hecklocki:

acciobenedictcumberbatch:

cumberbitchsandwich:

a-high-functioning-hufflepuff:

Sherlock - Its all fine, NOH8 by *thenizu

This is actually one of my favourite pieces of Sherlock fan art of all time.

Fan art with a message.

Nice to see it again. Reblog.

Oh my goodness. How have I not seen this before?! Adorable and perfect.

This is just so perfect.

<3

sherlockedart:

providentsparrow:

shinysherlockiantardis:

sherlockedart:

More sleepy Johnlock. Requests. 

Edited to add: I’m pretty sure I’ve gone mad because I can’t help but hear this song in my head when I think of Johnlock snuggles. I Could Hold You In My Arms.

Reblogging because oh, that song. I am having way too many feelings over this.

It’s been six months since Sherlock returned from the dead, and when John looks at him, he can finally see the man he remembers from those wild early days, but somehow, he still can’t shake the nightmares. Some nights, when he wakes, panting, shirt stuck to his skin in cold sweat, there’s nothing for it but to let the shaking pass, climb out of bed, and pad downstairs. In the small hours of the morning, he just sits, watching Sherlock experimenting or harassing people online or staring off into space. The first time it happened after his return to Baker Street, Sherlock had looked up from his microscope, confusion on his face and a question on his lips, taken in John’s expression, and returned in silence to his slides. It was the only time he ever acknowledged John’s presence in the night, the only time he ever acknowledged John’s nightmares, John’s moments of weakness. The soldier in John is grateful. 

Tonight, he sees Moriarty’s grinning face at the pool, which turns into Sherlock’s silhouette on an unreachable rooftop, which turns into his best friend lying broken in a pool of his own blood on the cold and uncaring pavement. John shudders in the near-silence of his darkened room, left hand pressed tight against his nose and mouth, eyes tight shut. When the images start to repeat inside his eyelids, he tries staring at the ceiling. After several long moments, his hand slides down to his chest, and he starts counting the seconds off in his head to even out his breathing. As the sound of his heart slows down, he can hear the soft tones of violin strings being plucked very gently. 

When he feels steady enough, he sits up. Once the vertigo passes, he slips out of bed and down the stairs. The light is on in the kitchen, gently illuminating the sitting room as John’s gaze sweeps across it, and stops.

There is Sherlock, just as he has been every time John’s sought him out in the night over the last four months. After the first few weeks, he had been mildly surprised to find Sherlock awake, unfailingly, every time he came downstairs, but he’s since realized that the only time they both sleep well is after a case. Now, the only surprise remaining is that Sherlock is alive at all. 

John drops into his chair, quietly, and meticulously takes in Sherlock’s indolent sprawl; bare feet, legs draped over the arm of the chair, torso twisted slightly to leave room for the violin on his chest, dressing gown scrunched up beneath him, head tipped back to let a riot of curls dangle in the air. It doesn’t look particularly comfortable to John, but Sherlock seems unusually relaxed. It’s all very calming. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, rebuilding the way Sherlock looks right now in his mind’s eye. 

The soft sounds of the violin halt abruptly, the last note vanishing into startled silence. John opens his eyes to meet a gaze that shouldn’t be nearly so intense in the low lighting. He almost jumps. Sherlock stares.

He watches, startled and uncomprehending, as Sherlock lays his violin aside, rises, and offers his long, delicate right hand. John fixates for a moment on the small place in Sherlock’s wrist where his pulse once failed to beat, tenses and swallows hard. There is a small annoyed huff to warn him before he is bodily tugged up from the chair, spun around and marched through the kitchen by a pair of firm hands on his shoulders.

“Sherlock wha…?” He doesn’t even know what to ask, but Sherlock cuts him off anyway.

“Shut up. I’m no good at this, just shut up.” So John does, without further question, because Sherlock never repeats himself. 

He hesitates at the doorway to Sherlock’s bedroom, but the hands on his shoulders push harder, so he lets himself be guided across the room and to the bed. He is unceremoniously spun and dumped into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress, and he realizes dimly that he’s never actually been on Sherlock’s bed before. John opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock’s eyes narrow and his lips tighten, so he shuts it again. 

John is very confused, but it seems to have replaced the terror from earlier, so he’s not complaining. He watches, brow furrowed, lips parted slightly, as Sherlock crosses the room to rifle through the jumbled piles of books, journals, and newspaper articles scattered across his dresser. Sherlock’s continuing search through the top left drawer and the pile of discarded clothes by his closet are no more enlightening. 

