Latest Posts by supernovaspidey - Page 8

Too much

Sometimes it all gets a little too much. There are these thoughts, horrible, loud, screaming thoughts inside your head. You can’t explain it all, even when traitorous tears run down your cheeks. And when people ask what’s wrong, it’s too difficult to explain to them how you feel so empty all the time and everything is colorless. So instead you say, “I’m fine.”

I want to write what i really feel inside, but i realize i can’t. Because i don’t really know what i truly feel inside.

That’d be lit af fam

Being Natasha Romanoff’s Adopted Daughter Would Include...

Characters: Natasha Romanoff X Daughter!Reader

Universe:Marvel, Avengers

Warnings: None

-          She kept you away from her work for a long time.

-          You only figured out she was Black Widow when you answered the door to Captain America.

-          “Mom who did you kill?” “No one, why?” “Captain America’s at the door.” “Nat since when did you have a kid?” “Shut it Freedom.” “Y/N, be nice.”

Continuar lendo

Way to go Princess 👊🏼

shit like this makes me so sad

just gonna leave this here…

this is fucking amazing.

I 'VEALWAYS KNOWN THEY SWITCH POSITIONS!!!!!

After they got married, Sherlock randomly starts introducing John and/or himself with a double name, despite the fact that they both decided to just keep their names as they are. John, obviously, doesn’t say anything against it, in fact he loves the little proud face that Sherlock makes each time he gets to introduce himself as “Sherlock Watson-Holmes”, but - and it takes John a little while to notice it - at times Sherlock exchanges the two last names and makes it a “Holmes-Watson”.

At first John can’t quite make sense of these very randomly occuring changes, nor can he place the almost gleeful smirk accompanying Sherlock’s name being mentioned first other than as Sherlock’s usual, occasional hubris.

That is, until the realisation what the decisive factor is hits John unexpectedly at their next crime scene, and he pulls Sherlock aside, not sure if he should rather be angry or burst out in a giggle fit.

“Sherlock, you cock, stop doing that!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking-”

“Don’t you even try. Just… stop switching the names.”

“John, as you might remember, we didn’t agree on having a shared name, so neither of these two options is exactly false-”

But John cuts him off by pulling him dangerously close, which makes Sherlock startle for a moment, and drops his voice as he continues:

“But I, for my part, do not want the entire Yard to eventually figure out that it’s code for ‘who of us topped last night’, so I suggest you drop it or I’ll make sure there won’t be a Mr Holmes-Watson for a very long time.”

That's me

I love how in ACD Canon Watson is like.. “My beautiful charming talented friend Holmes..who has long limbs..and I like looking at him..he has this extraordinary mind..He is so good..I like him so much.. I can write pages and pages about him..wait that’s what I do…..whoops I forgot I have a wife I think.. And I am 60% certain she is at her mom’s.”

John, I’m here. I’m back. Look at me, John.

*after sherlock and john are married*

mrs hudson: *hears a voice yelling inside john and sherlock's flat*

voice: listen, watson, you have to move your tea cups from the other room INTO THE KITCHEN AND PUT THEM IN THE SINK TO BE WASHED WHEN YOURE DONE WITH THEM OR WE HAVE A BIG MESS

mrs hudson: *walks in* sherlock, i don't know if you're yelling at john or rosie but you're one to ta-- *sees john yelling at sherlock*

john: AND THE BATHROOM, DEAR WATSON, YOU NEVER PUT YOUR TOOTHBRUSH BACK IN THE DRAWER

sherlock: *just sitting there smiling more and more every time he calls him watson*

we shouldn’t be needing this, but we do. So please, stay safe, girls!

THROUGH A RAPIST’S EYES” (PLS TAKE TIME TO READ THIS. It may save a life, It may save your life.)

