merry chase

emerish — Sun, 10 Mar 2013 22:58:49 GMT

I pledge to complete the 10/20 Multi-fandom Squee Challenge by August 11!

Rec List

emerish — Thu, 07 Feb 2013 13:04:19 GMT

I've been reading quite a few fics over the last month and here's a rec list of a few I enjoyed a lot. *g*

Harry/Draco

♥ Salt on the Western Wind by saras_girl | When the war isn’t quite as over as it first appears, a guilt-ridden Harry is sent to a mysterious safe-house. Among sandwiches, insomnia, and Mills & Boon, he discovers something quite unexpected. | R | 60,500 words. | comments: I absolutely loved it. ♥

♥ Talk to Me by saras_girl | When the usual channels of communication are shut down, the most surprising people can find a way in. A strange little love story. | PG-13 | ~10k

♥ Take a Chance, Make a Change by cassie_black12 | It was Hermione's nagging that sent Harry to Desirable Dwellings. It was Draco Malfoy that kept him coming back. | PG-13 | 23,800 words.

♥ The Haunting of Draco Malfoy by omi_ohmy | After the War, there are many new ghosts, lost and uncertain, and Draco Malfoy has become a Peacebringer, working hard to help these and any other troubled ghosts move on. Draco finds himself stuck in a gothic mystery of his own when a recently missing Potter appears, spectral and silent, at Malfoy Manor. | NC-17 | 27,400 words.

Merlin/Arthur

♥ The Long Shadow by destina | What's the point of being the most powerful sorcerer who ever walked the earth, if you can't tinker with destiny now and then? | Adult | 13,748 words

♥ Ashes, Embers, Flames by unpossible | Merlin sees him across a crowded living room and promptly spills his beer down the back of the couch and over some hapless stranger’s neck. | NC-17 | 65,453 words

Steve/Danny

♥ Textual Analysis; or, How a Book Changed Danny's Life by soera | Sometimes, it takes fresh eyes to see what's right in front of you. | PG-13 | ~6k.

fic: Arthur/Merlin, before the storm hits

emerish — Sat, 21 Apr 2012 21:13:37 GMT

Before the storm hits | Arthur/Merlin | PG | 509 words | in which Merlin wants to save Camelot and Arthur follows him.

When Merlin had left the castle in the middle of the night, he hadn’t counted on the fact that Arthur might actually follow him. Merlin had just made a fire and sat down on a log, when Arthur arrived, angry in the face. Merlin immediately leapt to his feet.

“Arthur!”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Merlin?” Arthur was in his face before Merlin could react in any way. Merlin didn’t back down; he wasn’t going to be intimidated, especially when he was doing this for Camelot, for Arthur.

“I was –”

“And do not think about lying because I know.”

“You do?” Merlin looked in Arthur’s blue eyes, shadowed by the night, and felt dread creep up on him. He wasn’t saying what he thought he was saying was he? “I’m going to save Camelot.”

Arthur clenched his fists. “You can’t do it alone. The witch will kill you.”

“Not if I play my cards right.”

“What cards? All you got is a wild magic, even if you’re rumoured to be the best warlock around, she may easily outsmart you. And let’s not forget about the army.”

Merlin blanched, and unconsciously took a step backwards. “What?”

Arthur looked at him like he couldn’t believe that he didn’t know and then frustrated with the situation ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Yes, I know about your magic, damnit. Why’d you think I was so angry with you for the past weeks?” he couldn’t quite look Merlin in the eye after admitting that.

“Frankly, I don’t know. It could be for numerous reasons, which could wary from not polishing your armour, sire, to – apparently, finding out about my magic,” there Merlin wavered on the last word, still shaken, “and not ever mentioning it or reporting to anyone.” He ended on a whisper that carried in the relative quietness of the night like a punch to Arthur’s gut.

“Merlin, you should’ve told me.” Arthur said after a while and shrugged, the fight draining out of him.

“When? When you ordered me around? When pretended to not see me? When you –”

“Enough! I’ve the same right to be angry as you do. Let’s put it to rest.” Arthur offered but Merlin didn’t answer, his head turned away from him. “Merlin?”

“I’ve got a question for you.”

“Okay. Ask.”

“Why didn’t you confront me about it earlier?” Merlin glanced at Arthur to see his reaction to his question.

“I felt betrayed and shocked. I guess I was stalling because I thought by avoidance it was going to go away. Of course, it didn’t and when I saw you leave tonight the weight of it hit me all at once.” Arthur minified the gap when he noticed Merlin suppress a shiver. Arthur dared to take Merlin’s barely warm hands in his and pull him back by the crackling fire.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” Merlin whispered, looking down at their joined hands.

“Don’t be… Merlin.” Merlin’s eyes met Arthur’s and, feeling bold, Arthur leaned in and kissed Merlin squarely on the lips.

Fic: Merlin/Arthur - Magic and Accidents

emerish — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 17:30:06 GMT

Title: Magic and Accidents
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,379
Summary: Merlin accidentally turns himself into an eagle, Gaius isn’t impressed and Arthur knows more than it seems.
A/N: Thank you to my beta bleedforyou1.

Day 0

It happened one fine day.

There was nothing special about it; in fact, it was like any other of the days they didn’t fight monsters and evil magicians. The sun was shining, birds were singing, except Merlin wasn’t in the mood – okay, the correct word would be brooding. The reason would be kind of obvious if you thought of a certain prince. And that also was a common occurrence of late.

Merlin sat by the table, the big spell book open in front of him, muttering the new spells as he tried to remember them for later use. Gaius was somewhere on the other side of the room, brewing a potion for his patients and keeping one eye on Merlin, so he wouldn’t do anything stupid.

But he didn’t see it coming, what happened next. But he should have. Really, really should have.

Apparently, Merlin had found a spell that intrigued him more than the rest, and he muttered it aloud, gesturing with his right hand. From the gesture alone Gaius saw that it would go wrong, because there were no spells in the book that required such silly gestures but he could do nothing to stop it because –

PUFF.

White smoke erupted from the centre of the room, and when it settled, there was only an eagle standing on the book, blinking, and no sign of Merlin.

It took Gaius about two seconds to put two and two together and he sighed.

“Oh, Merlin, what have you done this time?” Gaius approached the bird but it shied away from his touch – wide-eyed and suspicious - and started to flap his wings like crazy. “Okay, calm down. This possibly is only temporary.”

The eagle – Merlin – glared at him, Gaius could swear, even though he had been convinced that birds couldn’t do that. He held his hands up in defeat and the eagle ruffled his feathers.

Right then Arthur walked through the open door in all his princely glory – in breeches, his favourite red shirt and with a sword fastened to his waist. Gaius turned to him, eyes slightly wide, and hoped the prince hadn’t seen the transformation, or at least wouldn’t pay much attention to the strange occupant on the table. He was wrong, though.

The moment Arthur stopped in front of the table he fixed his eyes on the eagle and declared loudly and confidently, “I know that’s Merlin.”

Gaius refrained from cursing and the bird flapped his wings as if terrified, trying to get away, yet didn’t know how to, exactly. Gaius doubted that Merlin knew how to use the wings for flying. Really.

“Sire, that’s not possible. Merlin is out – out to collect herbs for my potions.” Gaius gestured at the pot he had been working on since early morning.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at his lies, apparently, not impressed. “Don’t lie, Gaius, I saw it happen, and I won’t tell my father, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I, sire, don’t think that you’ve realized –”

“No, Gaius, I know what it means perfectly well. Do you seriously think that I haven’t noticed? Merlin isn’t exactly subtle.”

“There I agree with you, sire.”

Right then Merlin made himself known by screeching loudly. It startled both men, who turned to the bird in bewilderment. Merlin glared at them both, making his point across loud and clear.

“Did he just –” Arthur glanced at Gaius for an answer.

“I’m sure that he did, sire.”

Arthur turned to Merlin. “Annoying even when you’re a bird; I should’ve known, Merlin. Either way, I’m taking you with me until we – I mean, Gaius figures out how to undo this spell.”

“I don’t that’s a good idea, sire,” Gaius advised but Arthur wasn’t listening to him. He reached for the bird but it flopped on the floor and started to run away, well, if the weird walk-jump gait could be called running, anyway.

“He’s going to get away, sire.” Gaius pointed at Merlin who was already close to the door.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Arthur ran after him, arms outstretched. “Hey, I said I don’t care. Where the heck do you think you’re going, stupid bird?”

Gaius sighted to himself. This was going to be a long day. He followed them both outside in case one of them did something incredibly stupid, besides the obvious.

Day 1

Merlin sulked in the corner of Arthur’s room, perched on the large wooden closet. How he got up there was a mystery to him as well as Arthur and now he didn’t know how to get down. Except it should be obvious, yet Merlin didn’t know how to use the wings, they were huge and he felt awkward and uncomfortable using them.

“Hey, stop sulking and get down here. I’ve lunch for you,” Arthur called, a tray full of freshly baked beef and potatoes and grapes in his hands. Merlin loved grapes. Apparently, Arthur knew that as well judging from his smirk.

Merlin flapped with his wings furiously in a pathetic attempt to fly. He only managed to bruise the feathers, his pride and annoy Arthur.

