islandofwords

Title: Battle Scars
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Prompt: John gets off on putting bruises on Sherlock.
Genre: Dabbley slashy goodness/character study
Rating: R.


Battle Scars



Sherlock's so pale, every blemish standing out, black on white. Marks and scratches and bruises, souvenirs of chases through London, stumbles and falls and scrapes. Torn up knuckles, elbows and knees rubbed raw, a deep gash from an overenthusiastic suspect.

John likes to run his tongue and lips across every mark on Sherlock's body, tasting and soothing every little bit of pain. He likes to run soft hands over the scars. He likes to map out every patch of skin that isn't the usual pale shade. Memorize them, connect the dots, and draw a picture so beautiful that John never forgets this, never forgets the feel of skin on skin and lips on hips and tongues against tongues.

Sherlock is careless with his transport, and it seems each night there are more bruises for John to catalog. He does so faithfully, patiently until Sherlock is writhing beneath him and begging. John moves slowly, so slowly, catching every mark before he presses his lips to Sherlock's.

John loves Sherlock's bruises. He has no shortage of them, but the ones that he likes the best are the red lines down his chest. The circular bruises on the skin where his shoulder meets his neck. The long dark bruises that wrap around his wrists. The marks John likes the best are the ones he puts there.

It just takes the slightest pressure, the smallest bite. Sherlock's skin colors beautifully with hardly any effort from John at all, and these marks he revisits the most. He wraps his fingers around the fading bruises on Sherlock's wrists and brings them back to life. He bites another spot into his shoulder, drags a red line down his back.

They all say “John,” even the ones John didn't make. They are his seal, his brand. Sherlock is his and he is not sharing. He loves when it's warm and Sherlock doesn't have to wear that scarf, doesn't have to hide those beautiful bruises across his shoulders, across his throat.

John doesn't have to fight for Sherlock. He has already won that war and Sherlock has the battle scars to prove it.

So apparently I like writing parodies of Disney songs. It was prompted on the meme, I obliged. Here are three Disney songs Sherlock-ified.

( Some Day My Prince Will Come, Snow White )


( The Mob Song, Beauty and the Beast )


( A Whole New World, Aladdin )

All lyrics came from here. And yes, I am proud of them. THEY RHYME.

Title: Speak Friend
Characters: John, Sherlock, OMC
Prompt: The first time John refers to Sherlock as his best friend (from the kink meme)
Genre: Gen
Warnings: None
Rating: PG13 (for drinking and swearing I guess; I don't write anything too racy)






"It'll be fun, Sherlock."

"I simply cannot see how." Sherlock crosses his arms across his chest, a petulant look on his face. "Besides, I have loads of better things to do." He could study the decomposition rate of the liver in the fridge. He could finally microwave those eyeballs to see what happens. He could watch crap telly and yell at the screen for an hour; really, he wasn't entirely particular as to the nature of the distraction.

John sighs. "You ought to get out of the flat."

John might be right about that, but Sherlock will never admit it. It's been a couple days since the last case and he absolutely refuses to do the shopping. He's running out of nicotine patches and John stole all his hidden cigarettes and he needs something to do. The time in between cases was just so boring

"I make no promises about what I will or will not deduce about this friend of yours," he says finally. "Being a friend of yours, he's likely to be quite transparent." John gives him a look. "Oh please, I saw right through you."

The corner of John's mouth quirks up into something approaching a smile. "Fine," John says patiently and moves to hand Sherlock his coat. Sherlock puts it on and ties his scarf a bit more slowly than usual so John knows Sherlock's coming along for the pleasure of deduction and not because he has any desire to meet any of John's friends, former or otherwise.

Besides, after what happened when he introduced John to Sebastian, he's not really keen on being pronounced John's "colleague" again.

He follows John out of the flat and they hail a cab.

They're meeting John's friend at a bar. Sherlock knows this is because relationships with some distance in tend to be awkward and alcohol will help soothe this. He also suspects John is curious to see how Sherlock reacts under the influence, though he has no intention of conducting that little experiment.

John's friend is already there when they arrive. Greying hair, soft around the middle--John's age, probably college athlete but not in shape anymore. He waves them over. He's not surprised to see John's brought Sherlock around, so John must have already told him. It's unclear what exactly John has said about him—the man's face only shows the slightest trace of recognition when turned to Sherlock. Knows John's brought someone, but not the nature of the relationship. No, flatmate, Sherlock corrects himself. John told his friend he was bringing along his flatmate but nothing more. He doesn't look put-upon so Sherlock is fairly certain John didn't tell him he was bringing Sherlock out of necessity.

"Hey there, mate, how've you been?" the friend asks John jovially, extending his hand for John to shake. The question is vague, not specific to health or injury, likely because he knows about the circumstances, but not because he was there. No, this friend lacks the stance and haircut of a military man, but the tone of his voice suggests an adulthood friend. Medical school, Sherlock supposes, possibly university.

