers in my body wear off at once. My mind couldn’t process what it had just heard, so it, well, shut down. I heard Jess’ quiet, muttered ‘oh, not again’ and a sigh. I welcomed dark once again.
3. A  F A M I L Y
I woke up the next day, in the same bed, the same hospital, the same room, the same world. No, my mind screamed in agony. All of them. Dead. I looked around, but Jess wasn’t in the room. Someone else was. A group of three people, family, I guessed, surrounding that bed with the dark headed bloke from earlier. An older couple, around 50, 55, were standing across of me and a man who was in his thirties was on the chair across the bed, so I had a clear view of the man on it.
The man was sleeping, his head tilted to a side. If his eyes weren’t closed revealing the little wrinkles on his nose, I’d said he was still a teenager. His face was wincing lightly every few seconds, his forehead and nose pulling into a grimace. His black / dark brown (I couldn’t tell in that light) was breaking all rules of physics, sticking in all directions. He looked like he was in a lot of pain and I immediately felt sorry for him. Then I looked back at the people around his bed. Hey, I knew that man! It was Mycroft Holmes, that man who got into government really quickly and had been the head of some kind of a department or something ever since. Was this man in bed his friend? Brother? Holmes didn’t seem like a type to have many friends, so it had to be his brother. The older woman looked like she was holding herself back from crying, while the older man was looking stoically at the bed, gulping before talking.
“William?” he called. I decided it was the man in bed’s name, but then the woman corrected both of us.
“He doesn’t respond to that name anymore, remember? Sherlock? Sherlock, dear?” she said, her voice unbelievably flexible, going from a strict to a very caring voice in just a few sentences. His mother, probably. Then the older man must be his father. Everything fit, but I wasn’t aware that Mycroft Holmes had a brother. Another one, I mean. I knew he had a brother that was quite younger than him, but was still older than this Sherlock lad. Phineas, yes, that was his name. Phin Holmes. He was the weather reporter of some kind – nothing relevant, really, until he tried to murder the main drug dealer in Britain for ‘not giving him his fix’. The story was a scandal, but since it was way too risky to tell, it never came out. I knew only because of Marks’ comment on that. But another brother? I didn’t hear about that. Maybe he was still underage, they wouldn’t mention him? And then, with the best possible timing, Mycroft spoke.
“Mother, in twenty two years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him not respond to ‘Sherlock’. He’s either ignoring us or it’s getting worse.” They all went quiet. I decided to speak.
“Err, excuse me?” I started, already knowing this conversation would be awkward, at least.
“Dr. Watson?” Mycroft answered. I blinked twice. How did he know my name? Was he a psychic? At that moment I noticed him glancing at the carton at the end of my bed. Oh. Then, being a nosy bastard I know I am, I nodded my head towards the Sherlock / William guy.
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.” As far as I could see, he didn’t have any outside injuries.”What’s wrong with him?”
“He has schizophrenia”, Mycroft answered looking at his brother (??) again. There was pain in his eyes.
“Oh”, I said simply. Schizophrenia wasn’t always that bad, but judging by this, I’d said that Sherlock was imagining he was in pain. Poor man, I thought again. The awkward silence fell, as predicted. A couple of minutes later, Mycroft got up.
“Our time’s up”, he said looking at the clock, then at me.
“Goodbye, John.”
“Goodbye, Mycroft.” How and when did we get out of formalities, I didn’t know. I didn’t particularly like being called Dr. Watson, though. Too fancy. And they were gone, leaving me in this room alone with Sherlock, who was still sleeping.
4. W A K E  U P,  S U N S H I N E
Time ticked away silently and slowly. Jess came to check on us a couple of times. My back didn’t get any better, but didn’t get worse, either, so that was good. Sherlock didn’t wake up during the course of the next couple of days. Since nobody slept that much, I guessed that he was under meds. Why? Maybe he was in real pain. Maybe he broke things around him. Maybe both. But one day, five days since I got there, Jess marched into the room in her casual clothes, not the uniform.
“We gotta wake up this lazy sleepyhead”, she said theatrically cracking her knuckles. She leaned forward above Sherlock’s bed and poked him.”Wake up, sunshine! You’ll have plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead! But don’t die all that fast, you hear me?” I straightened up (ow), wanting to hear Sherlock’s response, if there was going to be one. When the room fell silent, Jess sat on the bed dangerously close to Sherlock’s legs and whispered into his ear.
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes”, she said with a sickly sweet voice. How will that work if the yelling didn’t? But somehow, it did. Sherlock frowned and groaned quietly.
“Jessalyn, leave me alone”, he said. My God. His voice was smoky, low, and dead-sexy. It took me a second to remember I was not gay, if anyone kept track.
“No, no, no, my dear friend. You’ve been sleeping for far too long. And I’m sure Dr. Watson – John – here would like to meet you.” Wait, I did? Sherlock’s eyes opened. Those eyes were ice blue, the colour I’d imagined the ocean to be after a lightning storm.
“Dr. Watson?” he asked suspiciously raising an eyebrow. I waved lightly at him.
“Mhm, yes. That would be me. Just John, please.”
“Okay, Just John”, he repeated after me.
“Good, now you’re awake, I’ll tell Deidre to adjust your meds”, Jess said getting up. Sherlock looked at me again.
“So, why are you here?”
This started a conversation three hours long, interrupted only by the nurse checking on him. The conversation soon started slowing his pace later on, not because we didn’t have topics to talk about, but Sherlock’s condition. His eyes darted around the empty room, like there was somebody there. He sometimes nodded at the picture on the wall. At the end of our conversation, he started talking to thin air.
“Yes, I completely understand. It happens to me too.”
“Err, Sherlock?” The confession wasn’t directed at me.
“Mrs. Turner, have you met my friend, John Watson? He is a nice man, very nice man indeed...” Sherlock trailed off. I panicked so I pressed the nurse calling button on my night table while Sherlock continued talking to nothing. When the nurse came, Sherlock was out of bed, dancing around the room, waltzing with a hallucination. I couldn’t move, partly because of my back and partly because of shock. When the nurse tried to stop him, he yelled at her.
“NO! I promised Mrs. Turner this dance!” Sherlock ran away from the nurse the best he could in a small room. The nurse looked at him sadly.
“I can’t calm you down on my own. Laney?” she called out through the door.”It’s happening again.” Again? This was something that happened regularly? I looked at Sherlock, just now fully realizing the state he was in. Not three minutes ago he was fine. When the black haired nurse ran in, Sherlock tensed a bit more.
“They’ll take away Billy!” His words made no sense, but to the second nurse, they somehow did.
“Sherlock, tell Billy he’ll be fine. Everything is alright.” Her voice was calm and slow.
“But the evil man, Moriarty...”
“The evil man isn’t here anymore. We scared him away the last time.” The last time? “It’s just you, me, Deidre and Dr. Watson”, she said checking my carton.
“John. John! They’ll hurt John!” Sherlock’s voice was unrecognizable. It climbed up a couple of octaves and was squeaky, scared, and utterly confused.
“I’m right here, nobody can hurt me”, I said slowly, mimicking the nurse’s voice. The nurses looked at me gratefully.
“You are? Watch out, John, they can be everywhere!”
“But they aren’t here now. You have to go to sleep, to get some rest for tomorrow, when you’ll save the world again”, the first nurse chimed in.
“Yes. Yes, I shall do that.” Sherlock climbed into his bed. “But, John, don’t let them hurt you.”
5. S H E R L O C K
After that incident, I looked at Sherlock in a completely different way. His illness became more real, even though sometimes he seemed completely normal.
We talked and talked. I think there was not a waking moment of his he didn’t spend talking to me. I learned he liked detective stories; so I lent him my books. (Well, they weren’t actually mine. They were Jess’, who gave them to me when she realized I was pretty bored. First, she brought me a couple. The next day, when she found out I read both, she got me a metre tall stack of books. It contained everything: from westerns and thrillers to horrors and chick flicks. I appreciated it so much.) Since Sherlock and I talked all the time, he didn’t actually read the books, but I told him the plot and he immediately guessed the killer. He was always correct. I learnt he went to a chemistry college just to drop out next year. He told me he aspired to do more than just chemistry. I was amazed by his abilities; he knew more medical terms than I did. But I soon realized that his ‘wish to learn more’ wasn’t the only reason he dropped out. His schizophrenia got worse. He asked me about war. (I told him as much as I could.) I asked him about his current interest, because he seemed to have so many. (it was talking to me. Flirty bastard.) We soon left the depressing topics behind us and started talking about the casual stuff. I learned so much about him.
6. A L L  G O O D  T H I N G S  E N D
Then one day his family visited. He never talked about his family so I guessed he didn’t like them, but nothing prepared me for the look of pure hatred in his eyes when he saw his brother. Sure, I knew that siblings don’t particularly like each other, but hate would be a too strong word. For an example, me and my sister Harry. We fought all the time, but when I needed help or she needed somebody to cover for her, we helped each other.  And yet she still hadn’t visited me in the hospital.
I was reading a book that day. It was a chick lit, nothing I would read on purpose, but Jess told me it was one of her favourites, so I was obliged. When his family came in, I found a perfect comparison to my recent worry that I would bore Sherlock.”You’re not boring. You’ve got to stop saying that, or people will start believing you.” {AoK, John Green} That lifted my spirits slightly, but then Sherlock spoke.
“Mother, father. Mycroft.” The last word was poisonous.
“You’re awake!” his mother exclaimed.
“Isn’t that obvious”, Sherlock murmured bitterly.
“Well, that’s just great! See, your dad and I just found out about something and wished to talk to you about it.” Sherlock was only looking at his parents, ignoring both Mycroft and me. I guessed he didn’t speak to Mycroft because they were in a fight, and I knew why he didn’t look at me. It was the same type of ignoring he had when the nurse came to check on us. The ‘I will talk to you later’ ignoring.
“What would that be?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“There’s a new treatment for your... illness. It is still experimental, but since it either will or won’t work, no consequences, I think it would be good if you tried.”His mother was smart, too. Why didn’t it surprise me?
“Okay.” It seemed like Sherlock trusted his mother. It was calming that he wasn’t only friendly in my company; otherwise it would be seen wrongly. They started discussing details, but I really didn’t care, so I continued reading. At the end of the book, when they were just about to hook up, Sherlock’s family got up and said their goodbyes. After they left, Sherlock continued talking like we hadn’t been interrupted.
“Wait, what were your parents talking about?” I cut him off.
“A programme, some kind of a therapy which should get rid of any unwanted side effects of my schizophrenia”, he said.
“Why, that’s remarkable! Are you going?”
“I must, my mother has it all planned out.”
“And where is it?” I asked, feeling a sting of nostalgia. The programme will probably be in another hospital, and considering my shoulder getting better, we won’t be here forever. I didn’t even want to think about the future. I was so deep in my thoughts that I didn’t hear the answer.
“Toronto”, he repeated quietly.
“Toronto, Canada?!” My reaction was over the top, I know, and Sherlock knew that as well. He frowned lightly, but didn’t say anything on that.
“Yes. My mother thinks Mycroft will be able to get me a plane ticket easily, and I could stay in the hospital, so that’s a win either way.”
“But Canada is quite far away. Have you ever been?” I don’t want you to go.
“No, but I’ve been to hospitals. How different can it be?” With that, we ended the conversation.
He left to Canada a week after.
7. L O G I C A L L Y
I stayed in the hospital three weeks after Sherlock left. I read all Jess’ books; I watched the TV and imagined him commenting on the sloppiness of the series. My back soon stopped hurting, but the scar stayed, just like Jess said it would.
“Okay, why are you so depressed?” Jess asked me a week after I was left alone.
“I’m not depressed”, I protested.
“Yes you are. Does it have anything to do with Sherlock’s departure?” Damn, she was right.
“No, it doesn’t. Do you think I have a crush on him? No!” I shook my head.
“Oh, please. I saw the way you looked at him and the way you looked back.”
“I’m not gay! And I’m pretty sure he isn’t either!” Jess burst into laughter.
“Are you kidding me? He’s as gay as the 4th of July in Alaska!” I didn’t ask what happened in Alaska that day. And now Jess believed I had a crush on Sherlock. Ugh. The days went by quickly, the nights even faster, until the day I had to check out of the hospital. I had no idea where would I go, and moving to my parents wasn’t an option. I didn’t have any money to go to a hotel, though, so I was kind of stuck. My sister, however, decided to show up at the right time.
“Johnny!” I heard Harry’s voice the first thing when I woke up that dreadful day.
“Harry?” I rubbed my eyes yawning.
“Logically. You’re ready to go?”
“Um, yes, but I’m not quite sure where.”
“That’s why I’m here, to guide you to your new home, because, if I heard well, you’re broke and homeless?” She was right, of course. But I wasn’t going to admit it.
“What do you suggest, then?” I ignored her question.
“I just told you! What part of ‘guiding to a new home’ don’t you understand?”
“And where is that new home, if I may ask?”
“With me, in my flat. You can thank me later, Lori is waiting for us.” Lori was, I guessed, Harry’s friend. I packed quickly, since I didn’t have all that many things, I wrote a thank you note to Jess, and we were off.
8. T O O  W E L L
Life with Harry was something you easily get used to. I barely blinked, and four years were behind me already. I got myself a job at St. Bartholomew’s hospital, Harry got both married and divorced with that Lori girl from before (that was a surprise). But nothing meaningful happened. I often thought about Sherlock in the beginning: was he alright? Where was he? It made me both happy and sad, because he was supposed to get better, and yet he was so far away from his homeland. So far away from me. As years passed, I thought about him less. There came a time when I completely forgot him. The memory faded, and life got more boring than before.
Then one day, Harry came home late with a blonde, short, spiky haired creature. They were holding hands when they approached me. I put down my half read newspaper.
“Clara and I want to talk to you”, Harry said, her voice formal.
“You’re kicking me out of the flat, right?” I guessed. Harry tried to do that a couple of times.
“Um, yeah, how did you know? Anyway, yeah, it would be good if you got out. This place is too small for the three of us.”
“Three? Is Clara moving in?”
“We’re getting married.” That, unlike the kicking out, was a surprise.
“Oh. Okay. So you want me out?”
“This week, yes.” I had only a week to pack all my things and find a new flat? Cruel. But I listened to her, because I’ve been hearing strange noises from Harry’s room and I really wished not to hear them anymore. So the next day I packed and went searching for something cheap and close to the centre. In London, that was impossible. But at least I tried, because when I sat down to rest, I noticed a very familiar face.
“Jess?”I called, my voice way to squeaky for a 30-yr-old male.
“John Watson?” Jess smiled cheerfully, rushing to sit down on the bench next to me.
“Hey, you! How’s life?” she asked me.
“Good, good. My sister just kicked me out of her flat, but things are good.”
“That’s- she what?” her eyes widened.
“Mhm. So I’m in search for a new flat. What about you?” She completely ignored my question.
“Are you really? I was just going to tell you about a certain someone who told me the same thing.”
“Why don’t you guess, little owl?” her smirk meant one person and one person only. I took a deep breath,
“Sherlock?” Jess nodded.”He’s back in London? Is he okay now? Where is he?” She giggled.
“You two are just too adorable. Yes, he’s back. Yes, he’s fine. And he’s alone in a two person flat, in search of a flatmate.” This was all working way too well. Something had to go wrong. But it didn’t.
Jess texted Sherlock while I tried to hide my happiness. Oh God. This was really happening. When Jess put her phone in her pocket and got up, I followed her.
“Okay, I’ve just enough time to lead you to the flat. Spit spot!” And we started walking. While we walked, we talked. I learnt she had just gotten engaged to a man of her dreams. I told her about Harry and Clara, and we discussed the books she borrowed me. Before I knew it, we came to a stop.
“Here you go. 221 Baker Street.”
“Aren’t you going in with me?” I asked, panicking lightly. I didn’t want to get into an unknown flat on my own!
“Of course I am”, Jess smirked.” You thought I was gonna leave you?”
“Honestly, yes.” Jess lead me up the stairs inside the building and noticed the door was open. She pushed me inside.
It was an astonishing flat. Petite, but charming, with distinguishing features all around that screamed Sherlock. Vintage wallpaper with yellow graffiti on our right. A worn out sofa. Five laptops on the desk (seriously, five?). An iPhone carelessly thrown on the coffee table. And... was that a skull? I didn’t get a chance to ask Jess about it, because when I looked into the kitchen, I was welcomed by quite a view.
9. A  M I S S I N G  T - S H I R T
Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, yawning and ruffling his hair. He was (oh dear Lord Jesus Saviour) shirtless, with what I guessed to be pyjama bottoms below. He stretched for a second before noticing us. His whole face lit up.
You know how in those cheesy novels they say that people didn’t change a bit after not seeing them for a while? They were wrong. Because, standing there in front of me, there was a new man. His dark hair was even curlier, his face wasn’t in pain anymore, his posture was much better... and, oh, his eyes. They had a glow of mischief and life he didn’t have in the hospital. He smiled.
“Look what the tide brought in. Dr. John Watson.” His smile turned into a half-smirk.
“Yeah, I found him all broken and helpless on the street,” I wanted to complain, but Jess continued. “He is looking for a flat and you, if I understood you correctly, are searching for a flatmate?” Oh, no, what if he said no? But much to my relief, he nodded.
“Yes, that is correct. So that means you’re moving in?” What? Don’t we have to discuss rent, electricity bills or what not? However, Sherlock seemed to have it all under control.
“I guess”, I said, hoping I don’t sound too star struck. But, geez, he could’ve at least put on a t-shirt. I tried so hard not to stare.
“Great! I’ll leave you too alone. If you need me, Sherlock’s got my number. Ciao!” Jess left. Sherlock glanced at me smirking again.
“You again, huh? It must be destiny, then.”
I said it before and I’ll say it again.
Flirty bastard.
T H E  E P I L O G U E
I woke up by my husband’s nightmares. He was tossing and turning on our bed muttering unrecognizable words.
“Sherlock? Sherlock!” I nudged him not so gently.
“John!” Sherlock’s eyes cracked open and I saw nothing but fear in them.
“They are going to hurt you! I can’t let them hurt you!” In the five years we’ve been living together ( and in the two we’ve been married), we had around a dozen of Sherlock’s schizophrenia attacks. He usually had them after a lot of stress (our first wedding night was a complete disaster), but they happen and they go away. They weren’t as bad as in the hospital. But they always scared me when they happened.
“Sherlock, look at me”, I ordered him.
“But, John, they-“
“There are no ‘they’. It’s just you and I. You have to snap out of it.”
“They have guns, they will shoot you! I don’t want you to get hurt...” his voice painfully reminded me of that hospital attack.
“Sherlock, I’m fine. There are no guns, no people, no danger. It’s only you and I, and, my love, you’re scaring me right now.” His breathing slowed down while we looked at each other. His next word was a broken whisper.
“John.” I leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
“I love you”, I reminded him pressing my head against his.
“And I you”.
Attacks happen, attacks go away.
I was in war. I am aware of all the dangers and all the risks. But there are more types of war. There is nothing worse than being helpless and alone on a battlefield. That’s why I’ll never leave Sherlock. He is a brilliant man, a wonderful human being, but he needs to be reminded of those things. I’m his reminder. I tell him that every day. When we come to difficult times (aka when he’s being a twat) I remind myself of this: he is my forever. He is my love, life and a part of me. I may not like him all the time, but my love for him is infinite and never-ending.
Honey, if you’re reading this, there are a couple of things you have to know:
1.    I love you.

2.    Get your own damn milk.

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Thu May 29, 2014 3:13 pm

You are my drug
Sherlock was very familiar with drugs. But John Watson wasn't a drug he thought would be in his system.

Doctor in training, straight As student, engaged, all bright-eyed, John was everything Sherlock wasn't. John had planned his future. Sherlock just hoped his future would be finished soon.

They met at the hospital, during Sherlock's weekly check-up. The diagnose was as it always had been. Terminal. Fast. It had been like that for a couple of years. The doctors didn't know what was wrong, but Sherlock did. He knew that experimenting with drugs, mixing them up, applying daily doses will kill him eventually, but he didn't know how fast. The doctors knew only that. They offered to give him an injection. To put him to sleep, like a dog. Sherlock didn't mind. Until he met John Watson.

One look. One look into those sea blue eyes was enough. He suddenly wanted to live, to watch John Watson work, talk, laugh, breathe, exist. Two minutes after they first spoke to each other, John asked to continue the talk in a coffee shop.

Sherlock learnt so much about him, but John's questions were left unanswered. Three cups of coffee and two hours later, John suggested to repeat the talk later. Sherlock whole-heartedly agreed. They planned meeting on a date which was a week away, they picked the same spot. John left Sherlock with a smile.

In the week until the second meeting, Sherlock got a fever. He deduced it was just a lack of drugs in his organism.

He faked being alright on the second meeting. He apparently didn't fake it well, since John offered to give him a ride home. Sherlock fell asleep in the car. John didn't wake him up, so Sherlock slept in the car for about two hours, then, after a lot of struggle to get out of the car, made his way home.

He found John in his room. John explained that he didn't want to wake him up, but he still needed his car, he called his fiancée that he'll be late, he found a key in Sherlock's pocket and got in himself. He looked so flustered, sitting on Sherlock's bed, that Sherlock had to make a move.