“Oh, stop flapping. I think you have to jump of the closet to do the trick,” Arthur suggested, as he put the tray down and sat at the end of the table.

Merlin moved to the edge of the closet and looked down. From his, mind you, bird’s standards it looked bloody high from where he was.

An amused smile stretched on Arthur’s face as he watched the bird’s antics. Merlin wasn’t amused to say the least and so he made a decision he was fairly certain he’ll regret a moment later.

He flew off the closet the wings stretched, and tried to flap them as he flew. It didn’t help much, though. His landing was less than graceful to say the least. He aimed for the bed but missed it by a mile, getting caught in the bed curtains and falling in a heap on the hard floor.

Before he could recover from the shock of meeting the floor left wing first, Arthur was by his side, muttering, “Stupid bird, you could’ve gotten yourself seriously injured.”

Merlin fixed him with his yellow-eyed glare, trying to convey all his frustration – you suggested it, you prat – through one look. Arthur scoffed, as he tried to pick him up in his arms. Merlin slapped him across the chest with his wing, voicing his protest at such handling even when he was just a bird now.

“Ow, stop fighting me, Merlin. I’m just trying to help.” Merlin wanted to raise an eyebrow and a witty answer was at the tip of his tongue but he remembered – well, fuck.

Arthur picked him up with no further ceremonies and put him on the table in front of the tray of food. Merlin felt his mouth water at the sight of it but he found one huge problem. He had a beak, two large wings and feet with long nails that scratched the wooden surface, none of which he had ever used for eating.

This was going to be a long lunch. Merlin just knew.

And Arthur looked amused. Again.

Day 2

The following day after being gone for a few hours, Arthur returned to his chamber holding a huge book. Now, having super sharp eye sight, Merlin knew exactly which book it was.

He screeched as a way of protest.

Arthur jumped, and then glared at him. "Shh, no one saw me. Be quiet, okay? Soon your loud squawking is going to attract a lot of unwanted attention if you keep it up."

He walked right up to his bed, further ignoring Merlin who stood in the middle of the room looking really confused for a second or two. Then he followed Arthur.

Arthur lied down on his stomach on the bed, the book now open in front of him at a random page. "Now let's see. What's here? Gaius told me to look for spells or potions under the category of animal transformation. Hmm..."

Merlin hopped on the bed, barely avoiding overbalancing and falling on the floor on his back. Arthur chuckled, clearly amused.

It wasn’t funny, goddamnit. Merlin ruffled his feathers, arranged his wings so they fit by his side and chose his next steps slowly so he wouldn’t fall because the bed was nothing like the hard floor.

Only when Merlin stood by Arthur’s right shoulder, waiting expectedly, Arthur started to turn the pages carefully. About half way through Arthur started to comment on the spells out loud.

"This is ridiculous. Who'd want to turn their brother into a swan? Why there is such a spell in the first place?" Arthur scoffed and turned another page. “And who’d need a potion to enchant their beloved? And give a tail to what? What’s with the tail? Sorcerers are a ridiculous bunch.”

Merlin hit him with his wing, trying his best to look threatening. “It’s true. You know it. Only with an exception of you, because you save my life all the time and it’s a really sensible if not unnecessary thing that distinguishes you from anyone else of your kind.”

Merlin didn’t know whenever to feel happy or insulted in the place of other sensible sorcerers that didn’t try to come up with original and often crazy ways how to kill, possess or torture the prince.

In the end, he settled for another hit with his wing this time lighter that also didn’t send him sprawled on the bed. The message was loud and clear though – prat.

And Arthur answered in kind, “Idiot.”

Day 3

On the third day, Merlin almost got discovered while Arthur was away. He hid under Arthur’s bed to avoid it and witnessed how a pretty young girl put something in Arthur’s drink. Whatever it was nothing good could come out of it.

He waited until she was gone and hopped towards the table and then awkwardly, with little help of his wings managed to get on the chair. However, when he was about to jump on the table, someone charged in the room and took him by surprise. It turned out to be just Arthur and Merlin told his beating heart to calm the fuck down.

“I’m thirsty and starving and oh God, yes, wine. That will fit perfectly,” Arthur’s voice came from above the table and Merlin could do nothing than flail around and unsuccessfully try to jump on the table, listening how Arthur gulped down most of the wine and feeling the terror of what might happen fill him.

He felt so fucking useless in this bird form. He couldn’t even do the simplest of spells let alone jump on a fucking table to stop Arthur drinking what very possibly was a poisoned drink. He cursed himself and the stupid wings and this situation all together.

In the short silence between the moment when Arthur put the goblet down and Merlin jumped on the floor, no thud followed, nothing in fact happened. Until Arthur started to talk, that is.

“Now I really fucking need a bath. I bet I stink worse than a whole army together. The knights have really gotten much better over the past months and it’s bloody frustrating that I can’t beat them so easily and show off as I did just a few months ago. It is, of course, a good thing but where else can I show off my strength if not during training so to impress everyone...”

As Arthur rambled on, Merlin learned that Arthur was given some sort of serum that made him reveal things that he wouldn’t usually tell. Merlin was quite sure when the effect will wear off he’ll be embarrassed about the things he revealed.

But Merlin couldn’t stop himself from listening and storing the information away for later use.

(“I’d love if someone would just massage my back sometimes, loosen the tension in me because goddammit I’d need that,” Arthur said as he was washing himself in the bath.

“Why couldn’t I have one day off my duties, is it that hard to arrange such thing?”

“I’d love breakfast in bed, especially when it is delivered by you, Merlin.”)

Arthur fell silent only sometime after he had dressed himself ready for bed and blew the candles out to enable the darkness in the room. But sleep didn’t come to Merlin for a long time, his mind reeling from the newfound information about Arthur.

Day 4

Gaius visited Arthur’s chamber some time after the sunrise, before Arthur could leave for the day. Not that he was going to go anywhere, because – hello, his inability to keep anything to himself would only land him in a whole lot of troubles.

When Gaius noticed Merlin, standing on the table and looking bored, he broke out in a smile. “I’ve wonderful news, Merlin. I found a cure to your predicament.”

Oh thank God, Merlin thought and flapped with his wings to express his gratitude.

“I’ll bring it to you later, when the potion will be ready. There’s still one more thing I should add to it.” Gaius explained.

He was about to leave when Arthur spoke up, “Hello, I’m here too, not that I care if you talk to me or not at the moment. But you know I’m eating breakfast and you could join. Oops, I meant – well, exactly what I said because you always just stand there and just look. No, forget it. Actually, I’d rather have Merlin eating breakfast with me. And don’t look at me with that raised eyebrow, it’s freaking me out, and before you can ask – yes, I drank something strange and I can’t shut up; I’m saying everything that comes to mind. Damn.” Arthur quickly shoved a piece of bread in his mouth to just make himself shut up and almost choked on it.

“I see, sire. I should go and search for a cure. Menawhile, I’d advise you to not leave the room. I’ll inform the King you don’t feel well,” Gaius said to Arthur, who simply nodded in answer. “As for you, Merlin, I’ll bring the cure later.”

Merlin nodded calmly and Arthur couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer. “Aren’t you excited? I definitely am because then I won’t have to look at you as a bird and think this is seriously fucked up. I can’t wait for you to finally be yourself so I can fucking tell you how much I love you and don’t care that you are magic – and oh God, what did I just say? Just shut up, shut up, shut the hell up,” Arthur shouted at himself, standing up abruptly, threw his arms up in defeat and stomped out of the chamber. Before Arthur left, Merlin noticed a rosy colour decorating his cheeks.

An awkward silence followed. Gaius cleared his throat and then added before leaving, “I’ll go and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.” Which was a good plan and Merlin heartily approved of it, though he’d have liked to be the one to go after him.

Left alone, Merlin sighed, replaying the last conversation in his head – or rather, the part where Arthur ranted, sort of.

Whatever the girl had put in his drink had also released Arthur’s inner part for dramatics, wonderful, and also – wait, what? In love with him?

Merlin almost fell off the table in shock.

Day 5

By the next morning Arthur was cured of his curse of thinking out loud and was now deliberately avoiding Merlin by not coming back even when the practice with knights was over. It was effective, because Merlin couldn’t go anywhere and demand him to stop being stupid, but he also understood Arthur’s wish to get away from him because he thought his feelings weren’t returned. If Merlin were himself he’d be ready to shout from rooftops that, damn they were. Returned, that is.

Being a bird really sucked sometimes.

It was a good thing that Gaius arrived with a vial of the cure some-time in the afternoon, apologizing for the delay, and Merlin turned back to a human, living and breathing and half-naked as it turned out. He didn’t know where his shirt had gone and he really didn’t want to find out, so he borrowed one of Arthur’s. He figured Arthur wouldn’t mind all that much.

He waited for Arthur in his chamber for most of the day in hopes of meeting Arthur and talking to him but he felt too sleepy and the bed was so comfortable that he fell asleep instead, curling on the covers with a hand under the white pillow.

Merlin came to awareness of his surroundings a few hours later; he heard someone move around the room, muttering under his breath something about a disobedient manservant and being ridiculously attractive when he slept.

