"hanged," yes.

thenizu:

^{Good morning. I love you.
Ps. biscuits, milk and formaldehyde are missing.}

The only missing piece now is you.

Sherlock would leave him notes in random places; little surprises that were always pleasant, even if the main gut of the note was him confessing to destroying a lamp two weeks ago. They were pleasant because they were from Sherlock, in his impossible, chicken-scratch writing.

They were pleasant because no matter what else the note said, he always said, ‘I love you’ - the only time, really, where he would say so.

Mycroft’s planning a kidnapping. Dress accordingly. I love you.
Firstly, I love you. Secondly, yes, it was I who broke the lamp. Ignore the new crack in kitchen table. Will fix someday.
You’re home on lunch. It has been three and a half hours since I’ve seen you; appropriate to remind you of my affections? Mark one. YES [ ] OBVIOUSLY [ ] I love you.
Good morning. I love you. Ps. biscuits, milk, and formaldehyde are missing.

When John had a bad day, or when they had a row, he would go to their sock drawer, rummage through his side, and search for an old, wool pair that held the notes with a rubber band. He would review them, and laugh, and smirk, and mutter things like, “Bloody Hell,” or “What a git,” because Sherlock could go from professing his sentiment to asking for pig entrails with a singular stroke of his quill. (Much more fun than pens, John, he argued as he trailed the feather along John’s jaw.)

After the fall, he did much the same. He went back and read through every note that he had once found tucked in his shoes, or taped to the jam jar, or stuffed in his pants in the middle of the night, or hidden under the keys of his keyboard. He read them over and over, until he had them memorised and could remember the wheres and whens of each and every one. He read them in the bed that was no longer theirs. He read them over two cups of tea: one touched, the other filming. He read them sagged against the sofa, without a tall detective to lean against.

They were precious, each and every one of them, and reminded John that Sherlock must have loved him, even if he hadn’t listened, even if he hadn’t come down, even if he hadn’t come to John for help, hadn’t talked to him, hadn’t reached out. Because that was what he was there for: to support Sherlock, to protect Sherlock, to love Sherlock.

They were precious, and he defiled them with teardrops. He could almost hear Sherlock’s comment of his carelessness.

But almost wasn’t good enough.

indyfalcon:

I listend to Sufjan and drew a thing 

…the end 

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” John mumbles against Sherlock in explanation of his attachment to the detective. His voice is hushed and broken and it drives a stake of guilt through Sherlock’s heart. It is well-reflective of the man himself: healing, yes, but scarred, and all his pieces have been brought back together imperfectly, cracked and delicate; and Sherlock loves him no less for it.

The doctor’s eyes open, dimmed and sorrowful, as he gulps in the detective’s scent, and counts his heartbeats - twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six -and reassures himself that he’s not mad, and he’s not alone, and Sherlock is home, and safe, and there, and alive. “You weren’t there,” he chokes in a weak murmur.

It hits Sherlock too late when he reaches the crime scene that he had forgotten to wake John and tell him where he was going. He had been careless and thoughtless and stupid in thinking he could spend an hour (which turned into two, then three, then four, five, six hours) at the crime scene and John would be okay. Sherlock had only been home three months and knows he isn’t healed himself. Why would John be? John; his loyal, faithful doctor, who didn’t deserve the pain he felt and continues to feel.

It’s enough to make Sherlock wonder if he deserves to be home at all.

“I apologise,” he murmurs sincerely in return. He cants his head and gently noses John’s temple. He never pushes John off as he clings close, like a lost child. He never judges as John continues to fear and continues spontaneous pulse-checks and continues to doubt that he is home for good. He continues to be patient and courteous and gentle and human, or at least as best he can be, because it is what John deserves, even if he does not deserve John. No, never, not at all.

The doctor does not fight as the detective places a protective arm on him and draws him closer, into his lap. He only clings closer to the man and his greatcoat. He lets Sherlock speak soothing words, and for once does not feel guilty for being broken and scared. For once, he does not put Sherlock first. He revels in the comfort because there is something to revel in; because Sherlock is there to hold onto, to listen to, to love again. He deserves this moment.

