sherlockbbc_fic | Overflow Post II

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Overflow Post II

This post is for responding to prompts from prompt posts that are full, or continuing WIPs that were started on prompt posts that have since filled up or are close to full.

Please link to the original prompt thread, as well as posting the actual prompt and any necessary warnings in the post here.

This post is only for filling prompts from prompting parts with over 9500 comments. If there are fewer than 9500 comments, continue to use the prompt post itself instead. In addition, this is not a post for new prompts.

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"So you have a boyfriend?"

"No."

That question, it really hadn't been John's attempt at flirting with Sherlock. Really. It hadn't! Why did no one ever just believe him? John had simply been trying to better acquaint himself with the man he'd potentially be living with. No ulterior motives whatsoever.

Yes alright, he obviously had seen the same appeal Molly saw in Sherlock's unique features. John did have eyes after all, and it wasn't like John had any qualms about dating men. He just preferred women. Simple as that.

Their round curves, and soft bodies, and dark curly hair that fingers could get tangled in, set a top cheekbones so sharp they could cut gla- no. No! He was not in- he didn't have those sort of feelings for Sherlock. They were mates. Mates don't fall for other mates. It's a rule look it up.

Besides, Sherlock was too much for John. All that boundless energy. The constant need for a distraction. His quick wit, and sharp tongue. It was so easy to get caught up in the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes, and John craved the adventure that came with it. But a relationship? An honest to God relationship? With emotions, and expectations? Even in his own head he knew it would never work.

And why the hell was he even thinking about this? Sherlock was married to his work! He'd said so himself. Even if the rule about mates didn't exist, John would never have had a chance with him. He just didn't feel things that way. Did he? John didn't know. God, why was he so wound up today? He'd only had four cups of tea in the past hour, it couldn't have been tha- oh no, the tea. Was Sherlock experimenting with the tea again? John was going to kill him. Sherlock had promised to leave the tea alone after the incident with the wellies, and the giraffe. Come to think of it, where was Sherlock? John hadn't seen him all da- oh. Look at that. Think of the devil and the... devil's brother will... call you.

"Finally run out of abandoned warehouses, Mycroft?"

"Humorous as always Dr. Watson. No I'm simply calling because I believed you would want to be informed that my brother has once again managed to land himself in the hospital."

"No he hasn't."

"Well then if it isn't Sherlock, someone ought to tell him his doppelganger is in surgery."

"I'm his emergency contact, the hospital would've called me if anything had happened."

"Dr. Watson, you're... not his emergency contact."

"What? Of course I am. Who else would be? I'm the closest thing he has to family... er no offence."

Long dramatic pause.

"My God he really never told you."

"Told me. Told me what?"

"John... I think it would be best if you went to the hospital."

"What for? Mycroft, what's going-"

-Click-

Edited 2013-04-23 15:05 (UTC)

"I'm sorry sir, but unless you're family, or an emergency contact I can't release-"

"Yes, yes I know. You can't release any information to me, but I am family. Just- just not by blood, or anything... legal. I live with him though, we're colleagues. I wash his pants for crying out loud! That on its own should warrant me some sort of right to know what the hell is going on. And it's Doctor, by the way, not sir."

"Well Doctor, as I said before, unless you are family, an emergency contact, or his doctor, I cannot give-"

"I am his doctor!"

"Then I am sure Dr. Williams will gladly fill you in once the paperwork has been approved. Now will you please go wait in the waiting room before I call security."

Sod this. Sod all of this. John was going over their heads. He was going over all their heads, and it doesn't matter what anyone has to say because he isn't listening, so there.

"Come on, come on. Pick up you bastard!"

"Ah John."

"Don't you John me, Mycroft Holmes! What bloody hell is going on? The hospital won't tell me because for whatever reason I'm not Sherlock's emergency contact. I deserve to know what's happening Mycroft, so tell me!"

"John, I"

"I just told you, don't John me! I thought after I moved in it was obvious I would take over being his emergency contact it just made sense! I mean we're practically- look will someone please just tell me what's going on? Please?"