Merlin broke into a smile, eyes still closed; reassured that Arthur was back. And then it fully registered with him what that meant - oh he was back.

Merlin tensed slightly, evened his breath out and kept his eyes closed, hoping Arthur wouldn’t notice him awake; not that moment at least. He was not ready for a confrontation – still sleepy and sated from the sexy dream and Arthur could bolt.

But the shuffling stopped; for a heartbeat or two it was completely silent until a sigh followed. Merlin thought Arthur figured it out and he was about to open his eyes and roll on his back and –

“Silly man,” Arthur muttered and the footsteps grew nearer. Merlin didn’t dare to move, not now. The bed dipped and a hand came up to Merlin’s face for a caress and just as quickly fell away. “What am I doing?”

Merlin didn’t want to hide anymore, his heart beating impossibly loud in his chest, so he reached out, his eyes flying open and grabbed the first thing of Arthur he could. It turned out to be his red shirt.

Arthur froze, aborting his motion of getting up, and looked at Merlin, slightly wide-eyed and really damn handsome nonetheless.

“Merlin, wha –”

“Stay,” Merlin croaked, tugging on Arthur’s shirt.

“Do you realize that you’re sleeping in my bed, Merlin?” Arthur tried to get out of his grip, but it was a weak attempt. Merlin knew it in the way Arthur didn’t even bother to use his hands for help.

“Stay with me,” Merlin said more forcefully and this time pulled Arthur on top of him. He marvelled at all the ways they fit so easily against each other and why hadn’t he done this earlier until Arthur started to struggle to get up.

“Oh for God’s –” But Arthur didn’t get to finish his sentence because he was cut off by Merlin’s lips on his.

He froze and Merlin broke their contact, but just barely, breathing puffs of air on his face. He looked straight in Arthur’s eyes, sincere and open. “I love you too, okay?”

It took Arthur about a few seconds to sink in that Merlin had said something at all, because those eyes – those blue, blue eyes -

And when Arthur fully understood that his feelings weren’t as one-sided as he thought, he broke out in a brilliant smile, everything around him now seemingly warm and bright with Merlin, willing, underneath him. “Oh, okay.”

Merlin kissed him again, tangling their legs together and bringing their tongues into play. Arthur moaned, low and deep in his throat and broke the kiss to trail wet kisses along Merlin’s jaw and down his exposed neck. “You. Have. No. Idea,” he punctuated each word with a kiss, loving the sounds Merlin made. “How I’ve wanted to do naughty things to you. With you.”

“I might have an idea.” Merlin sounded breathy and full of desire; Arthur shivered in delight as he thought of doing all the things he had imagined with Merlin – actually do them. He couldn’t wait.

“No time like the present, then,” Arthur murmured against Merlin lips, hands on each side of his face.

“Mm, prince, you’ve the best of ideas,” Merlin smiled once they broke apart, eyes half-lidded and mischievous.

Arthur kissed him again just because of the look on his face and because he could.

Fic: Sherlock/John - The All We Are

emerish — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 17:20:05 GMT

Title: The All We Are
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Beta: devikun
Summary: A look in a typical week in Sherlock and John’s life, as close to typical as it gets. (established relationship)

Monday

Sherlock was curled on the couch in his dressing gown with a large book open in his lap when John came down the stairs that morning.

He was still in the same position when John was ready to leave. Curious as he was, John crept up to catch a glimpse of the title.

He couldn’t. It was up-side down. John frowned, glancing at Sherlock. The taller man caught his eyes.

“I’m polishing my reading skills,” he said as a way of explaining. Why Sherlock felt the need to polish his reading up-side down was a mystery to John at the moment. He didn’t want to find out either.

“Okay, do your thing. I’m leaving.” John leant down and kissed Sherlock on the lips, slightly off centre and with no tongue, but a kiss nonetheless.

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Okay, John.”

Tuesday

When John returned around 6pm after work, the door to their flat was slightly ajar and there was no sign of Sherlock in the living room.

He hovered in the doorway of the living room. It was eerily silent until Sherlock’s voice called, “John, in the kitchen.”

Immediately John followed the voice and was shocked to say the least to find Sherlock chained (yes, with actual chains) to the chair. “What the –”

“Just untie me. It is bloody frustrating to not be able to move.” Sherlock shifted, trying to steer the chair closer to a very dumbfounded John but he didn't have much luck. Sherlock sighed. “John, you will find a key in one of the drawers in the living room.”

That set John in motion and he walked straight up to the table and yanked the top drawer open and found lots of keys in it. “Which one?”

“The one with an eagle on the handle.”

John rummaged through the drawer until he noticed it on the far right side of the drawer. “Got it.”

“Perfect. Now, get me out of these silly things.”

“Maybe, yes, but you almost gave a heart attack,” John commented, unlocking the chains.

“Wasn’t my intention.” Sherlock rubbed his wrists as he was freed, and then turned to John - who just stood there, shifting from foot to foot, holding the chains in one hand and the key in the other - and kissed him.

That silenced John for a minute or so until the questions came.

Wednesday

John woke tangled with Sherlock under the sheets. It was such a rare occasion that he savoured the feel of Sherlock asleep and curled against him, warm and breathing. And safe. Whenever Sherlock went away alone John never knew what state he’d come back, never mind that he was always so high of adrenaline that a couple of times they ended up fucking right there against the wall in the living room.

John shifted only slightly to move his arm from under him because it was tingling from being squashed for too long. As a result Sherlock moved his head, eyes opening halfway to peer at him.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was all sleep rough and deep, and John surged forward to claim his lips in a close mouthed kiss.

“Sleep,” he muttered, puffing his breath close to Sherlock’s ear and surprisingly Sherlock did exactly as told, which brought to John’s attention the fact that the sleepless nights he had had during the past month had finally caught up with him.

Thursday

The next morning John made tea while Sherlock experimented with something green and possibly alive in a small glass, pouring a liquid that definitely wasn’t water from the smell of it on the green stuff.

John just shook his head as he passed and sat down in his favourite armchair and fetched the morning newspaper from the table next to it.

He was still curled in the armchair, reading the last pages of the newspaper when Sherlock came out of the kitchen, faintly smelling of smoke.

The rare grin that split his face though said everything John needed to know.

“C’mere.” John tugged him in by the front of his shirt for a quick kiss, which Sherlock returned with interest.

Friday

On Friday they got a case – well, technically Sherlock got a case and John simply tagged along. But it ended almost as quickly as it started.

Lestrade awaited them outside the flat and his knowledge didn’t provide any more than the obvious, which were – a gunshot wound, dead for approximately ten hours and nobody had heard anything out of the ordinary.

“A carefully planned murder, how interesting,” Sherlock murmured as he crouched on the kitchen floor by the dead body. Looking around John noticed the partly made tea, the lonely plate on the dinner table, and so did Sherlock.

“You’re to look for somebody whom the victim obviously knew very well; clearly the murderer is also shorter and owns a cat, unless the victim had a cat?” Lestrade shook his head. Sherlock got up and quickly surveyed the room. “It’s very possible that she was in rush since she hasn’t wasted any time. Check if any of his relatives or friends have left the country in last ten hours.”

Sherlock strode out of the kitchen. Lestrade and John followed.

“Where are you going?” Lestrade asked.

“My job here is done. The case is just as good as finished. John?” Sherlock swept out of the flat altogether with just a glance at John, who quickly followed.

“Right.” Lestarde murmured in their wake.

Saturday

John woke up to the sound of the violin coming from downstairs. He groaned into his pillow and turned onto his back. He liked it when Sherlock played; if only he didn’t do that three hours too early for John to fully appreciate it.

Though knowing Sherlock he most likely wouldn’t get any sleep. John got up and padded down to the living room. There he stopped in the doorway and leaned against the doorjamb, watching Sherlock.

Sherlock was standing between the couch and the table, facing the city through the windows. His eyes were closed like they often were when he played and he wore his dressing grown.

The music reached really high notes until it stopped completely. A few beats of complete silence followed until Sherlock dropped his hands and turned to John, announcing, “I’m bored.”

For that John needed a lot of tea or maybe even coffee.

Sunday

John was curled on the couch after the dinner with a book in his hands when Sherlock returned from wherever he had been. The satisfied curl of his lips indicated that he had been called away for another case.

As Sherlock hung his coat, John noticed his palm was badly bruised.

“What happened?”

“Had a criminal to chase who was fond of abandoned buildings.”

“Ah,” was all that John said in answer. Frankly he was happy enough that Sherlock was back safe that the details didn’t matter to him all that much.

“Yes, well, he wasn’t one of the brightest,” Sherlock commented absently as he sat down beside John.

He took the book out of John’s hands and carefully put it on the table. Without much preamble he leaned over and kissed John squarely on lips. John entangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, answering the kiss with as much as he had got. Sherlock leaned over him and they ended up half-sitting on the couch, the armrest digging in the middle of John’s back and Sherlock’s right hand down John’s pants.

They ended up rutting against each other until their orgasms hit and kissing leisurely in the afterglow.

It was overall a wonderful day, in a domestic sort of way, which was a rare thing on its own. Maybe, it had something to do with the fact it was Sunday. You know, nothing much went on.

