Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective
Dr. John Watson, Medical Examiner
We take all cases, except for the boring ones. If you cannot manage an in-person visit, give all of the details and evidence to us via the "ask box" and we will help you to the best of our ability.
Catching Elephant is a theme by Andy Taylor
John frowned slightly, needing a moment to come to terms with this. Despite what Mycroft had implied, it was hard for John (John “Three Continents” Watson) to comprehend. “At all ever?” he asked quietly, not wanting to offend Sherlock, but also wanting to be sure.
Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not willingly, no.” He peered down at John, eyes vulnerable. “Is that… do you… is that bad?”
“No, no, it’s not bad, I just—” John’s brow furrowed slightly, looking up at Sherlock “How do you mean ‘not willingly’?”
Sherlock’s mouth drew into a flat line. “I mean to say precisely what I have said.” He looked away. “I can hardly remember it. I was quite young.”
Not strictly true. He’d been seven, and he remembered it clearly enough to remember the panic and the pain. The fear that he’d be coming back to do it again, and the hatred when he was right.
But he’d removed that from his head— as an emotional experience, it was no longer valid as anything but data for future reference.
Sherlock’s face was flat and emotionless, deliberately detached. He remembered every detail. John was certain of that. And it filled him with a white-hot flash of rage. “Who—” He stopped himself, took a breath. “I mean… You don’t have to… Only if you’re comfortable telling me.”
He caught Sherlock’s chin in his fingers and gently forced him to meet John’s gaze. “I won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Ever.” He paused. “It’s all fine with me.”
Sherlock’s eyes softened and he leaned in to press a gently kiss to John’s lips. “I know, John. Emotionally, it’s… left me damaged, but not irreparably so. And I only rarely look back on it for any reason at all. I’ve… made my peace with it, in a way. The only reason I recall is… well. Six days of captivity remind you of many things, especially the unpleasant ones.” He smiled bitterly. “It was my father. Step-father, actually, but I hadn’t known that for certain until later, though I’d had my doubts.”
John was about to pull Sherlock down into a hug when a thought struck him and he went still. “Did…” The full potential implications of Sherlock’s captivity settled like lead into the bottom of John’s stomach. “Did Moran…” There’s no way to finish the sentence delicately, so he just stared up at Sherlock, eyes wide with alarm.
“No,” Sherlock said flatly. “He tried. But, no. I was… rescued before then.”
Rescued. Unable to rely on himself. Saved, like a princess in a Disney adaptation of one of Grimm’s fairytales.
Weak. A damsel in distress rescued by a random stranger. A stranger he couldn’t even manage to save in return.
John’s breath came out in a rush. “Jesus,” he said, pulling Sherlock close, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder. “Jesus, Sherlock. I’m so…” Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. It doesn’t really mean anything or make anyone feel better. John knows because he’s been on the receiving end of sorrys like that. When a patient died or after he was shot or when Sherlock fell. Nothing helps.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to focus on the important things. He’s home now. He’s safe. It’s gonna be okay.
“As am I,” Sherlock said, and his voice was rough and tired. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in and gently kissed John’s forehead.
John smiled at Sherlock’s endearing uncertainty and dropped his hands to rest on Sherlock’s waist, holding the detective close. “Is there… Is there anything I can do?” he asked quietly. Because he had to. He was a doctor. It was his job to make things better.
“You are far more than your medical title, John. It’s not your job to heal me.” Sherlock inhaled, taking the scent of John’s soap and shampoo and skin. “Be…you. Undeniably you. You are gentle, kind, and quietly strong— the difference is inescapable. I just…need you. To take things at whatever pace we’re going at and… simply to be there.”
“I—” John had been about to say I never said… but he’d been thinking it, so he might as well have said it. He shook his head. “I’d forgotten how you read my bloody mind sometimes. All the time.” He was a little flushed, from embarrassment and from Sherlock’s quiet praise. “And of course it’s my job,” he mumbled. “It’s always been my job.”
Sherlock dropped a feather light kiss to John’s neck. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he murmured against the skin there. “I only pay the sincerest compliments.”
He frowned. “If that is your job, then what is my job?”
Sherlock’s lips brushed against his skin, making him hum happily. “Right now?” he answered without thinking, before he could censor himself. “Just stay here. Keep convincing me you’re real.” He said it so casually, almost jokingly. It could almost be funny.
Sherlock’s arms tightened protectively. “I can do that,” he whispered, and then he was carefully pressing his lips to John’s again.
He was rather alarmingly addicted in a ridiculously short amount of time, he realized.
John hummed again, his hands holding tight to Sherlock’s waist. His imagination wasn’t this good. Not by a long shot. He’d never been able to summon Sherlock’s smell this way. And he’d never known how Sherlock’s lips felt.
John pulled back, taking a deep breath. This can’t get out of hand. Sherlock’s injured, Sherlock’s still healing. And goodness knows what his mental state is. The kisses are soft now, sweet and chaste and intimate, but it’s been a long while (too damn long for John) and they won’t stay chaste much longer. They have to be careful. He has to be sensible. There was only one way he knew of to restore his calm center.
He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if there was any of that tea left.
Sherlock exhaled, eyes still closed and expression still pleasantly overwhelmed. “There’s still some left in the kettle.”
“How do you even… Oh never mind.” He smiled at the odd, dazed expression on Sherlock’s face. “Would you like some?”
Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve had some already.”
John reluctantly left the circle of Sherlock’s arms and refreshed his mug of tea. He took a sip, winced at its coldness, and moved to head towards the kitchen. Suddenly he paused and turned to Sherlock. “In the process of making breakfast this morning, did you happen to destroy the microwave?”
Sherlock’s mouth twisted and he turned away to hide his mirth. “Of course not.”
John huffed slightly. “Good.” It really was a crime to reheat tea in the microwave, but when there was no other choice…
John padded into the kitchen and popped his tea in the microwave. “So,” he called out to Sherlock. “How are you feeling? Not too much pain?”
“No,” Sherlock replied, sitting back on his armchair and allowing himself to rest slightly. “Not very much at all.”