"John if you'll just-"

"For God's sake what part of Don't. John. Me, do not understand?
Just please explain-"

"Dr. Watson that is what I'm trying to do! Or at least it was. Clearly this is one conversation we should not have over the phone. I'm on my way to the hospital. I suggest you do as the nurse says; I think she was serious about calling security."

John thinned his lips. Of course Mycroft had seen the altercation. He made his way inside a room designated for people waiting for loved ones in surgery. Like John expected the room wasn't overly busy. There was a young man of about thirty pacing in front of the vending machines while muttering anxiously into his phone, an elderly man was comforting an elderly woman as two small children scribbled 'Get Better Soon Mummy.' on paper by their feet, and finally two blonde haired men closer to John's age were sitting in the corner. One was slumped dead asleep while the other more anxious looking blonde man stared blankly ahead, and continuously twisted his wedding band around.

John dropped into a chair, burying his face into his hands. Why hadn't Sherlock called him? He must not have suspected whatever his plan was would be dangerous; surely he'd have called John if he had thought otherwise. But then again maybe he wouldn't have. The thing was John had no idea. They'd been living together for barely even a year. What did John really know about Sherlock, other than he had a flair for the dramatics, and that John was completely head over- we are not going there, inner monologue. We are so not even approaching there; there doesn't even exist. There will never exist, and everyone knows daydreaming about fantasy lands was a ridiculous notion. A harried looking nurse in surgical scrubs marched through the doors, causing everyone in the room to look up at her with hope in their eyes.

"Holmes. I'm looking for a Victor Holmes?"

Edited 2013-04-23 16:30 (UTC)

A tiny warning bell began to chime in the back of John's skull. It was fine. Everything was fine. Holmes wasn't an uncommon last name.

There could be any number of people named Holmes in the hospital; everyone else in the room could be named Holmes for all John knew. The pacing man snapped his phone shut, and with two strides was at the nurse's side. She led him a few meters away from the larger group, and spoke to him in quiet tones. Almost against his will John found himself walking nearer to the pair under the pretence of getting a snack from the vending machine.

This man... this Victor wasn't terrible on the eyes John noted. He was tall; not as tall as Sherlock, but definitely taller than John. He had immaculately combed light brown hair, and green eye hidden behind a pair of dark framed glasses. He was dressed casually in a pair of blue jeans and a red jumper clearly thrown on last minute. The warning bell got louder.

"...lock is doing..." Lock? She just said lock. It's alright. It's still fine, lock could be anything. They're talking about hair. Of course that's what it meant. Lock as in hair. Perfect sense.

"... wound was deeper than..." Oh God, a wound? Sherlock was hurt. Sherlock was dying, and now John would never get the chance to tell him how he felt! This couldn't be happening, John needed Sherlock, what sort of justice was there in the world if Sherlock died, and John lived? John without Sherlock was like pizza without cheese, or a movie without popcorn. It was just sick, and wrong to have one without the other.

By now the warning bell had morphed into a large clanging cowbell, and John was feeling sick to his stomach. He was the one who cared for Sherlock, he was the one who had always been there for Sherlock, he was the one who loved Sherlock, where did this Victor character get off getting in between them?

"..few more hours." The nurse gave the man a gentle squeeze on the arm before exiting the room. John looked back at the line of crisp bags he had been thoroughly inspecting. He had just made the decision about actually purchasing a bag when someone grabbed a hold of him and threw John forcefully back against the wall.

Instinctively John pushed his weight forward offsetting his would-be attacker, giving him the chance to spin them around and pin the other man against the wall with his arms.

The face of Victor Holmes glared back at him. "Who the hell are you?"

"Who the hell am I? You're the one grabbing people!"

"I saw you eavesdropping on the nurse, and I. You're one of them aren't you? One of the gang members." Victor's attempted to push
John's arm away, but he held firm.

"What are you talking about? What gang members?"

"The ones who attacked my idiot husband! Here to finish off the job? You're going to have to bloody well go through me first!" This would have been much more powerful, if John hadn't already proven he could easily get the upper hand on the man.