After a light kiss, John whispered that he never felt like this before.

When the kiss was long forgotten and minutes were staring at each other's eyes, John said he'll leave, but will come back tomorrow.

That night Sherlock felt so sick his landlady called an ambulance. They pumped some medications into him and he was good to go. But he knew this couldn't last forever.

The next day, Sherlock opened the door after John's second knock. Through fast and urgent kisses, John explained that je couldn't leave his fiancée, that he wasn't gay, that he didn't want a one night stand, that he loved him, and Sherlock sent him reassurements in a low, hushed voice. He would stay forever, if John just gave him this night. And John did.

John, John. Sherlock repeated his name like a prayer. His John.

John was the worst kind of drug. There was no time between the fixes; just more and more and more of him, of John. He was Sherlock's crack, heroin, cocaine. He was so lucky to find someone like him. He wasn't so lucky next morning.

John woke up to Sherlock screaming in pain. He called an ambulance. Through broken whimpers, Sherlock told John he loved him, and he said it back, but just don't leave, he said, you promised not to leave.

Forever was an empty promise.

Sherlock was gone before they came.

Apparently, John was't a drug Sherlock's body could handle.

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Sat Jun 28, 2014 3:04 pm

America is cold

Word count: 1.779
Songs: none
//songs to listen to//: because you can

“Harry, don't shit with me.”
“I’m not! My baby brother! The same person who cried when he got the first piano award! Mr. John Watson!”
“Okay, I think I gathered it’s about me! Now would you repeat that other part?” John Watson and his sister Harry Watson were sitting in their flat, stretched across the sofa and staring at each other. Harry’s face was glowing with happiness, while John just looked confused.
“Okay, okay. Okay.” Harry took two deep breaths, at which John frowned. Harry being excited over something that was connected to him was a rare sighting.”So, brother dearest, it seems like you’ve been invited to Melodicon!” Melodicon is a music convention slash course for aspiring musicians all over the world. Everybody can get into it. But not everybody is invited. Because if you’re invited, then you teach, and teachers there are most often famous musicians, singers, instrument players, song writers, composers. Now, John had been in the music industry for quite a long time for a 23-year-olf, but he didn’t consider himself famous He played the back-up piano for some fairly well known singers and recorded instrumentals for a lot of orchestra pieces, but that wasn’t even close to being stopped on the streets for autographs. Most of the teachers were exactly that. One night they’re a phenomenon, the other they’re forgotten. Just remember the Carly Rae Jepsen story.
“But what will I do at Melodicon?” John asked. He wasn’t really the first choice for a teacher. Nobody wants to learn classical music, or, even less, musicals, and those who do, don’t go to Melodicon.
“Teach, I just told you.”
“Teach what? People don’t want to learn piano anymore, and that’s where my instrument knowledge ends.”
“Relax. You don’t even know the reason you’re in.”
“So it isn’t because of my exceptional piano talent?” Harry threw a pillow at him.
“No, shut up. It’s because... drum roll, please...” When John didn’t respond in any way Harry sighed.”Alright then. There’s this bloke, you probably heard of him. His name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“The ‘child prodigy’ Sherlock Holmes?”
“The very same.”
“The man who’s got a range of freaking Mariah Carey?”
“Yes, John.”
“What does he want from me?”
“From you, in particular, nothing. He needs back up piano for his tour next year.”
“I don’t think Sherlock Holmes wants piano. I mean, have you heard his music?”John rubbed his brow.”Everything’s either rock or heavy metal.”
“Have YOU heard the gibberish he told the press last week in newspapers? ‘He’s discovering himself again, prepare for songs that are more emotional and such bullshit.”Harry stretched to grab a magazine and opened it on a specific page, which gave John a clear view to the man occupying the cover page. ’Sherlock Holmes’, the title said in heavy, bold, modern-looking letters. It was strategically placed on the bottom right corner, so it didn’t take away the attention from the man. He looked intimidating, with piercing, but cocky pale blue eyes looking directly at the camera. His head was lightly tilted to the side which made his hair- curly, gelled- cover his eyebrow, but it sprung right back up. It was obvious that some very sneaky make-up artist added some black eyeliner, after all, he was a metal and rock stat, you could expect that. His mouth was pulled in a sly smirk giving out the vibe of someone super confident in himself.
“See something you like?” Harry smirked at John’s expression.
“He looks like an alien.”
“No- John! He doesn’t!” Harry squeaked closing the magazine, which she called newspapers, and stared at the face for a few seconds.”I’d tap that.”
“Harry!” John said with an open mouth.
“I would, and I don’t even play for his team.”
“You have a girlfriend.”
“And I’d have nothing against Clara joining in.”Harry tapped her knees twice and got up.”Pack up, bro. You’re going to the states, y’all”, she said with a faux American accent. John frowned.
“Wait, what?”
“John, if you didn’t know, you’re going to Melodicon”, she said slowly, as if she was explaining Maths to a child.”It is in New York, which is in-“
“America. I’m not mentally ill.”
“We may never know, dear. Now, you really need to pack, the plane’s leaving really soon.” Harry’s talk was enough to make John hurry, so 8 hours later, John was already in JFK airport.
“So, first time in America. What’s it like?” came Harry’s voice from the mobile phone which John turned on just as he got off the plane.
“Honestly, I thought it would be warmer.”

The noise from the room was impersonal. Sherlock Holmes, standing outside the hotel door, could only hear the drums and the bass line, a clear beat without a particular melody.
“Greg!” he called, his usually low voice deeper, huskier, rougher than usual. It was the crack of dawn and he was still in pyjamas (which, according to Sherlock, were soft cotton pants which ended just above his ankle). He impatiently tapped his foot against the floor and crossed his arms waiting for a response. When there was none, he let out a loud groan.”YOU called ME! I can just leave!” he shouted at the closed door. The banging behind the door silenced and Sherlock heard a muffled whisper.
“Why is HE here?”
“Phil! Don’t use that tone!” Sherlock let out a sigh at the couple bickering.
“Just let me in.”There was a click of the door unlocking and a brunette head with glasses poked out.
“Oh, hi!”
“Greg.” Sherlock greeted politely, his tone blank.”What was that big news you wanted to tell me?” Greg frowned and rubbed his nose under the glasses.
“Well, I’m not sure whether you’ll like it or not...”
“I’m not sure whether the neighbours”, Sherlock looked around at the bunch of doors surrounding him, “like the racket going on in here.”
“Racket?” a female voice came from the inside. Sherlock gave up and pushed past Greg into the room. It was a fairly big hotel room, but for three of them, it was just enough. They were rarely in it anyway. Always touring, Sherlock thought bitterly as he dropped on a beanie bag the band dragged in, leaned against a wall, followed by three pairs of eyes. The beanie bag was positioned so that it would, in this small living room, pretend to be an audience, as it faced the drum set and a couple of sheet music holders. Greg’s bass guitar was leaned against one of them, threatening to lose balance any second. When Sherlock finished his looking around the room, he focused on the people. Greg was closing the door, rather annoyed by Sherlock’s grand entre. Tall, lanky, but good-hearted, he was as close to a friend Sherlock could get. Even his brother approved of him. Greg’s two friends, Phil and Celeste, two hardcore hipster-hippies were high school sweethearts who survived even after high school. Sherlock, no matter how he tried, he couldn’t find a connection between them. He couldn’t even fathom the two being friends. Not even Phil himself didn’t want to label them, until one especial drunk night on Celeste’s (or, how Phil called her, Sally’s) sweet sixteen birthday party. It wasn’t that much of a party with the four of them, but they played Truth or dare, so they had fun. Sherlock, who had way too much, addressed to them as ‘fuck pals’, so the name, even though it was crude, stayed.
“Of course he thinks it’s racket. Everything that doesn’t include a voice swearing into a microphone isn’t music, according to him.”
“Phillip, nobody cares about your whining.”
“Hey, hey, boys. Shush. Check this out.” Celeste said, brushing the stray curls away from her face. She strummed the guitar quietly and Sherlock recognized the beginning of ‘Nothing else matters’. Phil slowly joined with improv drum rhythm. Greg also grabbed his bass and peeked at Celeste’s notes, following her with a bass note. Sherlock didn’t even realize they were waiting for something until they repeated the intro twice. Greg coughed.
“What?” Sherlock asked, irritated by their behaviour.”I’m not going to join in. This is not Pitch Perfect.”
“You’re not as hot as Skylar Astin”, Celeste sighed lowering her guitar.
“I’m still waiting for the reason you called me over”
“Ah, that”, Greg put down the bass.”I got a call from this woman, Harry or something, and she told me she had a pianist to back you up on tour.”
“Does she?” Sherlock frowned a bit leaning forward, resting his hands on his knees.
“Well, what does she expect me to say? ‘Sure, I’ll work with a person I’ve never met before’? I don’t work like that.”
“Thing is, the pianist is already here for Melodicon.” Sherlock snorted audibly.
“Melodicon. That means they are an uptight bastard who only cares about themselves and listens to music on the TOP 40 list.”
“You’re going to Melodicon as well”, Phil reminded him from his corner.
“But I’m not like them”, Sherlock said in a childish sulk. Celeste rolled her eyes.
“Boys”, she warned them, at which Greg sighed.
“Come on, Sherlock, if you try, and don’t like it, we won’t say a word.”
“Try what?” Sherlock asked raising his eyebrow.
“Good God! Not in that way! Try to work with them!”
“Alright, alright”, Sherlock said with a faint smirk. Who is the person ‘Harry’ said was a good pianist?”
“Some guy, her brother, I think”, Greg answered.
“Guy?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes. Males play piano as well”, Celeste chimed in.
“I’m aware of that, but I got the feeling it was a female.”
“Sexist.”Celeste scolded him.
“Okay, okay, calm down, I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way”, Greg tried to release the tension between them. Phil put down his drumsticks and hugged Celeste over her shoulders.
“I’m sure he did. Don’t pay attention to him, Sally”, he said and kissed her cheek. Greg and Sherlock did an obligatory ‘ew’. It was their thing, if someone was in a relationship and others weren’t, the single ones would groan and complain at any sign of affection, which includes holding hands and gentle kisses. At heavy making out they had no response. Phil chuckled and let go of Celeste.
“I get more game than you two combined.”
“Oh, belt up”, Greg said snickering.
“Game?” Celeste asked glaring at Phil. Greg made a ‘whooooa’ noise.
“I wouldn’t if I was you!” he said grinning wildly.
“You’re exasperating. I’ll go. Text me the details”, Sherlock said, getting ticked off. He left the three; Greg giggling his arse off, Phil blushing and Celeste looking like she might bite Phil’s head off. In other words, as usual.

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Mon Jun 30, 2014 2:58 pm

Watson your face?

Word count: 1.334
Songs: none
//songs to listen to//: because it has the word watson in it. only for that. and sherlock has that on his ipod.

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry”, John said to a girl he bumped into. He had to hurry up to the opening, but this place was huge. Like a school gym, but ten times, hundred times bigger. At least it seemed that way. And it was filled with people. He was trying to push his way out of the sea of individuals and chairs, but those obstacles slowed him down.
“No-no problem! Ah, I’m really clumsy”, the brunette said fixing the guitar bag on her back.”Say, are you John Watson?” she asked, her eyes and smile widening.
“Yes, I am”, John smiled back at the girl.
“I loved you with Christina Aguilera on tour!” she squeaked and John felt incredibly proud.
“Thank you. You already know my name, what’s yours*” he asked. It looked as if the girl might just explode from happiness.
“I’m Mallory, Mallory Hooper, that is. But you can call me Molly, it’s more common”, she said, blushing at the thought.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Molly, but I have to go to the stage, maybe I’ll see you in classes?” The girl was cute, why not?, John thought. Mallory beamed up at him.
“See ya, Mr. Watson!” and skipped away. John hurried ad reached the stage just in time.
“Watson?” the annoyed blonde asked fixing the Bluetooth in her ear.
“Yeah, that’s-“John started but she cut him off.
“Go sit next to that Holmes kid, nobody’s there.”John felt like his insides were heating up. He knew he would have to meet him eventually, but right now? He could’ve brushed his hair. He needed a good first impression otherwise Harry would hang him. He left the grumpy blonde and headed towards the chairs on the stage. The first thing that caught his eye was the diversity between the teachers, both indie pop musicians and opera singers (!!) in one spot, talking cheerfully with each other. Drummers, both orchestral and rock, were making noises with their chairs and body percussion. Synth and organ (he could tell by finger stretching) discussing chord progressions. So he was wrong. Classical music is welcome. It all had a feeling of melancholy and team, which made John smile brightly. And there he was, on the edge of the stage, other edge than John’s. Holmes. His hair was a classic example of ‘I spent an hour on my hair to make it look like I just got out of bed’ hairstyle, his hair black with a brown shine. He was wearing a leather jacket and way too tight skinny jeans which matched the colour of his jacket and his hair. The only things that weren’t black on him (oh, look, black Converse All Star Chuck Taylors) was a white t-shirt with ‘Call my agent’ hand-scrawled on it (inside joke?) and light-blue eyes scanning the room. His whole position, hunched back, crossed arms and ankles screamed danger. John took a deep breath and approached Holmes with a bright smile.
“Hello there, Mr. Holmes”, he started, feeling silly. If the man in front of him was more than twenty, John would have to hit something. He’d give him 19, the most.”I’m-“
“The person scratching for the piano position on my tour, your sister called and told my friend you’d be here today”, Sherlock read right through him, his voice low both in pitch and volume.”Please, don’t call me Holmes. I’m not forty. Sherlock will be enough.”
“Okay... Sherlock...” John said, uncomfortable, as he sat next to him. Since Sherlock didn’t speak any further, neither did he. But he, being a person who he is, couldn’t keep the silence for very long, since everybody around him was talking, he needed to do the same.
“So... Sherlock Holmes. What are you doing at Melodicon?”
“Is that you trying to small talk? Because if it is, that’s rather pathetic. And sad.” What did John do in his life to be forced to work with this snappy teenager? Wow, thanks, Harry. Maybe he seemed to be a posh, polite kid on all those magazine covers, but in real life, Sherlock Holmes was a spoiled brat. With talent, John sighed to contain his anger.
“Okay, then, let’s see you try, then.”

Sherlock blinked in confusion. What was the man sitting next to him trying to accomplish?
“How about you tell me your name first?” The man before him blushed and got all flustered. Ha, cute. He’d be a good shag, a thought entered Sherlock’s mind.
“Ah, sorry. My manners seem to be left in Britain. I’m John...” he stopped, as if he wasn’t sure whether to finish the sentence or not.”Watson.”
“Mhm, yes, why?”
“What’s on where?” Sherlock asked with a smug grin. Ah, how he enjoyed teasing people.
“Watson as a surname”, he noticed, blushing more.
“Alright then”, Sherlock scanned John. Long piano fingers were the best distinguishing feature. And the first thing that popped in Sherlock’s mind. You can tell what he’s thinking about. John had mousy blond hair and warm blue eyes, with a small nip on his lower lip. Sherlock wasn’t an expert, but he guessed he got it in a fight, no, small quarrel, with a sibling or a very close friend or sorts. John seemed to be a generally happy person. Sherlock hated those. He noticed that John was quite uncomfortable in silence so he groaned audibly.
“So with whom are you staying?”
“Are you really trying to small talk?” John teased him. Sherlock cringed at the thought.
“No, I feel obligated to talk because you look like a lost dog when you’re quiet.” John frowned.”A Rottweiler, to be precise.”
“I didn’t ask to be precise”, some of the politeness disappeared.
“I didn’t hear your answer.”
“Well, I’m currently third wheeling a couple in the hotel just down the road, but I guess Melodicon has its own place to stay?”
“Precisely. The rooms are two or three people per one, that’s why I asked.”
“Mm, I’ve not chosen my roommate yet, maybe I’ll ask Mallory-“
“Who’s Mallory?” Sherlock couldn’t help but be nosy.
“It’s that brunette in the audience-“
“That narrows it down.”
“Let me finish. She has a guitar bag...“
“Still not helping.”
“...and she’s wearing a t-shirt with your face across it, your eyes are on her cleavage”, John was obviously amused. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s enthusiasm.
“Most of my fans are crazy.”
“That’s rude.”
“I am rude.” John coughed loudly, but didn’t comment any further.
“Anyway, how are roommates chosen?”
“Either you choose them or you get someone who’s alone as well.”
“Ah, great”, John said. Sherlock noticed that most people were trying to unsuccessfully subtly stare at him and John so he sighed. John frowned lightly at his sigh and followed his gaze.
“Why are they staring at us?” John, dear, naive, unsuspicious John.
“Because they’re not used to seeing me talking to someone”, Sherlock answered rolling his eyes.
“So you’re keeping the bad boy image?” John teased, but when Sherlock frowned again, he put himself together.”Sorry. That wasn’t very professional.
“I don’t have the bad boy image”, he complained. What was up with that short, blond man? He was such a simple person, and yet, so interesting, thought-occupying. He seemed strong, both physically and mentally, prepared for anything thrown his way. He had to, at least, because he came all the way to NYC from Britain (accent), alone (muscles on his arm), to something he had no idea of (not knowing roommate code)  and tried making his way out, not thinking forward and dealing with the problem when it hits him. Sherlock may even start liking him. Work with him, maybe.
“You’re quite a character, aren’t you?” John asked him. Ironic, Sherlock was just thinking the same thing about John.
“As I’ve been told.”
“Ei, Sherlock, come ‘ere!” Greg called him from across of the stage, “The show’s about to start, I kept you a seat.”
“Looks like I’m leaving you. So long.” Sherlock said and, without another word, left John alone.

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Tue Jul 01, 2014 3:43 pm

Pavarotti in the shower with arrogant dicks

Word count: 1.340
Songs: none
//songs to listen to//: i should apologize but yolo

“Harry, I need to talk to you”, John blabbered into the phone with certain quickness. “Harry, they put me in the room with him.”
“Hello to you too. Who ‘him’?” the tired voice spoke from the phone.
“Sherlock Holmes. I’m sharing a room with Sherlock bloody Holmes.”
“Really? They put you in the room with him? How so?” John was just putting his suitcase on the bed of his – their – room. The show ended and there were a lot of things going on in John’s mind.
“Because I didn’t have a roommate... You know what, forget it, I’m just a bit nervous; I got the feeling that he could be a complicated one. Second and more important, why didn’t you tell me about the performing?”
“Slow down, dear, you sound like you have asthma. What performing?” Harry asked him.
“Every teacher has to showcase their abilities or what not to make the students to go to their class, and I don’t have anything prepared.”
“I know what you could perform.”
“You- wait, what?”
“Hero of war, by Rise Against.” John went quiet for a couple of seconds, then coughed.
“Mm, but that song isn’t really hard on piano.”
“No, I thought that you sing it.”
“Harry. I don’t sing.”
“Oh, John. What you mean to say is ‘You think I don’t sing’. I heard you in the shower. You are not Pavarotti, but aren’t very far from it either.” John let out a sigh.
“Still, how am I supposed to learn a song in one day?”
“You better get used to it”, a deeper voice than Harry’s rang across the room. John quickly turned his head to the source of sound to see Sherlock leaning against the door. He noticed that he took of the silly leather jacket he seemed to be so fond of and was carrying a suitcase in one hand and two instrument cases. One was for a guitar and the other... was that a violin?
“Huh?” John asked putting the phone down while Harry shouted.
“John? Joooohn. JOHN! Is that Sherlock Holmes?? Oh my dear Lord, don’t hang u in me now, John Jo-“John hung up ignoring the both curious and mocking gaze of Sherlock’s. John coughed.
“Sorry, that was my sister. You were saying?”
“I said you better get used to it, you’re going to have to prepare a song for your students every day”, Sherlock said, obviously amused.
“Oh great, I’m glad someone told me earlier”, John said with a hint of sarcasm.
“Well, I’m telling you now”, Sherlock said, replying with the same amount of irritation in his voice.”What song have you chosen?”
“Why do you think I’d tell you?” John asked, the brightness and cheer from before gone.
“A, we’re roommates, B, I’ll be in this room the whole time, I’ll hear you practice”, Sherlock said shrugging lightly. John, at his words, relaxed a bit. Just a bit.
“Ah, yes. The song’s called-“
“Don’t tell me the title, tell me the story behind the song and why did you choose it.”
“Um. It’s about this man, who goes to war, thinking it’ll be fun. It’s-It’s-I’m sorry.” John took a deep, shaky breath.”My sister picked it out because... our dad, he was- you know what, I don’t need to tell you that!” John suddenly snapped, the broken shaky frame from just a second ago gone.”You’re nothing to me; you’re not even my friend!”
“I thought you were being nice to me because I’ll quite possibly be your boss.” That made John stop in his tracks.
“Oh, yes. Politeness. Bullshit. I wasn’t made to be somebody’s punching bag. I’ll talk to you anyway I like.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a perfect arch.
“Alright then, if that’s what you wish”, he shrugged and started unpacking. He threw the clothes – mostly greyscaled - into the shared wardrobe carelessly, all followed by John’s gaze. John didn’t quite understand why he snapped at him like that. Was it the persistence in finding out the answer to the question? Or the way he talked back? John shook his head lightly – he was just a teenager, for goodness sake. Practically a kid, even though there were only four years between them. Realizing he had more important things to do, John turned on the computer on the desk and decided to start practicing for the performance. But before that...
“I’m sorry, this isn’t my usual state. I promise it won’t happen again.”
“Hero of War?” Sherlock asked looking at the computer monitor.
“Huh? Oh, yes, that’s the song Harry told me to perform”, John nodded following his eyes to the monitor as well. Sherlock then started strumming his guitar – when did he get it out of the case?
“It’s a guitar song, you know”, Sherlock said, his voice lowering and becoming a deep murmur. John recognized it as his concert voice – hey, he did his research.
“It was WRITTEN for the guitar, but that doesn’t mean I can’t play it on the piano”, John said watching his slender fingers strum the string like he’d done it a thousand times before. After a solo, quiet, calm, beginning, Sherlock skipped the verse and went directly onto the chorus.
“’A hero of war, yeah, that’s what I’ll be, and when I come home, they’ll be damn proud of me...”His baritone was perfect for this type of music, and yet he used it for screaming. Shame, really.
“I know how the song goes”, John said, sounding ruder than he intended.
“I do, as well, as I just demonstrated”, Sherlock glared at him.
“Why did you ‘demonstrate’?” John asked.”On the second thought, why aren’t you preparing your song?”
“Because I’ve already prepared it. Some of us come prepared, you know.” John flipped his eyes.
“Are you always this snappy or are you doing it for me?” John asked looking around the room, searching for a piano. Yeah, right.
“Your instrument, the piano, or, better yet, synthesizer is under the desk, if that’s what you’re looking for”, Sherlock said ignoring his question. John started searching and dug it out a minute later.
“It’s a three scale synth, I can’t do anything with this”, John whined.”Plus, the pressure on the keys is different with synthesizers and pianos.
“Do you want a concert piano installed in the room, diva?”
“No, but an electric one would be nice”, John answered putting the synthesizer back.
“Lucky for you”, Sherlock said looking at the thing which looked like a desk next to the actual desk, “I came prepared”, he repeated his words from before. John searched for the opening and, when he found it, he pulled it out, revealing an electric piano, the simple, but quality version.
“How do these things appear out of nowhere?” John said admiring the piano keys. He test-pressed one of them. No sound, of course. It wasn’t turned on.
“I have my sources.”
“Those sources being?”
“My lovely brother”, Sherlock answered, bitterness and muted fury in his voice.
“What does he have to do with anything?” John was confused by the sudden atmosphere change.
“You probably never heard of him, but he’s the one we should thank for Melodicon”, Sherlock explained, shoving the guitar back into the case.”Mycroft Holmes, if that rings any bells.”
“Not really”, John shook his head.”You seem not to like him.”
“What are you, a therapist? I don’t like him because he’s self-centred, and, quite frankly, an arrogant dick.”
“In other words, much like yourself”, John said, but not before he winced at the swear.
“I can guarantee that I’m nothing like him”, Sherlock ignored John’s comment snorting. Such a teenager, John thought,
“Yeah, yeah. We see ourselves in our siblings, choosing to ignore the good to focus on the bad. At least that’s what I’ve learnt since I moved to Harry’s.” Sherlock stared at him for a second, maybe two.
“You ARE a therapist.” How would you know, John thought.
“I can guarantee that I’m not”, John mimicked his tone from earlier.
“Start preparing your song, you illiterate git.”
“Arrogant dick.”