And that is why Sherlock continues to try. He murmurs soft words into John’s blonde-speckled-grey hair; runs what he hopes are comforting circles on his back; pulls him closer still as his shorter frame is wracked with a tremor from tears Sherlock knows he is unnecessarily holding in; chases the ghosts of three years past away as they stitch themselves back together, lop-sided and fragile, but together nonetheless. And it is enough for them both.

Oh, but The Doctor knows. He knows it’s all a lie, and a trick, and it’s going to hurt John for three years to come, like a wound that refuses to scab so it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds. There are timelines where Sherlock comes back early, and timelines where he doesn’t come back at all, and universes where John finds out and he finds him, and dimensions where this never happens at all. But, they are void, dead end, invalid. This is reality, and this is pain and suffering and weight on his shoulders.

He takes John’s anger and heartbreak and blame and holds onto it. He knows John cannot, will not blame Sherlock, and he doesn’t know to blame Moriarty. Not yet. Not for three years. So the timelord takes the blame, as he has done in the past and shall do in the future. Then again, those are things that were and are and will be entirely his fault. This is not one of them.

But, he has made a promise. A promise to a man in a greatcoat who stuns and amazes him and is so wonderfully human. They both are, his boys; Sherlock and John, in the flesh, bickering about what sort of jams to get. He finds them funny, and can see the bond, can feel the love between them that burns like immortal stars, and knows that if he says anything, if he breaks his vow to watch over John as if Sherlock had truly died, that that bond will be fractured and damaged. This is something John must bear. This is something Sherlock must fix. This is something they will overcome, together.

He has to stay silent, for them and for this tragically fixed point, and it’s killing him.

The Doctor can only breathe out another, “I am so, so sorry, John,” because he is, because he wants to tell him, wants to take him to Sherlock; but the consequences would be too grave. So he watches as John looks off, lips raised in a snarl and eyes watering, and he repeats it again, broken and hurting, “I’m so sorry,” because it’s all he can say for now.

Time burns before his eyes and is the marrow in his bones. He feels every second ticking by like lightning strikes: transient and quick. But, this is agony, and this is heartbreak, and is slow and uncomfortable like a twisting knife in all their hearts. This is waiting, and he hate waiting, and he has to do it for three years, just like John, just like Sherlock. Three years until the two halves are rightfully reunited. Three years until he sees Sherlock and John smiling again. Three years until it will all be fine and over and done with.

Three very long years that will be spent lying to and consoling an inconsolable man.

He sincerely regrets telling Harry.

She won’t stop texting him about it. Even at two in the morning she asks Sherlock whether or not he’s asked John to marry him. Perhaps it’s her txt-tlk filled messages, or maybe it’s her nosiness that keeps him from replying. That, or he doesn’t want to admit that he hasn’t asked yet, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to, or if he’s going to at all because he’s scared.

A thousand rejection schemes swim through his head every time he thinks of pulling out the tiny velvet box and depositing it in his partner’s lap, or coming straight out and demanding they be married, or simply purchasing a marriage certificate and leaving it under a cup of tea and a shopping list. He and John have been together for seven years and had been dating for three of those. It can be assumed they will stay together their entire lives. But, marriage is legally-binding; all name-changes, and social security checks, and paperwork with idiotic lawyers.

He never previously considered the thought of marriage and absolute commitment until he caught himself one day looking at John as he struggled to clean the windows and simply thought, ‘I love you.’

Two weeks later, he asked Harry for John’s ring size, and has thusfar received forty-seven texts from her, none of them containing his requested information (which he deduced five minutes later).

JFC whats stopping u? You know hes going 2 say yes!!!

He stares at the newest message on the phone and frowns thinly. He’s gotten into the habit of carrying the ring with him in case he spontaneously became inspired to pop the question (Harry advised him to avoid the cliche ring-in-the-champagne trick, logically citing the chances of him swallowing the ring on accident and thus ruining any romantic prospects). Thusfar, nothing. Oh, but when he stares at John as he sips his coffee and eats his cafe meal and reads the paper and smiles back, his heart flutters and he wants to blurt the question gracelessly aloud, and confess every emotion John makes him feel, and sweep him off his feet. It’s overwhelming, the urge to just ask.

Yes, John will likely say yes. But, there is no guarantee, and this is one risk, one gamble, that is fragile, and Sherlock cannot afford to lose.

“What are you staring at?” John asks as he begins to lean across the table to read the message.