"Husband? Look there's been some sort of misunderstanding."

The blonde man previously sleeping was beginning to stand. "I think we go should find a nurse."

"Oh I don't think that will be necessary Mr. Brown." Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway, leaning casually against his ever present umbrella. He peered at the two squabbling men with something akin to amusement. "Victor. John, if you'll follow me."
Mycroft turned leaving a befuddled Mr. Brown asking how he knew his name, behind him.

Edited 2013-04-23 19:45 (UTC)

Mycroft led them down the hall to any empty room. The moment the door closed John rounded on the elder Holmes. "What is going on here Mycroft? No. You know what? I don't care; just will someone please tell me what happened to Sherlock?"
"Introductions first I believe. Victor Holmes this is the infamous Dr. John Watson you've heard so much about. John this is-"
"Oh. You're the flatmate?"m.
"Quite. Now about Sherlock; from we can tell, it appears that early this morning Sherlock was called in by DI Lestrade. While he was inspecting the crime scene Sherlock found evidence that, quote, 'any imbecilic four year old can see it points straight to the whereabouts of the criminals'. Unquote. He decided against waiting for the police and went after the gang himself. Unfortunately his opponent got the upper hand, and Sherlock had a knife in his abdomen. This is the part where it gets... delicate. John, it appears my brother neglected to mention a rather vital piece of information about himself. You see Sherlock has been in a committed civil partnership for the past three and a half years to Victor. They are by every right... married to one another.""
"Oh come on. Sherlock's not married! He would've- well actually he is, he's married to his work, he told me that practically the day we met!"
Victor snorted. "He really said that?" A softer expression passed over his face. "That was sort of a private joke. When we first met, I was just starting out in the world of politics. A rather dangerous criminal organizations decided I must've been worth something. Lucky for myself, so did the British government. He took my kidnapping case as a favour to Mycroft."
"...You were his work."
"I was his work."
John continued to frown. "If he's married to you, why did Sherlock need a flatmate?"
"The thing about Sherlock is, he's... not good... on his own. He needs someone. A year after we exchanged vows, I got promoted. The position, it involves a lot of traveling. My career would've been over if I didn't accept it. If I had my way Sher would have come with me, but... he wouldn't have been happy with a life on the road like that. "
"But-"
"You've seen Sherlock's work, yeah? The sort of people it attracts? The ones in my life aren't much better. We had a lot of close calls. And because we were both men, the danger was that much worse. It made it difficult for us to trust many people with the knowledge of us."
"He trusts me enough to live with but not-"
"May I point out that this is Sherlock. There's every chance he told you in minute detail about his marriage to Victor, John. You simply... may not have been home at the time."
"That's really very plausible isn't it?"
"It is. I'm going to kill him. I'm really going to kill him. He shouldn't have gone off on his own like that!"
"You really do love him don't you?"
"Wouldn't have married the git if I didn't."
At that moment a nurse appeared at the door. "Oh Mr. Holmes there you are. Sherlock's just come out of surgery, he'll be waking up in a few minutes if you want to go see him."
The nurse led them along to a private room.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock's bleary eyes settled on the two men. He let out a pleased hum. "Victor."
"I can't leave you alone for five minutes can I?"
"No. Don't ever do it again."
"I won't I promise." Victor pulled the chair up as close as he could to Sherlock, placing a tender kiss on his forehead.
John felt like he was intruding on a reunion that could be labeled as intimate. He watched them for a moment longer trying desperately to ignore the want, the need to be the one on the receiving end of those loving tender looks Sherlock gave to Victor. Swallowing back his feelings John left the room.
"They're very happy John."
"I know."
Mycroft stepped from the shadows he had been lurking in. "Their relationship may not be ideal, but they've made it work."
"I know."
"I can only imagine what harm it would do to Sherlock if anyone was to try and get between them."
John turned to stare Mycroft straight in the eye. "I know." With that John took his leave. No matter what John feelings for the detective were, John knew he would never try anything now that he understood the truth. Victor was the one Sherlock had chosen. John was just the friend.
It was better this way.
Really.
It was.