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Wed Jul 02, 2014 4:50 pm

Sleep is boring

Word count: 1.985
Songs: none
//songs to listen to//: because

“What the actual fuck.” John groaned yawning. The most peculiar thing woke him up in the middle of the night. A guitar pizzicato.”Sherlock, is that you?” he asked opening his eyes, but he didn’t see anything except the light of the numbers on his alarm clock. There was a noise which should’ve meant ‘yes’.”Sherlock, what in this bloody world are you doing?”
“Playing the guitar”, came a calm answer from the other side of the room.
“At four am?” John asked slowly getting used to the dark.
“I wasn’t tired”, Sherlock answer simply and placed his fingers dangerously down on the guitar neck and played a loud, high and long note.
“Well, I want you to go to sleep”, John said with another groan.
“Too bad you’re not my authority figure.”
“Too bad you’re a spoilt brat – wait, no, you’re a spoilt bat.”
“Are you proud of your word game, John? Are you really?” Sherlock said with a tone of disappointment in his voice.
“As the matter of the fact, I am.” Sherlock continued playing some notes, snorting loudly in response.
“Do you mind?” John asked, getting really annoyed. Could he not? It wasn’t morning yet, for John it was half of the night, eve, because he went to bed three hours ago. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock tried to sleep, at least.
“Not at all, you can sleep”, Sherlock answered with a slight note of amusement in his voice.
“I can’t, actually”, John bit the inside of his lip. What an annoying git.
“Do you need insomnia pills?”
“No, I need my irritating roommate to stop playing the guitar otherwise someone will throw that same guitar into a wall and I won’t be responsible of that because of my aforementioned roommate and his immaturity.”
“Someone is cranky.”
“Yeah, and that same someone wants to hit you in the moment.”
“But what else should I do? I’m bored”, at those words, Sherlock stopped looking like a spoilt rock star and more like a whiny five-year-old. Not much of a difference, to be honest.
“Sleep, maybe?”
“Sleep is also boring.”
“You are boring. You know, I have a performance today, I have to get some sleep.”
“I have a performance too, yet you don’t see me complaining”, Sherlock lowered his guitar.
“It’s because you’re a bat, we’ve established that”, John couldn’t help but smirk at that.
“Is that what the lack of sleep does to you, John? Turns you into a child?” John tossed a pillow directly into Sherlock’s face.
“Shut it and let me sleep.” Thankfully, Sherlock put his guitar down with a smug smile.”What are you smiling at?” John asked pulling his blanket back over himself.
“I doubt you can sleep without a pillow.”
“Give it back.”
“No.” Sherlock slowly put the guitar into its case and placed John’s pillow on top of his.”Good night.” He turned away from John resting his head on top of the pillows. John debated getting up and taking the pillow back. It was chilly outside of the blanket, but sleeping without a pillow made his neck hurt. After a minute of silence, John got up, walked to Sherlock’s bed, took the pillow from below Sherlock’s head and smacked him into his face with it. Without another word, he waddled over to his bed and dropped onto it, quickly falling asleep, but he was sure he heard a low chuckle coming from Sherlock’s bed.

“Tell me what you were saying before Sherlock Holmes... SHERLOCK HOLMES interrupted.” Harry called four hours after the late night guitar concert, three hours before the performance.”How had the first introduction gone, what is your plan for the next three weeks of Melodicon?”
“Nothing really”, John yawned a bit as he pulled his shirt from his suitcase and manoeuvred it onto himself.”Just as you said, the first introduction was just a quick welcome to the teachers and students and giving out assignments for us teachers. The program will be quite simple, if I gathered it correctly, with a few performances, today’s the first then one at the end of Week one, Week two and then the final performance. The in between is just classes and dealing with Alienface, who, by the way, woke me up in the middle of the night and acted like it was nothing and left the room before I got to wake up. What a roommate.”
“So you like him?” Harry asked. John could hear her smirk.
“Not at all. If I fuck up my performance today, it’s because of him.”
“No worries. I’ll watch you over the livestream.” Harry continued smirking.
“What? Livestream? What livestream?”
“They’ll be filming you lot, the footage of the entire thing will be online. I loved your lonely look last night during the introduction.”
“You saw that?”
“Yeah, I just told you! John, I swear, sometimes you don’t listen to me at all.”
“Is there anything else you want to tell me? What else have you been quiet of?” John asked feeling left out.
“Nope, that’s it. Oh, yeah, Sherlock’s friend called, he said that Sherlock wants to work with you on his tour.”
“Did he really?”
“Stop replying with questions like that! Yes, he did, at least what that guy Greg said.”John let out a surprised breath.
“That’s brilliant, but... I haven’t exactly been a perfect roommate. I was rather rude to him.”
“Maybe he likes it rough”, Harry let out a chuckle.

“Hey, Sherlock!” Greg waved at Sherlock as he approached the table occupied by his high school friends. The hotel Melodicon had rented had free breakfast, so Celeste and Phil were playing with bread and jab, some of the Jam landed on Celeste’s nose and Phil’s cheek. Greg was sipping some hot tea, and the steam made his glasses mist. It was quite an idyllic view, Sherlock thought as he joined them.
“I heard you got a room for three”, he said without a hello as he stole a tiniest piece of bread with jam spread on it from Phil and Celeste and took an even tinier nibble from it.
“Yeah, we did. Special treatment, because we keep the boss’ younger brother away from drugs and fornicating”, Greg sniffed lightly as some of the steam went up his nose.
“So the usual”, Phil chimed in eating half of the bread slice in one huge chomp. Sherlock snorted at his comment.
“As far as Mycroft’s aware, I’m still a virgin and I have a tattooed cross on my chest. I’ll join the nuns next year”, he said leaning his back against the chair. There was an obligatory round of laughter.
“And, to add on, we’re leaving before week two and returning for the final performance, we won’t be here all that much”, Greg continued.
“The busy life of rock stars”, Celeste snickered quietly.
“Hey, where’s that John bloke?” Greg then noticed.
“Probably still asleep, why?”
“Because you’re peculiar about him. First you don’t want to acknowledge his existence. Then you tell me you want to work with him. And now you just leave him alone.”
“I think they’re the new-age Romeo and Juliet”, Celeste teased.
“I doubt there will be a play about them. Maybe TV series”, Greg snorted out of laughter.
“A book sounds more lightly. Sherlock and John – a romance novel. No, wait – Johnlock.” That caused even more laughter, this time the more genuine kind.
“Hashtag Johnlock. I already see it trending on Twitter!” Celeste was doubling over with laughter at this point. Comments like that kept on coming, thrown across the table. Sherlock stood quiet through the entire thing until he finished eating. He then left them alone, still in roaring laughter. They gained quite a few weird looks from people sitting around them. In the meanwhile, Sherlock, heading towards the room, received texts from both Greg and Celeste.

There were hundreds of people in the audience. John shivered nervously as he felt a warm comforting hand on his shoulder. He turned around. Sherlock. Hm, not so warm and comforting.
“Calm down, it’s not the end of the world.”
“It will be if I make a mistake.”
“I’m quite positive you won’t.”
“Sherlock, you didn’t let me sleep!” John shook his hand off of himself.
“That’s good, you’ll be more alert”, Sherlock shrugged and leaned against the wall which gave John a clear look to his clothing. Same outfit as yesterday, except he changed the white t-shirt into a torn black one, but since partial nudity wasn’t Sherlock’s thing; he wore a grey t-shirt under it, which peaked through the holes.
“I like your new prostitute look”, John noticed trying to think of other things than coming out on that stage and singing in front of all those people. Hell, it seemed like millions were there. He’d played the piano before in front of large crowds, but he hadn’t sung. Until now.
“Shut it, Mr. Virginity”, Sherlock growled, but it was playful. When did it become playful?
“Watson? You’re on stage in ten”, that blonde from before approached them, the same annoyed look on her face. John suddenly got all flustered and started breathing in quick and shallow breaths.
“John, you’ll do fine”, Sherlock switched back into the comforting voice.
“Will I?”John asked looking up so his eyes met Sherlock’s. Oh, Sherlock was such a liar, John could see that, but it didn’t seem as if he was lying this time. Sherlock was stubborn, as well. John had to look away first.
“The worst thing that you can do is to not show up at all”, Sherlock said, his gaze lingering on John’s face for a couple of seconds.
“That’s not helping at all.”
“Do you want me to say that everything will be perfect and that you’ll get the biggest applause the world had ever heard?”
“That would do just nicely, thanks.”
“Get over yourself.”
“Watson, seven minutes”, the blonde called.
“Motherfucking shit on a stick”, John swore loudly.
“How charming”, Sherlock noticed.
“It wasn’t meant to be”, John placed his fingers on the nearest object (which just happened to be Sherlock’s guitar case) and started tapping on it in the rhythm of the song he’d play. And sing. John audibly gulped.
“Here”, Sherlock tossed John a water bottle which he grabbed from the nearest spare speaker. Backstage was filled with those huge blocks, so people used it as coffee tables and chairs.”Drink. You’ll do better if your mouth isn’t dry.” John uncapped the bottle and took a huge gulp from it, not caring that it was only half full, possibly Sherlock’s. He just hoped Sherlock didn’t have herpes. After capping the bottle back up, he looked at Sherlock again.
“Hm, thanks.”
“Watson, four minutes! Come here!” the blonde grabbed his elbow and dragged him away from Sherlock to the opening which lead to the stage. He read the name from the back of her t-shirt.
“Kelley, hi. Can you tell me how many people that are performing for the first time at Melodicon are there?”
“I think it’s only you, Watson.”
“If it makes you feel any better, one guy fainted on the stage.”
“Are you giving me ideas?” Kelley laughed.
“Listen, I won’t say that you’re going to be amazing, but you certainly won’t be the worst.”
“Everybody is SO comforting today”, John places Sherlock’s bottle on the closest flat surface, his hands shaking uncontrollably.
“Watson, two minutes”, Kelley said mumbling something into the Bluetooth in her ear. John took that time to fix his clothes, a simple checker shirt and dark jeans, nothing extreme. This wasn’t a full concert, with costumes and lights and back-up dancers. A singer, a band or a musician alone on the stage. Never more than ten people on the stage. And John would be alone.
“Watson, one minute.”
“Is it too late to change my mind?”
“Yes.” They stood in silence for the remaining minute.
“Watson, stage.”

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Thu Jul 31, 2014 1:06 pm

Riffs are only for the fucking bridge

Word count: 1.783
Songs: Hero of War, We will rock you
//songs to listen to//: ^^

John will never forget that feeling when he first stepped out on the stage. It seemed as if, for a moment, time had stopped. There was applause in the audience, but John didn’t hear it. No, he chose to ignore it. It was just him the sleek black concert piano in the middle of the stage and music. He took a step, then two, then three. He kept taking steps until he reached the piano bench. He sat down peacefully, keeping his moves as light and as fluid as possible. When he was sat, he raised his head so he could look at the audience, which turned into millions of individuals in his mind, when, in real life, he couldn’t see further than the third row. And the first was half empty. A nervous laugh escaped his mouth as he turned back to the piano keys. It’s just you and me now, he thought. And he started. And nothing mattered anymore. So what if he made a mistake? So what if he didn’t have any students? This is only music. And music is his life. He couldn’t get anything wrong. As he sang, he tried to tell a story, a story of a man who went to war. Things weren’t exactly what the men hoped they would be. John tried to ad a bit of pain to his voice, but he wasn’t quite sure he sent the right message. Maybe his ‘pain’ was seen as ‘disgust’, maybe as a lack of talent. Truth was, he didn’t have to worry at all.
Even before he finished the song off with a few final, longing notes, the audience started clapping. Loudly. So loud it buzzed in John’s ears, made his breath shiver, and plastered the biggest smile on his face. His smile increased the volume of the audience, mainly the female part. John could stay there forever, to soak up the claps and whistles, but unfortunately, he couldn’t.
“Watson? Hey, come here!” on the other side of the backstage, not the side he’d been before, a man called him. He obediently walked to him.”No, go back and bow!” the man made a pushing gesture with his hands. John felt his cheeks flush as he once again listened to the man and sprinted back to the middle of the stage to bend down in a clumsy bow, which gained even more cheering and laughter. Even the man backstage was snickering secretly.”Come here, you geek”, he said and, when John approached him, grabbed his elbow and pulled him further away from the stage, away from that special, shiny sensation. The stage suddenly wasn’t a thing to dread, it was Heaven. Paradise.
“Where do I go now?” John asked the man before read the name off of his shirt. Logan.
“You’re going to watch the rest of the performance, no? I’ll show you where to sit”, he said, his accent heavily Texan.
“Yeah, I mean, at least I think so”, John said feeling uncomfortable. Why does everybody drag him around? He was perfectly capable of walking himself. Logan continued dragging him to the door which lead into the audience.
“Your seat is the ninth in the first row”, Logan net go of his elbow and rushed to drag other performers off the stage. John made his way to the seat which was meant to be his and before he even sat down, a twinkly voice chirped into his ear.
“That was amazing, Mr. Wat – John, yes, John?”
“Oh, hello, Mallory”, John smiled lightly as he turned around to look at her, not wanting to come off as rude.
“It’s Molly”, she said with a faint flush of her cheeks.
“But I like your name longer, it adds character”, John told her ignoring the people who stared at them.
“I don’t know, I just like it shorter.”
“Whichever you prefer. Say, do you have the program or something?” John asked now completely turning around to Mallory. She dug through her bag, small, black, tattered, until she found a list.
“Let’s see, after you is Jesse Smith, Hudson Rogers, Sherlock Holmes...” Mallory read from the list”...Jim Moriarty, Peter Tomsen and Teddy Blue. Yeah, that’s it.”
“That’s not a lot of performances. I’ll stick around to keep you company, what do you say?” John asked smiling brightly. Mallory flushed light red at that thought.
“That would be great, thanks!”
“There’s nothing else I can do, eh?” John laughed as he carefully took the paper from Mallory’s hands. “I don’t know half of the performers, does that make me old?” he asked.
“No, it makes you smart. Almost all of them are one-night-wonders. Jesse Smith wrote this song called ‘You’re my chemical’, which is basically Radioactive with a hint of Gabrielle Aplin.”
“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
“I spend a lot of my abundant free time listening to music by various artists”, Mallory said with a faux professional voice. They both started laughing, loudly, so people next to them shushed them down.
“Okay, shh, don’t laugh so hard”, John told Mallory through snickers.
“Alright, dad”, she replied giggling still. They quieted down, but after a few performances John turned to Mallory again.
“Who’s next?” John asked once more checking the list Mallory gave him.”It’s-“he began to tell her, but the person whose name he was just about to read stepped out on the stage. Sherlock, his hair more tousled up than when John saw him, was carrying a black electric guitar clinging on a belt across his shoulder. He dragged a bar stool (which he probably found backstage) to the middle of the stage followed by two people, one with a guitar as well and one with drumsticks twirling in his hands. They prepared and with a curt nod of Sherlock’s, the drummer started with a recognizable, but simple beat.”Is he singing We Will Rock You?” John asked Mallory, who was gaping at Sherlock.
“Oh my God, yes.” Before Mallory finished her sentence, Sherlock’s dark, growly voice came from the speakers, obviously directed to the female audience. More than a half of them were swooning. Thank goodness, he didn’t scream in this song. That baritone was meant for gentler, milder songs, not metal. Even though this song was rock, not some dubstep-screamo like he used to sing, it still didn’t sound completely right in John’s head. He could easily imagine Sherlock singing some musicals, for example, Hair or Spring Awakening. Yes, John decided, Sherlock should be on Broadway. Before he realized it, the whole audience was clapping in the rhythm of the well-known rock anthem. John and Mallory had no choice but to join in. After a minute into the song, Sherlock glanced at them both, at which Mallory blushed furiously with a loud giggle, whereas John felt uncomfortable. He was positive Sherlock was looking just at him. Why? After another few minutes of low purring into the microphone, a couple of unbelievable riffs and Sherlock’s guitar solo, applause deafened John once again. And again, it was mostly female. John joined in the obligatory clapping. Sherlock sent a wink into the audience before scattering off the stage, leaving both his barstool and his ‘band’ behind him. Sherlock didn’t bow, John noted, but nobody made him return. In fact, a few seconds later, Sherlock appeared on a seat next to John’s.
“Where are those singers before you? I thought they’d sit here”, John asked instead of a hello.
“Apparently somebody brought whiskey backstage. To answer your question, ‘where are they’, I’d say the nearest closet.”
“Hooking up?”
“No, discussing the latest guitar string trend. What do you thing?” Sherlock scoffed at John’s question and ruffled his slightly wet hair, which caused a quiet squeal from the row behind them. Mallory. Sherlock and John simultaneously turned around.
“Oh, yes, sorry. Sherlock, this is Molly.”
“H-hey, Mr. Holmes – Sherlock? Can I call you Sherlock?”
“I don’t know, can you?” Sherlock said with a glint of amusement in his eyes.”Molly, short for Mallory, I suppose? John talked about you.”
“D – did he really? I – I mean, did you really?”
“Yeah, I did, since I didn’t have a roommate, so I planned on being with you”, John answered, at which Mallory blushed even more, reaching crimson red.
“I-I would’ve g-gladly been your – your roommate, if you o – only asked.”
“Instead I ended up with this sodding nitwit.” John glanced at Sherlock who was looking at him with a death stare.
“I thought y – you chose to be together”, Mallory continued stuttering, though her blush noticeably faded.
“No, God, no”, John shook his head while Sherlock remained silent.”I may be a lot of things, but I’m not insane. Want to change?” John suggested grinning at her. Then, Sherlock growled.”What now?” John asked Sherlock, who was staring at the man on the stage with an even deadlier stare.
“Is that-“Mallory started, but Sherlock broke her off with a growl.
“Jim Moriarty. I should’ve known.”
“Who’s he?” John asked.
“The biggest pop star since One Direction”, Mallory informed him staring at the man with a dazzled look in her eyes. Sherlock didn’t share her enthusiasm.
“The person who stole my original song while we were in high school and made millions off of it, changing most of the song to a simpler version”, Sherlock’s voice had a hint of whining in it.
“Blaspheme”, John teased.
“It’s serious! He made a joke out of my song!” Sherlock switched to full-on whining.”He got popular with it as well. And he knows fuck-all about music.”
“Why don’t you write another song?” Mallory asked. Not innocent anymore. Irritating.
“I can’t just ‘write’ another song”, Sherlock mimicked her voice.”It took me a month to perfect the last one!”
“Sherlock, calm yourself down”, John warned him when he noticed fear in Mallory’s eyes.”Does he really sing that badly?”
“He added riffs at the end of each verse! Riffs are only for the fucking bridge!” Sherlock looked horrified of the thought.
“Shush, I’m trying to listen”, Mallory clasped Sherlock’s mouth with her hand and removed it as quickly.”Oh my God I’m sorry”, she said gaping at Sherlock in horror, while John doubled over in laughter at Sherlock’s look of shock.
“You two are just so cute. Hashtag Sherlolly”, came a voice from the third row. Celeste, holding Phil’s hand, winked at them.”There’s a gathering in our room three days from now. Molly, you’re invited because you’re a BAMF. John, you are too, because you’re quite possibly sleeping with Sherlock. Sherlock, you as well, because you’re my friend. No more talk, shut your faces, let’s watch Mr. Jim Fuckshit Moriarty sing with his male soprano.”

