Let it Snow: 7 December 2012

Maybe when he's fat he'll like snow.

Sherlock's head canon—we all have one—includes a pudgy old age. He thinks maybe then, when properly insulated, he'll enjoy the cold, but right now the only member of his small family to relish the winter is John.

So Sherlock puts up with the snow.

Actually he does more than that. He starts fights. As they walk through the park after a storm, Sherlock crafts one perfectly formed snowball and he holds it in his hand. He lets John see this snowball. And then he waits.

As expected, John swears at him. John makes threats. John walks backward and says, "I don't want to. Not this time, we'll be late."

John lies.

It takes no deduction to see the brightness in his eyes. Or that he's fairly dancing as they walk, keeping an eye on Sherlock's snow-freighted hand.

Sometimes they'll make it all the way through Regent's and be climbing Primrose Hill and sometimes Sherlock's even forgotten what he's holding and then—

*Pow!*

A small, icy explosion at the nape of a neck—always there—and the fight begins.

Sherlock hates the snow because it's often dirty and it makes him cold. But for a few precious minutes every year the snow means giggling, chasing, trip-falling, and teeth-chattering kisses.

And for awhile, just a little while, Sherlock loves the snow.

Thank you to Crazycatt71 for your snowy prompt (though I eventually used an image of pretty Primrose Hill, which is not very far from 221B.

…

Ringmaster: 8 December 2012

It was one of those glittery, acrobatic cirques, the kind without performing animals but brimming with bendy men and women in barely-there satin and sequins, and presided over by a ringmaster, as spangled as the rest, resplendent in a red frock coat, silk waistcoat, top hat, bowtie, and boots.

And despite the three dozen lithe, half-naked acrobats at a sort of parade-rest behind him, every eye beneath that canvas tent was on that striding ringmaster. Because here's a newsflash for you: you don't have to be tall to be big, and you don't have to be loud or dramatic or Sherlock damn Holmes to draw every eye in a room.

You just have to be John Hamish Watson, swaggering beneath a bright spot, chin high, white-gloved hands fisted around gold-rimmed lapels. You just have to act like cock of the walk to hold the gaze of the breathless eight year old, her eighty year old grandmother and your possibly-growling-definitely-glaring-at-the-leering-trapeze-artist-should-be-catching-the-criminal-right-about-now husband, too.

It was fine. In the end the Baker Street boys nabbed the blackmailer (the clown), discovered her cache of incriminating photos (eye widening), and incidentally earned themselves free entry to the circus for the rest of their lives (unused).

Sherlock cared about none of that. After the case was done—and you'll rarely hear this from that man's mouth, but the damn thing couldn't finish fast enough—all he cared about was getting home and getting everything, the waistcoat, the tie, the breeches, off John and then the boots? The boots? Oh the boots damn well went right back on John.

And then so did Sherlock.

Thank AreYouWearingAnyPants for the ringmaster prompt and Verity Buuuuurns, for the focus on the footwear!

…

This is Not About Food: 9 December 2012

"Put it in my mouth."

"No."

Sherlock opened his mouth and gestured, "I need it. In here. Put it in."

"You're not normal."

"You eating that brown brick—"

"—fruit cake—"

"—from your American friend is not normal. This—"

"—is just not on. You can't just blow in here Sherlock, and—"

"—solve a case? I think you'll find I—"

"—told you, I'm not just going to put—"

Fine. Fine.

When pressed for time there are things Sherlock can do to get John on board with his plans. Usually all it takes is running ahead; John almost always follows. Oh sure, he'll swear, make threats and, once, throw things—"Ouch!" "I told you to slow down you idiot, I've got a rock in my shoe!" "You just threw a rock!"—but if Sherlock just does, John will also often do.

So Sherlock did. He fell to hands and knees, tilted back his head and moaned with such raw sexual need that—

—John did, too.

Ten, twenty, thirty…Sherlock counted and moaned, moaned and counted and by the time he got to forty-two, John shoved his cock between that pesky, plush cupid's bow.

Finally.

Happily getting what he wanted, Sherlock now took his time. John didn't. The sight of his lover fully dressed and on all fours did wonders for John's libido. He fired off within a minute.

Rising, grinning, wiping at the corners of his mouth, Sherlock murmured, "Excellent," and whirled away to run tests on precisely how acidic a man's mouth became after swallowing ejaculate.

Sated, giggling, and once again nibbling some remarkably good fruit cake, John realized he was wrong.

Apparently Sherlock could just blow in and, well…blow.

BlackMorgan inspired this, as did Aithine with her lovely screencaps, then I included a blowjob and Sherlock's cupid's bow at the request of Michaël. *Whew*

…

I Have a Proposal: 10 December 2012

"He proposed to me beneath the London Eye."

This is the story they tell.

Neither can remember who started the fib (it was John), but from the first the agreement between them that this was their public truth was unspoken and unanimous.