A finished fill for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10852.html?thread=54496356#t54496356 which said

"John is secretly a unicorn.

Sherlock is a virgin.

John is understandably possessive/protective."

De Veritate Unicornis Modernus (On the Truth of the Modern Unicorn) on AO3 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/722780/chapters/1340661) and on fanfiction.net (http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7346964/1/De-Veritate-Unicornis-Modernus)

Prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=124011247#t124011247

Fill: http://crazy-echo.livejournal.com/1323.html

Wow, that was awesome. Very good.

Oh my GOD, that is one of the hardest, scariest, most awful of such scenes I've read. Ugh, I felt so awful for BOTH of them. Very well done.

Thank you!

Thank you very much!

holy /fuck/, this was, this was fucking brutal and amazing and i am in awful awe. fucking shit.

Prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?thread=25335870#t25335870

Fill:

HOLY CRAP that was intense and incredible and even more than I had hoped for when I read the prompt.

I was hoping you'd have Sherlock become inadvertently aroused by a naked John rubbing against him when I realized the position they'd be in, that was perfectly handled. (And there we have a new #1 for most disturbing sentence I've ever written)

Also I really like how you ended on just the right note--a horrible thing happened, everything is definitely not OK, but John is determined to not to let it end his friendship with Sherlock. I hope this conveys how excellent the whole thing is. All the accolades!

Prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=83213973
Fill: http://archiveofourown.org/works/757318

fill for this:
http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?view=69951#t69951
Um... I'm not sure how to do this overflow thing. Ugh. Anyways I also don't know how to let them know it was filled. Damn.

post is at: http://archiveofourown.org/works/882511

I tried to fill this in the prompting post where the original prompt came from but something went wrong with my reply (I think?) Sorry, I'm new to this and don't really have any experience with livejournal. I posted it on AO3 instead.

Prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?thread=25739070#t25739070

Fill: http://archiveofourown.org/works/890620

Prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6375.html?thread=29586407#t29586407

"What I really would love to read about now is a broken down Sherlock being comforted by John. Even if it's out of character (but if one can manage it to make in-character somehow would be great) Sherlock is crying in John's arms for whatever reason. It could be because he became an addict again or failed at a case horribly, or maybe because Mycroft died without Sherlock ever having a chance to tell him he actually cared about him. Something similar to this at least."

“Sherlock? Are you… all right?” John’s voice broke through the crescendo of notes filling the room as Sherlock’s bow whirled across the strings, doing little to calm the frenzy of his mind. He allowed John’s words to be swallowed by the sound, driving up the tempo instead of responding. John was hesitating; Sherlock could feel him wavering on the spot, deciding whether to press the issue or just to let Sherlock’s mood run its course. Evidently he thought it would be best not to interfere, as he zipped up his coat and paused only to say, “right, well, I’m going to meet Mike for a pint. Try not to blow anything up, yeah?” He waited briefly, but Sherlock made no indication that he had heard and a moment later the door clicked shut, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.
The final notes of the piece shuddered into silence, and Sherlock let the bow fall onto an armchair as the city’s constant stream of data took over from the crashing notes. Normally it was this unrelenting storm of noise and light and facts that Sherlock needed to shut out for a while, or at least distract himself from every now and then. But this time it was something different, something new and disconcerting that had his mind running in frantic circles.
Sherlock let out a breath of air and closed his eyes. John. John’s hands, impossibly gentle for a man who could morph into a cold killer at a moment’s notice, delicately cleaning the deep scrape on Sherlock’s arm that morning. John’s rippling muscles, visible for a moment as he reached for the gauze but normally covered by a nondescript jumper; a harmless façade hiding a ruthless strength. John’s face, fascinatingly expressive and always open around Sherlock, sporting a look of genuine concern when Sherlock had strolled into the kitchen with his arm covered in blood—an expression which had quickly become one of exasperation when it became apparent that Sherlock had yet again injured himself by neglecting his own safety. John’s eyes, hazel and ever-changing, always glowing with an inexplicable fondness when Sherlock caught their warm gaze…
Sherlock growled under his breath, trying to quell the heated something that was trying to spread through his chest. It was too big, too much for his mind to handle; it was as though it was straining against a dam, threatening to drown him in an ocean of—of whatever it was. He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a shuddering sigh. No, he knew what it was, what it had to be. Sentiment.
He’d been aware of the vague threat before now, as John had steadily inserted himself into Sherlock’s life, throwing Sherlock off balance every time the doctor stepped closer instead of recoiling. He’d been able to ignore it, most of the time, push it back behind the wall of more pressing matters, and had steadfastly refused to acknowledge it growing more powerful until—well, until he’d found himself utterly transfixed by every facet of John’s being that morning, his eyes drawn inappropriately to the swath of skin visible above his flatmate’s waistband as he stretched, desire sparking unexpectedly at the sight. But it wasn’t just lust; lust was something Sherlock could recognize and dismiss, sating it if necessary on his own. This was accompanied by something else, something unfamiliar and dangerous that had filled his entire being and made him yearn for John, John and nothing else.
Sherlock snapped the violin case shut, frustrated at the way his fickle mind kept dragging up images of John that he had unconsciously filed away, his attention to detail clearly no less reliable when it was directed towards his flatmate. He strode over to the couch, intending to make use of his last four nicotine patches to untangle this thing and defeat it, drive it out of his system, but found himself hesitating as another option crossed his mind.