Sherlock swiftly exits out of it and waves his hand dismissively. “Nothing important,” he assures John, taking sudden interest in the salt and pepper shakers on their table: cheap, old - at least ten years, similar to every other set in the small cafe, insides changed every three weeks.

John blinks, opens his mouth to protest, then decides it isn’t worth it. There’s nothing they hide from one another, really. It was likely a picture from the case, or a boring text from Mycroft, or the weather. “All right,” he says, and returns to his chips. He nibbles one quietly, scanning the wall of the cafe and its peeling wallpaper and menu specials in Comic Sans.

Sherlock continues to watch him and takes in every detail, every physical and subconscious psychological thing that makes John John, and he relishes in it, and drowns in it, and finds himself unable to cope with the emotions toiling away in him. How it is that something so simple - John folding his hands together and resting his chin upon them as he tilts his head and examines a wall - renders Sherlock near thought- and speechless is beyond him, and it’s so maddening not knowing, and it’s wonderful, and—

John is speaking to him, but he’s so in his head that he does not hear. “Hmm?” he asks in a hum, blinking out of his trance.

John is looking at him now, and he smiles warmly, as if he expected Sherlock to not have heard him the first time, and he replies simply: “I said, ‘I love you’, git.”

There’s no reason for him to say it, none whatsoever. Sherlock has done nothing romantic to prompt the sentiment. It isn’t time for bed, nor is it them tangled together after a satisfying shag, holding one another in the evening. It’s not Sherlock stunning John with genius, or abruptly showing up at his work and kidnapping him for a date at Angelo’s. There’s no reason for John to express his feelings, and that is why Sherlock reaches into his pocket, licks his lips, and begins by saying, “There’s something I must ask you, John…”

Because John is his courage, and his confidence, and that is all he needs - one unwarranted confession coupled with soft, loving blue eyes - to know with certainty that this will turn out all right and end as all things seemed to: with them, together, absolutely.

gaytectives: OOH OHH capernoited john/sherlock yes good

Capernoited - Slightly intoxicated or tipsy.

“I am never bringing you out to a bar again,” John groaned into his hands.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, had his scarf tied around his forehead and was demonstrating judo to the other patrons.

“I don’t see why you’re complaining, John,” the man spoke, his voice slower and slurred just slightly. Only John could hear it, of course. “I’m merely giving a demonstration to these fine gentlemen.” A cheer from the crowd and several drinks being held in the air made the detective grin as he balanced, one-legged, on his stool. “They’re rather supportive of my martial arts. Unlike you,” he added with emphasis.

John rubbed his temple, still not looking. “Just because I’m your partner doesn’t mean I’m going to be behind you leaping off a bar stool while you’re drunk.”

“You’re not behind me; you’re beside me. And, ‘n not drunk,” the detective whined. ” ‘M slightly inhabited. Incubated.”

“Inebriated?” the bartender offered.

“That’s the one,” Sherlock cheered, pointing at the man and nearly slipping. John caught his ankle and tugged him back onto the stool, however, and helped him get balanced once more. “Inebriated. Yes. Silly John.” He reached down and patted his partner on the head. “My silly, silly John.”

John stared at the bartender with a look that could kill as he asked, “D’you have a first aide?”

They did, under the fire extinguisher last used in 1987. And it was a good thing they had one, for Sherlock Holmes, inebriated consulting detective, sprained his ankle when he leaped into the crowd, hit the ceiling fan, and rolled his ankle on the fall.

“They laughed at me, John,” he blurted, distraught, as John hauled him home. Quite literally, too: he was slung over John’s good shoulder like a kill. Not that he was complaining, really. It gave him an excuse to touch John’s bum as he walked in the light snowfall.

“Of course they did. You made an arse of yourself,” John replied unsympathetically. With a muttered, ‘hup’, he shifted Sherlock on his shoulder and kept both arms wrapped around his sides. “Hence why I’m never taking you out drinking again. You had one drink and you sprain your fucking ankle doing judo.”

Sherlock pouted with a ‘harumph’ and folded his arms as best he could. “You’re putting this on the blog, aren’t you,” he stated.

Chortles escaped John. “You know it.”

“You’re cruel.”

“And you’re a dumbarse.”