An Article from Neena Susan Thomas

“Through a rapist’s eyes. A group of rapists and date rapists in prison were interview…ed on what they look for in a potential victim and here are some interesting facts:

1] The first thing men look for in a potential victim is hairstyle. They are most likely to go after a woman with a ponytail, bun! , braid, or other hairstyle that can easily be grabbed. They are also likely to go after a woman with long hair. Women with short hair are not common targets.

2] The second thing men look for is clothing. They will look for women who’s clothing is easy to remove quickly. Many of them carry scissors around to cut clothing.

3] They also look for women using their cell phone, searching through their purse or doing other activities while walking because they are off guard and can be easily overpowered.

4] The number one place women are abducted from / attacked at is grocery store parking lots.

5] Number two is office parking lots/garages.

6] Number three is public restrooms.

7] The thing about these men is that they are looking to grab a woman and quickly move her to a second location where they don’t have to worry about getting caught.

8] If you put up any kind of a fight at all, they get discouraged because it only takes a minute or two for them to realize that going after you isn’t worth it because it will be time-consuming.

9] These men said they would not pick on women who have umbrellas,or other similar objects that can be used from a distance, in their hands.

10] Keys are not a deterrent because you have to get really close to the attacker to use them as a weapon. So, the idea is to convince these guys you’re not worth it.

POINTS THAT WE SHOULD REMEMBER:

1] If someone is following behind you on a street or in a garage or with you in an elevator or stairwell, look them in the face and ask them a question, like what time is it, or make general small talk: can’t believe it is so cold out here, we’re in for a bad winter. Now that you’ve seen their faces and could identify them in a line- up, you lose appeal as a target.

2] If someone is coming toward you, hold out your hands in front of you and yell Stop or Stay back! Most of the rapists this man talked to said they’d leave a woman alone if she yelled or showed that she would not be afraid to fight back. Again, they are looking for an EASY target.

3] If you carry pepper spray (this instructor was a huge advocate of it and carries it with him wherever he goes,) yelling I HAVE PEPPER SPRAY and holding it out will be a deterrent.

4] If someone grabs you, you can’t beat them with strength but you can do it by outsmarting them. If you are grabbed around the waist from behind, pinch the attacker either under the arm between the elbow and armpit or in the upper inner thigh – HARD. One woman in a class this guy taught told him she used the underarm pinch on a guy who was trying to date rape her and was so upset she broke through the skin and tore out muscle strands the guy needed stitches. Try pinching yourself in those places as hard as you can stand it; it really hurts.

5] After the initial hit, always go for the groin. I know from a particularly unfortunate experience that if you slap a guy’s parts it is extremely painful. You might think that you’ll anger the guy and make him want to hurt you more, but the thing these rapists told our instructor is that they want a woman who will not cause him a lot of trouble. Start causing trouble, and he’s out of there.

6] When the guy puts his hands up to you, grab his first two fingers and bend them back as far as possible with as much pressure pushing down on them as possible. The instructor did it to me without using much pressure, and I ended up on my knees and both knuckles cracked audibly.

7] Of course the things we always hear still apply. Always be aware of your surroundings, take someone with you if you can and if you see any odd behavior, don’t dismiss it, go with your instincts. You may feel little silly at the time, but you’d feel much worse if the guy really was trouble.

FINALLY, PLEASE REMEMBER THESE AS WELL ….

1. Tip from Tae Kwon Do: The elbow is the strongest point on your body. If you are close enough to use it, do it.

2. Learned this from a tourist guide to New Orleans : if a robber asks for your wallet and/or purse, DO NOT HAND IT TO HIM. Toss it away from you…. chances are that he is more interested in your wallet and/or purse than you and he will go for the wallet/purse. RUN LIKE MAD IN THE OTHER DIRECTION!

3. If you are ever thrown into the trunk of a car: Kick out the back tail lights and stick your arm out the hole and start waving like crazy. The driver won’t see you but everybody else will. This has saved lives.

