Sherlock Advent Calendar 2012
At Attention: 1 December 2012
John hasn't said one word for the last six hours.
He's not even in the same room as Mr. Sherlock "Can't You See I'm Thinking" Holmes, so if the man dares mourn the disturbing pressure of John's thoughts, or deigns to complain John's breathing funny, well Mr. Annoying can just stuff it up his prodigious arse.
Thus speaks John "Fine I'll Just Leave You Damn Well Alone" Watson, who then takes up silent residence on the sofa, bowing over a book he's been meaning to read for years but has been prevented from reading that entire time by Mr. There's A Case On John!
Anyway.
It begins with a bid for attention, because Sherlock never wants attention more than when he's not getting it.
So Sherlock keeps doing things. Turning. Looking. Fiddling with a microscope slide and saying "Ouch!" or "Ridiculous!" or even, once, "Damn!" but each ejaculatory word—you'll pardon the phrasing—elicits not so much as one tilt of a flaxen head.
John allows this to continue through eighteen further baritone ejaculations—pardon—and seventeen dark head swivels and finally he gives in, pretending he needs attention.
Sherlock's up and out of his chair like a shot.
Then, after an actual ejaculation, John even gives Mr. I Knew You Wanted Attention, I Deduced It a few lively things to look at under his microscope.
Ahem. Pardon.
There are images to go with all of these entries. See them at tinyurl dot com/atlin-advent12.
Verity Burns sent the image that goes with this and said, "I look at this and immediately think Atlin," and then asked, "Don't you wonder what's drawing his attention?" Of course I do. You do not not wonder what Verity Burns wonders.
…
Size Matters: 2 December 2012
Some mysteries should never be solved.
Why Lestrade complains about his weight but eats all those pasties. How Mrs. Hudson picks so many winning scratch cards. And why Sherlock is still struck by a simple, senseless thing: The difference in his and John's size.
He noticed it most recently in the momentary exchange of a mobile. John's hand was ridiculously…tiny. Smaller than the phone and that phone easily fit in Sherlock's palm.
It was later that night, in bed, that he murmured, "I could wrap you in my arms and you'd vanish."
Sherlock's disinclined to hyperbole with The Work, it damages the veracity of the data. But when he's in bed with John and he's trying to give voice to sex and love and all the messy things he still doesn't quite get, well he's as inclined to lyricism as the next man.
Yet is something an exaggeration if it's true? Because as soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock gathered John's hands into his own and they…disappeared.
Which gave rise to another mystery: Why did this make Sherlock go breathless?
At times like this he'll look at John and see eyes gone bright, he'll hear fast breathing, and if he reaches out, he can feel a heart beating fast.
That's when Sherlock will do what he always does, what they always do. He'll accept that some mysteries? Well, they should never be solved.
Thank you to BlackMorgan for this prompt of hands. And thank you Ben and Martin for being so absurdly, gloriously physically different from one another.
…
Christmas Card: 3 December 2012
It was so completely the opposite of what everyone expected that no one won their bet.
And there had been bets. Everyone had seen a href=" post/13701394951/porn-advent-calendar-december-2-2011-never-say" target="_blank"last year's Christmas card/a. Everyone knew there would be a card this year. Mostly because John had told them. Repeatedly. Lestrade, Dimmock, Superior, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Merrick—if John had even a glancing acquaintance with you he told you to expect a card. "Wait until you see them."
That was in late November and the bets were laid mere hours after and ranged from, "Twenty pounds Sherlock makes a face like someone put a dead hamster in his tea," ("Oh but he'd like that,") to "I bet a hundred quid the card shows up down at the pub before nightfall, on the dart board, with Mr. Sourpuss the bull's eye."
What everyone got instead was a card by way of Esquire by way of GQ by way of WTF?
Still, the wit with the hundred quid should have collected because she was at least half right. John and Sherlock's 2012 Christmas card—actually, dozens of them—did indeed show up at the Met local before nightfall. Tacked up all over the mirrors in the women's loo. And more than a few in the men's.
It would be indelicate to mention the things written on them.
The gorgeous image that prompted this came from AreYouWearingAnyPants, thank you! And thank you OhSherl who originally put the two images together.
…
Leave No Man Behind: 4 December 2012
"He was a beauty, wasn't he?"