Still, once John helped Sherlock limp inside and once they were settled in bed, with Sherlock’s ankle propped on plush pillows, John kissed the corner of his mouth and claimed that Sherlock was his dumbarse, which made the ache in his ankle and the pounding in his head worth the show.

itsjuststayingalive: basorexia & sherlock

Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss.

It was a bit like drowning.

Sherlock could understand that, at least. As a boy, he had nearly drowned in the ocean once whilst looking at a tide pool. High tide sneaked up on him and stole him out to sea, but thankfully, his manic, drunk uncle, who happened to be a champion swimmer, dove into the sea to save his nephew.

That same uncle died after being hit by a bus. He supposed that was what it felt like, too.

It happened when John smiled at him, or when he was particularly brilliant (or, more often the case, stimulated Sherlock’s brilliance with some quip or comment about something ridiculously simple Sherlock had overlooked), or when he was being witty and snarky to Mycroft, or when he insisted on being overly and unnecessarily protective, or when he did anything remotely John-ish, which, unfortunately for Sherlock, was everything he ever did.

Sherlock was utterly besotted with John and consumed with the need to show it.

He enjoyed thinking of ways to approach the delicate desire he had to just fucking kiss the shorter man. He could pin him to the wall, run a hand on his jaw, murmur his name deeply, and take him then and there. (No, no. Too Clark Gable.) He could turn to John in the midst of battle, grab his face, kiss him, and whisper, “Be safe,” before dashing off. (He was sure that move was copyrighted by someone flamboyant and ridiculously sentimental like George Lucas.) Or, he could just scream, “Brilliant!”, kiss John deeply, and push him away and continue to deduce. (Which would earn him a punch in the face.)

Needless to say, his bountiful pool of ideas, which were taking up a whole closet and bleeding onto the carpet of his Mind Palace, were all rubbish.

He could ask for help from others, but Mycroft would surely mock him for pining after his doctor so helplessly; Molly would be uncomfortable with offering advice for him kissing anyone but her (and she, surely, had as many ideas as he did on how to kiss him); and Harriet would surely slap him on the shoulder, give him congratulations and a wink, and tell him to pin her brother down and mount him like a lion.

So, he brooded. And sulked. And grumbled. And groaned. And accepted tea Mrs. Hudson made him. And threw blankets. And was absolutely catatonic to the point where John, bloody, stupid John who was causing all his grief, used him as a laptop table.

It was when he had taken to hiding under his bed that John finally asked him what his problem was. And Sherlock, graceless and socially-inept, didn’t put on the filtre he used for John and John alone when he said, “I have had an overwhelming urge to kiss you for the last three weeks.”

He expected the bed to be thrown out the window and for John to kick him senseless, or for the doctor to scream, “WHAT?!” and tell him why that was very not good, or to react in any way other than how he did, which was by pausing for three seconds and asking: “Why?”

Sherlock blinked in his dark refuge. “Oh, I don’t know,” he replied in a sarcastic tone, “why do most people want to kiss others?”

“You’re not most people, so I don’t know why you’re asking,” John replied after another moment. He hadn’t run away yet. Good.

Sherlock snaked out from under his bed and towered over the doctor when he was standing up. “Look at my eyes, John,” he murmured, knowing they had to be black as night and lacking his normal ice. He judged by the way John gulped and licked his lips that he could spot it and was enticed. “My wrist,” he uttered, offering it to the other man, who took it and was surely counting the fast, pitter-patter beats under the pale flesh.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, looking up at him in disbelief. “You - “

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, and a smile melted his features. He felt light as air, relieved of all his suffering and the waters of attraction which had filled every pore of his body; free of the feeling of a double-decker ramming into him and dragging him under the back left wheel because he crossed the street whilst shite-faced drunk; free of the need to run and hide. John Watson was going to kiss him.

John Watson was sticking a thermometer in his mouth.

“You’re sick,” John sighed, shoving Sherlock onto the bed. “I figured your over-sulking meant as much, especially when I cleaned up that moss experiment and you didn’t say a thing.”

“You dith wha?” Sherlock asked with a glare.

“Don’t talk with that in your mouth,” John replied.

Though Sherlock’s temperature read normal, John still insisted he lay in bed with a cool rag and some Ibuprofen in his system (which Sherlock was glad for, because his head utterly ached). He brought him in tea and asked Mrs. Hudson to make some soup, and Sherlock hesitantly took both, if only to please John and distract himself from the urge to jump out the window and find the nearest bus to fling himself in front of.