Not that John cared. He had Sherlock and Sherlock had him. And next week they’d have a whole lot of criminals to chase, hopefully.

Fanvideo: Erik/Charles - Paper Heart

emerish — Sun, 10 Jul 2011 21:49:17 GMT

Oh God how long it had been since my last fanvid and now it takes me only about three hours to make this. But I like it a lot, though various video editors made it worse than originally. Oh well. but damn, this pairing makes me wish to make tons more fanvids.

Paper Heart | Erik/Charles | damn me and my paper heart in this pouring rain

♥

Fic: Sherlock/John - All Different Grace

emerish — Wed, 15 Jun 2011 21:37:17 GMT

Title: All Different Grace
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,083
Warnings: mentions of off-screen murder, very brief violence
Summary: In which there's one annoyed John Watson, a murder and four silk shirts. Not necessarily in that order.
A/N: written for moony_mistress for her prompt that can be found here. Thank you to my wonderful beta devikun.

Sherlock didn’t care about decent; apparently, he didn’t do subtle a whole lot either, well, never, in fact. John could put up with his strange ways; he had been doing that for months after all.

But this –

(The girl in the purple dress, crying on the side of the street, hugging her slender frame after she had found her boyfriend dead on the living room’s floor)

– Right here, right now –

(Sherlock’s been asking question after question about her dead boyfriend – even about his body, oh God – not caring that she’s crying, clearly in shock, and he even had the decency to look frustrated with the lack of coherent answers)

Was too much for John. He got a warm orange blanket from the paramedics and walked right up to the girl, placed the blanket around her shoulders and pulled her aside. She went quite willingly, grateful for the change of attitude towards her grief and buried her head in the crook of his neck.

Sherlock stopped him, though, wrapping his hand around his wrist. John glared at the taller man.

“It’s important.”

“Don’t.”

“John.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about the murder. She saw her own boyfriend lying dead in front of her for Christ’s sake.”

“I don’t –”

“Think, Sherlock. What if you had found, um, me, for example, dead? What then? Would it not affect you at all?”

He was only met with a silence. The hand eased its grip and then slipped away completely. “Thought so,” he murmured, and turned away from Sherlock, anger twisting inside his chest. His hand patted her head with jerky awkward movements, not used to the display of such emotions. He stayed with her until she calmed down, and then Lestrade came, saying something about her going with the police and he stepped aside to let her go.

Sherlock had already disappeared somewhere before John hailed a cab and went home. Not that John cared right now.

-

When John returned to the flat, Sherlock was already there, reading a newspaper, which he folded and put in his lap upon noticing John hovering in the doorway.

“I made you tea. Exactly how you like it. It must be still warm.” Sherlock gestured with his left hand broadly as if it explained everything he didn’t say. But John was surprised when he noticed the cup of tea. After all he had never seen Sherlock make tea, not once. He was still annoyed at him, though.

He nodded in acknowledgment, Sherlock watching him like a hawk, and stiffly shed his jacket and threw it on the armchair. The tea to which Sherlock had been referring sat right beside his laptop, in the only free space on the table. John had been meaning to clean up the mess but he had never gotten around to doing so.

“The girl is important to the case.” Sherlock suddenly spoke, and John turned around sharply.

“And why’s that, mind telling me that?” He was acting too cold towards Sherlock, he knew; but the annoyance and anger that had been prickling around the edges ever since their last conversation was aggravated again by the way Sherlock picked up the topic again so easily. In a way he knew the whys and hows of Sherlock’s actions and all the ways he was different to other people, but this – allowing the anger to speak for itself was easier than letting it go. For now at least.

“She knew almost everything about her boyfriend,” Sherlock replied eventually. “If anything, she probably knows the reason why the criminals are after them only not realizes it. The criminals may try to go after her, so she must be watched closely. She is, in fact.”

“Oh,” John was annoyed. “So you now – brilliant… I just – you know what? Never mind. Just never mind. I’ll stay at Sarah’s for the night.” John turned away and hastily fetched his jacket, not once looking at Sherlock. He needed space and he needed it now. This wasn’t how he was supposed to react, he knew, but something about this whole situation just – he didn’t even know to explain it. And he didn’t want to.

He slammed the door on his way out, though, to get his point across.

-

It was only around noon when John returned a long conversation with Sarah, an uncomfortable night’s sleep on the couch, breakfast and a good long walk later. He felt a lot better, as well as could be expected with a case unsolved and he and Sherlock, at least on his part, still at odds.

When John walked in, Sherlock was curled in his armchair, playing a soft tune on the violin. John noted that he wore the same clothes he’d been wearing yesterday, only more rumpled. John had a sneaking suspicion he hadn’t slept, but he rarely did when they had a case, so it most probably had nothing to do with him.

“Better?” Sherlock asked over the music.

John shrugged, but Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, probably didn’t see the gesture, so he chose to answer verbally as well. “Yes.”

“Okay.” And that was that. Sherlock shifted, glanced up and eventually stood up to put the violin back in its case. When he straightened up, he turned to John and said, “We have a lead. Last night a man tried to break into the flat. There must be something we’ve overlooked before.”

No wonder why he looked so rumpled then. John didn’t want to follow him, though. Let him have all the fun this time, he decided.

Sherlock stopped once he was fully dressed, gloves clutched in his right hand, and his eyes locked with John’s. “You’re coming with me, are you not? I’d be lost with my favourite blogger.”

It didn’t faze John much. “You’re perfectly capable of doing everything by yourself,” John answered sulkily before he got control over his mouth. He looked away.

“John.” Sherlock had that tone again, like he was between caught between exasperated and fond and like he had half a mind to tell John that he was being really foolish.

He probably was. “Alright. Alright. I’m coming but you better buy me dinner later.”

“Done.” Sherlock smiled self-satisfied like a cat. “And, oh, take your gun.”

“What? Why? No – never mind. I don’t want to know. I’ll just – go and fetch my gun.” John was about to climb upstairs when Sherlock broke the silence again.

“John, it’s on the kitchen table.”

“It’s on the kitchen – what? Oh never mind. Just –” John stopped himself before he said something really stupid or accused Sherlock of misuse of his gun and possibly opened the floodgates on all his other complaints as well (the list was getting kind of long).

Eventually, he found the gun lying almost on the edge, beside a glass full of something green, which he really didn’t want to identify. By the time John had put his jacket on and secured the gun, Sherlock had already gone ahead and hailed a cab for the both of them.

-

The victim’s flat looked almost the same as it did a day ago. There were signs of a forced entry; the living room was a total mess. When John noticed the stains on the carpet and the half-empty glass of water, he realized that everything had been left as it was, except for the body that had been removed.

He looked around, suddenly unsure because this was Sherlock’s kind of thing and he normally just tagged along, offered his point of view on things and hoped for the best. Which usually wasn’t the way he had planned things to end (he had been using the gun more times than he could count lately, not that he complained; they both knew that he needed it), but he’d like a break from the routine.

John was shaken out of his thoughts when Sherlock purposefully strode to the bedroom and yanked the closet door open. John followed him, perplexed as to what Sherlock was doing until he saw the man smile. John could’ve bet money that Sherlock had found something that just helped to solve the case.

“Give me your hand. I want you to feel this.” Sherlock gestured with his left hand from John to come and stand right beside him. John reluctantly followed his order and when he was within arm’s reach, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and moved it towards his chest.

John gulped. He had no idea where this was going but it was making his thoughts leave the safe territory he had made himself to avoid any awkward conversations or explanations, because Sherlock would definitely notice. He averted his eyes and felt his hand make a contact with Sherlock’s shirt, felt the surprisingly soft material under his open palm.

“How does it feel?” Sherlock asked after a short period of time and when John made no sound to actually answer, he added, “The material, John. The material.” He sounded exasperated and far too knowing for John’s liking.

John ignored it, though, for the sake of his own sanity and the last bits of self control he had left. “It feels sort of like silk, but I’m certain that it’s not. Is it?”

“You’re correct. And now this.” Sherlock moved their hands towards the closet and John had to touch the green button-up on the hanger. It was surprisingly silky and looked damn expensive.

“Silk. I think. Isn’t it?”

Sherlock made an affirmative noise, though he didn’t let go of John’s hand, thumb absently caressing the inside of his wrist.

John decided to just ignore it, the closeness – everything and continued to talk. “Okay, so that’s definitely very expensive and by the looks of it they’re not wealthy enough to afford…” he quickly counted the shirts, “…four shirts unless they had won a lottery or had a lot of money stashed away somewhere we didn’t know – Wait, maybe it’s stolen. The money, I mean. Would explain the break in even after his death.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “and there is a big chance that the murderer didn’t find the money when he was here during the night.” Sherlock let go of John’s hand as an afterthought.

“Not that I see any signs, but you may be right. Like always.” John was close to sounding sulky, which he definitely never did, so he shut up quickly.

He wasn’t jealous of Sherlock. He really, really wasn’t. It was just he should’ve slept more last night, his back hurt from sleeping on the couch and, okay, the events of the previous day might be playing some part in it, too.

“Of course I am,” Sherlock agreed with a smile. “And he will be back tonight.”