“Are you lying?” John asked out of habit. Sherlock frequently lied about things he thought were ‘unimportant’.
“No,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow before pausing slightly and looking at John curiously. “…and if I were?”
“There’d probably be no way for me to tell and you’d suffer in stubborn silence even though I could help you because I’m a doctor.” He took his tea out of the microwave and crossed to his own armchair, settling into it and staring at Sherlock over the rim of his mug with a slight smile on his face.
Sherlock smiled. “That seems remarkably ill-judged on the part of my hypothetical self.”
(Source: logs.Omegle.com)
John frowned slightly, needing a moment to come to terms with this. Despite what Mycroft had implied, it was hard for John (John “Three Continents” Watson) to comprehend. “At all ever?” he asked quietly, not wanting to offend Sherlock, but also wanting to be sure.
Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not willingly, no.” He peered down at John, eyes vulnerable. “Is that… do you… is that bad?”
“No, no, it’s not bad, I just—” John’s brow furrowed slightly, looking up at Sherlock “How do you mean ‘not willingly’?”
Sherlock’s mouth drew into a flat line. “I mean to say precisely what I have said.” He looked away. “I can hardly remember it. I was quite young.”
Not strictly true. He’d been seven, and he remembered it clearly enough to remember the panic and the pain. The fear that he’d be coming back to do it again, and the hatred when he was right.
But he’d removed that from his head— as an emotional experience, it was no longer valid as anything but data for future reference.
Sherlock’s face was flat and emotionless, deliberately detached. He remembered every detail. John was certain of that. And it filled him with a white-hot flash of rage. “Who—” He stopped himself, took a breath. “I mean… You don’t have to… Only if you’re comfortable telling me.”
He caught Sherlock’s chin in his fingers and gently forced him to meet John’s gaze. “I won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Ever.” He paused. “It’s all fine with me.”
Sherlock’s eyes softened and he leaned in to press a gently kiss to John’s lips. “I know, John. Emotionally, it’s… left me damaged, but not irreparably so. And I only rarely look back on it for any reason at all. I’ve… made my peace with it, in a way. The only reason I recall is… well. Six days of captivity remind you of many things, especially the unpleasant ones.” He smiled bitterly. “It was my father. Step-father, actually, but I hadn’t known that for certain until later, though I’d had my doubts.”
John was about to pull Sherlock down into a hug when a thought struck him and he went still. “Did…” The full potential implications of Sherlock’s captivity settled like lead into the bottom of John’s stomach. “Did Moran…” There’s no way to finish the sentence delicately, so he just stared up at Sherlock, eyes wide with alarm.
“No,” Sherlock said flatly. “He tried. But, no. I was… rescued before then.”
Rescued. Unable to rely on himself. Saved, like a princess in a Disney adaptation of one of Grimm’s fairytales.
Weak. A damsel in distress rescued by a random stranger. A stranger he couldn’t even manage to save in return.
John’s breath came out in a rush. “Jesus,” he said, pulling Sherlock close, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder. “Jesus, Sherlock. I’m so…” Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. It doesn’t really mean anything or make anyone feel better. John knows because he’s been on the receiving end of sorrys like that. When a patient died or after he was shot or when Sherlock fell. Nothing helps.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to focus on the important things. He’s home now. He’s safe. It’s gonna be okay.
“As am I,” Sherlock said, and his voice was rough and tired. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in and gently kissed John’s forehead.
John smiled at Sherlock’s endearing uncertainty and dropped his hands to rest on Sherlock’s waist, holding the detective close. “Is there… Is there anything I can do?” he asked quietly. Because he had to. He was a doctor. It was his job to make things better.
“You are far more than your medical title, John. It’s not your job to heal me.” Sherlock inhaled, taking the scent of John’s soap and shampoo and skin. “Be…you. Undeniably you. You are gentle, kind, and quietly strong— the difference is inescapable. I just…need you. To take things at whatever pace we’re going at and… simply to be there.”
“I—” John had been about to say I never said… but he’d been thinking it, so he might as well have said it. He shook his head. “I’d forgotten how you read my bloody mind sometimes. All the time.” He was a little flushed, from embarrassment and from Sherlock’s quiet praise. “And of course it’s my job,” he mumbled. “It’s always been my job.”
Sherlock dropped a feather light kiss to John’s neck. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he murmured against the skin there. “I only pay the sincerest compliments.”
He frowned. “If that is your job, then what is my job?”
Sherlock’s lips brushed against his skin, making him hum happily. “Right now?” he answered without thinking, before he could censor himself. “Just stay here. Keep convincing me you’re real.” He said it so casually, almost jokingly. It could almost be funny.
Sherlock’s arms tightened protectively. “I can do that,” he whispered, and then he was carefully pressing his lips to John’s again.
He was rather alarmingly addicted in a ridiculously short amount of time, he realized.
John hummed again, his hands holding tight to Sherlock’s waist. His imagination wasn’t this good. Not by a long shot. He’d never been able to summon Sherlock’s smell this way. And he’d never known how Sherlock’s lips felt.
John pulled back, taking a deep breath. This can’t get out of hand. Sherlock’s injured, Sherlock’s still healing. And goodness knows what his mental state is. The kisses are soft now, sweet and chaste and intimate, but it’s been a long while (too damn long for John) and they won’t stay chaste much longer. They have to be careful. He has to be sensible. There was only one way he knew of to restore his calm center.
He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if there was any of that tea left.
Sherlock exhaled, eyes still closed and expression still pleasantly overwhelmed. “There’s still some left in the kettle.”
“How do you even… Oh never mind.” He smiled at the odd, dazed expression on Sherlock’s face. “Would you like some?”
Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve had some already.”
John reluctantly left the circle of Sherlock’s arms and refreshed his mug of tea. He took a sip, winced at its coldness, and moved to head towards the kitchen. Suddenly he paused and turned to Sherlock. “In the process of making breakfast this morning, did you happen to destroy the microwave?”
Sherlock’s mouth twisted and he turned away to hide his mirth. “Of course not.”