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Thu Jul 31, 2014 3:52 pm

Sherlock bites

Word count: 1.717
Songs: none
//songs to listen to//: it fits too well

“John! John, come here!” Sherlock’s head poked through the door of a classroom. Yes, a literal classroom. Melodicon, apparently, had rented both a hotel and a school. John was sometimes tempted to ask Sherlock just how it was done.
“I’m in the middle of a class”, John replied moving his hands away from the piano keys. At those words Sherlock huffed impatiently blowing a stray curl from his face and made his was to John, in the middle of the classroom. Since obstacles were many and things on the table were few, Sherlock hopped up one, startling a girl who was sitting next to it. After a short, casual stroll on top of the desks, Sherlock jumped down just next to John. There were some whispers between the students, but nothing too drastic, that is, until Sherlock leaned in to talk to John.
“I need a singer”, he said in a quiet, confidential voice. John stared up at him, his mouth gaping open.
“I’m in the middle of a class! Piano class, mind you!”
“You already told me that! Nevertheless, I need a female voice, possibly a mezzo-“
“Sherlock, get out of here!” John ordered. Sherlock put his hands on his hips and turned around to face the students.
“Has anybody here got vocals like, say, Jenna McDougall? Hayley Williams?” One hand shot up in the air.
“I’m more of a Lzzy Hale, if you ask me”, the girl answered. She couldn’t be more than 21, her hair put into a neat bun and her eyes covered in heavy black eyeliner. She tapped her red polished nails against the desk and Sherlock nodded curtly.
“Perfect. What’s your name?”
“Irene Adler.”
“I’d like you to meet me in the main hall just after your classes end, if that’s possible.” Irene nodded at him.
“Yes, most definitely.” Sherlock left without another word, leaving behind a confused John and a giggly class.

John arrived at the room Mallory told him she was staying in and knocked three times.
“A second, please”, she called from the inside. “We’re not late, are we?”
“Considering Sally didn’t give us the proper time, I doubt we’ll be late”, John replied. Mallory giggled and opened the door. She was wearing a light summer dress, knee length, and ballet flats.
“It isn’t too much, is it? It’s my first, well, ‘party’ here; I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”
“No, it’s fine, you look wonderful”, John reassured her as he offered her his hand.”Shall we?”Mallory blushed when she looked at his hand.
“I really don’t-“
“We’re going as friends, Molly. Friends. I’m not suggesting anything”, John stretched his arm out more. She blushed harder.
“Of course you’re not; I didn’t even think you were!” Mallory chirped sheepishly placing her hand in John’s. John squeezed it gently as he led her out of the hotel, where Sherlock said he would meet them. After a few minutes of waiting John let go of Mallory’s hand to look at his watch.
“He told me that he’d be here five minutes ago”, John informed Mallory. Just then, two dark haired creatures, stumbling across the driveway and giggling approached them.
“Hi Jooohn, hi Malloreee”, Irene dragged on these words as long as it was physically possible and continued grabbing Sherlock’s arm and dragging  him down.
“I don’t want to even know what happened between you two”, John said, looking both of them up and down. Sherlock didn’t seem even half drunk as Irene.
“I found her in her room like this; I didn’t have anything to do with her state.” Sherlock claimed.
“I’m completely fine”, Irene mumbled and started humming ‘Sober’, missing half of the tones.
“Yes, and Molly doesn’t have a crush on Sherlock. Let’s get going, I’m sure your friends don’t like it when you’re late”, John said.
“Oh, puh-LEASE, we’re already later than a pregnant woman’s period”, came a gem from Irene, who then let go off Sherlock and tried to find some balance to keep herself on her feet. Mallory, being a good friend, tried to help her out, but Irene did the unexpected. She wrapped her arms around Mallory’s neck and climbed up on her. The look on Mallory’s face was nothing compared to the look on Sherlock and John’s.”I’m not heavy am I?” Irene slurred finding the best position for her legs: around Mallory’s waist. She rested her head on Mallory’s shoulder and looked like she was about to fall asleep there. Even though Mallory was in shock, she successfully held Irene up, since Irene was a petite creature.
“N-no, you’re not”, Mallory stammered looking at the male duo with a panicked look in her eyes.
“You’re on your own, you brought this on you yourself”, John said looking at Irene’s eyes variating between open and closed.
“Just make sure you get her off of your back before Celeste sees you, she might start a new Twitter trend”, Sherlock advised and they were off. They didn’t even knock once before Greg opened the door for them. He eyes Irene and Mallory suspiciously.
“Don’t even ask”, Sherlock said as he nudged Irene. She responded with a groan and nuzzled even more into Mallory’s shoulder, at which she blushed.”Wake up.”
“I don’t wanna wake up”, Irene mumbled.
“Looks like people will talk”, John said glancing between Celeste on the inside and Irene and Mallory.
“People rarely do anything else”, Sherlock noticed as he pushed Greg away and made his way inside, hand gesturing John and Mallory to come in.
“How polite, not even a hello”, Greg said bitterly.
“You don’t deserve a hello, you ask too many question”, Sherlock dismissed him.
“I didn’t ask a thing!”
“You were planning to.”While the two bickered, John and Celeste (who, oddly, didn’t ask anything) helped Mallory with Irene. She was fully asleep by the time John managed to untangle her from Mallory.
“Sit down I have a plan”, Celeste advised them as she dashed into another room. Mallory carefully lowered to the ground, since Irene was still leaning against her, and when Mallory finally sat down completely, Irene’s head dropped on her lap.
“Where did you get a date like that, Sherlock? She handles her alcohol worse than Phil does! Of course, in the case she IS drunk, not high”, Greg said joining them on the floor. Sherlock sat in between of John and Mallory, both of them staring at Irene who started making small, whiny noises.
“She’s not my date; she’s my backup singer for this week’s performance. I found her in her room with a bottle of beer lodged between her knees, so judging by the signs, she had just broken up with her boyfriend”, Sherlock recited, like he just read it off a cue card. Before John, Greg and Mallory got to comment on Sherlock’s deduction, Celeste and Phil emerged from the room carrying two six-packs a beer each.
“Okay, so, I am a talkative drunk, Greg is an emotional drunk, Phil is the eat-everything-in-sight drunk, Sherlock is a slutty drunk and we just now discovered that Irene is a sleepy drunk, so our mission today is to find out which type of drunk are Molly and John”, Celeste counted on her fingers.”And to find out that”, she grabbed a bottle and uncapped it quickly we’ll play spin the bottle. “Greg, drink it, we need it to be empty.”
“Why me?” Greg asked, but snatched the bottle away from Celeste nevertheless.
“Because you have the highest alcohol tolerance level, it wouldn’t be fair for the rest!”
“Alright, alright”, Greg said before chugging down the beer, which earned him a round of cheering from Celeste and Phil. Irene, of course, woke up to that.
“Huh? What’s on fire?” she asked straightening up and glancing around.
“This party! Whoop whoop!”Celeste exclaimed grabbing a beer from the box.
“Are you sure this is your first beer today, Celeste?”Sherlock asked taking three beers from the box and handing them over to Mallory and John, keeping one for himself.
“Sure, but that doesn’t lower my hype. So which type of spin the bottle do we play? The kissing one or the truth or dare?”
“Nah for the kissing, the numbers are uneven, four of us and three of girls”, Greg shook his head while Mallory softly explained to Irene where she was and what was going on.” Truth or dare sounds way better. John, what do you say?”
“Um, I’m okay with everything, I guess”, John fiddled with his words.
“You’ve been awfully quiet. Speak up, we don’t bite”, Greg shoved his shoulder playfully.
“Speak for yourself”, Celeste interrupted sipping from her beer bottle.
“I know from certain sources that Sherlock leaves hickeys. Therefore, he DOES bite”, Celeste told him and crawled across the circle they all made to John to pull the collar of his shirt.”Hmm. Clear as a nun. My guesses were wrong.”
“Wait, you really thought we were together?” John shared Celeste’s hand off of his shirt.
“Not necessarily, just hooking up.”
“No!” Greg and Phil snickered at John in unison.
“Shut up, you two. With that question”, Celeste grabbed Greg’s empty bottle and pointed it at John.”Truth or dare, Watson? Please say truth.”
“No, I choose Dare”, John decided to mess with her.
“Okay, I dare you to tell me the truth. Would you even consider getting off with Holmes?” Celeste asked with a Cheshire cat grin.
“No, I wouldn’t. I’m not gay, no offence though”, John answered her question. Irene, who finished talking to Mallory, scoffed, which brought looks on her.
“Yes you are”, she grumbled and yawned, like she didn’t say a thing. Before anybody, even John, could argue, Phil shushed them down with a whistle.
“Hey, guys, let’s start playing for real. Sally?” he stretched his hand to nudge out the bottle from Celeste’s grasp.”Thanks, babe.” He placed the bottle in the middle of the circle and spun it around. It landed on Mallory.
“Truth or dare, child?”
The game lasted for about four hours, and as the gang got drunker, the questions got funnier and less intelligible. Although it was Saturday, the band didn’t show in any way that they were leaving for a tour tomorrow. As for Sherlock and they had a performance to do.

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Fri Aug 01, 2014 8:08 pm


Signs of GAAAY

Word count: 2.018
Songs: Addicted to you, Mz Hyde
//songs to listen to//: idek

“Wake up, you idiots, we’ll be late for our tour!” Celeste’s voice rang through the room at six am. t he sun practically didn’t rise yet, but the strands of light which made it through the half-shut blinds fell on quite a sight: Phil sprawled across a coffee table in a quite uncomfortable position; Greg, face-first on the sofa and the quartet, Sherlock, John, Mallory and Irene, lying on the carpet in a trapeze position, one stacked upon other. Sherlock and Irene’s heads were leaned against each other and John and Mallory’s legs were tangled in a mess, both of their heads resting on Sherlock and Irene’s stomachs respectively, nothing too unusual, but Sherlock’s shirt acting as Mallory’s blanket.  Celeste was right, then.
“Sally, luv, we’re leaving at three”, Phil groaned as he got up from the coffee table and stretched, his body making clicking complaints. He approached Celeste and pulled her in for a kiss, but she shoved him away.
“Ew, no, your breath smells like beer and death.” Greg woke up to their arguing and moaned loudly.
“I will have a sofa face-print for a week. What about our Melodiconers?” he asked looking at the mess of limbs and torsos on the rug.
“Wow, I didn’t know Sherlock DIDN’T have abs”, Celeste knelt down to Sherlock.”Somebody must have some mean Photoshop skills. Rise and shine, Holmes, Watson... and others, I don’t know your surnames.”
“Whaat?” Sherlock let out a deep groan which vibrated through his body, so it woke the sleeping John up.
“Ow, not so loud”, he complained and straightened up. He raised his eyebrow after seeing his ‘pillow’.
“See anything you like?” Sherlock said, but in more of an obligatory, rather than flirty tone. He snatched his t-shirt away from Mallory as John dismissed that statement with a shake of his head, but that hurt him, so he stopped.
“How much beer did I actually have?” he asked no-one in particular.
“Shit-ton. Now get up, you lazy ass”, Celeste said nudging Mallory gently.”Molly, doll, wake up.”
“I’m up”, Mallory said quietly and opened her eyes.”I’ll wake up Irene.”
“Thanks, I gotta get my guys in order. Did you even pack?” Celeste dictated them around.
“Female Hitler”, Greg rolled his eyes, but continued louder, “Sally, you seem pretty not hung over, care to explain what happened yesterday?” he asked stretching his arms.
“I have no clue, but I’m pretty sure that everybody made out with everybody, and the four of them played Twister with each other’s body parts.”
“How lovely”, John noticed.
“Don’t we have a tone check at seven?” Sherlock asked Irene, who seemed to be unshaken by the state she was in.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure we do, but, goddamn, all that noise won’t be good for my head”, Irene said and got up.
“That means we’re leaving you. Goodbye”, with those words, Sherlock grabbed Irene’s elbow and dragged her out of the room.
“Wait, it’s Sunday today? The show? I have to get a good seat, see you all!” Mallory left John alone with the band.
“Lucky for me, I’m on the piano, so no tone checks for me. You guys are going on tour?” John asked dropping onto the sofa. Celeste, after shooing Greg and Phil off to go pack their suitcases, turned to John.
“Yeah, we are. We’ll return before our New York show. We’re not even teaching at Melodicon, Mycroft’s being a lamb for giving us this place for two weeks, first and the last”, she explained quickly dragging her suitcase to the door.”When is you guys’ performance?”
“Four hours from now.”
“And? Talk to me, which song did you choose? You need to tell me so I can make fun of it.”
“I think Sherlock’s personality is rubbing off on you.”

John’s second performance went by in a flash, compared to the first one. A fun, jumpy and unattached song brought the audience to their feet once more, and John bowed this time. Everything went swimmingly, but Sherlock was nowhere in sight. Nevertheless, nothing could run his mood. He ignored Logan’s direction to his seat and dashed off to Mallory.
“I like the song you chose”, she praised him.
“Yeah, I like it too. Don’t you think it’s too popular to be covered on a piano?” John asked, at which she shook her head rapidly.
“No, no, it was cute, I don’t think I’ve heard a better cover of Addicted to you, the others were sing-songy, typical summer songs”, Mallory then pointed at the stage.”Look, it’s Irene and Sherlock!” And it was. Irene had pulled her hair up in a mussed up ponytail and wore a dark t-shirt with a logo, while Sherlock didn’t seem to change clothing from yesterday. Hell, he didn’t do anything with his hear, either, yet he earned a round of female cheers. They were accompanied by a full band, but John didn’t recognize any faces. What he did recognize was the song.
“I know this song... Halestorm?” Mallory asked with a light frown.
“Yeah, Mz Hyde.”
“What did you call me?”
“No, it’s the song name”, John laughed a bit as he turned his gaze to Sherlock. Now he knew why Sherlock searched for a female singer, the song contained quite a few lyrics which weren’t quite fit for men, even the title was feminine. But soon John’s realization came out wrong; Sherlock sang all the lyrics in the first verse, except the last part. John cringed. He hated when lyrics were changed to fit the gender, he found it disrespectful towards the writers, and changing Mz to Mister was the words sin against that. Irene sang the second verse, because there was no way to change ‘I can be the bitch, I can play the whore’ to fit the male gender. Sherlock had yet another guitar solo, seemingly he had them in all song. Maybe it was his trademark. When the song finished, again, there was no bow, just a wink towards the audience and sprinting off the stage. Not 30 seconds later Sherlock was next to John with a frown on his face.
“I need to talk to you.”
“But there are a few more singers left”, John complained.
“Now!” Sherlock grabbed John’s elbow and dragged him away, leaving confused Mallory with Irene, who came after Sherlock
“What is it, huh?” John said when they got away from the crowd and continued to their room. John was still buzzing with adrenaline. Sherlock, whose performance was filled with beat, excitement and that epic solo, was supposed to be out of breath of dropping on the bed, his eyes shutting closed, but he wasn’t. Actually he looked quite bored. And pissed.
“Why did you choose that song?” he asked taking the guitar strip off of his back. Even though he was aiming to look bored, what John thought he was, Sherlock couldn’t hide the dampness of his shirt and the sweat on his neck. John’s performance was intense, too, but in a different way than Sherlock’s.
“What song, Addicted to you?” John questioned sprawling across the bed. Each time after a performance he felt like somebody squeezed the life out of him, and after a week of constant pressure, he was exhausted.
“Yes, precisely. Do you know who sang?” Sherlock continued putting the guitar – actually, throwing – on the bed carelessly. John hadn’t seen him care about an instrument before. It was fascinating to see a man whose life was about music show no attention to the things that actually create music whatsoever.
“Of course, I know, I had to find the song first and how would I find it without the author”, John told him staring at the ceiling, relaxing a bit before the storm. And the storm in this context was Sherlock.
“But you didn’t search it well enough. Do you know who else covered it? Shall I tell you or do you wish to guess?” Sherlock approached John’s bed hovering above it, his hands crossed on his chest. John focused his eyes on Sherlock rather than the ceiling.
“I’m bad at guessing and I think you’ll tell me either way”, John said sitting up because Sherlock’s eyes made him feel uneasy, like he was a corpse on the table and Sherlock was a man who wanted to discover the cause of his death.
“It was Moriarty”, Sherlock said, a glimpse of a challenge in his eyes. Was he trying to nudge a reaction out of him? He was possibly trying to tick him off. Well, John wouldn’t give him the pleasure.
“Was it? I didn’t know”, he said sounding innocent and clueless. It was obvious to John Sherlock was frustrated by his response.
“I was right behind him when you performed. He wasn’t, what you would say, pleased. Why did you do it?” Wait, not frustrated. Curious. Amused. Almost like John had the guts to do something that he didn’t.
“I honestly didn’t know that he covered it, otherwise I would’ve done a better job”, John joked at which Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“The audience thought you were much better than him, I heard them talking about you and comparing both of you and your performance”, Sherlock said, gaining some softness in his voice. Or was it just John’s delusion?
“Really? That’s quite encouraging”, John said. Sherlock was definitely getting closer, looking at him again. Not looking, scanning him.
“And if it means anything, I thought you were breathtaking.” And then, even before he finished the last word, Sherlock placed his lips over John’s. They only had one point of contact, and yet John felt electricity flow from his mouth down to his spine to all parts of him. He couldn’t explain his body’s reaction to the light, closed-mouthed kiss. His eyes widened, his hands raised up to- what? Pull him closer to deepen the kiss? Or push him away? He chose the latter.
“What are you doing?” John asked pressing his palms against Sherlock’s chest and shoved him off of himself. He immediately removed them, but not before he felt the warmth of the skin beneath the t-shirt which was still soaked in sweat from the performance.
“An experiment”, Sherlock said, like nothing had just happened, wiping his lower lip in a gesture which reminded John of wiping blood off of it. He felt offended. First, he did not slobber while kissing. And second, experiment?
“Experiment for what?” he asked looking up at him, feeling stupidly short.
“Well, as I said before”, Sherlock started to walk around, completely ignoring John’s presence, “my fans are crazy. Insane, one might say. It’s not arguable that you’re my fan now.”
“I’m in the middle of something John. So those fans wear t-shirts of me, scream when they hear me sing. You didn’t seem to be so thrilled when I sang the Hero of War, or any song after. They would be polite to Heavens, and yet you talked back to me. It’s a simple comparison, really. You’re an interesting man, John Watson. Intriguing. And while most of the fans would ‘freak out’ and kiss me back, you pushed me away, even though you’re more than obvious attracted to me.” Sherlock finished and looked at John, like he was proud of his analysis.
“I-what?” John started, too confused to even form a coherent sentence.”I’m not attracted to you! I’m not gay!”
“I never said you were”, Sherlock said calmly.
“You’re a man, I’m a man, It’s self explanatory”, John said gaping at him, wide-eyes.
“John, all the signs were there.”
“What signs?”
“There were a few you must’ve noticed yourself. Your heart rate escalated at an alarming rate, your skin was flushed. You had – and you still do – goose bumps, all over your arms. Not to mention your pupil dilation and your heavy breathing.” He was so proud of himself, that damn bastard.
“Am I allowed not to speak to you for the rest of the day?” John asked crossing his arms on his chest.
“It’s eleven in the morning.” Sherlock said glancing at the clock.
“Exactly. Good day.”