And that was that. Sherlock strode straight for the outdoor. John was left dumbfounded. Sometimes John just didn’t get Sherlock and this was one of the times. It was damn frustrating that there was something possibly glaring him in the face, almost close to wearing a sparkly neon sign with look at me printed all over it, but he simply didn’t notice it.

He quickly glanced about (nope, still saw no signs) and quickly followed Sherlock out. “How do you know?”

Sherlock sighed but said nothing on the matter. It was slightly unusual, given that Sherlock liked to explain things to John.

“Let’s pay a visit to Lucy.”

“Lucy?”

“Girlfriend.”

John frowned.

“The deceased’s girlfriend, John.”

-

Upon entering the building John simply didn’t like the nagging feeling that maybe Sherlock didn’t realize he had taken them to the completely wrong place and had to point out, “I thought you said we’ll were visiting Lucy. This is Lestrade’s office, in case you haven’t noticed in your insomnia.”

“I’m not insomniac. I simply choose not to sleep when I have a case.” Sherlock completely ignored the first part of the sentence and kept on climbing up the stairs, John hot on his heels.

“Of course, you do, but it won’t be my fault if you drop unconscious in the middle of crime scene.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. A case doesn’t take me that long.”

“Cocky much,” John murmured mostly to himself. Sherlock, of course, heard that and raised an eyebrow. John shrugged as if saying what. When they actually arrived at Lestrade’s office, Lucy was already there, sitting in one of the chairs.

Upon seeing Sherlock in the doorway, she lost the last bit of the smile on her face.

“We have a few questions to ask.”

John held back a comment, hands clenching in fists by his sides. He was back to square one.

Sherlock glanced at John briefly, as if sensing his discomfort. John shrugged. The entire exchange wasn’t lost on Lestrade who had yet to say something. Sherlock took the resigned silence as the invitation it probably was.

“Lucy, did your boyfriend mention anything about getting a lot of money recently?”

“He – I don’t remember.” She averted her eyes from Sherlock’s scrutiny. John sat down opposite her and put a reassuring hand on her knee.

John knew how hard it was to lose your loved one, and it was even harder to see it happen – or in Lucy’s case see the dead body. And it wasn’t just a theoretical knowledge on John’s part.

“It’s okay. Maybe, you noticed something strange. Just think about it. Every little detail could help.”

She smiled faintly at him, and he smiled right back, hoping as hell he was being reassuring. “He said that soon we’d live like royals. Though, I don’t think he was serious about it.”

“It proves my hypothesis.”

“Wha – what are talking about?” She asked.

“Don’t mind him. He’s just thinking aloud. Did you have any debts?”

“We had, but we had paid them weeks ago already.”

“Was there any reason to take another debt?”

“No, there wasn’t. Michael liked to gamble sometimes but lately he hadn’t played – he promised.” John saw Lestrade and Sherlock exchange looks. He ignored them. “He said that we won’t live like this any longer -” She stopped, eyes welling with tears she tried but failed to suppress the tears. “I just – it’s really painful, you know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I understand.”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“I’ve gone through that as well.” Sherlock’s eyes fixed on John and he knew the questions would come, later.

“I didn’t mean to – ah, this all is so hard.”

“It’s alright. We’ll catch the killer; make sure he won’t leave the prison for a very time.” John stood up and they both walked out the office. And once the door was safely shut behind them, John growled. “We’re going to get that fucker.”

Sherlock didn’t agree or disagree, but he could see he was thirsty for the thrill of a chase.

-

The chase turned out to be really short. Precisely, it was nonexistent. The criminal thought it was better to attack than to be attacked or something along those lines. At least, that’s what John gathered. If he were the criminal he’d be half way across the continent by now, if he knew Sherlock was after him.

It wasn’t the case here. As it was, they were taken by surprise. Punches were thrown. John got tackled (yes, really), and he couldn’t do much but throw punches himself and kick. It earned a few painful yelps, which was good, because he got the upper-hand.

Sherlock was doing much better than him. After a few precise kicks and punches Sherlock’s attacker was out cold. John couldn’t say that about his, but he was trying. If only it wasn’t so bloody difficult.

“Hey, you fight like a girl,” Sherlock announced and the man turned around, enraged.

“What di-” The man started to say but Sherlock lifted his hands up straight to his temples and hit hard. The man dropped down unconscious.

John was amazed.

Sherlock strode right up to him, checking him for any visible injuries.

“Sherlock, I’m fine.” It was mostly true; the attacker hadn’t been able to do anything because John had efficiently blocked most of his punches, except for one that had caught his side.

“No, you’re not.” Sherlock held up John’s hand, inspecting his bruised knuckles.

John sighed, trying to mask the warm feeling spread from Sherlock’s touch. “You know what I meant.”

“If you say so.” Sherlock dropped his hand. “I’m calling Lestrade.”

-

As it happened the case was wrapped up rather quickly, since one of the attackers turned out to be the killer. Though, John had to stay a little longer while a paramedic bandaged his knuckles and Sherlock talked to Lestrade, a small crooked smile gracing his lips. John assumed he was satisfied with the results.

About a minute later, after John had assured Sherlock he wasn’t suffering any other injuries, Sherlock walked up to him, hands in his coat’s pockets.

“Ready?”

“Very.” John smiled, got off the ambulance car and followed Sherlock. A few beats of silence followed when John remembered, “You know, you still owe me a dinner.”

“That I do.”

-

And that’s how they ended up at Bart’s, sitting down at a table close to the window.

After they had ordered food and the waiter had left, Sherlock leaned in, eyeing John intently. John had a feeling he knew what it was about.

“Are we going to talk about it?” Sherlock asked casually.

John shrugged and swallowed the bite of bread he had just taken. “Do we need to?”

“You may want to set me straight.”

“There’s nothing to tell you may not have figured out already.” John looked away.

“I see.” Sherlock put John’s cell phone, which he had taken from him sometime earlier, on the table, fiddled with it, a gesture that was not entirely Sherlock’s. “That’s why you’re so hesitant to allow our relationship change into more than this.”

“It’s – no, no, Sherlock, this -” John gestured between them with a fork, “Whatever this is, has nothing to do with it. Nothing.”

A one side of Sherlock’s mouth lifted up in a crooked smile. He lifted his hand slowly, deliberately and wiped off a crumb from John’s face right beside his mouth. John’s eyes widened, but only a little and nothing was said on the matter for the rest of the dinner.

But then Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist on the doorstep of their flat and kissed him for the whole London to see, which was what told John that he was serious about it. And that was that.

Icons

emerish — Mon, 06 Jun 2011 17:59:19 GMT

{1-17} Bradley James
{18-21} Colin Morgan

001

002

003

004

005

006

007

008

009

010

011

012

013

014

015

016

017

018

019

020

021

Table created with accio.nu's icon table(less) generator

For icons from 1 to 8 are used pictures by jhava. :)

> Comments are appreciated.
> Credit if take any.

Fic: Arthur/Merlin; The Thing is

emerish — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 19:21:05 GMT

Title: The Thing Is
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, implied Merlin/Gwaine
Word Count: 4,509
Warnings: none.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
Summary: In which Arthur is jealous and gets pretty good at ignoring Merlin.
Author's Notes: Thank you to my beta gracious_anne. Written for fierysunrise @ glomp_fest exchange.

Arthur lied on his bed, staring at the ceiling, idly wondering whenever to get up or not. It was a Saturday morning, there nowhere he had to be, nobody to see right away and he relished the unhurried pace at which he could do things.

Just as he was about to sit up there was a knock on the door. He propped himself up in his elbows and said, “Come in.”

It was Merlin, holding a pile of papers and a book, and Arthur’s features immediately brightened like someone had switched the light on, which on itself was sort of a ridiculous thought. He tried to hide it behind a scowl, though, but failed miserably. Merlin was just – okay, he was different, in a good way, and hard to be angry, annoyed at.

“I bought you these,” Merlin held up the pile, showing them like some sort of treasures to Arthur. “You said that you had troubles with the assignment about Ancient Art, so I dag a bit and found this. I’d be really happy if you could bring it back by the end of the next week, okay?”

At this point Arthur was certain that Merlin was blushing, put under his scrutiny, though he had turned away, carefully putting the pile on his desk, in between piles of books, laptop and other things.

“Oh – okay, thanks.” Arthur was caught by surprise – okay, they sort of talked a lot, turned up at the same places (a lot of thanks go to Lance, though), but this was new. Not unwelcomed, of course. “What’s with the top hat, though?”

“That.” Merlin absently touched it with his fingers and grinned. “It was Gwen’s idea.” He shrugged, leaning against the table.

“Which –” Arthur gestured with his hand for Merlin to explain more.

“Would explain a lot if you knew that Gwen liked dress-up and she always managed to drag me into these things –so, top hat for today.”

“And long colourful dress for tomorrow.” Arthur teased. “You know, it looks sort of ridiculous.”

“Shut up. I’ve been told I look good.”

“They may have hit their head against hard surfaces too many times to say that.”