On the kitchen counter stood a bottle of whiskey, courtesy of Mycroft after a particularly valuable item was returned to the government once Sherlock had found the thief. Sherlock was not a drinker, having skipped that stage in preference of more illegal substances, but he had gotten himself very drunk on one occasion as an experiment and the experience had been—well, not pleasant, but possibly exactly what he needed to beat down whatever it was that had taken hold of him. As he did not have access to cocaine at the moment, it was the best he would be able to do.
An image of John’s face after a visit with Harry flitted across his mind, lips mashed into a tight line and eyebrows pulled together in a distracted frown, traces of guilt hovering in the lines around his eyes, but he pushed it away. This was John’s fault, after all, John’s fault for being so bloody fascinating, for somehow tolerating Sherlock for longer than anyone else had ever managed, for following him so loyally and never ceasing to catch him by surprise. John was captivating, alluring, and—though Sherlock hated to admit it—utterly necessary. The idea of going back to a life before John had become unthinkable. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the dam in his chest starting to creak under the strain, and quickly snagged the bottle and the nearest cup he could find—a teacup. Alcohol would soften the edge, would beat back the encroaching tide of the thing he had fallen prey to, and he had no qualms about drinking himself into oblivion if necessary. Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa, opened the bottle (good quality; Mycroft would hate to see it being put away with so little respect), and poured himself a generous portion.

John opened the door quietly, so as not to wake Mrs. Hudson. Neither he nor Mike had been in the mood to stay at the pub for quite as long as usual, Mike because of a cousin he had to meet off the train the next morning and John because of Sherlock, as usual. Mike had huffed out a laugh when John mentioned his flatmate, smirking at John over the top of his beer. At John’s questioning look, he’d shaken his head with a smile.
“You two have taken to each other well, that’s all.” But the gleam in his eyes had indicated something more behind his words, and John was fairly certain he knew what it was. His protests died in his mouth these days; everyone they met assumed he and Sherlock were shagging regardless of what John said, and John couldn’t honestly say he hadn’t thought about it in the early days, late at night when a pillow clenched in his teeth muffled whatever sounds he couldn’t hold back. Since then, he’d become better at nipping such thoughts in the bud; the attraction had confused him in any case (he really wasn’t gay), and it was now no more than a dull ache that could be easily ignored most of the time. Sherlock had made it plain on that first case that it was one-sided. Their friendship, however, was something John was free to treasure.
He stepped inside and started up the stairs, listening for any telltale sounds of pacing or violin that would give him some clue as to what state of mind Sherlock would be in when he opened the door. The flat was quiet. John hoped that Sherlock had succumbed to his body’s demands and fallen asleep for once; the man pushed himself too far sometimes, though he would never admit it. John occasionally found him hunched over a microscope or a textbook, having finally collapsed after days of running on nothing but adrenaline and nicotine. Seeing Sherlock’s face wiped of the cool veneer he sported in his waking moments never failed to make John smile to himself. He was not nearly as infallible as he liked to pretend.