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Fri Aug 01, 2014 8:31 pm

They say romance is dead

Word count: 1.209
Songs: Toxic {Britney Spears 1}, Hold it against me {Britney Spears 2}
//songs to listen to//: meant to youuu

Right on schedule. At 2 am, John was woken up by a quiet guitar melody.
“Sherlock, I told you I’m not talking to you”, John tried to roll on the other side of the bed, but it didn’t help, the melody only got louder. John soon recognized the sound of Britney Spears’ Toxic and raised his head curiously. “I thought you like Halestorm and Queen, not Britney Spears.”
“Halestorm is one of my favourites, I don’t like Britney Spears, and nobody does. Am I allowed to have my guilty pleasures?” Sherlock asked without that concert tone in his voice. This was personal; just him and the guitar. And John got to be there to hear it. Sherlock started singing, his voice different than before. Yes, the raw, rough baritone undertones were still there, but in the background, leaving the real voice in the spotlight. It was mellow, sweet, sincere and tender, like sugar syrup, dripping down the spoon. To John, it felt like his voice was a magnet. During the first line of the song, John turned around so that he was acing Sherlock who was sitting cross-legged on his bed, his head leaned over his guitar. His whole position gave a personal touch to the dance song, and made it into a sultry ballad.
John feared the line ‘a guy like you’, because Sherlock, considering his Mz Hyde performance, would change it, and that’s downright blaspheme. But the lyrics stayed the same, and John approached Sherlock with a certain kind of determination. He sat on the bed next to Sherlock and stared at him with adoration in his eyes. That voice could make people stop and listen, even in the middle of the street, where you’d get hit by a car. Before the chorus, Sherlock glanced up at John, but he continued singing, not stopping the song, but not looking away, either. Even though the song had another verso and repeating of the chorus, John couldn’t resist. Where had that voice been hidden? After the second repetition of ‘don’t you know that you’re toxic’, Sherlock took a breath to continue the song, but John took charge. Experiment, huh? John can experiment too. He leaned in and kissed him and Sherlock, because of the shock, made an incoherent noise on his guitar.
After a few moments into the kiss, Sherlock tried to pull John in more, but there were some complications.
“John, the guitar”, he let out a wine, not moving his lips from John’s. John made a noise in complaint.
“Just throw it on the floor.”
“But it’s an instrument!”
“Now you care about instruments?!” John said and grabbed the guitar strip off of Sherlock’s back.
“I sincerely hope that’s not the only thing you’re taking off tonight”, Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth.
“It’s morning, you twat. And no, you’re not getting any play, because you’re still an arsehole-“
“So what? I’ve met people who got married just because their partner was good shag. And I think you’d consider me-“
“I don’t want to hear the rest of that, I’m tired, and so that’s reason A. Reason B, I don’t do one-night-stands. You have to prove yourself to me if you want anything to happen. And reason C-“
“Let me guess, you’re not gay?” Sherlock pulled away with a disappointed look in his eyes. In the meantime, while they were talking, John pushed Sherlock onto his back, so the guitar was crushed between them.”I’ve known a lot of ‘straight’ people who had no troubles at all with their labeling.”
“Well, I have troubles. What will people say if I leave Melodicon as a gay man? It would drive people away from Melodicon, and I’m sure your brother wouldn’t like that kind of publicity.”
“There are a lot more labels than straight and gay. What’s more important at this moment, YOU kissed ME, so you can’t blame me for suggesting anything”, Sherlock said and took off the guitar, placing it on the floor.
“If I were to play the part, you’d still have to do something to win me over”, John said and pushed himself away from Sherlock fully.
“Don’t leave”, Sherlock whispered and took John’s hand. They looked at each other for a few seconds, and just when John thought Sherlock was going to come out with a nugget of wisdom, a love declaration, Sherlock shrugged. “It’s cold.”
“How romantic”, John said, but sighed and joined him on the bed. Sherlock dragged himself up so he was closer to John and asked the most unexpected question.
“So... How’s life?”
“What?” John looked at him in confusion. Sherlock shook his head with a sigh.
“I’m trying to small-talk. You still haven’t told me why you choked while talking about Hero of War.”
“It’s- it’s my dad. He went to war. And when he came back, he told me it was horrible. He watched a little girl, how she died because she went to pick up her teddy bear... Oh, God, Sherlock”, John cuddled into Sherlock’s chest, craving human contact and a place to hide his face.”The way he told me that... and he went again, because his boys depended on him and he- and he was killed a month after. He never came back.”
“I’m sorry.” Sherlock placed his hand around John. Since John didn’t speak anymore, Sherlock let him calm down and, eventually, fall asleep. When he was sure John had fully drifted away, Sherlock placed a light kiss into John’s hair.

John woke up alone in a still warm bed, next to a note from Sherlock. His handwriting was a neat cursive, almost too perfect to be real.
“You want me to win you over then. So I shall. Be in the concert hall at 19.30. SH”
“Flirting requires actual human contact”, John muttered for himself, but continued with his day. He still wasn’t quite sure what happened yesterday, every time he thought about it he got chills down his spine. Sherlock had one of the most stunning voices John had ever heard. And that kiss... Damn it, Watson, now you’ve done it, he thought.
He showed up at the concert hall right on schedule, only to find a small crowd of people gathered around the stage.
“So, we got a lot of internet requests for songs...” the drummer started. John had never seen this band before, nor he heard them, but Sherlock told him to be here, so he will.”Halestorm_fan14 requested Britney Spears’ Hold it against me. Hit it, guys!” The band started playing and the audience cheered on. Even before the chorus, John was gaping. Not that the band was life-changing, but the song lyrics.
“If I said I want your body now, would you hold it against me?” promised the song.
“Bloody Hell, Sherlock”, John said to no one in particular as he went to search for Sherlock. He found me him leaned against their room’s door.”Seducing me with Britney Spears songs. And they say romance is dead.” John murmured pinning Sherlock against the door with a kiss. They, very soon, had to transfer to the inside.
Turns out, Sherlock was right about two things. One, he came prepared. And two, he was a damn good shag.

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Mon Sep 01, 2014 10:48 am

Somewhat, but really really

Word count: 1.128
Songs: none
//songs to listen to//: i don't know leave me alone

Mallory was having a time of her life. First classes with John Watson, classes with Sherlock Holmes, then hanging out with her new friend Irene... All in all, it was so much fun, and Mallory was making the most of it. It was also filled with surprises. For an example...
“Irene, hey! What are you doing here?” she asked the moment she walked into her room and found Irene messing with the drawers.
“You know your roommate, Mona?” Irene asked not showing any intentions to look up.”I convinced her that it’s better to be with this guy Taylor who is my roommate and I paired them up so now they’re a couple so now I’m your new roommate.”
“Wh- Can we do that?” Mallory asked.”Not that I’m not glad you’re here, I-“
“So you’re trying to shoo me away?”
“I-no! I like you; you’re a good friend...”
“Aw, that’s adorable. I’m just screwing with ya. Now you’re going to tell me every single dirty bit of your life”, Irene said and sat on the floor.
“Only if you tell me why did I have to carry you back then when you got drunk”, Mallory sat across her.
“You mean why was I hammered? I need a beer to tell that story.” Half an hour and a couple of beers later, Irene started muttering swears about her ex.”So, like, how am I supposed to break up with him? ‘Sorry, Dex, but I don’t like cock?’ or maybe, ‘Dex, you like boobs? Good, so do I! We can drool over Jessica Alba together!” Mallory took a small sip of her beer while she looked at Irene, utterly confused.
“So you’re gay?” she asked, trying not to sound judgemental. She didn’t mind, at all, but she was raised in a Christian family, they wouldn’t appreciate if a friend of hers was anything but traditional.
“I’m as gay as Chris Colfer, dear. But with women. But don’t you worry, I’m not predatory gay, I won’t pine on you.” Irene took a huge swig from her bottle, then did the voice from the Macarena song.”I’m not trying to seduce you.” Again, after a couple of hours, they fell asleep leant against each other. But their sleep didn’t last for long. They were woken up by some noises above them.
“Who’s that?” Irene asked after swearing loudly. Mallory flushed bright red.
“I- I think that’s John and Sherlock.”
“Really?” Wait, shut up, I wanna hear what they’re saying.” Turns out they weren’t saying a lot. Most of the noises were muffled moans from two people.”Literally what.” Irene asked Mallory turning her head to her.
“Are they... hooking up?” Mallory asked, poor innocent child.
“Not gay my ass. I said shh, free porn”, Irene joked. Like they were told to, the boys started talking.
“I want to kiss that accent right out of your mouth.”
“We have the same accent, Sherlock.”
“But that doesn’t make it any less hot.”
“Bollocks. Sodding. Bloody hell. Queen Victoria. Double deck-“the rest of the words were muffled, like someone covered his mouth with their hand. Or their own mouth.
“Holy shit. They are hooking up. The walls here are really thin, Molls”, Irene said and hopped up on a chair and gained balance incredibly fast for a person who was sobering up.”Hey guys!” she jumped up to hit the ceiling with her fist. The moans turned into heavy breathing.
“Fuck, do you think they can hear us?” came John’s, higher voice from upstairs.
“Is that Irene?” the lower voice joined in with genuine curiosity.
“Yes, it is Mallory and I. Seems like you have someone business to finish but I expect a formal and cordial apology to Molly tomorrow.” Irene talked to the ceiling.”And keep it quiet, would you?” she rejoined Mallory on the floor and started laughing at the shocked look on her face.

“John. Joohn. Rise and shine, arsehole.”
“You blow me away every day with your eloquence”, John said and stretched in bed accidentally hitting Sherlock’s face.”Shit, are you okay?”
“Ow. I’m fine. You’re quite a charmer yourself”, Sherlock said and looked at the door, from which he heard noises.
“Guys, are you up? Irene told me to go here at nine, she told me that you wanted to talk”, Mallory’s voice was heard from outside the room.
“Yeah, we’re up”, John replied. Just as Mallory opened the door. Sherlock made an ‘err’ noise.
“But I’m afraid we’re not properly dressed. Wait outside,” you could almost feel the flush of Mallory’s cheeks heating the room.
“Oh, okay”, her voice was impossibly small. John pulled Sherlock up and they quickly got dressed.
“I’m not quite sure what should I say to her”, John said looking over at Sherlock.
“’Sorry, Mallory. I am somwehat gay. But my boyfriend is, like, really really gay’,” Sherlock mimicked an American accent.
“My gosh”, John broke into chuckles.” You can be amusing at times.” After watching Sherlock pull on his trousers, he added.”But you’re drop-dead gorgeous all the time.”
“Oh, you”, Sherlock laughed with him and pulled him into a kiss. After John’s hand glided across Sherlock’s chest and tangled into his hair, but before the kiss’ intensity could grow, there was a quiet knock on the door.
“Umm, guys, should I leave?” Mallory called from the outside.
“Ah, come in”, Sherlock said and pushed himself away from John, going to retrieve his shirt. Mallory cowardly entered.
“Hi, guys..” the silence just kept on going.”Irene-“
“Yeah, Irene told you the we have something to tell you but we have no idea what, so let’s just put it up front. I’m gay and I’ve never felt attraction to a female human beings.”John...” Sherlock looked at John.
“I don’t even know what I am anymore.”
“There’s the bed, we can test out your sexuality there”, Sherlock said, at which Mallory’s blush increased.
“Ah... okay, should I leave NOW?” Mallory asked looking at the door.
“No, now that you’re here, talk to us”, John said throwing a glare at Sherlock.” Say, why do you prefer Molly to Mallory?” Is it possible that her blush grew even more?
“It’s a long story.”
“We have time”, Sherlock joined in, now getting interested in what she was going to say. And it just blurted out of her.
“It’s because... one of your interviews, when you talked about Jim Moriarty, and how he liked to be called Jim instead of James, because it’s shorter, and that’s why I dyed my hair to brown, I was ginger, like Karen Gillan but, Jim has it brown-“ Mallory blabbered on, then noticed the boys’ looks on her.”Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Yes, John?”
“I just got the best idea for our performance.”

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Tue Sep 02, 2014 5:38 pm

Not now, dear

Word count: 1.128
Songs: oh hot damn dis mah jam
//songs to listen to//: gr8 song

“Sherlock, focus!” John played an unpleasant chord on the make-shift piano on his knees, since Sherlock hadn’t been paying attention.
“Huh, what?”Sherlock turned his head to John fast, like he’d just seen a ghost.
“We have to practice these harmonies, we’re going to have a performance tomorrow and we know shit”, John complained.
“I know them!” Sherlock snorted.”Did we have to change our song for her?”
“Sherlock, she’s so confused by us, and I’m pretty sure you crushed her dreams. Plus, only God knows what she hears from us at night. Just imagine how happy she’ll be when we sing this to her.”
“She’ll squeal and Twitter it with a hashtag Johnlock, it’s been trending this week”, Sherlock sighed and throwed the guitar neck onto his thighs.
“Remind me, why am I even putting up with you?” John asked placing hi elbow on the upper part of the keyboard so he wouldn’t make any noise.
“Because I’m extremely talented, attractive and a marvelous fuck-pal?”
“What?” John looked at him with more than confusion in his eyes.
“I... It’s a term we call Celeste and Phillip, since dating, plain and simple dating, is inadequate.” Sherlock shook his head. John felt somewhat hurt by his statement. Was it all he was to Sherlock? Someone to screw around with? Even though he still wasn’t comfortable with coming out or anything that comes with ‘being gay’, he genuinely thought he had something with Sherlock. He didn’t know what, though.
“Let’s practice these damn harmonies.”

After changing their song to Valerie by Amy Winehouse with the staff, Sherlock wandered around, to kill time before the show, and he ran into the most unlikely lot.
“Allegretto. What are you people doing here?” he greeted Celeste, Greg and Phil calling them their collective band name.
“Show in Ohio, cancelled because of... something”, Celeste shrugged and looked over at Greg with a frown. He had a similar look on his face.
“I think some guy had a piece of lighting equipment fallen on his head. Nearly killed the guy, and the staff in Ohio didn’t want to risk having a performance there until the circumstances weren’t checked or something”, Greg rambled on, hoping he was correct. “Anyway, we’re here for the show. What’cha singing today?”
“I, actually-“Sherlock started, but a certain sandy blonde head walked through the hall and when John saw Sherlock, his face lit up.
“Hey, idiot, I’ve been looking for you. Tone check and stuff.” John said those words with a tone which made Greg and Phil share an equally perplexed look.
“I do hope you two are together”, Celeste said with a huge grin on her face,”because if that’s so, I win a bet.”
“I think we are”, Sherlock said and, to prove his words, pressed a big and loud kiss on John’s petrified lips. The band made noises you hear when a goal at a football match isn’t scored.
“Christ, Sherlock!” Greg said, making a fake disgusted face.”Warn us next time!”
“You’re a fucking arsehole”, John complained with a fast snicker.
“I believe there’s an extra word in that statement”, Sherlock said with a smirk as he bumped John with his hip. More noises from the band.
“Ew! No mental imagery, I beg of you!” Phil made a REAL disgusted face.
“Anyway, remember Molly? We got a thing for her”, John said, flushed from the kiss.”But that thing won’t happen if Sherlock doesn’t get his arse to tone check. Come”, John pulled his hand, but not before Sherlock commented.
“Not now, dear, we have company”, and he dissolved into a mess of giggles. John let out a frustrated sigh as he dragged the Sherlock ‘teenage girl’ Holmes through the hall, away from the band.
“That is certainly not the best way to come out to your friends”, John noticed as he let go of Sherlock’s hand, trusting him to find his way himself.
“I can’t tell whether you’re joking or not, but I just had a lot of fun”, Sherlock informed John beaming down at him. His words gained him a hit in the rib as they made their way to the stage.
“Piano!” John made a childishly delighted noise.”Not some electronic shit!”
“Don’t insult Raven.”
“You named a keyboard?”
“I name all my instruments. Meet ‘I was crushed when a sexually driven kook not in control of his own libido snogged the living Hell out of my master’”, Sherlock showed John his acoustic guitar.
“Hey, you were asking for it”, John let out a laugh and played a few test chords for the tone master to regulate sounds or what not. John wasn’t an expert in that field. His laughter was too loud and too close to the microphone so it caused an unpleasant microphony.
“Ow! John, please!” Sherlock made a grimace, but didn’t cover his ears. He was used to it by now.
“Your fault on making me laugh”, John huffed and Sherlock made his way to the bottle of water on the piano.
“You laugh as much as you wish, you’re gorgeous like that”, he whispered into John’s ear, his voice low both in pitch and volume, John barely registered it. He flushed at the unexpected endearment.
“What, but not here? Selfish, Holmes”, John teased, which earned him a quick kiss on his cheek.
“Save it for later. It’s hot”, he explained in a deep growl and made his way back into his chair, leaving John with his mouth half open. The tone check finished soon and they were shooed off the stage since Sherlock started singing gibberish in an opera style and John couldn’t stop laughing, so they caused a lot of noise. They ended up in a dark corner of backstage, both leaning against the wall and kissing loudly, much to the joy of people around them.
John was glad to see such an out-of-character Sherlock. Was he genuinely happy? Or was he drugged or something? John didn’t find out, because in the middle of their kiss, they were called out on the stage, their faces still radiating heat.
They started singing and playing the instruments without actually noticing the audience. The song went by without any particular outsteppings, except these few: a wink towards Mallory in the line ‘I missed your ginger hair’; not singing the harmonies at the end of the first chorus, and Sherlock’s little improv, singing Mallory instead of Valerie at the last part. All in all, intriguing performance, even much so, it being the only compilation of two such different artists at Melodicon.
“People will definitely talk”, John said walking off the stage.
“Ah, but people rarely do anything else.” Sherlock, who was already there, pressed a tiny and sweet kiss onto John’s forehead.”You were brilliant.”

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Sun Sep 21, 2014 4:13 pm

“I don’t sing, Sally!” Greg’s voice was loud enough to crawl down the door to John and Sherlock’s ears. Celeste told them to meet her at seven and it was, hm, seven twenty five, but the makeout session against a wall was damn worth it. John looked at Sherlock, as if he was making sure did he really want to come in, but he just rolled his eyes and shoved the door in. The touchy and kissy Sherlock from before was gone and replaced with the usual, grumpy state.
“Hey guys!” Irene waved at the boys. John was quite confused by the sight: Mallory with her head on Irene’s lap, she doing braids in her auburn hair; Phil plugging in a microphone; Greg typing something into the laptop and Celeste twirling the aforementioned microphone in her hands.
“What’s going on?”John asked as Sherlock pulled him down, on the sofa this time, not the floor. Nice change, John thought.
“One of world famous karaoke parties by the Allegretto!” Celeste made a grand gesture with her hands. And Greg doesn’t want to sing. Come on, Lestrade!”
“No! I’m a bassist, not a singer!” Greg complained, but in the middle of it all he managed to throw a couple of beers at John and Sherlock. Seems like Melodicon has gallons of that alcoholic beverage.
“You’re ruining the party!” Celeste crossed her hands on her chest.”Wait, if you won’t sing, I know who will. Molly, dearest...” she made another open-handed gesture towards the little make-shift podium with the microphone stand on it.
“Oh, um, do I have to?” Mallory asked and raised her head from Irene’s lap.
“Don’t worry, I’ll join you, if you pick a song which I know”, Irene smiled at her. The others in the room looked at each other in confusion, but didn’t comment, because Mallory got up.
“Okay. But only because I’m not singing alone.” The duo gathered around the laptop and argued about the song for a minute, being the only noise in the room. When they finally chose the song, they placed themselves in front of the microphone. Irene signaled Phil to press play, and Mallory sang. She had a small voice, gentle, delicate, which was interesting with Price Tag, the song they picked. When Irene’s rough, rock mezzo joined with harmonies, everybody was stunned. So different, so peculiar, so interesting to listen to. They stared, half gaping and half shaking their heads in disbelief. When the song ended, Celeste, John and Greg clapped and sheer, Phil wolf whistled and even Sherlock looked amused, but he didn’t move a finger.
“That was so good!” Celeste exclaimed praising both the smirking Irene the blushing Mallory.
“Are you sure that wasn’t practiced?” John asked, a smil on his lips matching the one on Greg and Celeste’s.
“Yeah we just picked it and... yeah”, Mallory sat down with a tiny, but proud, smile on her lips. But Irene didn’t sit down yet.
“I have a song for Molls”, announced and typed in two short word into the search bar, explaining her actions while clicking.”I’ve never been good with expressing my feelings through words, that’s why people like this exist. I stumbled upon this song earlier and it was too perfect not to sing it to you. Sorry, it doesn’t fit my voice all so well, I wasn’t made for this kind of songs.” She clicked play. The beginning of the song left most off them confused, but then the words came in.
’Kiss me’ was probably the name of the song, since that line repeated itself a couple of times. Irene’s voice was yet another surprise. It suddenly became light and airy, saying the lyrics with such care, it made all of the audience tilt their heads and make quiet ‘aw’ noises . Yes, even the guys, don’t let them tell you otherwise. It was quite obvious the song was meant for Mallory, as Irene didn’t take her eyes off of her the entire song. With the final piano chord of the instrumental, Irene hopped down to Mallory and kissed her nose. They looked at each other with silly smiles on their face, an they probably would’ve looked for forever, but not if Phil had any say in that.
“This room is turning into 50 shades of gay.” With those words, the soft and tender moment Irene had created erupted into laughter. Through loud chuckles, Phil confirmed his statement.”It is! I mean, first this two”, he pointed at Sherlock and John who were laughing almost at the same time,”then these two”, he moved his hand towards Mallory and Irene, who were talking in hushed tones, giggling every now and then. The group then fell apart, and it would’ve stayed that way if John didn’t get up and walk to the microphone stand. Sherlock quickly shushed everybody, fixing his eyes on John.
“Since everybody is confessing their love or what not, might just as well do the same.” He looked over at Sherlock with insecure eyes as he typed in the song he loved, Wherever you will go. Fuck pal? That comment had hurt. But maybe, if he tried, the hooking up could grow into what John wanted. Not even a second into the song, Celeste and Phil started groaning.
”No, not this song!”
“I listened to it when we broke up for the second time, agh!” But John didn’t listen to them. Like Irene before him; John’s eyes didn’t leave the subject of the song. And he sang, drowning in Sherlock’s silver eyes. Such a sad song, but made cheerful and lovey by John’s hand, it nudged out sniffles from Mallory. John placed the microphone back and walked over the Sherlock when the song ended, who got up just before John sat down.
“I, for one, know that Watson loves musicals. He also loves doing me. Let’s make it another duet, shall we?” Sherlock pulled John back up, not waiting for this answer. He lead him to the microphone stand again and typed in a song he knew John knew. As the song started, realize struck John. You’re the one that I want. Grease. That idiot, John thought and reached out for the microphone, but Sherlock already took it, claiming the male part. John raged for a second while he circled him in teasing movements, but then he stole the mic from Sherlock’s grip and sang the second part. He even managed to sneak a comment into the song, between.
“Bastard took my part”, he muttered, causing even more laughter in the group. The song ended without a proper ending, since Sherlock and John just said ‘fuck you’ to the last chorus and kissed instead right there in front of everybody and, they would have continued if Phil didn’t throw a pillow into their faces, interrupting into yet another performance.
“You, break it off” We’re not interested!” he shouted at them. Celeste put her hand on his shoulder.
“Calm down, boy. I think I have a perfect tension reliever.” She skipped over to the laptop and found a song with unbelievable speed.”This one’s for my homegirl Molly and for our gay Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.” The song, as they soon found out, was called ‘He likes boys’. Needless to say, laughter was incredibly loud. The short song ended soon, but the laughter lingered on. Through low snickers, Sherlock remarked,
“I somehow think the song was about Mallory’s former crush on me.”
“No shit, Sherlock!” John laughed at him.
“Oh, fuck you, Watson.”
“Giving me ideas?”
“Maybe.” Their shared look was too intense for Celeste.
“Guys, knock it off, you’ll burn the house down."