“Prat.” Merlin laughed, head tipped back, exposing his neck for Arthur to ogle the fine expanse of skin. He barely managed to look away, heart in his throat, when Merlin straightened up, glanced his way and gestured at the door. “I gotta go, though. Unlike you I have a whole lot to do before the evening.”

And only then Arthur remembered – the party. He really hoped to see Merlin there but he usually didn’t go to parties and he wasn’t sure if he was good enough reason for him to turn up. He asked anyway.

“Will you be at the party?”

Merlin turned to him, one hand on the knob and shrugged. “You know, not my kind of scene.”

“Oh come on, be there.”

“I’ll think about it. I still have a whole week.”

It already counted as a success in Arthur’s head, because the answer always had been definite no as far he knew.

-

The next time Arthur saw Merlin was on Tuesday, during his soccer practice. The first thing Arthur, noticed about him, though, was the hideous flowery shirt he wore (most probably because of Gwen but that was besides the point), and Arthur burst out laughing at the sight, which earned him a few weird looks from his teammates.

He excused himself shortly after and sprinted up to Merlin who waved at seeing him approach.

“What’s with the shirt?” Arthur asked, shortly followed by, “What are you doing here, exactly?” Since as far Arthur knew none of his friends played in the team, beside him, that is. Oh.

“I re-watched Romeo and Juliet with Gwen.” Arthur raised an eyebrow. Merlin sighed in a dramatic manner and Arthur fought back a retort. “Right. In that movie Romeo wore flowery shirts.”

“Seriously? Had he no style at all?” Arthur thought the whole topic was ridiculous.

“Those were nineties.”

“Whatever. So...” At Arthur’s imploring face expression Merlin seemed to catch up with the question he didn’t answer in the first place.

Merlin shrugged, a crooked smile on his lips. “I came to cheer you on.”

Arthur fought back a wide grin, his eyes following the way the sunshine played in Merlin’s brown hair. “But it’s just a practice,” it came out sounding wrong like he wanted him to leave.

“Should I not be here, then?”Merlin gestured in the general direction of the main building, slightly unsure, eyes quite not meeting Arthur’s.

“I didn’t say that. But didn’t you have to be... doing whatever it is you do after lessons?” Arthur almost slipped the name of the club Merlin lead; he wasn’t supposed to know since he made such a big deal about it not being worth remembering the last time.

“It’s Ancient Literature club.”

“Obviously. Ancient, yes. As if we don’t have enough ancient books in the library.”

“They are really valuable. And, no, obviously I don’t have to be there if I’m here.”

Which, yes, made sense, a lot of sense actually. Arthur rolled his eyes, though. Merlin’s shirt was still hideous and stupid, which, though, didn’t lessen his desire to rip it off him, in fact, it heightened the wish tenfold. Because, yeah, how could you not? Wish to rip the shirt off, he meant.

“It only indicates that you don’t care about it as much as you claim to.”

“In fact, I do, prat.” Even then Merlin glanced at the cell phone in his hand as if waiting for a call. Arthur had noticed it earlier, but now as he was starting to find it annoying, he decided to ask about it.

“Why are you toying with the phone?”

“I’m waiting a call from a bookshop. They said they might get a really old edition of Shakespeare’s Othello, only they didn’t know whenever the previous owner will sell it.” Merlin sounded really excited about the book. Personally Arthur didn’t know what the big deal was.

“If you say so –”

His coach’s booming voice interrupted him mid-sentence, “Pendragon, on the pitch, right this instant!”

Arthur winced. He really didn’t like the guy some of the days like, for instance, today. “I’ve to run.”

“Have fun kicking the ball around the pitch,” Merlin shouted after him, half-laughing.

-

Arthur arrived around 11pm with a six-pack and snacks. By that time most of the people had arrived, judging by the large crowd inside the house. At the entrance he met with Lance, who greeted him and pointed at kitchen where he’d put his drinks. Arthur smiled, nodded and pushed through the crowd, the music blasting from the stereos and everyone was steadily getting drunk.

By the refrigerator Arthur bumped into Merlin who was leaning against the counter, looking slightly out of place in his black jeans and large sweater. Arthur broke out into a grin without even realizing when he saw that it was Merlin, and it was kind of pathetic, if you think about it.

“Hi, it’s great to see you here... Want a beer?” Arthur lifted his six-pack, amused smiled tugging on his lips.

Merlin shook his head. “Nah, maybe later, but thanks. I’ve my own.”Merlin gestured in the vague direction of the table where the most of the drinks and snacks were kept – okay, what was left of them by this point. Looked like they had started early.

Arthur raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Who would’ve thought that?” He mused.

Merlin looked at him like he was weird. “What? I know how to buy beer.”

“I don’t doubt that. Though, I remember the last time you got drunk.”

“Yeah, well, me too and I wasn’t the only one.” Merlin looked pointedly at Arthur.

“I can handle my drink.” Which, okay, was sort of lie.

“I’m sure of that. Apparently, you dance just as well... on the table.” By this point Merlin had hard time trying to hide the laugh that was trying to escape. Arthur glared at him to show that he was annoyed, but he didn’t think he pulled it off with the grin tugging his lips upwards at seeing Merlin so happy.

“Shut up. It was just that one time. The hangover was a bitch the next morning. Definitely not worth it.”

“Oh, I remember you bitching about it, loudly.”

In answer Arthur swatted Merlin’s arm playfully and Merlin grinned. Arthur moved to lean against the counter, so close their thighs touched. But the moment pasted and Arthur was dragged away without any explanation by very excited Lancelot. He ended up drinking far less than he wanted to, listening to his friends’ drunken slurring and dancing awkwardly with girls and boys alike.

A few hours (or what felt like few hours) later Arthur caught a sight of Merlin standing somewhere on the side of the living room with somebody. His feet carried him towards Merlin, without thinking, as if gravity was pulling him. He froze, though as few steps away from Merlin upon noticing his companion.

Gwaine.

And then Arthur noticed Gwaine flirting openly with Merlin who answered in kind, grinning from ear to ear, a bottle of beer in his hand. And just as Merlin swayed and laughed, leaning towards Gwaine, Arthur understood two things – Merlin was really drunk and it wasn’t a good sign.

He had seen him drunk, oh yes, and he was affectionate, cheerful and touchy-feely – okay, Arthur didn’t mind, and he knew Gwaine wouldn’t either but he would possibly take advantage of Merlin. Not that Arthur knew but Gwaine had been practically undressing Merlin with his eyes the whole time. It didn’t sit well with Arthur. He liked to think that Merlin was his, it was a selfish thought, he was aware, but sometimes it slipped his mind that really Merlin could be interested in whoever he wanted. Yet, Arthur pushed through the crowd right now to get to him.

“C’mere, Merlin. We’re going home.”

“A’thu’,” Merlin slurred, still grinning from ear to ear, his free hand now resting on his upper arm, the warmth soaking through Arthur’s thin layer of clothes.

At first Gwaine looked bewildered, glancing between Arthur and Merlin, but then he took a step forwards and blocked their way out. “Hey, mate, I don’t think he wants to go anywhere so fast.”

“And who are you to him to decide that?”

“His date,” Gwaine announced proudly and it felt like a cold bucket of water had been spilled over Arthur’s head. How he could’ve missed? No, more to the point, how he could’ve not known in the first place?

“That’s ridiculous. I would know that if you two had a date.”

“It may have slipped his mind. You know, it happens.” Gwaine shrugged, a slight smile creeping on his lips.

“Not to him,” Arthur said confidently.

“Hey, no a’guing okey?” Merlin slurred, sort of waving at them happily. Arthur was unimpressed and hurt that, apparently, Merlin didn’t trust him with such information. So, he hadn’t been the reason at all. That thought didn’t improve his mood in any way.

“You’re wasted, mate,” Gwaine took the bottle from Merlin’s loose fingers. “Why don’t we sit down?”

“No, no sitting. We’re leaving.” Arthur tugged on Merlin’s sweater.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You’ve no say in this.”

“But I’m his –”

“I know. You can call him tomorrow when he’s sober and do whatever.” Arthur had had enough of him.

“Hey, tell him he owes me a lot of kisses.” Gwaine shouted after him. Arthur ignored him completely, pulling Merlin towards the entrance. He didn't get far, though. Merlin pressed closer, his hands roaming around Arthur's body and — oh, slipping under his black t-shirt.

Arthur froze and to his embarrassment his dick stirred in his pants, liking the attention given to his body. Arthur moved backwards but Merlin followed, though, until Arthur's back hit the living room’s wall.

Merlin was now pressed against him from neck to knees (mouth close to Arthur’s neck), warm and willing but Arthur simply couldn't take advantage of him when he was in such state, no matter how willing he was. Knowing Merlin, the next day he'd definitely regret it and tell that it was the reason he usually didn't drink or went to parties, or something along the lines. Arthur would only be left with knowledge of Merlin's lips on his, ruined chance and indescribable yearning. Which, yeah, would pretty much suck big time.

That thought didn't stop his body from responding, placing him in an awkward situation to which Merlin was completely obvious at the moment, busy — ohgoddon'tstop – busy kissing along his neck and rubbing against his body in a way Arthur found irresistible and adorable. But he had to stop this right now. Really, right the fuck now. Merlin had a date and he wouldn’t be happy to find out that he had practically molested Arthur while drunk. It didn’t matter that Arthur wanted Merlin so much it hurt.