Of course John thought he was ill. Of course the notion of emotions and desire was inconceivable when it came to Sherlock Holmes. Of course he would be doomed to pine for him from afar, watching him run off with ill-fated dates until he would find the one who would successfully steal him away forever.

A kiss to his forehead awoke him from such thoughts. His eyes peeled open and the furrow in his brow vanished as he stared up at the smirking doctor. “If you wanted to kiss me that bloody badly, all you had to do was ask,” John teased with a wink. He held Sherlock’s hand for a long moment, then rose from the edge of the bed and sashayed out of the room in a manner that Sherlock swore was flirtatious.

John Watson had kissed his forehead. John Watson’s eyes had been dilated. John Watson held his hand. John Watson had been swinging his hips in Sherlock’s face. John Watson had not had a heterosexual, midlife crisis in the midst of any of those movements.

Sherlock wiped off the gawk he wore, threw off the duvet and the wet rag, and tailed after his friend, calling his name in a tone that was not desperate: “John!”

Approximately one minute and twenty seven seconds and one knocked-over lamp, a messed-up rug, and two crinkled shirts on two heaving chests later, Sherlock gazed down at John, who he had pinned on the couch after slamming their mouths together in the hall and dragging them across the flat, and murmured against his lips, “Asking is over-rated,” before kissing him again, gentle and sweet, and the two of them smiled.

(When Mycroft texted Sherlock to “be careful” with John and to not defile the furniture because it was in “bad taste,” John had to run into the loo to stop Sherlock from flushing his mobile.)

(A week later, Harry sent John an envelope filled with free condoms and coupons for lube. Sherlock thanked her for being financially-savvy. John said he wanted to find the nearest bus and jump in front of it. Sherlock laughed, kissed his temple, and told him he understood the feeling all too well - as did his drunk uncle.)

audreyneedsalife: Dystopia - John Watson. (Gah, this will be sad, won't it? Will I regret it? Agh - I'll just click ask now before I change my mind.)

Dystopia - Am imaginary place of total misery. A metaphor for hell.

“You couldn’t save him,” the voice whispered like a serpentine hiss.

John whirled about himself, blinded by the whiteness of his environment. An echo rode on the imagined wind. There was a chill in the nonexistent air that made him shudder. Instinctively, to protect himself, he squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and called, “Who’s there?”

“You couldn’t save him,” the voice repeated, close to his ear. He swiped at the air and flinched away from the noise.

He knew that voice. It was familiar, and dark, and filled his dreams with pool-side nightmares of bombs and losing Sherlock in the blue depths. “Moriarty,” he growled, gritting his teeth.”

“Ohhh, you found me out,” the voice sighed, lamenting.

A figure appeared before him. Its outline was blurry and grey, but its body was as white as its surroundings - except for its face. It had almond eyes filled with white and teeth which grinned from corner to corner. “Boo hoo,” the thing taunted in Jim’s tone, “poor Johnny Boy is all alone.”

“Shut up,” he murmured. His trembling fist was a clear show of his lack of patience.

“Why? It’s true, isn’t it?” it said with a casual shrug of its shoulders. “Me tip-toeing around the topic won’t make it go away.” It began to move about John, silent and stalking, grinning the whole while. “It’s true and you know it. You’re alone. All alone. And you did it to yourself.”

Without warning, the white blur appeared right next to him, leaning into his ear to whisper, “You killed Sherlock Holmes.”

“I said, SHUT UP!” John hollered suddenly, aiming a blow to the being. But in its place was nothingness. Nothingness was all he knew there. A choked noise escaped him. The soldier held his temples and screwed his eyes shut. “It’s not my fault,” he uttered. “It - it was - it was him. He jumped. He did it himself.”

The whiteness of the room faltered as red began to bleed around John’s feet, and he swore he found himself standing on concrete.

Another voice rang in his head. Did I, John?