John eased the door open, stepping warily into the flat. It was dark, and he let out a breath of relief. Sherlock must have gone to bed, then. He shrugged off his jacket and started toward the kitchen to get a cup of tea, but something that sounded almost like a rough sob stopped him in his tracks. He switched on the nearest lamp, throwing the shadows of the living room into sharp relief and illuminating the man sitting hunched on the sofa, clutching a whiskey bottle as though it were the only thing tethering him to reality. John took in the shattered teacup on the floor and a sharp wave of concern swept through him, settling somewhere under his ribs. Sherlock was trembling, the bottle shaking in his hand, and John noted that there was not much left in it.
“Sherlock.” John crossed over to his flatmate, taking care to avoid the shards of glass, and gently tugged the bottle out of his hand. Sherlock did not reply, but tilted his head up slightly, and John noticed with increasing alarm that the man’s face was glistening with tears. He was staring at nothing, his eyes unfocused as the tears trickled down and over his cheekbones, dripping on his navy dressing gown. As John watched, he drew in a shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing trembling fingers to his temples as if trying to exercise physical control over whatever turmoil was occurring within. The image stirred something in John’s memory, of another time when the detective had lost some of his control, having been caught unaware by his own emotional responses. John sighed quietly and sat down beside his flatmate, placing a hand gingerly on his back and beginning to rub in what he hoped were soothing circles. “Okay, Sherlock, you’ve had quite enough for one night. Want to tell me what brought this on?”
Sherlock stiffened for a moment beneath John’s touch, but seemed to lack the strength to resist and slumped back down, apparently resigning himself to John’s comfort. His eyes were still shut tight, and John could feel the tremor running through his body. The sight made his heart clench painfully, and not for the first time he felt an irrational rumble of anger towards whatever it was in Sherlock’s past that had rendered him so fearful of his own emotions. Sherlock shifted on the sofa, drawing in another ragged breath that hitched on a sob. John hesitated, and then tugged on the other man’s shoulders in a wordless invitation. Sherlock yielded easily to his touch and sank against John, shuddering against his shoulder. When he finally spoke, the baritone was broken-sounding and slurred, a far cry from the confidence with which he usually vocalized his thoughts.

“Can’t make it go, John. S’you… S’all you, and I can’t… It’s not enough,” he croaked, waving a hand to indicate the whiskey bottle. “Not enough to get it… get it out. Can’t keep fighting it, John, and then—” He cut himself off with another great shuddering breath, and spoke the last words in a voice barely above a whisper. “Then you’ll leave and everything, everything will…” He trailed off, burying his face in John’s jumper as though he thought he would sink into it if he clung close enough.
John stroked his hand gently over the trembling bundle in his arms, frowning down at the cloud of dark curls tickling his neck. “I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. You of all people should have noticed by now that I—that this isn’t something I would give up willingly, toes in the freezer and all. God help me.” He lifted a hand up over the collar of the dressing gown, absentmindedly running his fingers through the endless inky curls. “And whatever it is that you’re trying to purge yourself of,” he added, “drowning yourself in whiskey is not the solution. You have to admit you’re human sometimes, Sherlock. If this is what it looks like, you thinking you can dismiss any emotion with the aid of drugs and careful repression, you’ve got to stop it. All right? Just stop, for once. The world won’t end, I promise.”
Sherlock’s fingers tightened where they were gripping on to John’s jumper, as though fearful he would just stand up and walk away. He lifted his head, eyebrows furrowed as though the simple motion took a monumental effort; unsurprising, given his current state of inebriation. John’s hand dropped down to his shoulder as the grey eyes studied him, rather less focused than usual. From what Lestrade had told him, John had gathered that Sherlock was very good at acting as though nothing were amiss when he was high, but apparently he had less control over himself under the influence of alcohol. John was no stranger to the various ways in which alcohol affected people, but it was still unsettling to see Sherlock like this, utterly stripped of the cool, confident demeanor he normally possessed. Sherlock himself would undoubtedly be disgusted if he remembered anything the next morning. John felt his stomach twinge as he wondered what could possibly have driven the man to let himself go like this.