4. Women have a tendency to get into their cars after shopping,eating, working, etc., and just sit (doing their checkbook, or making a list, etc. DON’T DO THIS! The predator will be watching you, and this is the perfect opportunity for him to get in on the passenger side,put a gun to your head, and tell you where to go. AS SOON AS YOU CLOSE the DOORS , LEAVE.

5. A few notes about getting into your car in a parking lot, or parking garage:

a. Be aware: look around your car as someone may be hiding at the passenger side , peek into your car, inside the passenger side floor, and in the back seat. ( DO THIS TOO BEFORE RIDING A TAXI CAB) .

b. If you are parked next to a big van, enter your car from the passenger door. Most serial killers attack their victims by pulling them into their vans while the women are attempting to get into their cars.

c. Look at the car parked on the driver’s side of your vehicle, and the passenger side. If a male is sitting alone in the seat nearest your car, you may want to walk back into the mall, or work, and get a guard/policeman to walk you back out. IT IS ALWAYS BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY. (And better paranoid than dead.)

6. ALWAYS take the elevator instead of the stairs. (Stairwells are horrible places to be alone and the perfect crime spot).

7. If the predator has a gun and you are not under his control, ALWAYS RUN! The predator will only hit you (a running target) 4 in 100 times; And even then, it most likely WILL NOT be a vital organ. RUN!

8. As women, we are always trying to be sympathetic: STOP IT! It may get you raped, or killed. Ted Bundy, the serial killer, was a good-looking, well educated man, who ALWAYS played on the sympathies of unsuspecting women. He walked with a cane, or a limp, and often asked “for help” into his vehicle or with his vehicle, which is when he abducted his next victim.

Send this to any woman you know that may need to be reminded that the world we live in has a lot of crazies in it and it’s better safe than sorry.

If u have compassion reblog this post. ‘Helping hands are better than Praying Lips’ – give us your helping hand.

REBLOG THIS AND LET EVERY GIRL KNOW AT LEAST PEOPLE WILL KNOW WHATS GOING ON IN THIS WORLD. So please reblog this….Your one reblog can Help to spread this information.

THIS COULD ACTUALLY SAVE A LIFE.”

omg

They are so gay fml

Do you know by chance in what episode Sherlock helps john in his jacket? I need to know for scientific reasons

Ah! Is it this scene here in TBB, where Sherlock is telling John to ask about the journalist?

At time frame 28:40 :D

A very important science thing indeed!

Wow not gay at all

They’re so married :3

i’ve been staring at this gif of the rock rolling his eyes for like 5 minutes

it’s such a perfect eyeroll. like it’s not sloppy or anything. his eyes make a perfect half rotation followed by a quick look of ‘whatever’ in one smooth motion.

and the look directed at the camera right after.

so much sarcasm. so much sassiness. 10/10.

this is my aesthetic.

“You do know flatmates don’t normally celebrate this sort of stuff right?”

“You don’t understand John, this is the first time I ever had a flatmate who stayed with me long enough to reach a one year mark!”

and yes, it was angelo who took the picture of them ;)

Benedict Cumberbatch & Benedict Wong from Doctor Strange tried to win our hearts by singing with a mouth guard in (turn that sound up!!! 🎤 🎤 🎤)

John and Sherlock making each other smile and laugh ♥

Gif form per request. 

New Cultural Norm Idea

(◕‿◕✿)

All I need is just one conversation like this

FOR REVCLEO WHO REQUESTED GHOSTBUSTERLOCK LIKE A BILLION YEARS AGO

you really shouldn’t have had to wait so long for this lol i’m sorryyy

Steve: You're smiling, did something good happen?

Bucky: Can't I just smile because I feel like it?

Clint: Sam tripped and fell in the parking lot.

He didn’t intend to say it.

He’d been toying with it the last couple of weeks, rolling it around silently in his mouth, just trying it out.

(He’d whispered it out loud, just once, in the mirror.)