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Sun Oct 05, 2014 10:53 am

Jenga Johnlock

Word count: 1.329
Songs: x
//songs to listen to//: ALL ABOUT THAT BASS

“Why did you interrupt me? I was in the middle of my class!” Sherlock grumbled complaints as John dragged him across the hall to their room.
“Because I have an idea for the song we can sing!” John said, oddly enthusiastic. Well, what is it?” Sherlock asked, obviously not giving two shits. Instead, he thought about the way he could make use of this playing truant and do something else...
“It’s that one we sang at the kara-“ John’s words were cut off by Sherlock’s possesive mouth on his, pressing him against the nearest wall. John had been snogged an awful amount of times during this week. He was right about Sherlock, he was just a teenager with his hormones running wild. But Sherlock wasn’t strong enough to keep John against the wall. John might be shorter, but there were some muscles in him, unlike the boney structure of Sherlock’s, so he decided to grab Sherlock’s hands unexpectedly, rapidly, and turn around the situation; now Sherlock was the one trapped. John lead him to the little desk and sat him down, because Sherlock was slightly shorter than him in that position. With his hands pinned above his head, Sherlock stared at John, wideeyed.
“You twink”, John teased.
“What did you just call me?”
“Erm, a twink is-“
“I KNOW what a twink is, John, you seriously underestimate my vocabulary.”
“Well, good, then.” John said, and when the talk topics drained, he started kissing Sherlock again, who, surprising John incredibly, made small, whiny noises which made John giggle like a school girl.”So, vulnerable, Mr Holmes. Are you used to topping?” John continued his teasing from before.
“No but your bossing me around is fucking hot”, Sherlock’ voice was breathy and raspy. John, again, felt a hot sting of pain. Just hooking up, was he there only for that? Like the night before, he did something just to make Sherlock think he meant more to him than just sex.
“I love you”, he whispered.
His words were slow and messy due to the kiss. Sherlock instantly pulled back, confusion in his eyes. Confusion, disbelief, desperation.
John, if his phone hadn’t rung at the best possible moment, wouldn’t have an explanation for him.
Sherlock searched the back pocket of John’s jeans for a moment too long before handing him over his vibrating phone.
“Hello?” John let go of Sherlock’s hands so he could hold the phone, but Sherlock took charge and placed him on the desk instead and kissing his neck. Loudly.
“Hey, John!  It’s me, Harry!... What’s that noise?” That noise was a little delighted sound which Sherlock made, coming out of his mouth as it created red marks on John’s skin.
“It-it’s nothing.”
“Hey, John’s sister”, Sherlock spoke loudly from his position.
“That’s me.”
“Do I get an explanation for this?” Harry’s voice was confused. Sherlock’s kisses became more intense.
“...No you don’t, gotta go, byee!” The ‘I love you’ wasn’t mentioned after that.

Celeste stared at Mallory in disbelief.
“You what?!” Celeste asked.
“They asked me to borrow it to them, I didn’t...”
“You know Sherlock hamsters stuff? He’ll never give it back on his own. C’mon, let’s go retrieve it.” Just as Celeste pulled Mallory up, the door opened, Irene behind it, returning from her classes.
“Hey, where are you guys going?”
“Mission: Hoarders. You’re in it now”, Celeste bossed the pair around.
“Wait, I’m confused”, at which Celeste sighed.
“Just go!” she pulled them both out of the door heading up to Sherlock and John’s room. Irene shot a puzzled look towards Mallory, but she replied with an almost mirrored one. Celeste stopped in front of the door and when she raised her hand to knock, Irene lowered it with a shush. Voices that came from the inside said the strangest things.
“It’s going to drop.”
“Sherlock, it can’t drop, I spent a while trying to get it up, IT CAN’T DROP-“
“Well, you obviously didn’t do a good job. It’s falling. Basic laws of physics.”
“Holmes, I swear...”
“Hey, it’s my turn!”
“Get your fucking fingers off of that, it’s my turn!” Then two simultaneously shouted NOOO!s.
“It dropped because of you!!”
“Can’t you keep it up for longer than three minutes so we can actually play?”
The looks on the girls’ faces were the most precious thing.
Irene opened the door while Celste prepared her phone in case they were doing what the girls thought they were doing. And they walked into... John and Sherlock lying on the floor, shooting death glares at each other over a mess of Jenga blocks. They turned their heads to the door at the same time.
“What?!” John asked, his expression a copy of Sherlock’s. You couldn’t tell who was more pissed off. The girls spoke at the same time, not carinf whether anyone listened.
“Jenga Johnlock?” Irene, through giggles, said.” Twitter it, Sally!”
“Oh my God,” Celeste wasn’t so enthusiastic. “There’s two of you.”
“Umm”, Mallory’s voice was the smallest.”Can I get my Jenga blocks back?”

“Please explain why won’t you let me teach you piano. You already taught me how to play Toxic on the guitar”, John sat on his bed with the keyboard on his knees and Sherlock sat on his, both legs and arms crossed. Like a child.
“I don’t want to learn to learn piano.”
“But WHY? Just give me one reason, then I’ll leave you alone”, John said, not really expecting an answer, but Sherlock gave it to him anyway.
“Because my shit-for-brains brother plays it and I don’t want to resemble him in any way. That’s why I picked violin as my first instrument, it was nothing like piano so we couldn’t have the same teachers or the same classes and I didn’t need to see him anymore.”
“I thought the violin was just a prop, for show”, John gazed at the smaller instrument case next to the bigger, guitar one.
“At Melodicon, it is. Guitar and vocals are the only things I teach.”
“But why do you hate him that much?” I get that, as siblings, you’re competitive, but I think you’re a bit too drastic”, John admitted.
“Drastic? He ignored me for YEARS! I can only do the same to him.” Now John was getting there. Maybe it was his brother’s fault Sherlock didn’t care about anyrhinf but the physical or at least he gave out that vibe. That kind of detatchment wasn’t good for a child. John could only imagine what would happen if Harry didn’t speak to him. No, he couldn’t even imagine it, it was too... unbelieveable. Sure, they had their fights and quarrels, and sometimes they didn’t speak for days, but even when they were mad, John did the laundry and Harry did the dishes, because you can’t really only wash your dishes or clothes, not if you’re living together. And, if we presume that Mycroft was a couple of years older than him, they had to live together for at least for fifteen years.
“But, Sherlock, you were both kids, he probably didn’t mean it.”
“I can assure you he did.” The look on Sherlock’s face was a mix of anger, sadness, and the urge to break something. Destructive.
“Okay, I don’t need your family drama, I just want to teach you a rhythm on the piano, it would be interesting, if in the middle of the performance, you pushed the piano bloke away and played a few chords yourself, as if you were showing off.”
“No. Why don’t you just figure out the choreography on your own and leave me out of this, you go do that.”
“Make me.”
And Sherlock did. John learnt never to challenge Sherlock again, he discovered in the weak moans and the electric bolts of breathlessness Sherlock caused. Maybe their relationship was purely physical, but why did it hurt him from the inside when it felt so good?

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Sun Nov 16, 2014 5:47 pm

75 Shades / Half gay

Word count: 1.796
Songs: Mallory's
//songs to listen to//: how the hell should i know

The last performance of Melodicon. The one which was made of three parts. One on Friday and one for the each day of the weekend, since this time, every person who was involved with Melodicon, excluding people like Logan and Kelley, performed. Couple of hundred acts. Of course they had to split it, they’d bore people, no matter how pumped up the music was.
“I can’t believe this all is ending”, Mallory said in a high, distressed voice, her hands on the both sides of her face. She was standing in a circle that all of her new-found friends made, all of them in their costumes, the last performance is broadcasted worldwide; Irene, in a hipster crop top, high-waisted shorts and a hell of a lot of jewelry, all in extremely bright colours, who was fixing her neon green pixel sunglasses; John, in a button-down with a bowtie and a usual leather jacket; and then there was Mallory, who didn’t even come prepared.
Luckily, her new ‘besties’, Celeste and Irene, found her a perfect outfit for the song she was going to play. A brown t-shirt with an owl and BRAVE written on it in small print was Irene’s, so it was a tight fit, but Irene said it looked good on her. Of course, anything that showed off curves made Irene drool, if Mallory had learned anything that week. Mallory had some jeans, so they packed her in that, and Celeste had provided with patterned Converse All-Stars, so she was good to go.
The only thing that bothered them was Mallory’s hair. It covered her face, so Irene didn’t like it, but Celeste said it looked good on her, and since Celeste was more audacious, she won. Allegretto, however, wasn’t costumed, since they didn’t perform that day. Just as that thought crossed her mind, Mallory noticed there was a person missing.
“Hm, where’s Greg?”
“I know exactly where he is”, the most unexpected person said. Sherlock, pushing John’s hands out of his hair and turning around. John looked ticked off by him, so the first chance he got, he leapt to him and ruffled his hair, messing it up. Sherlock elected to ignore him.”He’s with my brother.”
“What, why?” Celeste frowned.
“Remember how Phillip said that we were ‘Fifty shades of gay’, the other night? He was wrong. Actually we’re 75 shades, if every homosexual couple in our group is 25 shades”, Sherlock mused bitterly.
“You’re in it too deep, mate, I was joking”, Phillip said, as shocked as everyone around him.
“Wait, are you saying that Myc and Greg are a couple?” Celeste’s voice was loud, so everyone backstage heard them and started whispering frantically. Her shocked face gradiently faded into crazy joy. She murmured one word.”Mystrade.” Before anyone could add anything, a familiar person appeared. Kelley. As she recited them when they were supposed to get on the stage, Irene secretly crawled to Mallory and got one hair band out of many from her ponytail and tied Mallory’s hair into a messy pigtail on her right shoulder and pressed a kiss to her left temple, at which Mallory blushed. She, however, lost all colour in her face when Kelley dragged her hand away to the stage.
“Huh?” she made a confused squeak.
“Does nobody ever listen to me?” Kelley sighed in frustration, but kept dragging her away from the group, who were sending words of encouragement, but she could barely hear them. “You’re up first, you were the first to sign up.”
“Not again. It’s not my job to care for chickens. Just get out there and sing.” And she pushed Mallory out.
So many people. But as she glanced back, she saw Irene with a huge grin on her face. ‘You can do it’, she read from her lips. Okay. She can do it. That’s what she kept telling herself while she crossed the stage, not looking at the audience and the cameras. She carefully took the guitar from the stand and sat on a stool in the middle of the stage. She took a deep breath. And she sang.
Capo on the fifth, the song wasn’t made for her, what’s why SHE made it HERS. Her soprano barely made it to the first row without the microphone, but with it, it rang across the huge room they were in. The song, ‘Brave’, was her favourite, but because the guitar was always louder than her, she felt like she was flying. And that’s what the song did, it flew away and finished in what, to Mallory, were seconds.
She bowed shyly and skipped over to Irene, ending up in her arms.
“You were so great”, Irene whispered, but she was pushed onto the stage by Kelley.
“You’re next.”
“Wish me luck.”
Irene’s song wasn’t as personal as Mallory’s, because it wasn’t her first performance. Yet it was meant for someone, someone she didn’t expect to get under her skin and invade her heart. Not only did she find a best friend in these few weeks, she also found a person she was pretty sure she loved. She didn’t tell her yet, but she was sure Mallory knew. The hard stuff, they’ll deal with that later.
Meanwhile, she sang ‘Hey Soul Sister’ with a band behind her and the audience loved her. And that might be one of the most amazing things. Her bow was one of the most confident and she pranced over to Mallory.
“We did it”, she told her.
“We did”, Mallory nodded. Irene took both of her hands and dragged her to their gang, which now contained a Greg, and they were clapping at the duo.
“Nice going, both of you”, the newly outed outcast told them.
“Did you even watch us?” Irene snorted at him and let go of one hand of Mallory’s she was holding and swung it lightly.
“Yes, I did. Backstage isn’t the only place from which you can watch the performance. And by that I mean, umm, the AUDIENCE”, Greg snorted back. After that mini conversation, the group dissolved into smaller dialogues: Mallory, Irene and John discussing their song choices; Phillip and Greg making commentary about the last night’s football match promptly avoiding the reason of Greg’s absence; and lastly, Celeste and Sherlock.
“Did you practice your harmonies and everything?” she asked fixing his costume. He didn’t shove her off like he did with John.
“You’re not my mother, Celeste”, his voice still irritated and mocking.
“I know I’m not, but currently, I’m the only female in your life, so you can’t blame me. Did you take your meds today?”
“I don’t want to take them. I’m not ill, you know.” He got even more irritated.
“But... Sherlock, dear, you may not understand-“
“I understand perfectly. Just, don’t, alright?” Celeste sighed and stopped fiddling with his jacket. Sherlock saw Kelley approaching and dragging John away to another entrance, what would be necessary for their choreography. John. What would he say to John?

“You aren’t so nervous now, huh?” Kelley asked John as she dragged him to his position.
“No, not really. Why asking?”
“You seem more confident when you perform with him.”
“Why wouldn’t I? He’s been on a stage three times as many times as I have”, John said.
“That’s cute. You are cute. You know that Johnlock has been a Twitter trend for three weeks straight?” Kelley placed him in front of an entrance to the stage and John could see Sherlock on the other side, twirling a bright red lollipop in his mouth – where did he get that? “I see you’re distracted by your gay lover, so I’ll leave you two at it. Go on. The stage is yours.”
The music started so John stepped out. He reached the centre of the stage just as Sherlock’s deep voice hit the speakers. During his verse Sherlock circled around John, teasing with a few pokes, singing with a lollipop dangling out of his mouth. How was it even manageable to sing with that thing in his mouth? And yet again, Sherlock had proved to have quite a large mouth in these past two week. Metaphorically and...
That thought added a bit of sting into John’s character, so when Sherlock poked his shoulder, he bumped his stomach with his hip and continued onto his verse. He couldn’t believe his voice. It was bright and on the verge of laughter, and completely not John. Or, wait, was it the person John became during these three weeks? Did all those drunken nights get out his bubbly side?
Or was it Sherlock, who marked him his in every way possible? Sherlock, who sometimes slept with his head away from John, but with every other part of his body pressed against him? Sherlock, who showed no intention of actually saying or meaning ‘I love you’.
That thought hit John directly in the stomach, but he managed to stay calm as he focused on the harmonies. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice anything as he kept on his act. In the music break, he even walked near John and shoved his lollipop into his mouth.
There was a roar of laughter at John’s confused face and his mumblings:
“How am I supposed to sing with this”, and, “Your mouth is way bigger than mine, but finally, he decided to hold the lollipop in one hand and the microphone in other as he finished the song with Sherlock. In the last chorus they got dangerously close to each other, and even though the only logical thing to do was to end the song with a kiss, Sherlock just pulled John to the audience and bowed.
John followed shortly after, and while they were walking away from the stage, John put the lollipop back into its original owner’s mouth.
“Okay, give me an explanation. How many of you were actually gay before Melodicon?” Phil asked once Sherlock and John returned to their spot. Irene, Sherlock and surprisingly, Greg, raised their hands.”John, Molly, you’ve quite a bit of explaining when you get home.” If they went home. Mallory wasn’t.
Irene had already made her promise that she will stay with her in a small flat in Brooklyn. Considering she was still in college, there would be a lot of paperwork to do, but they’ll think about it later. Everything could be delayed. As for John, he wasn’t sure about anything at the moment.
“So we’re a group that’s basically half gay and semi straight”, Irene said, and when she received odd looks, she began to explain herself.”Y’know, that song from Fall Out Boy? Half doomed and semi- you know what, never mind”, she shook her head, disappointed in their lack of music knowledge.

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Sun Nov 16, 2014 5:53 pm

Everybody hurts

Word count: 1.357
Songs: x
//songs to listen to//: 1 2 3 4

“Sherlock, what’s wrong? You just dashed off like that, it’s odd”, John said following Sherlock into the room which was no longer theirs. “What’s wrong?” he repeated.
“Moriarty.” Sherlock spat that one word out as he began shoving stuff into his suitcase.
“What about him?” John asked watching him. There was something seriously wrong and John intended to find out just what it was so he could fix it.
“He’s mocking us!” Sherlock said, but then quickly corrected himself. “He’s mocking ME! Didn’t you see? It was all over Twitter!”
“Everybody has a Twitter except me. Tell me what-“John then noticed something that made his stomach drop. No. “Sherlock, are those-“ Sherlock had taken off his ever-present leather jacket off and placed it into the suitcase, and while he was stretching to reach the wardrobe door, John had a clear view to the pink zebra stripes on the skin inside his arms. John’s breath caught. No. How could he not notice that before? Sherlock followed John’s gaze to his arm and looked back at John, his look frantic.
“It’s nothing.”
“Sh-Sherlock...” There was not enough air in his room. John couldn’t breathe.
“I told you it’s nothing. Just like you are nothing.” John was wrong. NOW he couldn’t breathe. ‘Nothing’? “You are just a hook up, someone to get off with. Don’t you get it? This isn’t love. And maybe you’re not gay, maybe you’re right. There’s this thing called the thrill of the chase, but not catching ‘the thing’.  Melodicon just pumped up your adrenaline, and I was in the way, and who wouldn’t miss out on a chance like me?” They were both breathing heavily, but for the first time, it was for completely different reasons.
“Sherlock, just listen-“
“There’s nothing to hear, John! You’re not a fangirl like Mallory, you’re smart enough to figure it out”, Sherlock slammed his suitcase shit and raised it in one hand and his instrument cases in the other. “Johnlock, what everybody has been talking about, isn’t a thing, because I don’t love you.” With those words, Sherlock left John alone, leaned against a wall, trying to breathe. He left for Britain four hours later, still struggling with catching oxygen.

Harry didn't come to the airport, so John hauled a cab and stayed quiet throughout the whole ride home. When they reached John and Harry's flat, John paid and got out of the taxi as soon as it was physically possible. Dashing into the living room, John tried to think. No, it wasn't the 'break up' that hurt him. He suspected that something like that will happen (even though it still startled hom). The scars on his arms did. Was it depression? What from? Sherlock had a life thousands wished to have. World-wide-famous, incredibly gorgeous, and an amazing singer. Maybe it was because of his brother? Maybe Sherlock had a breakdown because he did everything in his life to contrast Mycroft but now he found they shared a personality trait 'homosexual'? Thoughts rolled in John's mind hitting the edges and making him dizzy. He was leaned against the dining room table when Harry got from work. Her eyes widened and a smile appeared on her face when she saw him.
“John! You got back!”She hopped over to him, unusually and uncharacteristically happy. “Tell me everything! How were the performances, how was the food? Did you meet anyone, of importance, maybe someone cute? And, ooh, how was your roommate? I’ve been reading lots about you two in the newspapers”, she nodded towards the stack of magazines on the sofa, “and they’ve all been putting you two together, but it can’t be, right? Because you aren’t gay. That Mallory girl is more your style. And, Adler is so much more my style. Clary and I drooled over her for about an hour. John, what’s wrong? You’re too quiet”, she looked up at him with concern in her eyes. No, you’re too loud.
“Everything’s wrong”, John sighed and let Harry drag him over to the sofa and sat him between all the magazines.
“I don’t think that everything is wrong, dear. Take it slow.” John didn’t listen to her.
“I’m in love with someone who exiplictly told me he didn’t love me back but I don’t care about that but it’s still breaking my heart and, Harry, he has cuts on his wrists, he cuts himself, he’s probably depressed and I want to help but I can’t because Sherlock’s so stubborn and I don’t know if his friends know or if they could help and even though he broke me apart I still for that stupid son of a bitch and I can’t let him continue hurting himself.”
“I said ‘slow’.” Hary said blinking calmly. “So what you’re saying is that Sherlock Holmes, who is also your crus, has depression and is self-harming.” John nodded, wrinkles on his forehead giving away distress. “Okay dokey, this needs to be discussed over a cuppa tea because I don’t believe a single word of that.”