Sherlock squinted and brought the photograph close to his face. "Your grandfather?"
John threw himself on to the bed, tried to snatch the photo from his lover's hand. He might be down with the flu, but Sherlock was not enfeebled; he twisted away smartly…and fell on the floor.
"Sherlock!" John peered over the bed's edge.
Sherlock was still squinting at the photograph, apparently unaware of his new location.
"Uh yeah, that's grandad. He was—"
Sherlock wiped his nose on his dressing gown. John tut-tutted, rained a handful of tissues down. Sherlock shoved one off his eye and wiped his nose again. On his sleeve.
"—a gunner during the second world war. He'd just stripped off to rescue a fellow airman from the bay. Their plane was under fire and they had to get out fast, so there just wasn't time for him to…" John gestured at the photo.
"Get…wet." Sherlock held the photo at arm's length this time. "…dressed…I meant…mmmm…"
From his southern locale, Sherlock slow-blinked his gaze north. John met his eye and made a pleased sound. He can always tell when his sweetheart's on the mend; he gets…inquisitive.
The good doctor rolled away and out of Sherlock's line of sight.
After waiting a respectable half minute Sherlock clambered onto the bed and right on to his little love, now belly down and bare on the duvet.
Sherlock then gently placed the photo beside John's hip and proceeded to very closely, very carefully search for Watson family resemblances.
This prompt from Black Morgan and you must go see the image, which is called "Rescue at Rabaul: PBY Blister Gunner, 1944," by Horace Bristol. The story I've read is pretty much as John describes: This man stripped off to save another man down in water, and because they needed to get away fast, the gunner simply went back to work. Beautifully.
…
Do You Wish…?: 5 December 2012
"Do you ever wish I was different?"
"No."
"You're not listening John."
"I am. Only my hands are busy cleaning the kitchen. My ears are doing nothing, just like you. So I heard. And I answered."
"What did I ask?"
John finished the last dish, grinned. Sherlock often annoyed people by answering questions with as few words as possible. He hated having it done back.
"You asked me if I wished you weren't you. If I fantasize about a taller man, shorter, a blond man, a soldier or doctor. You want to know if I ever wish you quieter, louder, duller, more content with less. And I told you. No. I don't."
John wiped his hands off on tatty jeans, stood behind his seated husband. As he'd expected, Sherlock's blog was open, as were several windows containing fan mail, and one, on top of the rest, with art. Like so many drawings, this one changed Sherlock utterly.
"I was wrong actually." John gestured at the picture, then leaned over and bumped his head against Sherlock's. "I do wish you were different. Right now I wish you were more like him."
Sherlock turned slowly, nosed at John's hair. "Speckled? Spotted? "
John sighed softly and bared his neck. "Horny."
An image of Faun!lock from RustyGrass33 inspired this, while the final, so-obvious pun came from the brilliant Verity Burns.
…
Eye Sex: 6 December 2012
John does it, so he has no right to complain when Sherlock does, but complain he will, vociferously.
"Stop looking like that or I'll do rude things to you."
Sitting in a shadowy corner of Mrs. Hudson's lounge, Sherlock uncrossed his linen-clad legs widely, then recrossed them the other way. Somehow it was pornographic. It was absolutely pornographic, and referenced in heart-pounding detail the five distinct things Sherlock had promised to do to John after this party.
"That's the idea, John."
"Not that kind of rude," hissed the good doctor, turning on his heels. He had no god damn intention of getting erect at his landlady's Christmas festivities.
Well good luck there, Captain.
Because for the entire evening Sherlock held court in that bloody chair. For the entire evening he followed John with his blasted, pretty eyes. And for the entire evening he opened his mouth, or his legs, or his—damn it it didn't matter!
What mattered was that before evening's end John had sweated clean through his Christmas jumper. He'd knocked back a stomach-churning amount of eggnog. He'd excused them early. And then, exactly sixteen seconds after they returned home, he was on hands and knees, trousers at his ankles, pants barely tugged down, and they were finally, finally, finally doing rude things.
Very festive, very rude rude things.
First Stormlock requested "serious eye fucking," then Jennifer Germain kindly sent a fine image and called it dirty thoughts. These two things inspired my own screencap and a slight manipulation, then this wee fic. Thank you Stormlock and Jennifer!