John huffed slightly. “Good.” It really was a crime to reheat tea in the microwave, but when there was no other choice…
John padded into the kitchen and popped his tea in the microwave. “So,” he called out to Sherlock. “How are you feeling? Not too much pain?”
“No,” Sherlock replied, sitting back on his armchair and allowing himself to rest slightly. “Not very much at all.”
“Are you lying?” John asked out of habit. Sherlock frequently lied about things he thought were ‘unimportant’.
“No,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow before pausing slightly and looking at John curiously. “…and if I were?”
(Source: logs.Omegle.com)
John frowned slightly, needing a moment to come to terms with this. Despite what Mycroft had implied, it was hard for John (John “Three Continents” Watson) to comprehend. “At all ever?” he asked quietly, not wanting to offend Sherlock, but also wanting to be sure.
Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not willingly, no.” He peered down at John, eyes vulnerable. “Is that… do you… is that bad?”
“No, no, it’s not bad, I just—” John’s brow furrowed slightly, looking up at Sherlock “How do you mean ‘not willingly’?”
Sherlock’s mouth drew into a flat line. “I mean to say precisely what I have said.” He looked away. “I can hardly remember it. I was quite young.”
Not strictly true. He’d been seven, and he remembered it clearly enough to remember the panic and the pain. The fear that he’d be coming back to do it again, and the hatred when he was right.
But he’d removed that from his head— as an emotional experience, it was no longer valid as anything but data for future reference.
Sherlock’s face was flat and emotionless, deliberately detached. He remembered every detail. John was certain of that. And it filled him with a white-hot flash of rage. “Who—” He stopped himself, took a breath. “I mean… You don’t have to… Only if you’re comfortable telling me.”
He caught Sherlock’s chin in his fingers and gently forced him to meet John’s gaze. “I won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Ever.” He paused. “It’s all fine with me.”
Sherlock’s eyes softened and he leaned in to press a gently kiss to John’s lips. “I know, John. Emotionally, it’s… left me damaged, but not irreparably so. And I only rarely look back on it for any reason at all. I’ve… made my peace with it, in a way. The only reason I recall is… well. Six days of captivity remind you of many things, especially the unpleasant ones.” He smiled bitterly. “It was my father. Step-father, actually, but I hadn’t known that for certain until later, though I’d had my doubts.”
John was about to pull Sherlock down into a hug when a thought struck him and he went still. “Did…” The full potential implications of Sherlock’s captivity settled like lead into the bottom of John’s stomach. “Did Moran…” There’s no way to finish the sentence delicately, so he just stared up at Sherlock, eyes wide with alarm.
“No,” Sherlock said flatly. “He tried. But, no. I was… rescued before then.”
Rescued. Unable to rely on himself. Saved, like a princess in a Disney adaptation of one of Grimm’s fairytales.
Weak. A damsel in distress rescued by a random stranger. A stranger he couldn’t even manage to save in return.
John’s breath came out in a rush. “Jesus,” he said, pulling Sherlock close, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder. “Jesus, Sherlock. I’m so…” Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. It doesn’t really mean anything or make anyone feel better. John knows because he’s been on the receiving end of sorrys like that. When a patient died or after he was shot or when Sherlock fell. Nothing helps.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to focus on the important things. He’s home now. He’s safe. It’s gonna be okay.
“As am I,” Sherlock said, and his voice was rough and tired. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in and gently kissed John’s forehead.
John smiled at Sherlock’s endearing uncertainty and dropped his hands to rest on Sherlock’s waist, holding the detective close. “Is there… Is there anything I can do?” he asked quietly. Because he had to. He was a doctor. It was his job to make things better.
“You are far more than your medical title, John. It’s not your job to heal me.” Sherlock inhaled, taking the scent of John’s soap and shampoo and skin. “Be…you. Undeniably you. You are gentle, kind, and quietly strong— the difference is inescapable. I just…need you. To take things at whatever pace we’re going at and… simply to be there.”
“I—” John had been about to say I never said… but he’d been thinking it, so he might as well have said it. He shook his head. “I’d forgotten how you read my bloody mind sometimes. All the time.” He was a little flushed, from embarrassment and from Sherlock’s quiet praise. “And of course it’s my job,” he mumbled. “It’s always been my job.”
Sherlock dropped a feather light kiss to John’s neck. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he murmured against the skin there. “I only pay the sincerest compliments.”
He frowned. “If that is your job, then what is my job?”
Sherlock’s lips brushed against his skin, making him hum happily. “Right now?” he answered without thinking, before he could censor himself. “Just stay here. Keep convincing me you’re real.” He said it so casually, almost jokingly. It could almost be funny.
Sherlock’s arms tightened protectively. “I can do that,” he whispered, and then he was carefully pressing his lips to John’s again.
He was rather alarmingly addicted in a ridiculously short amount of time, he realized.
John hummed again, his hands holding tight to Sherlock’s waist. His imagination wasn’t this good. Not by a long shot. He’d never been able to summon Sherlock’s smell this way. And he’d never known how Sherlock’s lips felt.
John pulled back, taking a deep breath. This can’t get out of hand. Sherlock’s injured, Sherlock’s still healing. And goodness knows what his mental state is. The kisses are soft now, sweet and chaste and intimate, but it’s been a long while (too damn long for John) and they won’t stay chaste much longer. They have to be careful. He has to be sensible. There was only one way he knew of to restore his calm center.
He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if there was any of that tea left.
Sherlock exhaled, eyes still closed and expression still pleasantly overwhelmed. “There’s still some left in the kettle.”
“How do you even… Oh never mind.” He smiled at the odd, dazed expression on Sherlock’s face. “Would you like some?”
Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve had some already.”
John reluctantly left the circle of Sherlock’s arms and refreshed his mug of tea. He took a sip, winced at its coldness, and moved to head towards the kitchen. Suddenly he paused and turned to Sherlock. “In the process of making breakfast this morning, did you happen to destroy the microwave?”
Sherlock’s mouth twisted and he turned away to hide his mirth. “Of course not.”