“Hey, Greg, it’s Harry here, look, I really need your help.”
“Harry? Like Harry, John’s sister? Greg’s not here, he left his phone in his bag... My name’s Celeste, and I know everything Greg knows, so what’s up?”
“John’s in the middle of a breakdown. He’s  walking around the flat and cleaning. He’s CLEANING. I’m worried.”
“Is he, by any chance, you know, just asking, listening to a couple of depressing songs on repeat? My idiot dumper is.”
“You read me. Mine’s are ‘In my veins’ and ‘Clarity’.”
“You know how do you know Sherlock’s really gay? One song’s from Nina Nesbitt, ‘The Hardest Part’, of course, the only sad song on the album, and the other’s ‘Worth it’, and this guy who sings it has a higher voice than me.”
“Ugh. So, like, John’s freaking out because he thinks Sherlock is cutting himself himself and I think he’s serious.”
“Yeah, Sherlock has been diagnoused with depression a couple of years ago, and it was horrible, for a month he didn’t go to school, his parents wouldn’t let him and Greg and I decided to help him. Without Sherlock, and us dragging him out of the house every week Allegretto wouldn’t exist. We formed our band, but Sherlock’s brother, you know him, Mycroft, he wanted him to do something else with his life, around that time my fu- my boyfriend joined Allegretto, and Sherlock went solo. I always helped him with makeup, you know, to hide the scars, but it was under control. I think he didn’t take his pills that day and then there was this situation with Greg, and he just broke. When he came into our room he just let it boil for a second and started yelling at us because we were getting ready, because we didn’t finish and we let him get his kicks and he dropped on the sofa and slept for half a day, so, basically, yes.”
“I’ve had too many long explanations like that, oh wow. So what John said is correct?”
“Yeah. I didn’t lose my breath for you not to get me.”
“So what do we do now.”
“Well, I’d like to get the two back together, you know how stupidly happy was Sherlock with John? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile that much. John is his personal sun to his rain cloud. Look at me, I’m already writing couple songs about them.”
“It would be brilliant, yes, if we could do that, but how? I mean, it’s not like they’re on different continents or whatever.”
“Ha. I like you already, Harry Watson. I had already tried to make Sherlock call him, but no such luck.”
“Yeah, and since he dumped John, he has to fix this thing.”
“Mhm, but the thing is, Sherlock lets people get to him, not the opposite.”
“And John is not the one to crawl back.”
“Why are guys are so stupid?”
“I’m glad you noticed.”
“But, eh, I have to live around them.”
“I don’t. Hell yeah. Now, by any chance, is Irene Adler still around?”

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Sun Nov 16, 2014 5:57 pm

I'm down on my knees

Word count: 838
Songs: Sherl
//songs to listen to//: I'M DOWN ON MY KNEES

“I’m despondent!” Harry announced as she grandiously made her way into their shared flat. She sat next to John, who was doing sports: surfing the internet.
“Why?” John wasn’t much in the mood for talking those days.
“Irene Adler is, did you know-“
“An astonishing singer? A drunk? An amazing fuckpal?” When Harry looked at him in an odd way, he shook his head. “Never mind.”
“Why did you not tell me she’s gay? If I knew sooner, I’d-“
“HARRY!” John gaped at the laptop screen. Harry poked her head into John’s vision.
“If you plan on getting over your ex, youtubing their videos is not a good thing to do”, Harry told John. The mouse pointer was on a live recording of Sherlock’s newest performance.
“Harry. HARRY.”
“That’s a Halestorm song, right?”
“HARRY.” ‘I’m not an angel’. The song title caught his eye.
“John, please. Explanation.”
“Harry. This song’s for me.”
“Dear, you’re delusional.” Harry shook her head at John, but she clicked the video, muttering commentary. “Two mill? The video was uploaded today?” But soon it became obvious why John reacted like that, and why it gained so many views. Sherlock’s voice was different. As he sat on the stage, on a tall bar stool, backed up by a guitarist John had never seen before, John recognized where he’d heard that voice. In that small Melodicon room, accompanied with soft, unpracticed guitar chords of ‘Toxic’ and it, once again had him under a spell. Appeared by a Halestorm song, John felt like it was all clear to him. It was filmed in a small bar, but Sherlock didn’t look at the audience. He stared down. John checked if the lyrics were taped there, but no. Evidentially, something was bothering him.
Sitting, hunched shoulders, in a long sleeved hoodie, singing quietly into the microphone, he seemed so helpless. Lines like ‘Can’t help myself from hurting you when it’s hurting me’ and ‘I’ll tear you down, I’ll make you bleed eternally’ broke John’s heart yet again. Seemingly, it broke Sherlock’s, too, as in the middle of the song, he shoved the microphone into its stand and stormed off the stage.
“John, this song’s for you.” Harry’s face mimiced John’s, equal in shock. There were swears from backstage.
“Can’t I do one fucking thing right? No, Greg, I won’t call him, he hates me and I hate myself and fuck it, I want to go home, I’m tired of this all”, Sherlock’s voice sounded hollow and airy, as if he had a cold. Or was crying. That’s ridiculous. Sherlock Holmes, crying? Not a chance.
“Holy cow. John. Do you know what this means?”
“He... he... oh my gosh.”
“Holy cow.”
“Hey guys!” Clara walked into the flat twirling the key in her fingers. Tall ginger with freckles all over her skin and green eyes too big for her face, Clara wasn’t the type of girl Harry would usually go for, and yet, it seemed like it was love. “Did you see that  video-“
“Harry, holy shit, that video.” John was under trance.
“Hey girlfriend. I do hope your creative little mind has some ideas on John’s response to Holmes.” Harry grinned to Clara. She grinned back.
“Some ideas? Yeah, one might say so.”

“Sherlock, open the door.”
“I don’t want to.”
“It’s about John.” The door of Sherlock’s room opened. Centred just outside Manhattan, the tiny flat sheltered Allegretto and Sherlock when they weren’t on tour. They had many places like that around town.
“What about John.” No emotion in his voice. Dark circles under his eyes and carelessly picked out clothes, every imperfection on Sherlock’s overly magazine-perfected body on a plate. But Sherlock didn’t look like he cared, Celeste grabbed his hand and dragged him to the living room, where Greg and Phil were already cluttered in front of the tv. Looking surprised.
“John made a... hm, reply to your performance from Monday.”
“He saw that?” Sherlock asked, a twinge of panic in his voice and sat down next to Greg. He looked at the smart TV, one of the luxuries they could afford. On it, there was a paused video, John sitting on a piano stool, hands hovering above the keys.
“Half a world did. Ninety million views and counting, and it wasn’t even your best performance”, Greg chimed in.
“Just play the goddamn video.” Sherlock didn’t even need to read the title to know the song. He had it memorised word by word, like he’d done with the entire musical. Grease’s ‘Hopelessly devoted to you’ in John’s voice filled his stomach with an unknown, new feeling. Hot and liquid, it boiled through the song. The music video was just John and his music. Like it always had been. The steaming sensation made him burst.
He got up and did something he never thought he would. He dialed a number.
“Mycroft. Yes, it’s me. How fast can you get me to London?”

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Sun Nov 16, 2014 6:00 pm

I literally have no clever title for this so I’ll call it 16

Word count: 933
Songs: last one
//songs to listen to//: x

“Hello? Greg, Celeste, who’s that? It’s an American number, I see, but it’s blocked.”
“Harry Watson? I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m-“
“You better be sorry for what you did to John, Holmes.”
“John Holmes. Sounds nice enough. Anyway. Could you tell him to go to Heathrow around noon tomorrow?”
“I knew you’d be on your knees begging John to stay.”
“But didn’t John tell you? Usually he’s the one on his knees.”
“God. I did not need to know that.

John tapped his foot against the floor. Harry told him to pick up her friend, but so far there was no sign of her in that crowd of people. John was never a fan of airports. He always had a feeling that somebody was staring at him. Especially those people with cameras on their necks.
To break John’s silence, his phone rang, but before John could find it in his pocket, it changed his mind. It stopped ringing. Instead, a text from an unknown number came.
‘I’m wearing a fedora for you.’
‘Who is that?’ John typed a text back.
‘I’m wearing a fedora to hide my hair.’
‘Seriously, who is that?’
‘Hair has always been my distinguishing feature. I believe you’re used to it already, I’m already used to your fingers in it.’ Immediately after, not giving John enough time to react, came another one. ‘Turn around’. John did.
Nothing. Just people.
He kept searching until he spotted a tall figure leaned against a wall.
Leather jacket. Ripped jeans. White fedora. John nearly dropped his phone.
“No you didn’t.” John kept repeating that one line as a mantra as he made his way to the person whose identity was now revealed to John. Hidden under tinted sunglasses, the person raised their head. Smiled an apology smile. John, when he got closer, muttered, “There are people around.”
“I know.” The deep voice hadn’t changed a bit.
“They have cameras.”
“Most probably.” John couldn’t give less shits.
“I fucking hate you.” He wrapped his hands around his neck, before he kissed him.
Let them take a picture, let them take as many pictures as they want. The kiss finally arrived, soft, not rushed, loving. John could say that now.
“I’ve always been a drama queen”, Sherlock admitted through camera clicks.

Half a year later, John decided to get the band back together. What better way than through music.
“IRENE ADLER. IN MY HOUSE.” Harry was having panic fits while Clara was having laughing fits. A shiny new ring sparkled on her finger. The wedding was planned for March.
“Yes, and so is her girlfriend”, Sherlock replied from his spot.
“I’m already planning a foursome”, Harry mused.
“Phil was right. We are fifty shades of gay.” John, whose head was resting on Sherlock’s stomach, both of them on the sofa, snorted and looked up.
“I believe that’s seventy fife shades. See, if there’s-“ Sherlock started.
“No, shut up. They’re coming!” Harry looked at the door.
“Are they? Well, that’s rude.” John hit Sherlock’s ribs at that comment.
“Polite.” He warned him at which Sherlock rolled his eyes. The house in which the quartet was placed at the moment was Harry and Clara’s new home, as Sherlock moved in with John and there was no room for all the. Instead, Harry moved out and got a house for herself, and left Sherlock and John in the apartment she shared with her brother for years. Not much had changed except that. People like to take things slow.
And slow, well...
Sherlock’s and John’s relationship had significantly lowered its pace, since they reached the important milestones, like the first sex, the frst ‘I love you’s. John had said his ‘I love you’ during Melodicon, Sherlock said his in the middle of the night, when he woke John up with his own violin composition.
That was the push John needed to start this thing. Mallory and Irene came all the way from Brooklyn to film a song together with the boys, and since Allegretto was touring Britain, they visit for a few days as well. The whole gang, or, how Irene started to call them, cult, would be all together again. Plus one.
Celeste found out she was pregnant five months after Melodicon ended. It was a huge surprise and it came with a lot of complaining about the inability of drinking beer and parental resistance, but neither Celeste nor Phil couldn’t hide the happiness on their faces. As for Greg and Mycroft, Sherlock told Greg to keep their relationship as quiet as they could. John hoped that one day Sherlock would forgive his brother. But until that day.
The song they filmed was ‘Don’t cry for me Argentina’, and with Sherlock on the violin, John on the piano, Mallory and Irene harmonizing each other, it turned out damn near perfect. In the middle of Sherock’s violin solo he looked at John.
Yes, it’s been hard. It still was, sometimes. But they were young. They’ll get to live a life, a long life together. Was there anything John could ask for that he already didn’t have? ‘The truth is I never left you’, promised the words in the song. And they were right. No matter how many fights they had, no matter how blind John was or how stubborn Sherlock was, the true essence of their relationship always stood strong. Sacred, holy, pure. Friendship in the most blissful of forms. And, after all, loving someone is not that hard.

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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Sun Nov 16, 2014 6:02 pm


Word count: 290
Songs: x
//songs to listen to//: NONE THIS TIME MOFO

Sherlock had been planning to ask the question for a while. He always kept the ring box in his guitar bag. But he never felt like it was the right time. Then he decided.
Like the good old times, yeah?
It was all ready. Sherlock’s guitar was on his knees, a small black box in the back pocket of his jeans. Only the clock had to hit three am. Until then... Sherlock looked at the blonde head laid on the pillow, just centimetres away. How come that silly little head entered Sherlock’s life and made a complete change? Renovation of mind? Sherlock was broken, and John fixed him. He couldn’t ask gor anything more.
Two fifty nine. Fingers on the guitar neck, the pick between his teeth.
Three am.
He started playing.
He didn’t put much thought into the song. He knew which he wanted to sing from the moment he decided to propose in the middle of the night.
“‘It’s getting late to give you up.’” Sherlock sang only the last verse. It was enough to wake John up. He grumbled a swear and turned around on the bed, looking at Sherlock with dream-filled eyes. Sherlock finished the song and put the guitar down before he looked at John, who used the opportunity to yawn loudly.
“You do realise you’re a git?” John asked straightening up on the bed and stretching his back. Eyes, half-asleep, hair tousled up, John’s night look was on Sherlock’s list of things that shouldn’t be attractive, and yet they were. Sherlock gave John the puppy eyes.
“But I am your git.” That earned Sherlock a laugh and he took out the box out of his pocket. It will be alright. With John.


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PostSubject: Re: Maggy's Johnlock   Sun Nov 23, 2014 6:10 pm


Moriarty. That name is strangely poetic. ‘To die is an art’, roughly translated from Latin. I’d picked it for no particular reason, and it stuck with me my whole life. Adding a name similar to mine, I created Jim Moriarty, a pseudonym.

My name is John Watson, and I have the world under my fingertips.

Whichever national treasure you name, I’ve held it in my hands. But I don’t work alone. My small team of highly capable individuals: Sebastian Moran, one of the best snipers in the world; Joseph Dome, a man who can deal with ten bullet wounds at once (tested theory). Oh, and Moran’s (friend? Boyfriend? Brother?) partner, Richard Brook. Since I had no idea what he does in the team, I put him to be the ‘mascot’, the face of which people think when someone mentions Moriarty. In reality, Moriarty the person isn’t some fragile, mentally ill and incapable person. It’s an Afghanistan war doctor, shot once in the leg and twice in the back. And I’m all three combined. I shoot, stitch and scare the shit out of my enemies. Nice combination, if you ask me.

The four of us met in high school and ganged up almost immediately. All ambitious and determined, it was destiny for us to become friends.
It started small; when we went into the principal’s office to edit Brook’s grades a bit. It all escalated from there. Planning was left to Dome and I, Moran would actually turn the plan into reality and Brook... Ah, I don’t know, I guess he’s a facade, a cover up for our parents and, eventually, the police. We didn’t even realize, but we went international short after we graduated.

There was a short break for Moran and I to go to Afghanistan for a four year period. When we came back, reunited with Dome and Brook, we just kept on going. Around that time, we chose that name, Team Moriarty. We made Brook take the name of Jim Moriarty. Mascot, I told you. But as things got even bigger, I felt inadequate to lead the intellectual structure of our team. We needed someone smarter. Brook finally showed himself as useful. He found Sherlock Holmes.

At first, he seemed unfamiliar to me, but once I saw his picture, I recognized him. The amateur detective with a deerstalker. The word ‘amateur’ kind of nipped me, but Brook convinced me he was smart. And I trusted him. We only needed a way to get him on our side.
Considering he worked undercover for Scotland Yard, it wouldn’t be the easiest thing we’ve ever done.

They made a silliest decision, without my knowledge. They’d send me into Sherlock’s flat, they’d make me his friend, and then it’d be easier for him to trust us. In the meantime, we got into trouble. With the most unlikely lot, if I may say so. Scotland Yard started messing with our business. For which I think is ridiculous, since our business rarely interfered with Britain as a general field. We needed to put focus on someone else, so they wouldn’t look at case Moriarty any longer. Of course, our brilliant Dome came up with a plan.

We’d send Brook into the national security system. Why? We’d separate our team. Team Moriarty would be no more. It would be us, Moran, Dome and I, and Jim Moriarty, played by Brook, controlled by my hand. Our team was free of the spot under Scotland Yard’s magnifier, and a person who didn’t exist, Moriarty, would be their point of interest. Of course they couldn’t handle us. I told you, we were an international threat, those dweebs in the police had no chance. And spending time with Sherlock would only give me ideas for Moriarty’s shenanigans, aka crimes. That is, if I ever moved in with him. We needed plans, many plans, and a reaction to his every statement.

We recreated John Watson; from a scheming bastard with a gun to a cutesy little gay dwarf who wears jumpers. Brook was unbelievably ecstatic to go shop for my wardrobe.

There were some bits of my history Dome didn’t want to exclude, such as my time in Afghanistan. His reason was that Sherlock might find it interesting. I did a bit of asking around and found out we have a mutual acquaintance, Mike Stamford, my old middle school friend. Took me a while to get to him, but when I did, we arranged a meeting with Sherlock almost on the spot. He told me that he’d call him and that we’d meet a week from now. I could work with that. Dome and Brook couldn’t.

The first one still didn’t finish my history, and the latter couldn’t stop frustrating over my clothing choices. Moran, in the meantime, got me a gun, completely legal, but necessary, considering Sherlock Holmes was who he sold out to be. I’ll learn the history of modified John Watson and our plan will work. It has to.

“Lestrade, go away! I’m not solving your bloody case, I’m expecting a guest!” I shouted shoving the key into the door and leaned against it, just in case.

“Ooh, who is it, another one of your freaks?” a female voice joined Lestrade’s.

“In fact, it’s a new flatmate to help me pay off the rent!” I continued shouting- no, talking loudly- at the black wood. I had to explain to them what was happening; otherwise they would never leave me alone.

“So a freak.” Donovan said.

“Go away!” I repeated and walked away from the door myself. I couldn’t listen to the case, otherwise I’ll  have to solve it and, I can’t believe I thought that, I mustn’t start working now. Usually I’d get on the case right away, but I was intrigued. A supposed friend of mine, from which I haven’t heard of in years, heard me when I was complaining about paying the monthly rent, so he suggested that I meet his friend later in the day. The proposed ‘new flatmate’ name sounded unfamiliar, so I was interested in what he would say. The whole thing had a scent of mystery I oh-so-worshiped, so of course I’d let the doubted criminal in disguise in, and if it turned out to be dangerous...
I climbed the stairs into the actual flat and dug through my nightstand drawer until I reached the wood panel under everything and I raised it. Beneath was my gun. Actually, Lestrade’s. I nicked it when I had a chance, I don’t think he noticed, and he won’t notice until I kill someone with it. That gives me ideas. I checked if it was loaded then I straightened myself up. What would I do if the person attempting be my flatmate was just that, an after-grad student in need of a flat in London? And you too should be so lucky. If the person was normal, I’d be utterly disappointed. There was a knock on the door, weak, but still audible.

“Hello? Is anybody in there?” called the visitor. I didn’t answer; I just put the gun into my pocket. The knocking stopped then it got more insistent, and the feeble voice got a bit harsher.”Hello? I won’t wait the whole day!” It sounded like he made a decision. What decision, I didn’t find out. I stomped down the stairs, thrilled by the idea of a criminal. Call me a psychopath, I dare you. I already heard it all.

“Patience, please. I’ll be right down!” I answered, hoping that I didn’t sound too excited.

“Is this the residence of Sherlock Holmes?” called the person outside. Residence of. Pretentious, A class expression.

“No, not really, I just rent this place out and pay the rent each month.” I answered and turned the still warm key in the key slot. I opened it to see a blond man, leant backwards on his right foot. He wore a pullover, boat shoes and a teasing look on his face.
“Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” he asked me and swiped some of the hair away from his eyes. I gaped at him.

“Umm, sorry?” I understood completely. We both glanced at the noticeable bulge in my jeans.”Ah, that’s...” I took the gun out of my pocket and placed it in my other hand, in lack of a better place to put it. “That’s for my room, no, I mean work...” I got flustered, and that confused me even more. I don’t get flustered. Ever. And I most certainly don’t blush. He smiled at my blabbering (and possibly, my blushing) and shifted his centre of gravity to his front foot, therefore a couple of centimetres closer to me.