The doctor’s dark eyes opened. He sharply lifted his head and stared around him, seeing nothing but white-on-grey-on-red-on-concrete. He took one step back, then another. “No,” he whispered. John was helpless to fight the tremors overtaking his body. “No, no, you - you can’t be here - “

I am ethereal, John. A spirit, a spectre, a ghost. I can be wherever I want to be. John covered his ears and shook his head. “Please,” he whimpered, “go away. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The voice didn’t relent. I can be in your nightmares and in your dreams. I can be in the marrow of your bones. John felt his joints strain and ache, and it made him whimper from the pain. I can be in the blood pumping through your body. His heart pounded so hard it had him doubled over, begging for air. I can be your eyes, and ears, and nerves, and heart. I can be you, entirely and wholly; the man who could not save me.

Wind echoed around John’s head, and he wondered where it came from. He carefully opened his eyes, only to regret doing so immediately. He could see the street below, with the benches and the laundry truck and the passerbyers. He could see the rooftop concrete under his feet and could feel the swaying vertigo from the downward gaze he can’t seem to break. He felt the rain on his skin whipped about by the wind from Bart’s roof.

“Please,” he rasped out desperately as his arms slowly began to rise. “Don’t do this to me, please!”

“Sherlock Holmes sat on a wall,” Moriarty’s voice taunted again, all around him. “Sherlock Holmes had a great fall.”

You were my best friend, and I always believed in you, Sherlock’s voice lamented in his otherwise still mind.

“I’m sorry!” John screamed. Tears welled in the corner of his wide, panicked eyes. “I’m sorry!”

His arms were straight out at his sides, as if he were ready to fly.

“All Mycroft’s horses - “

And you let me die.

” - and all Lestrade’s men - “

John leaned forward, inch by inch, second by second, until his feet gave way.

” - couldn’t put Johnny together again!”

The fall was quiet. There was no wind gushing in his ears and he couldn’t hear the scream that was surely ripping from his throat. His legs and arms flailed, kicked, waved about, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t gain control as momentum captured him and sucked him down closer and closer to the walkway.

And then, right as his body slammed into the concrete and all his senses were snipped, dead, and gone…

A strangled scream tore from his throat and filled his bedroom. His chest arched into the air as if he had been given CPR. As he fell back towards the mattress, John’s eyes shot open and he desperately swallowed the air around him. He struggled to free himself out of the tangled mess of sheets he’d found himself in and kicked off the duvet the instant he could. He flailed out of the bed and backed up against the closet door, which he slid down upon once his knees gave in on him.

He could only hear the wind from the window. Moriarty’s voice was gone. The white-gone-grey-gone-blood room was no more. Sherlock’s ghost no longer possessed him.

John’s shaking stopped. His hyperventilating halted. His stomach rolled with nausea he pushed down as he ran his hands through his hair, replaying every instant of the dystopic nightmare in his mind.

“I didn’t - ” he choked. His nails dug into his scalp. “I couldn’t - “

He couldn’t save Sherlock, and that was his own fault.

Outside 221B, a clap of thunder rumbled in the distance. The rain continued to pent the windows and mingled with the new sound of distraught sobs from within.

Anonymous: just because: Mamihlapinatapei and Mycroft/Anthea

It’s when he calls her on Christmas Day and wishes her well that she knows he cares.

He says he doesn’t, insists on it, swears it to his grave, but he does, more than he can ever say. Perhaps that’s why he says he doesn’t. Or, maybe he truly believes caring is a disadvantage.

She never believed that until she met him.

She feels his eyes on her as she scurries about the office carrying a stack of papers about foreign policy; knows he watches her when she speaks in public for him as his representative; understands that he can’t say her real name, or stroke her cheek, or speak in soft tones. It would cripple him. She would cripple him.

So, she settles for unexpected phone calls, and emotion-filled glances she returns when no one else is around to judge them, and sitting in silence in fancy cars destined to take them where their road will go.

She suffers along with him as he says her code name in a murmur and studies her, half his face in shadow and half lit by the fire’s flickering flames, eyes dimmed, face almost sad, body tense and longing and dammit dammit dammit emotion is utterly choking him.

Anthea returns Mycroft’s name in a soft tone and holds the files in her arms closer, as if it were his taller frame, as if they embraced and kissed and accepted that there is love between them, as if they were different people in an utterly uncomplicated world.

Their eyes lock, unblinking, unmoving, as they both sigh and think, If only.

Anonymous: Baisemain - Rory Williams (Pond)?

(how do write doctor who fic dkfjh)

Baisemain - A kiss on the hand.