"Good, good," says John, equally as vague. So he doesn't know this friend well enough to be honest. Pity, Sherlock thinks. Things are much easier when people are honest. He turns his attention to Sherlock now. “Sherlock, this is Harrison, a mate from medical school.” So he was right the first time. As usual. Sherlock nods slightly, face blank. He knows how introductions go. He remembers the bank, John's careful insistence that they are colleagues, nothing more, not friends, certainly not friends.

Sherlock's pretty good at tuning out emotions when necessary, and he's pretty certain it is about to be necessary.

John turns to Harrison. “Harrison, this is Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective.” Harrison extends his hand and Sherlock shakes it stiffly. Leave it to John to define him by his work. Sherlock ignores the voice in his head that reminds him that that is how he defines himself as well.

“Consulting detective, huh? Like a PI?” Harrison chuckles.

“No.” Harrison stops chuckling. “I observe and deduce when the police are out of their depth, which is usually.” Harrison straightens, probably because Sherlock sounds (as intended) intimidating and standoffish. “For example, I know you're married—but not to your college girlfriend; the ring's too new. A recent marriage then, so the children aren't yours. Possibly out of wedlock, but more likely previous marriage; chalk fingerprints on your back show that, size of the hand shows the age. A first-time wife is unlikely to let you leave the house with chalk on your back but one who's been married is less likely to care. You've moved back to London recently, working in hospital. Surgery's your specialty, cardiac if I'm not mistaken. You recently thought you'd take up guitar for the manual dexterity but your wife complained about the racket. And you've got a cat. Six weeks old, calico. Male, surprisingly, but you didn't know that yet.”

Sherlock arranges his face to look something like bored, as if the list of facts he'd just riddled off is nothing spectacular. They're always obvious to Sherlock, of course, but he knows John likes it when he explains how he arrived at the inevitable conclusions, so he does for his benefit.

Harrison's mouth drops open and he turns to stare incredulously at John. “This bloke's your flatmate?” he questions, vocal tone matching his facial expression.

John smiles for real this time, not the awkward fake smile of seeing someone he hasn't seen in a while and not the half smile he gives to Sherlock when he's patronizing but not overly so. No, this smile lights up John's eyes and for a moment Sherlock is confused.

“Yeah,” answers John. “My best mate, actually.”

Sherlock is dimly aware that Harrison has replied, but he's stopped paying attention to that conversation. Not merely colleague or flatmate or even just friend. Best friend. The world around him has turned sort of blurry and everything's a lot quieter and he feels a sort of swelling in his chest that he's not accustomed to. There's a pleasant warmth that spreads to his fingers and toes and Sherlock is at a loss.

When he feels the grin his mouth has formed, he gets it. It's not satisfaction, like solving a case brings This is—not happy, because he's been that, when he's notified of a particularly puzzling murder. It's more than just happy, it's bordering on joy or glee or something equally unfamiliar to Sherlock.

John finally catches the expression Sherlock's wearing, this odd mixture of confusion and happiness. He smiles warmly at Sherlock and says, “Of course, you great idiot.”

Sherlock settles into a seat on the other side of John and listens idly to the ebb and flow of their conversation. He orders a drink and watches the other patrons of the bar, stealing the occasional glance back at John. John, his best mate, his only friend. And it's mutual.

Title: A Spot of Tea
Characters: Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson
Prompt: Mrs. Hudson's reaction to Sherlock's return after the fall.
Warnings: None
Rating: PG


I am the king of post-Reichenbach reaction fics apparently. Not beta'd, I'm American, etc.


It was always too quiet these days. She hadn't appreciated the gun shots, minor explosions and violin solos at three in the morning but she knew how her boys worked. A little lost sleep was worth all the crimes they managed to solve and the way it lit up Sherlock's whole face.

Now it's just John in the flat, and Mrs Hudson doesn't hear anything but the occasional shuffle-clack of John walking around upstairs. His limp's come back. She keeps offering to move him into the downstairs flat but he refuses, and Mrs Hudson can't blame him.

She puts the kettle on for tea and shuffles through a cupboard for some biscuits. She sets out two cups and saucers, a box of tea bags, a container of milk from the fridge. She buys extra of some things when she goes to the shops because she's worried John's not eating.

But at least John is there, just upstairs, and she checks in sometimes to see how he is. He's stopped pretending he's fine and that worries her more than the fact he was pretending (not very well) before. The tea kettle whistles and she sets about making tea. She puts everything on a tray and moves to the doorway to take it up to the boys' flat (John's flat, she corrects herself sadly).

She balances the tray on one hand to open the door to her flat, then turns around to close it behind her. Her foot's on the first stair when she feels a rush of cold air—the front door's been opened. She knows John's in his flat so she turns around slowly.

“Hello Mrs Hudson. I trust you've been well.” She hears the tray clatter to the floor, the cups break, the biscuits scatter. She doesn't move for what seems like forever, staring up into Sherlock's pale eyes, his self-satisfied smirk.