Sherlock shook his head slightly, his frown deepening, and his eyelids fluttered closed for a moment. “Everyone leaves, John. It’s all… transit…transitory. Caring is not an advantage.” He shook his head, as though trying to jostle the slurred syllables into place. John could feel his own frown deepening as waves of sadness and affection and a hint of exasperation rolled through him. All he wanted to do was envelop his wreck of a flatmate in his arms again and hold him until he stopped trembling, until whatever was eating him on the inside and making him look so lost was banished. He settled for taking Sherlock’s pale hand and stroking a soft pattern on the back with his thumb. Sherlock’s eyes opened a fraction, flicking down to his hand before refocusing on John’s face. “You,” Sherlock whispered, the fear in his pale eyes heartbreakingly obvious. “You’re in my head, your hands, your eyes, your bloody jumpers are in my head, and—” His deep voice broke, catching on a sob. “And here,” he continued after a moment, gesturing weakly at his chest. “Like it’s going to overflow. Dam breaking, I can’t hold it. Dangerous.” He frowned at John, tears once again trickling over his lashes. “I can’t.”
John had had enough of this. Shaking his head, he reached out and pulled Sherlock back into his arms, toppling against the arm of the sofa as the man’s unresisting weight gave in to him. “Sherlock,” he said firmly, brushing the wild curls out of his friend’s face, “I am not going to leave you, not unless you kick me out. And caring is actually okay. I would know, I care quite a lot about you, you know. I promise that the benefits far outweigh any disadvantages. And,” he hesitated, wondering whether this next step would be too far, but he wanted to be sure Sherlock knew what his options were. “And whatever you want, Sherlock, I want it too.” He brushed away a tear that was quivering on Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock sighed into the touch, reaching up to snag John’s fingers.
“I want you,” he said quietly. He brought John’s hand to his lips, the confession hovering in the air as Sherlock pressed a trembling kiss to the tips of his fingers. He let out a long breath, and a moment later John realized he had fallen asleep, his head nestled against John’s chest and his fingers still entwined with John’s. John let out a sigh of his own, trying not to think about what the consequences of this night would be and desperately trying not to let the flicker of hope that had stirred at Sherlock’s words grow into a flame. Drunken confessions were nothing to base any hopes on, he told himself firmly. Who knew what had been going through the man’s mind? No, John would have to just make it clear that he had no intention of leaving Sherlock and try to appease whatever was tormenting his flatmate. Now, the detective’s face was finally peaceful, the fear and confusion wiped away in drunken slumber. John felt his own eyes getting heavy, and he let them drift closed, surrendering to the darkness with his arm still wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders.

It's this prompt in particular: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?view=128112702#t128112702

Aaand here's the fill: http://archiveofourown.org/works/961616

Thank you!

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Page 3 of 5

Overflow Post II

Re: Can't things just be simple? 1/?

Re: Can't things just be simple? 2/?

Re: Can't things just be simple? 3/?

Re: Can't things just be simple? 4/4

no subject

Filled: John meets Mr. Holmes, Sherlock/John

Re: Bound (Warning: non-con) 12/12

Re: Bound (Warning: non-con) 12/12

Re: Bound (Warning: non-con) 12/12

Re: Bound (Warning: non-con) 12/12

Re: Bound (Warning: non-con) 12/12

Filled: Trapped in the (221B Baker Street) Closet

Re: Bound (Warning: non-con) 12/12

My Body is Your Vessel

Somebody catches somebody else masturbating

Re: Somebody catches somebody else masturbating

'Keep Her Satisfied' (Sherlock/Molly)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Fill for Picture Prompt.

Re: Bound (Warning: non-con) 12/12