Eventually, there is a grunt of satisfaction from somewhere inside the closet, and Sherlock emerges holding an old iPod that John’s never seen before, along with what appears to be a pair of speakers. The speakers displace another pile of books and a beaker of something suspicious looking from the bedside table opposite John. He watches in silence as Sherlock fidgets with the iPod for several seconds, connects it to the speakers, sits on the edge of the bed and turns to stare across what suddenly seems like a wide expanse of duvet between them. 

Sherlock’s eyes are very wide and very blue in the dim light filtering in from the kitchen, and there’s a look on his face that John would call uncertainty in anyone else. John shifts around on the bed, cautiously pulling his feet up to properly face Sherlock, who clears his throat, looks away, presses one last thing on the iPod and sets it aside.

Something soft and guitar-filled drifts up into the room, and it is so startlingly uncharacteristic to John’s image of the music Sherlock listens to that for a moment he nearly laughs. The glare Sherlock shoots him is actually a bit hesitant and…shy? and the almost-laughter passes quickly. “Sherlock?”

“The words, John. Just…listen.” Sherlock is watching him from under long lashes now, body still mostly turned away, as a soft American voice spills out across the bed.

When you came to me with your bad dreams and your fears
it was easy to see that you’d been crying.
Seems like everywhere you turn catastrophe reigns
but who really profits from the dying?

John’s breath hitches somewhere in his chest, and he swallows hard. He can see the tension in Sherlock’s shoulders.

I could hold you in my arms.
I could hold you forever.
I could hold you in my arms,
I could hold you forever.

John’s lips part slightly on an aborted gasp, and he realizes he’s about to cry. Sherlock is still watching him, tense and absolutely still but for his eyes, which flicker about John’s face rapidly. With a shuddering, mostly quiet sob, John disposes of the space between them, pulling Sherlock around and into his arms. 

The warm, hard pressure of Sherlock’s arms around his back is sudden and very much welcome, and John can actually feel the tension disappear from the shoulders beneath his fingertips. Sherlock’s face presses into his neck so hard that it might be uncomfortable for both of them if it weren’t so damn necessary, and John settles his cheek against the dark, soft curls over Sherlock’s ear, breathing in deeply, if somewhat raggedly. 

John dutifully listens to the remaining words of the song, grounding himself in feel of Sherlock’s hands on his back, the warmth seeping up through the cotton under his palms, and the way their chests press firmly together with every inhale. When the last notes fade away, neither of them moves for a long time.

When at last Sherlock takes a deep, probably steadying, breath, and pulls away slightly, John lets him. He watches Sherlock pull himself together slightly, clear his throat, start to say something, then stop. He can’t remember the last time he saw Sherlock speechless; years ago, at least, and never quite like this. His eyes are still a bit damp, but he grins, the first real, honest-to-god grin to light his face in many months, thinks to himself ‘what the hell,’ and leans up to press his mouth to Sherlock’s.

He wants to laugh aloud as Sherlock freezes against him, then positively melts, kissing him back and bearing them both down until John is pressed against the bed, legs at an awkward angle, and Sherlock is a glorious weight on top of him. When they part, John presses a soft kiss to Sherlock’s nose, then his cheek, then his jaw, and runs the fingers of his right hand through Sherlock’s hair to cup the back of his head. 

When Sherlock starts to speak, John forestalls what he expects would be a whole flood of words with a smile. “I’m really tired, Sherlock.” The name feels different on his tongue now; new and suddenly intimate. “Can we just…sleep? And we’ll talk in the morning?”

With Sherlock’s light smile and nod as consent, John shifts them both to a more acceptable orientation on the bed, presses Sherlock down onto the pillows, and sprawls himself over a firm, comforting chest. He smiles and tucks his head into Sherlock’s shoulder when he feels steady arms come up to embrace him. He can feel Sherlock’s heartbeat under his right arm.

Sleep is fast swimming up to take him, so his voice is quiet and a little slurred when he nudges Sherlock’s jaw with his forehead. “Sherlock, start the song again?” So Sherlock does, shifting under him slightly, then settling, and they both sink down into peace. 

Christ. My feels.

I can’t think of a better way to say it. Yes.

Christ. My feels.

Also, play the song when you see the lyrics. I dare you not to tear up a little.

sherlockedart:

They didn’t talk, because John didn’t talk anymore. He spoke, yes, but didn’t talk. 

When Sherlock returned after two years, John opened the door and blinked, once, twice, the muscles of his jaw tight. 