John huffed slightly. “Good.” It really was a crime to reheat tea in the microwave, but when there was no other choice…
John padded into the kitchen and popped his tea in the microwave. “So,” he called out to Sherlock. “How are you feeling? Not too much pain?”
“No,” Sherlock replied, sitting back on his armchair and allowing himself to rest slightly. “Not very much at all.”
(Source: logs.Omegle.com)
John frowned slightly, needing a moment to come to terms with this. Despite what Mycroft had implied, it was hard for John (John “Three Continents” Watson) to comprehend. “At all ever?” he asked quietly, not wanting to offend Sherlock, but also wanting to be sure.
Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not willingly, no.” He peered down at John, eyes vulnerable. “Is that… do you… is that bad?”
“No, no, it’s not bad, I just—” John’s brow furrowed slightly, looking up at Sherlock “How do you mean ‘not willingly’?”
Sherlock’s mouth drew into a flat line. “I mean to say precisely what I have said.” He looked away. “I can hardly remember it. I was quite young.”
Not strictly true. He’d been seven, and he remembered it clearly enough to remember the panic and the pain. The fear that he’d be coming back to do it again, and the hatred when he was right.
But he’d removed that from his head— as an emotional experience, it was no longer valid as anything but data for future reference.
Sherlock’s face was flat and emotionless, deliberately detached. He remembered every detail. John was certain of that. And it filled him with a white-hot flash of rage. “Who—” He stopped himself, took a breath. “I mean… You don’t have to… Only if you’re comfortable telling me.”
He caught Sherlock’s chin in his fingers and gently forced him to meet John’s gaze. “I won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Ever.” He paused. “It’s all fine with me.”
Sherlock’s eyes softened and he leaned in to press a gently kiss to John’s lips. “I know, John. Emotionally, it’s… left me damaged, but not irreparably so. And I only rarely look back on it for any reason at all. I’ve… made my peace with it, in a way. The only reason I recall is… well. Six days of captivity remind you of many things, especially the unpleasant ones.” He smiled bitterly. “It was my father. Step-father, actually, but I hadn’t known that for certain until later, though I’d had my doubts.”
John was about to pull Sherlock down into a hug when a thought struck him and he went still. “Did…” The full potential implications of Sherlock’s captivity settled like lead into the bottom of John’s stomach. “Did Moran…” There’s no way to finish the sentence delicately, so he just stared up at Sherlock, eyes wide with alarm.
“No,” Sherlock said flatly. “He tried. But, no. I was… rescued before then.”
Rescued. Unable to rely on himself. Saved, like a princess in a Disney adaptation of one of Grimm’s fairytales.
Weak. A damsel in distress rescued by a random stranger. A stranger he couldn’t even manage to save in return.
John’s breath came out in a rush. “Jesus,” he said, pulling Sherlock close, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder. “Jesus, Sherlock. I’m so…” Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. It doesn’t really mean anything or make anyone feel better. John knows because he’s been on the receiving end of sorrys like that. When a patient died or after he was shot or when Sherlock fell. Nothing helps.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to focus on the important things. He’s home now. He’s safe. It’s gonna be okay.
“As am I,” Sherlock said, and his voice was rough and tired. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in and gently kissed John’s forehead.
John smiled at Sherlock’s endearing uncertainty and dropped his hands to rest on Sherlock’s waist, holding the detective close. “Is there… Is there anything I can do?” he asked quietly. Because he had to. He was a doctor. It was his job to make things better.
“You are far more than your medical title, John. It’s not your job to heal me.” Sherlock inhaled, taking the scent of John’s soap and shampoo and skin. “Be…you. Undeniably you. You are gentle, kind, and quietly strong— the difference is inescapable. I just…need you. To take things at whatever pace we’re going at and… simply to be there.”
“I—” John had been about to say I never said… but he’d been thinking it, so he might as well have said it. He shook his head. “I’d forgotten how you read my bloody mind sometimes. All the time.” He was a little flushed, from embarrassment and from Sherlock’s quiet praise. “And of course it’s my job,” he mumbled. “It’s always been my job.”
Sherlock dropped a feather light kiss to John’s neck. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he murmured against the skin there. “I only pay the sincerest compliments.”
He frowned. “If that is your job, then what is my job?”
Sherlock’s lips brushed against his skin, making him hum happily. “Right now?” he answered without thinking, before he could censor himself. “Just stay here. Keep convincing me you’re real.” He said it so casually, almost jokingly. It could almost be funny.
Sherlock’s arms tightened protectively. “I can do that,” he whispered, and then he was carefully pressing his lips to John’s again.
He was rather alarmingly addicted in a ridiculously short amount of time, he realized.
John hummed again, his hands holding tight to Sherlock’s waist. His imagination wasn’t this good. Not by a long shot. He’d never been able to summon Sherlock’s smell this way. And he’d never known how Sherlock’s lips felt.
John pulled back, taking a deep breath. This can’t get out of hand. Sherlock’s injured, Sherlock’s still healing. And goodness knows what his mental state is. The kisses are soft now, sweet and chaste and intimate, but it’s been a long while (too damn long for John) and they won’t stay chaste much longer. They have to be careful. He has to be sensible. There was only one way he knew of to restore his calm center.
He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if there was any of that tea left.
Sherlock exhaled, eyes still closed and expression still pleasantly overwhelmed. “There’s still some left in the kettle.”
“How do you even… Oh never mind.” He smiled at the odd, dazed expression on Sherlock’s face. “Would you like some?”
Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve had some already.”
John reluctantly left the circle of Sherlock’s arms and refreshed his mug of tea. He took a sip, winced at its coldness, and moved to head towards the kitchen. Suddenly he paused and turned to Sherlock. “In the process of making breakfast this morning, did you happen to destroy the microwave?”
Sherlock’s mouth twisted and he turned away to hide his mirth. “Of course not.”
(Source: logs.Omegle.com)
John frowned slightly, needing a moment to come to terms with this. Despite what Mycroft had implied, it was hard for John (John “Three Continents” Watson) to comprehend. “At all ever?” he asked quietly, not wanting to offend Sherlock, but also wanting to be sure.
Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not willingly, no.” He peered down at John, eyes vulnerable. “Is that… do you… is that bad?”