(Maybe twice.)

It was too soon to say it. Mary had only been dead for six months. He and Rosie were only sleeping at Baker Street once or twice a week. He was maybe two months into what would probably be a lifetime of therapy to cope with his anger issues and his betrayal issues and his trust issues and his sexuality issues and fuck, he had a long way to go.

It was too late to say it. He’d let so many chances go by. Even now, after everything–after Moriarty and the Fall; after Mary and Magnussen and the tarmac; after Smith and the morgue and Eurus and the hug–he still didn’t know what to do. Because despite “it’s always you, John Watson” and “the man you have saved” and “that’s why he stays”, John was afraid. He was afraid that he wasn’t the man Sherlock saw. He was afraid he never had been, and even more afraid that he never would be.

So he wasn’t going to say it. Not yet. Not till things were a little more…settled. He’d told Ella as much not thirty minutes before, and had felt certain about the decision the whole way home in the cab.

A low rumble of laughter drifted down the stairs as he closed the front door behind him, followed by his daughter’s shrill shriek of joy. He took the stairs slowly, wrapped up in the sound of their voices, so comfortable together. So…right. (Not yet. Not yet. Soon.) He opened the door to the flat and froze, his field of vision narrowing to the two people standing in front of the fireplace.

Sherlock was wearing slim black trousers (finally filling them out again after months of John and Mrs. Hudson trying to feed him up) and the deep sapphire shirt that had narrowly edged out John’s old purple favorite to currently hold the number one spot on the mental list of favorite Sherlock clothes he would never admit to having. He had Rosie propped on one hip before the mirror and his other hand held her favorite stuffed bee, which he was currently flying about both of their heads while making a buzzing sound low in his throat. Every once in awhile the bee would “land” on Rosie’s flower-printed pajamas. Rosie would fling her arms out in an ineffectual attempt to catch the bee, the bee would “fly away,” and the laughter would follow.

They were the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

John watched a few more rounds of this, his heart expanding every time, before Rosie spotted him in the mirror. “Da!” She burst out, flailing one arm in his direction. Sherlock looked up, surprised, and their eyes met in the mirror.

“Not often I catch you by surprise,” John managed as they turned to face him. Sherlock’s cheeks flushed, and he waggled the bee.

“Bees, John. Very…diverting.”

“Bee!” Rosie yelled, and Sherlock handed it to her. She held the bee in both arms and dropped her head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Very good enunciation, Watson,” Sherlock said, and his now empty hand automatically came up to slide gently over the back of her head. “You’re becoming an excellent apiculturist.”

“I love you.”

John felt his own mouth drop open as he saw Sherlock’s do the same. He watched Sherlock look to Rosie, and then back to John, as if tracking the path of his gaze. John felt an unexpected calm begin to settle over him now that the words were out, so he stepped a little closer and tried it again.

“I love you, Sherlock.” He took a deep breath. “I have loved you so long I hardly remember a time when I didn’t, and I have been waiting to tell you. For years!” His voice broke on the last word, and he cleared his throat. He would get this out. “And now I have been waiting, again, trying to figure out if I can be the person you want me to be. The person you seem to think I am. But…I am, already, aren’t I? You’ve always seen exactly who I was, and loved me anyway.” He felt a grin begin to spread across his face. “Sherlock. You love me.”

Sherlock, who had been silent and staring through his entire speech, nodded. His beautiful eyes were bright and his hands held John’s daughter with unwavering strength and care, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, and deep, and sure. “Yes, John. I love you.”

It wasn’t too soon.

It wasn’t too late.

It was what it was, and what it was was good.

And now.

And always.

Keep reading

He didn’t intend to say it.

He’d been toying with it the last couple of weeks, rolling it around silently in his mouth, just trying it out.

(He’d whispered it out loud, just once, in the mirror.)

(Maybe twice.)