"Hey, Merlin, mate, you're drunk, let's get you out of here." He put his hands on Merlin's shoulders, intent to push him away but Merlin lifted his heavy lidded eyes, a goofy smile on his lips and Arthur felt his will crumble around the edges.

He probably would've given if not for the next words that passed Merlin's lips, more a murmur of words told close to his ears than anything else, "Gwaine, I mean – want one taste of this gorgeous body, it would be enough... I think."

He sounded oddly wistful. Arthur thought he had no reason to, he just practically announced that he wanted a one night stand with Gwaine – wait, he didn’t know it was him and it meant - fuck. Arthur pushed Merlin away from him.

"Okay, enough, it's time to go home." Merlin fell silent, hands falling by his sides and gave him a bewildered look and looked like he was about to say something but Arthur didn’t want to hear that. He grabbed him by the upper arm and dragged along.

And if he was a bit rough with Merlin then it nobody else’s fault but Merlin's own. And if Arthur didn't sleep that night, driven by his frustration and anger and furious wanking that gave him no satisfaction, then it no one's fault but Merlin's as well.

-

“Can I sit here?” Merlin was hovering nervously by Arthur’s table in the library on Monday. Arthur looked up from his text-book slightly startled. He hadn’t expected to see him, at least not today. After everything had sort of gone to shite on Saturday, he thought Merlin was most probably going to avoid to him. Apparently, it wasn’t the case.

“Yeah.” He tried to smile, but it must’ve come out more of a grimace than anything else judging from the way Merlin hesitated before sliding in the chair.

“So, uh, great party, right?” It was hard to tell how much he remembered or had been told, but, apparently, it had been enough to make this conversation awkward already.

“We all got pretty smashed if that’s what you meant then yes.” Arthur looked in his notebook, a pen in his right hand, yet not able to concentrate on anything beyond Merlin.

“Right.”

Arthur fidgeted in his seat for several moments until he remembered something he thought passed for a valid topic. “I returned the books yesterday, but you weren’t around.”

“Ah, I noticed.”

“Thanks. About the books, I mean.”

“No problem.” Several beats of awkward silence, and then, “What are you studying?”

“Economics. I’ve a pretty big test on Wednesday.” Arthur shrugged, looked somewhere over Merlin’s shoulder.

“Uh,” Merlin grunted, looking down at his clasped hands, resting on the table.

“Economics are pretty great.” If you don’t study them, he didn’t add, though it must’ve been obvious, judging by the answer Merlin gave.

“I don’t think you believe what you just said yourself.”

“Why would you think that?” Arthur didn’t mean sound as aggressive as he did. This conversation was really not going in the right direction.

“I just –” Merlin leaned back in the chair, defensive and unsure all of sudden.

Arthur felt like an idiot. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Merlin frowned like trying to figure out what he meant and then uttered a simple, “Oh.”

Arthur glanced down at his note-book, mind full of ways how to deal with the metaphorical elephant in the room and stop this ridiculous situation, but then he was distracted by the sound of the library door closing. He looked up and his expression darkened. Gwaine was heading their way.

Merlin hadn’t noticed him so Arthur felt the need to inform him. “Here’s your cheerful boyfriend coming this way.”

“He’s not my-” Merlin didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence, though, as Gwaine was already there, hands in his pockets.

“Hi, Merlin,” said Gwaine, “thought I’d see you here. How about a movie tonight?”

Gwaine grinned, though acted as if Arthur was an empty space. Arthur raised an eyebrow, unimpressed and slightly annoyed.

And Merlin agreed, hesitantly at first, glancing back at Arthur as if he was asking for permission or something, but when Arthur pointedly looked away, he stood up with finality in his action that didn’t sit well with Arthur.

“That’s an excellent idea. Let’s go, ok?”

“Okay.”

And Arthur was left alone, sulky and with a distant feeling that he had been acting like a jerk. Not that it was a surprise.

-

The next day Arthur glared at Gwaine whenever he saw him (on the principle alone that he was with Merlin), which turned out to be often. So, by the end of the day his eyes hurt from all the glaring they did. Not that it helped the matters in any way, especially when Merlin was with Gwaine – laughing, eating and such. For all it looked like they had gotten together after all.

He avoided Merlin at all cost even when they were a few feet away from each other in the cafeteria, at which point Lance started to give him a funny look. Arthur ignored that as well. He had gotten fairly good at ignoring over the night – okay, it didn’t help when Lance started to question to him in front of the rest of friends, but whatever.

And in the end he went a whole day without even sparing a glance at Merlin. Maybe he was being unfair and jealous but that was only his problem. And he had to fix it himself. He had heard that punching and screaming helped. He’d have to try it out – Gwaine would do nicely. As the punching bag, he meant.

-

Arthur was eating his lunch, sitting alone at the table in cafeteria when Gwen showed up, slid into the seat opposite him, fixed him with a disapproving look and put a piece of paper on the table, saying only, “Read it.”

Arthur frowned, though picked the note up anyway. It read – Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Forgive me.

The handwriting looked a lot like Merlin’s; it would also explain why it was a note. Arthur kind of had been ignoring him for the past days ever since that awkward conversation.

“Okay, you fix whatever you did because I can handle only so much of moping Merlin around my dorm room, yeah?” She was about to stand up but Arthur wasn’t done. He had to – okay, he wasn’t sure what, but he couldn’t allow Merlin think that he was guilty of something, even though he sort of was. In Arthur’s head at least where everything lately was Merlin’s fault.

Arthur put a hand atop hers in haste without even realizing until he felt her wriggle it. “Oops, just wait – I’ll write an answer.”

There’s nothing to be sorry about.

And the next day Gwen dropped another note – Talk to me, then.

I’m really busy.

Fine. But you’re a jerk, just so you know.
-

On a sunny Thursday’s evening Arthur stood in front of a second-hand bookshop. Elegant yellow letters on the front window claimed to have old editions and valuable scripts inside.

So, he had come to the conclusion that he had been – still was, in fact – a jerk and maybe he should make up to Merlin about, you know, being one towards him the past days. Or something and he might have found a way.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

-

“I found the book lying on my table yesterday,” Merlin’s voice carried to Arthur’s room from the hallway, two pairs of footsteps fast approaching, and Arthur stopped typing and held his breath.

“But that’s amazing. You had wanted to get it for a long time.” It was Lancelot and they were even closer to the door to his room.

Arthur was sitting by his desk, his laptop open in front of him when Lance came in accompanied by Merlin. Upon seeing the other man, a surge of want went through Arthur, leaving him no less surprised by the intensity than any other time.

“I know but I don’t know who sent it. There was only a short note left behind.” Merlin shrugged, concentrating only on Lancelot, barely sparing a glance at Arthur.

“Maybe it was Gwaine?” Lance supplied helpfully.

“I’m not sure. Though, I could ask him about it later.” Merlin walked up to Lance’s bed and sat on the side of it. Now only Arthur’s back was facing him, so he didn’t notice how Arthur’s fingers clenched into fisted above the keyboard. “I really wish I could thank that person in person.”

Arthur opened his mouth, heart beating wildly. This was the moment of truth. He could easily admit the truth, tell that he was a jerk and that he was nothing against Merlin being with Gwaine.

“Hey, Arthur had you seen my cell phone lying around?” Lancelot asked all of sudden.

The question startled Arthur. “No... Are you sure you didn’t forget it somewhere public again?”

“Maybe, I ran into Gwaine earlier. He had an interesting story to tell me today about a certain –”

It was enough of Gwaine for Arthur today.

He stood up, the chair making a loud sound as it dragged against the floor. “Whatever. I’ll head out so you two can catch up, talk about Gwaine or whatever you do. I don’t have to hear it.”

It was oddly silent after that. He couldn’t leave fast enough.

-

Moody wasn’t a word Arthur used to describe himself, at least not usually, but, you know, seeing how the things progressed he might as well could – okay, it was the only word he found fitting at the moment. Because the rollercoaster of emotions he had shown – jealousy, frustration, desire, anger – during the past days had been anything but collected and consistent.

He was deep in his thoughts about the ways he could improve things in one way or another, because this was fucking with his head, even though all had started to innocently – okay, not really. It was his jealousy that had made him dash to Merlin and drag him back to his dorm room, and – when he was pulled into an empty classroom by none other than Merlin. Judging by his expression he was not pleased with Arthur.

Arthur crossed his arms and scowled. “What do you want? I don’t have time.”

“You have. A lot, in fact. I checked and double checked just to be sure.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, trying very hard to appear cool and unaffected by what Merlin’s presence was doing to him, bringing every conflicting thought to the surface – his desire and frustration.

“It doesn’t mean I want to be trapped here in my free time.”

Merlin sighed, resigned to the fact. “I get that. First, though, I want you answer to a question. Why?”

Arthur played dumb to buy time to think of a reasonable lie. “What why?”

“Why you don’t want to talk to me anymore, yet you send me a book, which you knew I really wanted.”

Arthur’s eyes widened and he couldn’t come up with a proper reply to it, which wouldn’t lead to admitting his feelings in one way or another, “It’s – you know about that?”