“And here, Ponds, is where Anne Boleyn will be executed in one hundred twenty-seven years, four months, two weeks, three days, and an hour and fift- no, sixteen seconds!”

And just like that, The Doctor is off and prancing, practically leaping across the area where the famous execution will be held. He rants all about the Tudor drama as he spins, clasps his hands, and runs to chase after a cat on a barrel.

Amy Pond is not amused.

“I ask for ‘romantic’, and what does he give us?” she huffs, folding her arms and looking at the architecture. “If I wanted to have Henry VIII, I would have had us all watch The Other Boleyn Girl.”

Rory tilts his head. “I thought you didn’t like that movie?” he asked, pocketing his hands. “You said Scar Jo’s accent was pure rubbish.”

“I like Scar Jo!” shouted The Doctor across the yard, now sitting on the barrel with the tamed feline rubbing madly on the bowtie Rory thinks is made of catnip.

His wife nods firmly. “That’s because it is,” she snorts, dignified and proud.

Rory stands beside Amy as a flock of birds fly overhead. The square is quiet; it’s not yet time for the roosters to crow and the people to awaken. He eyes the redhead, who purses her lips and studies a pile of hay nearby, then takes her hand and says quietly, “I’m surprised you wanted romantic at all.”

She narrows her eyes his way. “Shush, you,” she replies, a smile already twisting its way to her lips.

“I’m just saying, you’re normally so Gung-ho, let’s-fight-an-endangered-alien-race-Doktah-and-get-shot-at-while-we’re-at-it.”

“I save that for Thursday afternoons, not our wedding anniversary,” Amy explains, pecking his cheek.

“But,” Rory counters, swaying their hands, “it is Thursday.”

“Not afternoon.”

“Ah.”

The Doctor, with feline friend on his shoulders, saunters over and wrinkles his nose at their proximity. “Come on, then,” he insists, knocking Rory’s shoulders, “there’s things to mess with! Let’s off!” He starts to trot away, all the while talking to the cat perched upon him about the exciting things they will do. Amy swears he’s named it Elizabeth.

Rory lifts her hand and kisses it so softly that it makes her gawk at him a bit. Her eyebrows raise and he smiles at her through his eyelashes, then straightens up, clears his throat, and tugs her along. She returns the expression and follows, not complaining that he is in the lead.

“Just don’t go calling me Catherine of Argon,” she mutters to him.

Rory shudders. “I’d really rather not play Henry VIII at all, thanks.”

“No, no, no, you would be Elizabeth, Amelia,” The Doctor calls back. The cat on his shoulder whines in protest. “Not you, Elizabeth,” he scolds it.

Amy bites her lip and chortles mutely. Rory feels her rest her head on his shoulder and clasps her hand close.

Pitched giggles escaped John, caused by the wine in his belly and the brilliant, beautiful man across the table from him. “When you go on a date with someone,” he explained through a smile, “you don’t have to address the other person as ‘my date’ every other sentence.”

Sherlock scoffed with a roll of his eyes. He’d only claimed John as his date five times in twenty minutes, and they certainly had spoken more than that. He didn’t comment on that, however, as he reached for a breadstick. “Does it bother you?” he asked, eying his date, his John.

He received an incredulous smirk in response. “What do you think?”

After swallowing the bite, the detective pointed at the doctor with his breadstick. “Judging by the fact that it was you who suggested we go on a date, coupled with that dopey grin you’ve been wearing for the last seventeen minutes,” (and he saw that very same grin grow) “I’d say you rather enjoy it.”

More laughter escaped John. He shook his head, tucked his head down in a manner that almost seemed bashful, and replied, “Oh, God yes.”

Sherlock smiled and chortled at the oft over-stated, but very John, response. “It’s fine, then?” he asked, a knowing smirk nestling on his face.

“It’s all fine,” came John predictable reply. Their eyes locked, and the two of them smiled at one another as if they were the only ones in the whole of London.

“Excellent,” Sherlock said with a nod. “Because I had no intention of relenting whatsoever.” He smirked again as he drank his wine when he heard John’s amused chuckles.

“You’re ridiculous,” John murmured with nothing but fondness as he lifted his gaze to settle on the other man.

Sherlock’s icy eyes twinkled with joy he didn’t know he was capable of feeling until he met John. “You’re just figuring that out now?”