“John,” Sherlock said, and if his voice was unsteady, John wasn’t. His posture and shoulders rigid, John pressed the door open wider and turned to go back into his meticulously tidy bedsit. 

“Tea?” He asked, not waiting for Sherlock to answer before flipping on the electric kettle. He sat on the edge of the bed to wait for the water to boil while Sherlock  wandered unmoored around the room. When Sherlock began to talk, explaining why, explaining how, John watched him, listened, nodded, but his face remained a study in tight suppression. 

When Sherlock finished, John said, “Okay,” and handed him a mug of tea. If Sherlock’s chin crinkled slightly, if he blinked in rapid succession, John didn’t mention it. 

They sat in silence until Sherlock had emptied his mug. He put it carefully on the desk and stood to leave.

“Baker Street?” he asked.

For a long moment John didn’t reply, didn’t move at all, but eventually he turned his face up towards Sherlock. “When?”

“A week, I think. I’ll ask Ms Hudson. “ 

John nodded, a small motion, almost imperceptible to someone other than Sherlock, and Sherlock felt relief unfurling in him with such abruptness that he had to grab the back of the chair in order to remain standing. “Good,” he said, “good.”

In the end it took nine days, the previous tenants being unwilling to move, but Baker Street was theirs again. During the interim Sherlock didn’t see John, but he texted him. He learned that John would not reply to general statements, but he would answer questions, so Sherlock texted endless questions. Questions he already knew the answer to. Anything, just to hear the soft ping and see John’s name on his mobile. 

The first night, Sherlock heard John pacing in his room, the sliver of light beneath the door visible until nearly sunrise. 

The second, John fell asleep just after dinner, and Sherlock spent the evening alone. When Sherlock woke at four in the morning he found John sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, so he made two mugs of tea and sat there with him until John needed to dress for work.

The tenth night, Sherlock heard a small shuffling noise and put down his laptop. When he opened the door he found John curled against his bedroom doorframe, his left cheek and ear slightly pinker than his right. Sherlock realized he had been listening, face pressed against the door. John didn’t look embarrassed; he looked the same as always, blank, hemmed in, carefully, fearfully composed. 

Sherlock no longer closed his bedroom door. Ever.

On the fourteenth night Sherlock woke from vivid, tangled dreams to the silhouette of John sitting on the end of his bed, facing away from him. “John,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. “Here.” He pulled back the duvet on the empty side of the bed. John was still for several minutes, but in the end he settled himself in Sherlock’s bed and faced the wall. Neither of them slept.

The next night John didn’t make any attempt to sleep in his room. He came down the stairs in his pyjamas and curled up in Sherlock’s bed while Sherlock played the violin in the living room. When the last note faded into the muffled sounds of London at night Sherlock put the violin down and joined John.

He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep, hadn’t imagined that he could, but he woke at two and knew without opening his eyes that John was behind him, propped up and leaning over him, his breathing slightly uneven. Sherlock kept still, kept his body relaxed, even when a hand brushed lightly down his back, even when John pressed the side of his face against the dip between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. 

They stayed like that for several long minutes, all of Sherlock’s attention focused on the slight shift of John as the sharp tension of his body softened against Sherlock’s back. Sherlock reached one arm behind him and caught John’s hand, pulling it forwards and threading his fingers through John’s. 

“Sherlock,” John said then, and if his voice was thick and wavering it was still better than the study in emptiness it had been. 

“Here, John. I’m here. I won’t leave you again. I promise.”

And if John talked to him, face pressed to his back, his words of loss and pain and fear burning in the darkness, then Sherlock was silent, imagining each broken syllable rising from them like embers, bright and hot and fading to cool gray ash. If John cried then, if he clenched Sherlock’s hand until Sherlock could no longer feel his fingers, then Sherlock let him. And when the ragged edges of his breathing smoothed into the rhythms of sleep, Sherlock smiled. 

Around them the currents of London shifted, above them the sky pooled with clouds, but they lay still on one side of a big bed, curled together, two halves, dark and fair, brain and heart.

I had this thought about how horribly poignant it would be if Sherlock’s death meant John couldn’t carry his gun anymore because people were afraid of what he would do. And really, in my head, it was like a metaphor for the depth of the loss he felt when Sherlock jumped because that gun was like another arm to him, a necessary weapon, a means of survival in Afghanistan. So losing it and having it ripped away from him is just another brutal and sudden blow to the identity he crafted of himself after the war, an identity very much based around the person who was Sherlock Holmes

Gosh Lu! Thanks for bringing up all the feels I (thought) were so nicely repressed.

Also this is heartbreakingly beautiful.