It was too soon to say it. Mary had only been dead for six months. He and Rosie were only sleeping at Baker Street once or twice a week. He was maybe two months into what would probably be a lifetime of therapy to cope with his anger issues and his betrayal issues and his trust issues and his sexuality issues and fuck, he had a long way to go.

It was too late to say it. He’d let so many chances go by. Even now, after everything–after Moriarty and the Fall; after Mary and Magnussen and the tarmac; after Smith and the morgue and Eurus and the hug–he still didn’t know what to do. Because despite “it’s always you, John Watson” and “the man you have saved” and “that’s why he stays”, John was afraid. He was afraid that he wasn’t the man Sherlock saw. He was afraid he never had been, and even more afraid that he never would be.

So he wasn’t going to say it. Not yet. Not till things were a little more…settled. He’d told Ella as much not thirty minutes before, and had felt certain about the decision the whole way home in the cab.

A low rumble of laughter drifted down the stairs as he closed the front door behind him, followed by his daughter’s shrill shriek of joy. He took the stairs slowly, wrapped up in the sound of their voices, so comfortable together. So…right. (Not yet. Not yet. Soon.) He opened the door to the flat and froze, his field of vision narrowing to the two people standing in front of the fireplace.

Sherlock was wearing slim black trousers (finally filling them out again after months of John and Mrs. Hudson trying to feed him up) and the deep sapphire shirt that had narrowly edged out John’s old purple favorite to currently hold the number one spot on the mental list of favorite Sherlock clothes he would never admit to having. He had Rosie propped on one hip before the mirror and his other hand held her favorite stuffed bee, which he was currently flying about both of their heads while making a buzzing sound low in his throat. Every once in awhile the bee would “land” on Rosie’s flower-printed pajamas. Rosie would fling her arms out in an ineffectual attempt to catch the bee, the bee would “fly away,” and the laughter would follow.

They were the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

John watched a few more rounds of this, his heart expanding every time, before Rosie spotted him in the mirror. “Da!” She burst out, flailing one arm in his direction. Sherlock looked up, surprised, and their eyes met in the mirror.

“Not often I catch you by surprise,” John managed as they turned to face him. Sherlock’s cheeks flushed, and he waggled the bee.

“Bees, John. Very…diverting.”

“Bee!” Rosie yelled, and Sherlock handed it to her. She held the bee in both arms and dropped her head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Very good enunciation, Watson,” Sherlock said, and his now empty hand automatically came up to slide gently over the back of her head. “You’re becoming an excellent apiculturist.”

“I love you.”

John felt his own mouth drop open as he saw Sherlock’s do the same. He watched Sherlock look to Rosie, and then back to John, as if tracking the path of his gaze. John felt an unexpected calm begin to settle over him now that the words were out, so he stepped a little closer and tried it again.

“I love you, Sherlock.” He took a deep breath. “I have loved you so long I hardly remember a time when I didn’t, and I have been waiting to tell you. For years!” His voice broke on the last word, and he cleared his throat. He would get this out. “And now I have been waiting, again, trying to figure out if I can be the person you want me to be. The person you seem to think I am. But…I am, already, aren’t I? You’ve always seen exactly who I was, and loved me anyway.” He felt a grin begin to spread across his face. “Sherlock. You love me.”

Sherlock, who had been silent and staring through his entire speech, nodded. His beautiful eyes were bright and his hands held John’s daughter with unwavering strength and care, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, and deep, and sure. “Yes, John. I love you.”

It wasn’t too soon.

It wasn’t too late.

It was what it was, and what it was was good.

And now.

And always.

Keep reading

the posh boy problem

Posh boy left his mug on the papers again. It will leave a rim on the sports section.

John goes over to the living room table. Then he stops in his tracks. It’s happened again, hasn’t it? More and more often he finds himself giving Sherlock silly petnames in his head. He was never a friend of those, can hardly explain why he is doing it now – in his own thoughts – but something about it calms and provokes him at the same time. He picks up the half-emptied mug of cold tea and thinks this over on his walk to the kitchen sink.