“No, no, it’s not bad, I just—” John’s brow furrowed slightly, looking up at Sherlock “How do you mean ‘not willingly’?”
Sherlock’s mouth drew into a flat line. “I mean to say precisely what I have said.” He looked away. “I can hardly remember it. I was quite young.”
Not strictly true. He’d been seven, and he remembered it clearly enough to remember the panic and the pain. The fear that he’d be coming back to do it again, and the hatred when he was right.
But he’d removed that from his head— as an emotional experience, it was no longer valid as anything but data for future reference.
Sherlock’s face was flat and emotionless, deliberately detached. He remembered every detail. John was certain of that. And it filled him with a white-hot flash of rage. “Who—” He stopped himself, took a breath. “I mean… You don’t have to… Only if you’re comfortable telling me.”
He caught Sherlock’s chin in his fingers and gently forced him to meet John’s gaze. “I won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Ever.” He paused. “It’s all fine with me.”
Sherlock’s eyes softened and he leaned in to press a gently kiss to John’s lips. “I know, John. Emotionally, it’s… left me damaged, but not irreparably so. And I only rarely look back on it for any reason at all. I’ve… made my peace with it, in a way. The only reason I recall is… well. Six days of captivity remind you of many things, especially the unpleasant ones.” He smiled bitterly. “It was my father. Step-father, actually, but I hadn’t known that for certain until later, though I’d had my doubts.”
John was about to pull Sherlock down into a hug when a thought struck him and he went still. “Did…” The full potential implications of Sherlock’s captivity settled like lead into the bottom of John’s stomach. “Did Moran…” There’s no way to finish the sentence delicately, so he just stared up at Sherlock, eyes wide with alarm.
“No,” Sherlock said flatly. “He tried. But, no. I was… rescued before then.”
Rescued. Unable to rely on himself. Saved, like a princess in a Disney adaptation of one of Grimm’s fairytales.
Weak. A damsel in distress rescued by a random stranger. A stranger he couldn’t even manage to save in return.
John’s breath came out in a rush. “Jesus,” he said, pulling Sherlock close, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder. “Jesus, Sherlock. I’m so…” Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. It doesn’t really mean anything or make anyone feel better. John knows because he’s been on the receiving end of sorrys like that. When a patient died or after he was shot or when Sherlock fell. Nothing helps.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to focus on the important things. He’s home now. He’s safe. It’s gonna be okay.
“As am I,” Sherlock said, and his voice was rough and tired. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in and gently kissed John’s forehead.
John smiled at Sherlock’s endearing uncertainty and dropped his hands to rest on Sherlock’s waist, holding the detective close. “Is there… Is there anything I can do?” he asked quietly. Because he had to. He was a doctor. It was his job to make things better.
“You are far more than your medical title, John. It’s not your job to heal me.” Sherlock inhaled, taking the scent of John’s soap and shampoo and skin. “Be…you. Undeniably you. You are gentle, kind, and quietly strong— the difference is inescapable. I just…need you. To take things at whatever pace we’re going at and… simply to be there.”
“I—” John had been about to say I never said… but he’d been thinking it, so he might as well have said it. He shook his head. “I’d forgotten how you read my bloody mind sometimes. All the time.” He was a little flushed, from embarrassment and from Sherlock’s quiet praise. “And of course it’s my job,” he mumbled. “It’s always been my job.”
Sherlock dropped a feather light kiss to John’s neck. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he murmured against the skin there. “I only pay the sincerest compliments.”
He frowned. “If that is your job, then what is my job?”
Sherlock’s lips brushed against his skin, making him hum happily. “Right now?” he answered without thinking, before he could censor himself. “Just stay here. Keep convincing me you’re real.” He said it so casually, almost jokingly. It could almost be funny.
Sherlock’s arms tightened protectively. “I can do that,” he whispered, and then he was carefully pressing his lips to John’s again.
He was rather alarmingly addicted in a ridiculously short amount of time, he realized.
John hummed again, his hands holding tight to Sherlock’s waist. His imagination wasn’t this good. Not by a long shot. He’d never been able to summon Sherlock’s smell this way. And he’d never known how Sherlock’s lips felt.
John pulled back, taking a deep breath. This can’t get out of hand. Sherlock’s injured, Sherlock’s still healing. And goodness knows what his mental state is. The kisses are soft now, sweet and chaste and intimate, but it’s been a long while (too damn long for John) and they won’t stay chaste much longer. They have to be careful. He has to be sensible. There was only one way he knew of to restore his calm center.
He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if there was any of that tea left.
Sherlock exhaled, eyes still closed and expression still pleasantly overwhelmed. “There’s still some left in the kettle.”
“How do you even… Oh never mind.” He smiled at the odd, dazed expression on Sherlock’s face. “Would you like some?”
Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve had some already.”
(Source: logs.Omegle.com)
John frowned slightly, needing a moment to come to terms with this. Despite what Mycroft had implied, it was hard for John (John “Three Continents” Watson) to comprehend. “At all ever?” he asked quietly, not wanting to offend Sherlock, but also wanting to be sure.
Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not willingly, no.” He peered down at John, eyes vulnerable. “Is that… do you… is that bad?”
“No, no, it’s not bad, I just—” John’s brow furrowed slightly, looking up at Sherlock “How do you mean ‘not willingly’?”
Sherlock’s mouth drew into a flat line. “I mean to say precisely what I have said.” He looked away. “I can hardly remember it. I was quite young.”
Not strictly true. He’d been seven, and he remembered it clearly enough to remember the panic and the pain. The fear that he’d be coming back to do it again, and the hatred when he was right.
But he’d removed that from his head— as an emotional experience, it was no longer valid as anything but data for future reference.
Sherlock’s face was flat and emotionless, deliberately detached. He remembered every detail. John was certain of that. And it filled him with a white-hot flash of rage. “Who—” He stopped himself, took a breath. “I mean… You don’t have to… Only if you’re comfortable telling me.”
He caught Sherlock’s chin in his fingers and gently forced him to meet John’s gaze. “I won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Ever.” He paused. “It’s all fine with me.”