“I’m sure. My name is John Watson”, he introduced himself without offering his hand. Good. That’s good; I never intended to shake it anyway. I gathered myself well enough to be able to form a coherent sentence.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, but- but I guess you already know, considering you came here.”Flustered again. Pick yourself up, Holmes! I am not a chick flick heroine, I don’t need these things.”Umm...” I mumbled and opened the door even more, though it was fully open before. He just laughed and walked in.

“I guess the flat’s upstairs?” he asked while I closed the door. I just nodded; because I didn’t trust my voice, since it betrayed me the last time I used it.”Shall we? He asked me, at which I nodded again.”Cat got your tongue?”his voice got high and teasing. I shook my head and followed him, skipping behind him. When we reached the end of the stairs, he turned around with a smirk on his face I was unable to find a place for in the wide span of emotions I was aware of. I got even more puzzled when he slid his hands in the pockets of my jeans, one in the back and one in the front, both thumbs hitched out of the pockets itself. He got so close all the alarms in my head went off at the same time.”Too bad. I bet you have an amazing tongue.” And with that, he let go of me and walked away to look at the rest of the flat, leaving me shocked, shuddering and waiting for more. Though I wasn’t quite sure what more meant.


“Who was that?” John asked after I walked Molly out.

”A colleague of mine, why?” After a week of living together, we still didn’t talk about ourselves, at all, which was strange, considering that first, well, thing, not sure what that thing was exactly, impression, maybe, and if two people were in a relationship like ours – flatmates, don’t get your teenage girl hopes up – they should talk, right? Small chat? I’m not the person to know about that kind of things. You know, social things.

“I’m curious. You haven’t had any visits of girls, or anyone, for the matter of the fact, and her visit was abrupt, at least”, he said and flipped a page in a notebook for which I still didn’t find a purpose. I raised my head lightly to figure out the drawings I saw in it. Drawings? No, blue-prints. Of what?

“I haven’t had any for as long as you’ve been here, but I’ve had visits.” John laughed a bit.

“A man like you? Visits are not something I’d connect with the name Sherlock Holmes.”

“Then how do you explain yourself?” I asked.

“Myself? I’m not a visitor”, he frowned, which I found... hmm, I believe the colloquial term is ‘cute’. John had taken all the things I believed in, and he threw them out of a metaphorical window.

“You were, at first”, I told him and lowered the volume of the TV. A shitty reality show was on; I watched it only because Molly told me to.

“But I’m not anymore”, he continued arguing, at which I took a deep breath to defend my case.

“Yes, but, arguably, when you knocked at the door for the first time you came at 221, you were a visitor, therefore a guest, because you were yet to become my fl-“ something broke off my speech, and, being in my deductions, I didn’t see what it was. But I felt it.”John-“I said, but it sounded like a quiet choke, since his lips collided with mine.

“Hm, it looks like I was right”, he muttered and pulled away an inch, the most, and my lips parted without my knowledge, taking a chilly breath through my teeth.”You DO have an amazing tongue. Too bad you’re too much of a virgin to use it. I could fix that, you know.” He winked at me and returned to his previous spot.


Hot breath on cold sweat of my neck. Harsh gasps, some his, some mine, some for air, some in surprise. One word whispered like a hymn, like a mantra. Like it’s a secret meant only for his ears to hear. Hands, at the same time strong and shaky, on my neck, in my hair, on my back, lower. Legs tangled in a messy know. I finally deciphered the word. John. Over and over again. I woke up in my bed, alone, my hands grabbing the bed sheet. Disappointed.


The victim, laid in front of me, had visible signs of head trauma, but that was not the cause of death. Her stomach was cut in a shape of a Y, and it was, to shorten the story, butchered. Molly told me to search for fingertips and I found them, but I felt like there was something I was missing. As I lifted the victim’s hand to check if I missed something there, image filled my mind. It was that dream again. John’s hand on my ribs, going south. The victim turned out to have a bullet lodged in her brain, which was hidden by the fractures of skull bones and tissue. But I didn’t know what was wrong with my brain.


“Sherlock. I’m still here.”I lay in bed, and I was pretty sure not my own, with an unknown weight laid fully on top of me, sketching circles on my chest. No, not circles. Suns.

“Hm?” I asked, still half – asleep, so my deduction skills weren’t the best or, you know, existent. I opened my eyes, blinking away the sleep, when I saw him. John. His chin resting below my ribs, hands hovering above the spot where my heart was.

“You kept repeating, last night, you kept asking ‘am I dreaming’, ‘are you still here’, and things like that.” He gave me a small smile.”Am I heavy? When I dropped, I didn’t want to move”, he admitted. He placed a kiss on my throat and I could feel his lips form a curve on my skin. I inhaled sharply when all events of the last night rushed into my mind. One word. John.


John taught me three things. This was the first. After that first time, there wasn’t a week between, to put it nicely, fornicating. It was a nice way to kill time, very nice way indeed. I’d come home from a case and John would be there with a special little smirk of his and I’d know that I won’t spend my night alone. It was just that, at first, but as months, even a couple of years, flew by, I got a little curious. Where does he work? Family, friends, anything? One time I was so intent to find out nearly anything about him that I eavesdropped on one of his phone conversations. Of course, I chickened out before I could hear anything concrete, but I heard a fragment.

“Is Rich ready?”asked John. After a short pause, he nodded.”Faze two, go.”


A week after I overheard that conversation I got a case. But not a case I could solve in hours, like the rest. No, this was something I meddled upon for a month before I got any answers. Then I realized I had a confrontation with one of the most brilliant minds I ever worked with. Moriarty. Things he did were mind-blowing, if I may say so for a criminal. He even put bombs on John, that one time we were a making a deal near that bloody pool. I was dazzled, not by Moriarty himself, but by the fact I finally had a rival who was on my level, a villain worthy of my intellectual abilities. And then it went wrong. Or at least I thought so. He invited me to a rooftop, and I could see what he was aiming for. Not to kill me, no. To kill those who I valued in life, even though I said I wouldn’t. One name caught my interest. He said he would kill John. When I lay down a list of reasons, why he couldn’t do that, he started falling apart. He mumbled things, he stuttered, and at the end, he took a gun and shot himself. I had no idea what was going on and I intended to find out. I left St. Bart’s rooftop (what was with that anyway) and went to check John. I didn’t find him at 221b, but I found his phone. The last message was from someone named Dome.

“There’s something wrong with Brook. He’s going to kill himself up there. Emergency plan, go.” I didn’t understand a word of it, but I never heard John mention anyone whose name resembled Dome, so I got even more confused. Then I found a note written in John’s handwriting.

“Moriarty is not dead. He used his twin brother to trick you.” That explains his confusion.”He got me and he says that if you don’t come”, there was an unknown address there,” he will” from the last L there was a line which crossed out the rest of the text. Self explanatory. I’m running towards the address. I’ll find John and kill Moriarty once and for all.

“Well, Sherlock...” I said keeping my voice low. I saw him turn around and – oh, I confused Sherlock Holmes, the mastermind of the generation. I felt a smirk spread over my face, which just added to my act. Sherlock glanced around, at the tips of his feet, which reminded me of a cat with his whole posture, from wide eyes to insecure legs. Since he couldn’t see me in the dark, I circled around that one beam of light which sheltered Sherlock. When his gaze lingered on the spot where I was for longer than usual, I knew he noticed me, but didn’t want me to know. Ah, dear, I wanted to say, I’m familiar with all your tricks.

“Moriarty.” That one word was filled with such rage the smirk on my face faltered a bit. He wasn’t mad at me, I reminded myself as I took a gun out of the pocket of my jean jacket. Necessary evil. But I needed to get him on my side. I poked the gun into the beam of light, just so the tip was visible. Sharp sound of breath intake came from Sherlock.”No-o...” he stumbled backwards reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, but his hand returned empty.

“I took your gun”, I said in a singsong voice Brook would be proud of. Unfortunately, he was dead. I kept my voice low, unrecognizable to the most, but Sherlock picked up just moments after my mock. The face he made – the look of complete, but hidden mental pain – made my hand shiver. But I regained myself fast enough.

“What do you want?” he asked, slowly, backing away. It hurt me to scare him, but it was obligatory. He wouldn’t listen to me any other way.

“I suspect you already know Moriarty’s plans, and that means you know mine.” I stepped out into the light. The expression on his face gutted me badly. Eyebrows arched up in a triangle, arms leaving their defence, mouth dropping open to reveal a bloody edge – had he been biting it? I couldn’t tell, because walls he dropped while we lived together – been together? – built up at alarming speed.

“John, don’t do this, whatever he made you do, I can help-“

“Sherlock, there isn’t him, there’s only me.” I pressed my fingers against the trigger, but didn’t push it in, so it didn’t fire. But Sherlock couldn’t look more scared than he was before.”Don’t make me shoot.” He didn’t. Somebody else did. Out of the shadows a hand emerged and landed on my shoulder, and I reacted instinctively. My hands tightened around the gun handle and it fired.

“John, I-“Moran said, but I broke him off.

“Shit! Sherlock!” I shook Moran’s hand off of my shoulder just in time to see a body dropping on the ground with a dull thump.”Moran, call Dome, quickly, I need his assistance!” I told him and rushed to Sherlock. Since he fell sideways, I turned him on his back to check the wound the bullet made. He let out a cry and I winced.


“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t mean to”, I told him in a reassuring voice checking the red, soaked hole on his shirt. There was no exit wound, so he had less places to bleed from, luckily it hit his stomach, not chest, or, even worse, brain. I couldn’t stand the thought of Sherlock being killed with a head shot. His brain was his best weapon, and even if he was dying, he would want to be aware of it, deduce blood loss, discover the time of his death. Then I noticed blood coming out of the corner of his mouth. Shit. If he hit his head and caused a concussion – I lifted Sherlock’s head as slow as I could and as gentle but my shaky hands must’ve failed me, as he let a whine out. Nothing. Not a single drop of red, no imperfections on his skill.

I let out a small sigh as I tried to figure out the source of blood. And then it became clear. The inside of his lip was bitten raw, and the blood just kept on flowing. Good. Now I could focus on grander problems. The blood had now soaked the left side of his shirt completely and I knew I had to stop the blood, otherwise the bullet wouldn’t kill him; blood loss will. While I decided on what to do, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed.

“I trusted you”, he said, his voice weak and quiet.

“Trust me now. My guys will take care of you, but for now I need to put pressure on it so you don’t bleed out. It might hurt a little”, I warned him and pressed on the wet, red-but-originally-white shirt. It didn’t hurt a little. It hurt a lot. He growled a groan.

“John, I can’t breathe”, he told me, but I knew he could. I’ve known him for two years, far too long not to read through his bullshit.

“You’re such a drama queen.”

“Ow, ow, don’t-“he squirmed about.

“Fuck, Sherlock, stay still! Or you die! Your choice, not mine.”

“But John, I can’t-“ Can’t finish the sentence? Yes. In the middle of his sentence, Sherlock started choking of blood from his mouth. I plopped down on the ground stretching my legs and put Sherlock’s head on them, so he could clear his breathing system.

“Listen to me, Sherlock. We can do this together. Just let me help you.”

“How can I trust you? You’re a murderer”, Sherlock said and coughed, spluttering blood around him.

“To be honest, dear, you are too”, I said with a faint smile, but my legs and hands were shaking. It wasn’t until he cried a hollow moan I knew I was pressing too hard on his stomach.”It’s funny; you’ve never made that sound out of 221b.” I was joking, but the situation was serious. He stopped overreacting, this was all real pain. His head dropped completely.

“Stay with me, Sherlock”, I muttered and placed my bloody hand on the side of his face. First, I wiped, or better to say, smudged the blood river on the corner of his mouth, then I rolled his head on the other side, so his face was turned to me.”I’ll explain everything, just hold on.” I didn’t know whether I wanted him to stay awake until Dome helps me with him, so I could be assured he wouldn’t die in the meantime, or if I wanted him to pass out so he wouldn’t feel pain. He chose the latter.”Sherlock-“but he was already gone.

His chest lifted in faint breaths, making his torso the only thing that moved on his body. I drew red suns on his neck until Moran returned with Dome and we shipped him off to Dome’s house to patch him up. It took me a while to convince myself to wash the already dried, black sun on my palm. Sun made our of Sherlock’s blood.


When Dome finished, we carried him to a sofa and Moran and Dome left me alone with him. I knew what they were saying behind my back. ’Why does he care so much about Holmes?’ and really, why did I care? He was nothing to me, only a brain to help me catch the uncatchable, solve the unsolvable. But, sitting across him, so fragile, distant, he looked like a child. Curled up across two sofa seats, his knees still touched his chest. An insanely tall child, I thought to myself with a faint smile.

He didn’t wake up for a long time. I fell asleep after a couple of hours, exhausted from the sight my mind made, of Sherlock lying in a red puddle, eyes open, but blank and glassy. My dreams weren’t much better, because in them, there was the same picture, only, when I moved, I saw it from different angles. I woke up when dream-Sherlock let out a scream. Luckily, the real Sherlock was still sleeping, so I decided to get us a drink. I never got around in Dome’s house, so I, naturally, got lost.

Grumbling frustrated swears, I checked every door until I found the kitchen and on the counter, I found already cold tea and a couple pills stacked against the mug. The, furiously scribbled, explained those were painkillers for Sherlock and that he, Dome, required an explanation of my actions. What and how could I explain that to the guys? I couldn’t explain it to myself. I panicked so badly, like my own mother was dying. But it wasn’t my mother. It was Sherlock, who was just my shag-to-go, we had agreed on that a while ago. Yet... No, no thinking about that now. Later, when he recovers. Feelings, emotions as such, were a tripping stone on the way to success. I returned to the room to the still-unmoving Sherlock and placed the mugs on the table. Since my hands had been full, I wasn’t able to close the door properly, so a draft shut it with a loud noise of wood against wood. Very loud. Sherlock’s eyes opened, horrified, scared, and shocked.

“John”, he gasped and tried to get up from the sofa, but with no success, He fell back, crying out in pain.

“You have a stomach bullet wound, patched up, bruises on the left side of your body, which will heal, and your mouth is bitten at, so it will heal as well, if you don’t bite on it anymore.” I lay down his list of injuries.”What did you even do to your mouth?” Sherlock looked to form a question, so he answered mine.

“It has bites”, he stated the obvious.

“Yes, it does.”


“Guess.” He didn’t guess.

He started yelling at me.

“You liar. You utter and complete liar! You tricked me into trusting you-“

“Really? Sherlock Holmes? Trusting Jim Moriarty?” I couldn’t help myself from feeling smug. Sherlock’s ‘I trust you’ was equal to someone else’s ‘I love you indefinitely much’. But not anymore.

“I didn’t know—you never told me!” Because of the constant pain, his mind was working properly. I nearly felt sorry for him. Nearly.

“Why didn’t you deduce?” That fazed him. He wanted to get up so bad, I could see it in his tense muscles, and he wanted to circle me in his catlike stride, wanted to confuse me, his prey. His injuries made it impossible.

“So that’s what the shagging was all about. To confuse me, wasn’t it.”

“No, you did a pretty good job confusing me yourself.” I decided to play the honesty card.

“Huh? And how did I confuse you? To be Moriarty you have to be fairly smart and—Ow!” Loud moan.

“Christ, Sherlock! Don’t move, you’ll ruin the stitches”, I added and walked over to him, dropping the empty mug on the coffee table almost instinctively. I pulled his shirt up to reveal his torso up to his ribs.”Fuck, you’re bleeding again. Won’t you just listen to me, just this time, please, Sherlock.” I was blabbering now.”You’ll need stitches again, fucking stay still, Sher-“ he surprised me, which is a horrendously difficult task to accomplish with a criminal mastermind like myself. He pushed my hands odd of himself and he (I can’t even imagine how much had it hurt) arched up, not moving his legs, joining our lips into a kiss.

If our kisses before were dark red (not love, not desire. Passion. Lust.), this one was light blue. Lining of pain, fleck of need, splatter of desperation. Our every kiss was a work of art. But I wasn’t prepared.

My instincts kicked in and I knocked him out by banging our heads against each other. Muttering swears, I dialed Dome, Sherlock’s blood covering my hands once more.

“Did his stitches break?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Because I used wrong string, it would break soon enough. I’m already here.”


When we, together this time, stitched him up, properly, I drove him to 221b. I’d hoped that familiar surroundings would make him less tense. They did. I explained him what I planned on doing. He seemed thrilled by that, surprisingly enough. I apologized to him for the hit in the head. He apologized for the kiss. I asked to get him some water, but I didn’t get pass the living room.

Even though he was physically spent, his lips were insistent and hard against mine. After a couple of moments, I decided that it would be for the best if we transferred the affair to the bedroom. I lifted him up and carried him, not stopping our kiss for one second. I lay him down so he would bottom at which he made an annoyed little groan. The whole thing was such an opposite of our usual: it was tender, feather light, quiet, and escalating slowly until reaching ecstasy.

Why, someone may ask, did we oh-so-desperately need to do this? We were away from each other for weeks, because of that Moriarty case, and, even though he was injured, we needed each other, in any way, physically, mentally, spiritually. Or better yet, our bodies craved for touch, and everything else just followed the path. We made little to no noise, which was odd, because usually our neighbours knew exactly what we were up to. Thin walls, what can you do.

The only louder sound was Sherlock’s helpless whine at the end. Then he looked at me, and I looked at him. I’d been incredibly careful, barely touching his lower lip (I touched everything else, though), but above the upper one, pale pink teeth marks stood out. I had no memory of leaving them there. He pulled his lips into a small smile.

His next words, completely irrelevant to what we’ve just done, taught me that mixing Sherlock on painkillers and post-orgasmic Sherlock wasn’t a very good idea.

“I’m in love with a criminal.”
Me too, Sherlock.

The second thing that John taught me was the thrill of being a criminal.

Once his friends found us at 221b, discussing plans, John made a victorious announcement; he got me on their team. Of course, then they had to tell me the whole story, who was Moriarty really, what were they, what they do, when were they found, why did they need me and so on, so on. They answered all my questions carefully, as if I might go double agent and tell everything to the police. I didn’t, of course.
I spent my whole life trying to avoid boredom, and what was less boring than working for the, wait, no, behind, the most powerful criminal organisation that I know of? It was thrilling. Even though they gave me a laptop to work on until I get better, I was still interested. Then they explained the way we were going to work.

Before we started dealing with things outside of Britain, we had to deal with Scotland Yard. One way was to blow up the entire building, but that would be, quite frankly, ridiculous. We chose to deal with a few of those, the most insistent ones, surprisingly fast. John and his team came back a day after we thought of a plan. Then, they came up with a great idea. They’d, well, get rid of some less dangerous ‘villains’, and I, as a ‘good guy’ would blame the death on a more dangerous one. And it worked perfectly.
Moran and Dome got used to me pretty quickly, considering that I stole all their tea when John left me in their houses. And nobody called me a freak, so that was a nice change. I was a part of a team, yes, a team which murdered and stole, but a team nevertheless. And I loved every part of it, from guns, computer codes and more, but the best part was just John.
And that’s the third thing John taught me. Love.

Let me hear all your teenage squeals. But not love like before. That was just a physical relationship, with no commitment. This... this was something else.

It started gentle. Due to my mouth and stomach injuries, most of the time I sat on the sofa and typed plans on the laptop, and every day when John came home, he placed a kiss on my forehead, at first unexpected, then very welcome. Of course, we almost never stopped there. Old habits die hard.

Nevertheless, something had changed, and at one point, I realized that sex wasn’t the most important thing anymore. How?
Well, there was that one time, not a month after the accident, when John asked me to move away my laptop. When I did, we sat in silence. Then, after a couple of minutes, he shuffled closer to me and pressed a kiss on my jaw. He asked me is this thing we have love. Silence again. He got up and started blabbering nonsense, half of it which I didn’t understand. He rambled on, until I got up, grabbed his hands and made him look at me. I said that I’ll be there for him until the day we die, and that I didn’t know whether that’s love or not, but I promised – no, I vowed to him -  that I would take a bullet for him, if it was needed, that I would die for him.

Yes, I rambled on myself, too, nearly five minutes, as it later transpired, but then John stopped me. With a kiss. He said yes to all of it.
Moran and Dome often teased us whether we’ll get married or not. We say it’s a question for a million dollars. But we did think about it. That is, until John’s cover was blown.

Since Moriarty was technically dead and Team Moriarty was still working, some of the so called experts started guessing that somebody behind Moriarty was still alive and in function. After an impressive search, may I add, they discovered the identity of that person, John’s identity, and we decided to run.

We continued working in North America. Surprisingly, there was many more space to work there. We’d never go so extreme to cause a terrorist attack, but we were bloody capable of it. Don’t be surprised if you see a quartet of British men in a coffee shop discussing, over an espresso shot, how to destroy the Empire State Building and laughing their arse off, because that was what we, most of the time, did. It would be weird to see for serial killers at Starbucks, but you wouldn’t know.

Our new identities stayed a secret until the very end.

But what was I saying, I rambled off... Ah, John. No, we never got married, we never adopted, never settled down. Staying in one spot was never an option. We were always on the run, adrenaline was our drug. And even though there were times when we wished that we were just like everyone else, the thoughts were shaken away soon by the thrill of a new murder.

Even though we never admitted it, we were addicted.

Addicted to a certain lifestyle.

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