Those they love know the true trials of John and Sherlock's marriage proposals (yes, there were two), but the good doctor's always thought this part of their personal life was no business of the press. So, when asked in interviews over the years, the answer became, "Sherlock proposed to me there after a case, near Christmas."

The problem is, Sherlock's a good but lazy liar. He respects few people enough to maintain his deceptions, and so when, a few years into their fiction, he twice got caught out, Sherlock figured he'd best figure out a way to lodge the lie in his mind palace for good.

Which was how John found himself standing near the Eye after a light two a.m. snowfall, Sherlock on one knee, asking in a dramatic baritone if they might spend their lives together.

John held out his hand so that Sherlock could put on it the ring he'd twenty seconds ago taken off it, then by way of answer he hugged Sherlock's head against his belly. After a few moments he bent over and kissed snow-dusted dark hair. "We're not alone," he whispered.

Sherlock looked down to the prettily-lighted brick path and at the human skull beside his knee. "Well it was her idea."

Thank you Kathy Hostetler for the pretty image prompt of the London Eye. It's an ungainly, gorgeous thing, isn't it? Also, more Rory soon! (Who's Rory? The skull on the mantle, as "All That Glitters," and "Skullduggery," will show you.

…

'Twas the Fortnight Before Christmas: 11 December 2012

"A bow John?"

John smiled fetchingly. "I thought it would be obvious, even to you, what it signifies."

Sherlock raised a heavy brow. "Even to me."

On his belly on the bed John looked up at his pacing lover. "You're a distractible man. On more than one occasion I've had to use the equivalent of semaphore flags to point out my erections."

Sherlock continued pacing the foot of the bed, eyeing John's latest…semaphore flag.

"I tried telling you I was ready for this."

Sherlock stopped pacing, raised the other ponderous brow. "Oh really."

John wriggled prettily. "I would have thought 'I'm freshly showered and squeaky clean, let's get this show on the road,' then grabbing my own bottom would have tipped you off. But it didn't. Three times it didn't."

Sherlock started pacing again and waved his hands. Kind of semaphore flag-like. "There was a case John! Time was of the essence! All that cheese was at risk!"

John stilled. "Well now the case is over and here I am. And an early present just for you."

Sherlock stopped pacing again. He looked long and hard at the big red bow. He was maybe already breathing funny. "You're…sure?"

The naked, squeaky clean, I-wasn't-quite-ready-for-you-to-do-that-to-me-there-but-now-I-am-let's-get-freaky doctor humped the mattress in emphatic reply.

Sherlock had every stitch of clothing off within eighteen seconds. John counted.

And then Sherlock was there, right between lovely thighs and he was breathlessly removing a silky red bow from right over that spot on John's bum.

Then Sherlock bent low, snaked out a long and squirming tongue…and opened his Christmas present.

Advent rimming, go me! Batik96 prompted "decorations or wrapping paper" and then sent me a pretty bow. I'm either going to apologize for where my mind instantly went or prance around proud. Please visualize whichever you require. *Cough* Thank you.

…

Panic Button: 12 December 2012

"Give it to me Sherlock."

"No."

"I said give it to me."

"And I said no. Cold turkey, we agreed."

John stopped pacing the sitting room, went so still so quickly Sherlock couldn't help but think of grenades.

"Sherlock mother fucking Holmes, give that laptop to me right now or I will tackle you to the floor and I will take it."

Sherlock MF Holmes pushed his computer out of reach, rose to his full height, and looked down at a stiff-backed army doctor doing the same. "I'd like to see you try."

John's chin dipped. His shoulders rose. He widened his stance—

—and Sherlock dropped his dressing gown, under which he wore nothing but tiny, turquoise, button-up knickers.

On the outside, John did not so much as flinch.

On the inside John—Not Coping With Internet Cold Turkey At All Well—Watson was a veritable jamboree of ticks and tremors, a fiery fiesta of oh dear god yes.

See, here's the thing: When Sherlock was quitting cigarettes they learned that oral sublimation worked a treat. This meant French kisses in lifts; filthy sweet nothings whispered while queuing; and a great deal of neck, finger, tongue, belly, cock, and jumper suck-suck-sucking.

So, in an effort to return the favour—and help John kick an insidious, trolling-the-internet-at-all-hours habit while they were interminably between cases—Sherlock hid John's laptop, spent all day bodily guarding his own…and decided to give John's hands something to do.

At last the good doctor looked down. His typing fingers twitched.

Button, buttons, such lovely buttons, straining over Sherlock's bulge. A doctorly hand reached round, groped. Buttons, buttons, such lovely buttons, valiantly holding on over the ripe acreage at back.

All of John's fingers twitched. "Hnnng," he whispered, "hnnnnnng."

And then John Watson fell to his knees and he sub-sub-sublimated.

Twice.

Prompted myself this time. After having no access to my laptop for four days—and responding much like John—I thought a wee Advent fic and a photo of some pretty turquoise knickers might properly express my great and abiding pain.

Speaking of pretty photos, you can find these wee fics and their images at: tinyurl dot com slash atlin-advent12