Sherlock’s eyes softened and he leaned in to press a gently kiss to John’s lips. “I know, John. Emotionally, it’s… left me damaged, but not irreparably so. And I only rarely look back on it for any reason at all. I’ve… made my peace with it, in a way. The only reason I recall is… well. Six days of captivity remind you of many things, especially the unpleasant ones.” He smiled bitterly. “It was my father. Step-father, actually, but I hadn’t known that for certain until later, though I’d had my doubts.”
John was about to pull Sherlock down into a hug when a thought struck him and he went still. “Did…” The full potential implications of Sherlock’s captivity settled like lead into the bottom of John’s stomach. “Did Moran…” There’s no way to finish the sentence delicately, so he just stared up at Sherlock, eyes wide with alarm.
“No,” Sherlock said flatly. “He tried. But, no. I was… rescued before then.”
Rescued. Unable to rely on himself. Saved, like a princess in a Disney adaptation of one of Grimm’s fairytales.
Weak. A damsel in distress rescued by a random stranger. A stranger he couldn’t even manage to save in return.
John’s breath came out in a rush. “Jesus,” he said, pulling Sherlock close, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder. “Jesus, Sherlock. I’m so…” Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. It doesn’t really mean anything or make anyone feel better. John knows because he’s been on the receiving end of sorrys like that. When a patient died or after he was shot or when Sherlock fell. Nothing helps.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to focus on the important things. He’s home now. He’s safe. It’s gonna be okay.
“As am I,” Sherlock said, and his voice was rough and tired. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in and gently kissed John’s forehead.
John smiled at Sherlock’s endearing uncertainty and dropped his hands to rest on Sherlock’s waist, holding the detective close. “Is there… Is there anything I can do?” he asked quietly. Because he had to. He was a doctor. It was his job to make things better.
“You are far more than your medical title, John. It’s not your job to heal me.” Sherlock inhaled, taking the scent of John’s soap and shampoo and skin. “Be…you. Undeniably you. You are gentle, kind, and quietly strong— the difference is inescapable. I just…need you. To take things at whatever pace we’re going at and… simply to be there.”
“I—” John had been about to say I never said… but he’d been thinking it, so he might as well have said it. He shook his head. “I’d forgotten how you read my bloody mind sometimes. All the time.” He was a little flushed, from embarrassment and from Sherlock’s quiet praise. “And of course it’s my job,” he mumbled. “It’s always been my job.”
Sherlock dropped a feather light kiss to John’s neck. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he murmured against the skin there. “I only pay the sincerest compliments.”
He frowned. “If that is your job, then what is my job?”
Sherlock’s lips brushed against his skin, making him hum happily. “Right now?” he answered without thinking, before he could censor himself. “Just stay here. Keep convincing me you’re real.” He said it so casually, almost jokingly. It could almost be funny.
Sherlock’s arms tightened protectively. “I can do that,” he whispered, and then he was carefully pressing his lips to John’s again.
He was rather alarmingly addicted in a ridiculously short amount of time, he realized.
John hummed again, his hands holding tight to Sherlock’s waist. His imagination wasn’t this good. Not by a long shot. He’d never been able to summon Sherlock’s smell this way. And he’d never known how Sherlock’s lips felt.
John pulled back, taking a deep breath. This can’t get out of hand. Sherlock’s injured, Sherlock’s still healing. And goodness knows what his mental state is. The kisses are soft now, sweet and chaste and intimate, but it’s been a long while (too damn long for John) and they won’t stay chaste much longer. They have to be careful. He has to be sensible. There was only one way he knew of to restore his calm center.
He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if there was any of that tea left.
Sherlock exhaled, eyes still closed and expression still pleasantly overwhelmed. “There’s still some left in the kettle.”
(Source: logs.Omegle.com)
John frowned slightly, needing a moment to come to terms with this. Despite what Mycroft had implied, it was hard for John (John “Three Continents” Watson) to comprehend. “At all ever?” he asked quietly, not wanting to offend Sherlock, but also wanting to be sure.
Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not willingly, no.” He peered down at John, eyes vulnerable. “Is that… do you… is that bad?”
“No, no, it’s not bad, I just—” John’s brow furrowed slightly, looking up at Sherlock “How do you mean ‘not willingly’?”
Sherlock’s mouth drew into a flat line. “I mean to say precisely what I have said.” He looked away. “I can hardly remember it. I was quite young.”
Not strictly true. He’d been seven, and he remembered it clearly enough to remember the panic and the pain. The fear that he’d be coming back to do it again, and the hatred when he was right.
But he’d removed that from his head— as an emotional experience, it was no longer valid as anything but data for future reference.
Sherlock’s face was flat and emotionless, deliberately detached. He remembered every detail. John was certain of that. And it filled him with a white-hot flash of rage. “Who—” He stopped himself, took a breath. “I mean… You don’t have to… Only if you’re comfortable telling me.”
He caught Sherlock’s chin in his fingers and gently forced him to meet John’s gaze. “I won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Ever.” He paused. “It’s all fine with me.”
Sherlock’s eyes softened and he leaned in to press a gently kiss to John’s lips. “I know, John. Emotionally, it’s… left me damaged, but not irreparably so. And I only rarely look back on it for any reason at all. I’ve… made my peace with it, in a way. The only reason I recall is… well. Six days of captivity remind you of many things, especially the unpleasant ones.” He smiled bitterly. “It was my father. Step-father, actually, but I hadn’t known that for certain until later, though I’d had my doubts.”
John was about to pull Sherlock down into a hug when a thought struck him and he went still. “Did…” The full potential implications of Sherlock’s captivity settled like lead into the bottom of John’s stomach. “Did Moran…” There’s no way to finish the sentence delicately, so he just stared up at Sherlock, eyes wide with alarm.
“No,” Sherlock said flatly. “He tried. But, no. I was… rescued before then.”
Rescued. Unable to rely on himself. Saved, like a princess in a Disney adaptation of one of Grimm’s fairytales.
Weak. A damsel in distress rescued by a random stranger. A stranger he couldn’t even manage to save in return.