Then she pulls back and slaps him straight across the face.

“Sherlock Holmes!” she almost shrieks. “Where the hell have you been?” Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but she cuts him off. “Everyone thought you were dead! Three years, Sherlock! If you couldn't at least tell me or your brother you were alive, why couldn't you tell poor John?”

Sherlock has the decency to look guilty. “I couldn't,” he says softly. “I'm sorry.” He bends down to pick up the larger pieces of the shattered cups, but Mrs Hudson bats his hands away.

“Never mind that, dear. I'll get it. You go tell John the good news. The poor thing's been a mess, you know.” She sweeps a handful of biscuits onto the tray then stands to move out of Sherlock's way.

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, then wraps her in a hug. “Glad to have you home, Sherlock,” she says in his ear with a kiss on his cheek.

“It's good to be home, Mrs Hudson.” He bounds up the stairs, taking them two at a time and Mrs Hudson smiles, then returns to the mess on the floor. She'll be annoyed later at the fingers in the fridge and the late night violin performances and the occasional bored gunshot to the wall. But for now, things are right and her boys are back together again and finally, finally, the silence is over.

The last couple of days have been a blur. I blame the BBC's Sherlock and the fandom community. Anyway, there's a meme and there was a prompt and I wrote a thing (not that anyone reads this anyway) and I'm working on embracing my utter ridiculous nerd/geek instead of being embarrassed about things like an obsessive love of fan fiction. Anyway.

Based on a prompt at sherlockBBC-fic. Stop looking at me like that. Anyway, the prompt:

In ACD!canon, when Holmes returns from Reichenbach, Watson faints.

Same scenario in BBC!verse. But when John wakes up all he says is, "It's your turn to get the milk."

(Note: I'm not British but I tried. It was written fairly quickly.)


Sunday. 10:34 p.m. Baker Street.

John's mobile buzzes. Harry again, checking in, making sure he's alright. He's not, but he thinks he's lied enough for today so instead he just ignores it and flips the channel on the telly. Today's newspaper sits on a pile of yesterday's paper, last week's papers, last month's papers. He's not sure why he keeps getting the paper; it's not like he reads it. He used to, but London has murders and murders make him think of Sherlock and he usually tries not to think about that too much.

His therapist says he needs to stop blocking it all out, he needs to grieve, he needs to keep writing his blog. He tells her, "Yes, yes, of course" but ultimately ignores her advice.

He changes the channel again. Without Sherlock, nothing really happens to him anyway. Lestrade and company consulted him in the beginning, perhaps thinking some of Sherlock's genius had rubbed off on John, but now they don't even inquire if he's alright. Donovan certainly thinks he's better off now.

John glances idly at the time. Getting late. He has to work tomorrow. Dragging himself out of the flat is difficult enough when he's not also exhausted. (Not that he won't be exhausted anyway; it seems he never feels anything but exhaustion these days.)

He has just entertained the thought of switching the telly off when he hears a door open from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson's in her flat and she still hasn't had any luck with the damp one, so John's not sure who is entering the building. He leaves the telly on but grabs his gun from a drawer in the table next to him.

He approaches the door to their--his--he's still recalling it has their flat even after so many months--his flat silently and slowly opened the it. He peers down the staircase, gun in hand. At the bottom of the stairs, there is a man, tall and lean with a mop of black curls carefully shutting the door.

It can't be. John's a doctor and he's been through a war so he knows the signs of PTSD when he sees them. He tells himself that it's not him, can't be him because he died going after Moriarty even after John told him not to, begged him not to. It's his mind playing tricks on him. There's are plenty of tall curly-haired blokes in London and John tells himself firmly to calm down. But he can't will away the vice grip something seems to have gotten on his heart.

John forces himself to take a deep breath, then steps into the doorway. He trains the gun on the figure at the bottom of the stairs. Without turning around, the figure says in a familiar deep tone, "I don't think you'll be needing that, John; you're just going to hurt someone."

And then the vice on his heart tightens and he can't breathe and he thinks his knees might give out, so he sets the gun on the table just inside the door. And then the figure turns around and John's knees really do give out and he's dimly aware of his hope he doesn't pitch down the stairs as everything goes dark.

Sherlock's up the stairs in a flash, catching John before he topples down the stairs and pulling him back into his--their--flat.

When John regains consciousness a moment later, he's on his back on the floor, Sherlock hovering over him with something akin to concern on his face. John opens his mouth to speak, to verbalize the swelling he can feel in his chest, the rush of endorphins because he's here and he's not dead (of course he wasn't dead; like Sherlock would let anyone kill him). All the words John wants to say bubble up in his head but they get stuck on the way out of his mouth so instead of something terribly affectionate or clever or even angry at the deception (how could he be angry right now, when the whole world's been righted again?), all he can manage is, "It's your turn to get the milk."