He likes Sherlock. He knows this, has known this for literally ages. That he likes him, and that he likes him in a way that Sherlock most definitely won’t find appealing. Sexually. There, he said it. In his head, of course, never out loud. But Sherlock, with his many frustrating qualities, of which many where outrageously attractive to John, is practically forcing him to feel provoked. Those feelings then lead to … petnames, apparently. He’s had stranger coping mechanisms before.

In his head greets him with hey, handsome in the morning, those wonderful mornings where Sherlock has actually slept and still looks all soft and not quite awake. He calls him genius when he is being too clever again and doesn’t notice, calls him pretty man and silly git and sweetheart when he’s feeling like it, and, of course, posh boy. He doesn’t even know what it is about that one in particular, but he finds that to be the worst. For his sexual frustration, that is. Every time it comes up in his head, which is more and more often, it fuels his imagination vividly. So much that it has even made it to his bedroom and he has dreams, half-asleep, half-awake, about teaching posh boy a lesson, getting posh boy a little dirty, treating posh boy a little rough. These are all terrible thoughts. Because they will stay just as imaginary and sexually frustrating. Posh boy won’t love him back, after all.

One morning Sherlock sits in front of his microscope on the kitchen table. He hasn’t moved for at least two hours. Nothing unusual. In fact, it was how they spend most of their Sundays now. John doesn’t really date anymore, and even if he did, he would not trade these days for anything. They have fallen into this pattern a while ago, the pattern of staying in on lazy Sundays, waking up later and waiting for the other to have breakfast together. Now Sherlock occupies himself with some experiment on maggots and fingers (John doesn’t even ask) and John is sitting in his chair. He is reading a novel about an incredibly clever and cunning explorer who kind of reminds him of Sherlock (he can’t help it, as much as he would like to). Being absorbed in the book, he is confused at first when Sherlock calls him from the kitchen.

“John?”

“Hmh?”

With Sherlock this is either going to be of highest importance or an absurdly unnecessary request.

“Care to pass me my phone?”

John sighs loudly. The latter. Thought so.

“Where is your phone?”

“Breast pocket.”

With his eyes rolling at the ceiling John puts a bookmark in his book, places it on the table next to him and gets off his chair. Walking into the kitchen, he murmurs under his breath.

“I see posh boy’s being a lazy butthead again…”

He takes the phone out of Sherlock’s breast pocket and holds it out for him. But instead of taking it and paying no more attention to him, Sherlock is suddenly staring at him like his face was on fire. John frowns at him. Sherlock, in turn, raises one brow.

“Posh?”

John’s eyes widen in shock and his heart jumps once in his chest and then stops, he thinks, just stops, and he wants to melt and become one with the floorboards. This is bad.

“I’m not posh,” Sherlock complains.

He must notice how John is only blushing more deeply. How? How did he say that out loud without noticing? How the bloody hell could he?

John clears his throat and decides to go along with it. There is no more turning back from here on anyway.

“You… are, actually. Just look at you, you with your… cheekbones. Your… perfectly tailored suits, your annoying British accent and deep voice-”

“We all have British accents.”

“I know!” John is enormously embarrassed, and he feels that if he doesn’t take a long walk right now, he will punch something to calm his inner unsettlement. “I need air.”

But Sherlock isn’t finished. “If anything, you are the posh one, John.”

“Hah! How so, Sherlock Holmes? Have you looked at yourself?”

“Have you looked around this flat in the past years? There are piles of magazines in the corners of every room, there is a Cluedo board pinned to the wall by me, I leave my things wherever I please, the kitchen is a mess of syringes and human body parts – an organised and well structured mess if you know where to look, but not the point right now – and I am currently examining maggots. In contrast to this you, John Watson, are a doctor, you wear your chequered shirts buttoned up to your chin, you’ve lived a clean life not suffering from a drug addiction, have had girlfriends and relationships and altogether live as part of the middle-class society in Central London. You wish for a wife and children and probably a German Shepard and a house in the suburbs, or at least that’s what you think you want, so tell me, John: How am I the posh one?”