John’s breath came out in a rush. “Jesus,” he said, pulling Sherlock close, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder. “Jesus, Sherlock. I’m so…” Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. It doesn’t really mean anything or make anyone feel better. John knows because he’s been on the receiving end of sorrys like that. When a patient died or after he was shot or when Sherlock fell. Nothing helps.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to focus on the important things. He’s home now. He’s safe. It’s gonna be okay.
“As am I,” Sherlock said, and his voice was rough and tired. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in and gently kissed John’s forehead.
John smiled at Sherlock’s endearing uncertainty and dropped his hands to rest on Sherlock’s waist, holding the detective close. “Is there… Is there anything I can do?” he asked quietly. Because he had to. He was a doctor. It was his job to make things better.
“You are far more than your medical title, John. It’s not your job to heal me.” Sherlock inhaled, taking the scent of John’s soap and shampoo and skin. “Be…you. Undeniably you. You are gentle, kind, and quietly strong— the difference is inescapable. I just…need you. To take things at whatever pace we’re going at and… simply to be there.”
“I—” John had been about to say I never said… but he’d been thinking it, so he might as well have said it. He shook his head. “I’d forgotten how you read my bloody mind sometimes. All the time.” He was a little flushed, from embarrassment and from Sherlock’s quiet praise. “And of course it’s my job,” he mumbled. “It’s always been my job.”
Sherlock dropped a feather light kiss to John’s neck. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he murmured against the skin there. “I only pay the sincerest compliments.”
He frowned. “If that is your job, then what is my job?”
Sherlock’s lips brushed against his skin, making him hum happily. “Right now?” he answered without thinking, before he could censor himself. “Just stay here. Keep convincing me you’re real.” He said it so casually, almost jokingly. It could almost be funny.
Sherlock’s arms tightened protectively. “I can do that,” he whispered, and then he was carefully pressing his lips to John’s again.
He was rather alarmingly addicted in a ridiculously short amount of time, he realized.
(Source: logs.Omegle.com)
John frowned slightly, needing a moment to come to terms with this. Despite what Mycroft had implied, it was hard for John (John “Three Continents” Watson) to comprehend. “At all ever?” he asked quietly, not wanting to offend Sherlock, but also wanting to be sure.
Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not willingly, no.” He peered down at John, eyes vulnerable. “Is that… do you… is that bad?”
“No, no, it’s not bad, I just—” John’s brow furrowed slightly, looking up at Sherlock “How do you mean ‘not willingly’?”
Sherlock’s mouth drew into a flat line. “I mean to say precisely what I have said.” He looked away. “I can hardly remember it. I was quite young.”
Not strictly true. He’d been seven, and he remembered it clearly enough to remember the panic and the pain. The fear that he’d be coming back to do it again, and the hatred when he was right.
But he’d removed that from his head— as an emotional experience, it was no longer valid as anything but data for future reference.
Sherlock’s face was flat and emotionless, deliberately detached. He remembered every detail. John was certain of that. And it filled him with a white-hot flash of rage. “Who—” He stopped himself, took a breath. “I mean… You don’t have to… Only if you’re comfortable telling me.”
He caught Sherlock’s chin in his fingers and gently forced him to meet John’s gaze. “I won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Ever.” He paused. “It’s all fine with me.”
Sherlock’s eyes softened and he leaned in to press a gently kiss to John’s lips. “I know, John. Emotionally, it’s… left me damaged, but not irreparably so. And I only rarely look back on it for any reason at all. I’ve… made my peace with it, in a way. The only reason I recall is… well. Six days of captivity remind you of many things, especially the unpleasant ones.” He smiled bitterly. “It was my father. Step-father, actually, but I hadn’t known that for certain until later, though I’d had my doubts.”
John was about to pull Sherlock down into a hug when a thought struck him and he went still. “Did…” The full potential implications of Sherlock’s captivity settled like lead into the bottom of John’s stomach. “Did Moran…” There’s no way to finish the sentence delicately, so he just stared up at Sherlock, eyes wide with alarm.
“No,” Sherlock said flatly. “He tried. But, no. I was… rescued before then.”
Rescued. Unable to rely on himself. Saved, like a princess in a Disney adaptation of one of Grimm’s fairytales.
Weak. A damsel in distress rescued by a random stranger. A stranger he couldn’t even manage to save in return.
John’s breath came out in a rush. “Jesus,” he said, pulling Sherlock close, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder. “Jesus, Sherlock. I’m so…” Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. It doesn’t really mean anything or make anyone feel better. John knows because he’s been on the receiving end of sorrys like that. When a patient died or after he was shot or when Sherlock fell. Nothing helps.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to focus on the important things. He’s home now. He’s safe. It’s gonna be okay.
“As am I,” Sherlock said, and his voice was rough and tired. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in and gently kissed John’s forehead.
John smiled at Sherlock’s endearing uncertainty and dropped his hands to rest on Sherlock’s waist, holding the detective close. “Is there… Is there anything I can do?” he asked quietly. Because he had to. He was a doctor. It was his job to make things better.
“You are far more than your medical title, John. It’s not your job to heal me.” Sherlock inhaled, taking the scent of John’s soap and shampoo and skin. “Be…you. Undeniably you. You are gentle, kind, and quietly strong— the difference is inescapable. I just…need you. To take things at whatever pace we’re going at and… simply to be there.”
“I—” John had been about to say I never said… but he’d been thinking it, so he might as well have said it. He shook his head. “I’d forgotten how you read my bloody mind sometimes. All the time.” He was a little flushed, from embarrassment and from Sherlock’s quiet praise. “And of course it’s my job,” he mumbled. “It’s always been my job.”
Sherlock dropped a feather light kiss to John’s neck. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he murmured against the skin there. “I only pay the sincerest compliments.”
He frowned. “If that is your job, then what is my job?”
(Source: logs.Omegle.com)
John frowned slightly, needing a moment to come to terms with this. Despite what Mycroft had implied, it was hard for John (John “Three Continents” Watson) to comprehend. “At all ever?” he asked quietly, not wanting to offend Sherlock, but also wanting to be sure.
Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not willingly, no.” He peered down at John, eyes vulnerable. “Is that… do you… is that bad?”
“No, no, it’s not bad, I just—” John’s brow furrowed slightly, looking up at Sherlock “How do you mean ‘not willingly’?”
Sherlock’s mouth drew into a flat line. “I mean to say precisely what I have said.” He looked away. “I can hardly remember it. I was quite young.”
Not strictly true. He’d been seven, and he remembered it clearly enough to remember the panic and the pain. The fear that he’d be coming back to do it again, and the hatred when he was right.
But he’d removed that from his head— as an emotional experience, it was no longer valid as anything but data for future reference.
Sherlock’s face was flat and emotionless, deliberately detached. He remembered every detail. John was certain of that. And it filled him with a white-hot flash of rage. “Who—” He stopped himself, took a breath. “I mean… You don’t have to… Only if you’re comfortable telling me.”
He caught Sherlock’s chin in his fingers and gently forced him to meet John’s gaze. “I won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Ever.” He paused. “It’s all fine with me.”
Sherlock’s eyes softened and he leaned in to press a gently kiss to John’s lips. “I know, John. Emotionally, it’s… left me damaged, but not irreparably so. And I only rarely look back on it for any reason at all. I’ve… made my peace with it, in a way. The only reason I recall is… well. Six days of captivity remind you of many things, especially the unpleasant ones.” He smiled bitterly. “It was my father. Step-father, actually, but I hadn’t known that for certain until later, though I’d had my doubts.”
John was about to pull Sherlock down into a hug when a thought struck him and he went still. “Did…” The full potential implications of Sherlock’s captivity settled like lead into the bottom of John’s stomach. “Did Moran…” There’s no way to finish the sentence delicately, so he just stared up at Sherlock, eyes wide with alarm.
“No,” Sherlock said flatly. “He tried. But, no. I was… rescued before then.”
Rescued. Unable to rely on himself. Saved, like a princess in a Disney adaptation of one of Grimm’s fairytales.
Weak. A damsel in distress rescued by a random stranger. A stranger he couldn’t even manage to save in return.
John’s breath came out in a rush. “Jesus,” he said, pulling Sherlock close, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder. “Jesus, Sherlock. I’m so…” Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. It doesn’t really mean anything or make anyone feel better. John knows because he’s been on the receiving end of sorrys like that. When a patient died or after he was shot or when Sherlock fell. Nothing helps.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to focus on the important things. He’s home now. He’s safe. It’s gonna be okay.
“As am I,” Sherlock said, and his voice was rough and tired. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in and gently kissed John’s forehead.
John smiled at Sherlock’s endearing uncertainty and dropped his hands to rest on Sherlock’s waist, holding the detective close. “Is there… Is there anything I can do?” he asked quietly. Because he had to. He was a doctor. It was his job to make things better.
“You are far more than your medical title, John. It’s not your job to heal me.” Sherlock inhaled, taking the scent of John’s soap and shampoo and skin. “Be…you. Undeniably you. You are gentle, kind, and quietly strong— the difference is inescapable. I just…need you. To take things at whatever pace we’re going at and… simply to be there.”
(Source: logs.Omegle.com)
John frowned slightly, needing a moment to come to terms with this. Despite what Mycroft had implied, it was hard for John (John “Three Continents” Watson) to comprehend. “At all ever?” he asked quietly, not wanting to offend Sherlock, but also wanting to be sure.
Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not willingly, no.” He peered down at John, eyes vulnerable. “Is that… do you… is that bad?”
“No, no, it’s not bad, I just—” John’s brow furrowed slightly, looking up at Sherlock “How do you mean ‘not willingly’?”
Sherlock’s mouth drew into a flat line. “I mean to say precisely what I have said.” He looked away. “I can hardly remember it. I was quite young.”
Not strictly true. He’d been seven, and he remembered it clearly enough to remember the panic and the pain. The fear that he’d be coming back to do it again, and the hatred when he was right.
But he’d removed that from his head— as an emotional experience, it was no longer valid as anything but data for future reference.
Sherlock’s face was flat and emotionless, deliberately detached. He remembered every detail. John was certain of that. And it filled him with a white-hot flash of rage. “Who—” He stopped himself, took a breath. “I mean… You don’t have to… Only if you’re comfortable telling me.”
He caught Sherlock’s chin in his fingers and gently forced him to meet John’s gaze. “I won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. Ever.” He paused. “It’s all fine with me.”
Sherlock’s eyes softened and he leaned in to press a gently kiss to John’s lips. “I know, John. Emotionally, it’s… left me damaged, but not irreparably so. And I only rarely look back on it for any reason at all. I’ve… made my peace with it, in a way. The only reason I recall is… well. Six days of captivity remind you of many things, especially the unpleasant ones.” He smiled bitterly. “It was my father. Step-father, actually, but I hadn’t known that for certain until later, though I’d had my doubts.”
John was about to pull Sherlock down into a hug when a thought struck him and he went still. “Did…” The full potential implications of Sherlock’s captivity settled like lead into the bottom of John’s stomach. “Did Moran…” There’s no way to finish the sentence delicately, so he just stared up at Sherlock, eyes wide with alarm.
“No,” Sherlock said flatly. “He tried. But, no. I was… rescued before then.”
Rescued. Unable to rely on himself. Saved, like a princess in a Disney adaptation of one of Grimm’s fairytales.
Weak. A damsel in distress rescued by a random stranger. A stranger he couldn’t even manage to save in return.
John’s breath came out in a rush. “Jesus,” he said, pulling Sherlockclose, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder. “Jesus, Sherlock. I’m so…” Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. It doesn’t really mean anything or make anyone feel better. John knows because he’s been on the receiving end of sorrys like that. When a patient died or after he was shot or when Sherlock fell. Nothing helps.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to focus on the important things. He’s home now. He’s safe. It’s gonna be okay.
“As am I,” Sherlock said, and his voice was rough and tired. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in and gently kissed John’s forehead.
(Source: logs.Omegle.com)