John has a hard time finding a response to this that doesn’t only consist of loose vowels. It takes him a good minute, but Sherlock is oddly patient with him.

“First of all,” he manages then, “ I don’t think I want a wife and children, thank you very much. And maybe… maybe I’m not that serious when I call you things like that.”

“So why do you?”

“What?” John’s heart began beating faster once more. He’s so tense.

“Why do you call me a posh… boy?”

Oh fuck, hearing those two words spoken out loud and together and out of Sherlock’s mouth, for God’s sake!

“I- I don’t. Why- why should I even tell you? You read my mind all the time, can I not be allowed to keep this one thing to myself for once?!”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and observes him from head to toe. Oh please no. “No, that’s not it.”

“Alright, you know what? It’s you. Okay? It’s your fault! You just make me so angry all the time. No, don’t- don’t look at me like that.”

Sherlock’s eyes have gone wide and very blue. He looks genuinely hurt by this. Scared even. Scared at what John would say next, what this would mean for them. John feels and shares his pain, and he hates himself for every word he has ever said that would make Sherlock look like this. He is vulnerable and human, after all. Even if he tries to convince everyone around him that he isn’t, John has to stop falling for Sherlock’s own defence mechanism.

“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… what you said. There’s no wife and there is no house in the suburbs for me, Sherlock. I just can’t see it. But I see this.” He means Baker Street, means 221B, means … Sherlock. “This life. With you.”

Sherlock’s eyes are still so very blue. He wants to lose himself in them.

“And that makes you angry?” Sherlock asks.

“What? No. I’m just. Forget it.”

John finally has the courage to turn around and go, or maybe he lacks the courage to face him and stay, but either way he walks back into the sitting room, prepared to put on his jacket and leave the house for at least two hours. Sherlock jumps up and follows him.

“John! Wait. We never say what we want to say.”

John swirls around, his mouth a thin line of held back emotions. He stands close to the door. Ready to flee. “And what do you wanna say?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, there is courage in the one and fear in the other.

“Me too.”

“Sorry?”

“Me too. I see this, too. Us. This life we share.”

John bites the insides of his mouth because his whole skin feels hot with disbelief and wonder and hope, oh god, so much hope that he doesn’t let himself own.

“What?” he asks instead, going for a weak smile, “You don’t see yourself with a wife and children?”

Sherlock huffs a laugh. “No. Weirdly I don’t.”

They smile at each other.

“So ‘posh boy’,” Sherlock says after a while, “is actually about…?”

“Me being an ungrateful moron? Me never saying what I should say before it’s too late? Me trying to get my anger at all of this under control? Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”

Sherlock looks down at the spot between his feet. He’s thinking. But not as he usually is, not fast and calculating and mechanical. He’s thinking about the right thing to do. The things he has always wanted to do, but never thought it to be right or appropriate or good for them.

“I can wait for you to figure this out.”

“Wait for me?”

“As long as you need, John. We both agreed, didn’t we? Both of us don’t plan on leaving or getting married and reproduce anytime soon, so.”

“You don’t like waiting,” John points out, but he is already incredibly relieved and impressed by Sherlock’s words.

“No, I don’t. But I like you.”

John doesn’t flee to take an hour-long walk that day. He would never trade a lazy Sunday with Sherlock Holmes, after all. Sherlock continues with his experiment, and John reads. Later they watch telly together and Sherlock yells at the incompetent game show host on BBC One. He said he could wait till John figures this out, whatever this is. But maybe they both don’t have to wait that long. Maybe, just maybe, posh boy could actually love him back.

…to be continued…

@just–elope

GOD 🔥