“Of course, you fool. I’d love to hear explanations, though, or I walk.”

Arthur stubbornly looked away, not saying anything. Merlin sighed and walked towards the door. “Suit yourself then.”

“You’re with Gwaine,” Arthur forced put through gritted teeth like it explained everything. In a way, it did explain everything. Merlin only looked more confused, though.

“I’m not with Gwaine. Does it even have anything to do with anything?” Merlin frowned, a hand on the doorknob.

“You definitely are. He said so himself.” Arthur raised an eyebrow, slightly disbelieving.

Merlin looked at him like he was weird. “I’m definitely not. When he even said so?”

“At the party.”

“That must have been why he was so smug the next day,” Merlin murmured the first part mostly to himself. “The thing is - he lied.”

“Why’d he do such thing?” That made no sense. No sense at all.

“He’s an idiot?” Merlin offered lamely, his fingers worrying the hem of his shirt nervously. Arthur raised an eyebrow at that, unconvinced. “Okay, I’m repeating there’s nothing between me and Gwaine. End of story.”

“I saw. There is.” Arthur was going to stick with his truth no matter how stupid it was, because Merlin didn’t want him in the first place

“Was not.”

“Are we going to argue about this?”

“Definitely, until you realize – I’m telling the truth because I can’t be with Gwaine when I’ve the biggest of crushes on you.” Merlin’s eyes widened and right hand immediately flew up to cover his mouth. Arthur stared at him. “Oops, I didn’t mean to say that, though that’s the truth.”

“Then why did he say –” Arthur made a vague hand gesture unable to finish the sentence. Merlin understood anyway.

“He knew how desperate I was for you and it must have been his way of matchmaking or something.”

It was – then it meant – ohmygod, he had a chance at relationship with Merlin. Arthur grinned and uncrossed his arms, taking a step closer.

“I was jealous, okay? Really jealous.”

Merlin glanced at Arthur, a hesitant but hopeful smile tugging his lips upwards. “Oh. Then it means –”

Arthur put his arm around Merlin’s waist and pulled him close, his eyes fixed on Merlin’s full lips. “It means it’s time to forget this awful week and for you to give me a kiss that’damghtp-”

The kiss started tentative, a brief lick of tongue along Arthur’s lower lip, but then it turned passionate. He had kissed a fair share of boys, yes, but Arthur had never been kissed so sensually, so thoroughly, like he’d melt from a kiss alone.

“Let’s move this to somewhere more private,” Merlin suggested after they broke the kiss.

“Mmm, yes,” Arthur murmured against Merlin’s neck.

the end.

Get Shit Done!

emerish — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 19:37:49 GMT

A challenge to write all the words and get shit done in a week.

(This is exactly what I need. My J2 BB is seriously lacking words)

Life full of laughter | Icons

emerish — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 19:18:23 GMT

Once upon a time I swore to myself that I won't make more icons (my first batch - well, it looked like rubbish to me later when I looked at them) but then I started to experiment a bit and found a few tutorials. So, here I am again and here's a lot of icons. :D

{1-4} Benedict Cumberbatch
{5-18} Martin Freeman
{19-36} G-Dragon
{37-51} TOP
{52-56} GD&TOP

001

002

003

004

005

006

007

008

009

010

011

012

013

014

015

016

017

018

019

020

021

022

023

024

025

026

027

028

029

030

031

032

033

034

035

036

037

038

039

040

041

042

043

044

045

046

047

048

049

050

051

052

053

054

055

056

Table created with accio.nu's icon table(less) generator

- Credit if take any.
- Comments are ♥ (and makes me very happy).

.

Writer's Block: It's cold outside

emerish — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 17:05:43 GMT

Anything below -30C is too cold. I can easily handle -20C, even had training (though it was only -15C, then) but, yeah, -30C makes me feel like my entire face is frozen, which is so not on.

Wallpapers

emerish — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 18:35:43 GMT

Apparently, I really started to like making wallpapers, so here's two more. :D

{1} Draco Malfoy
{1} Holmes/Watson (2009 verse)

1366x768 | 1280x768 | 1024x768

1366x768 | 1280x768 | 1024x768

♥

Friends Only post

emerish — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 19:05:20 GMT

Baner made by tomycoffee

Everything except fan fiction, art and videos are Friends only. It mostly includes rambling about RL, some fandom stuff and writing projects I'm working on.

Fic: Sherlock/John; Take My Heart With You

emerish — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 16:42:40 GMT

Title: Take My Heart With You
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Beta: devikun
Word count: 2,200 words
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no profit is being made.
Summary: One thankful jeweller, a pair of matching rings and a happy ending.
Author's Notes: This was written for mein_profil's prompt here @ sherlockbbc. It took me three re-writes to be satisfied with the outcome of this fic, though I had fun writing it. *g*

3.

The silver and titanium ring glinted in the bright daylight and fit perfectly on Sherlock’s finger when he tried it on for the first time. The titanium made it seem almost weightless on his finger (it is a very lightweight metal, weighing only 1/3 as much as gold) and, looking at the two black stripes that ran along it (a nice touch to the usual grey, metallic colour), then and there Sherlock knew for sure that he had made the right choice.

Perfect.

1.

“We have nothing else left to do here.” Sherlock tugged on John’s jacket, looking slightly distracted. John didn’t see the reason; the case was solved and they were leaving (to relax hopefully, though it was a slim chance, a really slim one). “Let’s go.” His mind seemed to be going mile a minute again, not that it ever stopped, except when he was sleeping (maybe).

“Okay. But I’d prefer dinner first before we do anything else.”

Sherlock stopped when John hadn't bothered to move; he had to make sure if he heard him to allow to be pushed along, though he didn’t mind a bit of pushing or touching in general; he had his reason, one that made his heart quicken and his lips curl into a smile.

“Dinner it is, then,” Sherlock replied after a short pause and grabbed John by the wrist to ensure that he actually followed this time. Typical.

But the jeweller, the target of the thief they just caught, suddenly stood in front of them, his tall frame looming over John; he looked happy, annoyingly so. Sherlock let out a slightly frustrated breath. John knew the feeling; he was so damn hungry, so any sort of interruption wasn’t appreciated.

“Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson,” he greeted, “thank you so much for finding and helping to arrest the thief. I can’t even express my gratefulness. Those rings meant everything to me.”

“It was nothing.”

“No, no, it was brilliant – hadn’t seen anything being done so efficiently before,” he gushed, and Sherlock looked slightly uncomfortable with the positive attention he was getting all of sudden, but the jeweller didn’t notice, rambling on, excitedly, “I must give you a reward. I could make you something wonderful to show you how grateful I am.”

“It’s not necessary. We’re alright without a reward. Right, John?”

“Um. Yes, it’s not necessary.”

As John spoke, the jeweller noticed how close they stood, shoulders touching and at ease with the closeness, and at the way Sherlock’s hand was curled around John’s wrist, thumb caressing the inside of it absently, and drew his own conclusions. His smile was wide and brilliant when he lifted his eyes and clasped his hands together. “No I really want to. Rings, maybe?”

His voice held a subtle hint, an undertone, of something he was implying; judging by the look on his face, he thought they should understand what he was getting at. But John simply didn’t get it (Sherlock’s caress was wonderful, though, and distracting). “Indeed. You look so good together. A pair of silver rings with engravings would fit the deal wonderfully, what do you think?”

Oh that. John rolled his eyes when he wasn’t looking. “No, thank you, we really won’t need that, though thank you for the offer.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything at first, thoughtful, and then he smiled, too wide to be real, and said, “We have to go.”

He pulled John along by the wrist, and they were on their way again.

4.

“I’m not certain you are following what I’m saying.” Sherlock calmly interrupted the silence. He hadn’t looked at the plate of food ever since it was placed on the table, in favour of watching the other side of the street with a degree of concentration only he could manage, yet not be too obvious about it (after all he sat facing the window).

“Yes, in fact, I don’t.” John put the knife and fork in his empty plate, once he was finished and looked up at Sherlock.

“It’s all in the matter of understanding the murderer’s reasons and working with the facts at hand. Mrs. Greenwood said that he cared for his aunt greatly; Mr. Lenox agreed and added that he came always at the same time, three times a week. At least. He committed the murder out of despair to help her with the money, so the conclusion is fairly easy.” Sherlock quickly glanced at John, then at his plate. “Was it any good?”

What? Ah, the dinner. “Yes. Great, in fact. Thank you. So, that means he won’t miss the chance to visit the aunt’s flat and possibly hide there since it’s the most obvious of places, am I right?”

“Silly question, John.”

John smiled slightly. “I’ll take it as yes and feel good about the fact that I now understand at least something.”

John picked up his cup of tea and it sort of acted like a shield to the intense gaze Sherlock suddenly pinned him with. “Don’t be daft. You know a great deal, compared to others. You just have to dig deeper; the facts at hand are just the surface.”

“You meant to say I’ve potential.”

Sherlock blinked, the hand on the table turning into a fist. John grinned.

“Oh don’t look at me like that.”

John shrugged and tried to hide his grin behind his cup; silly grins really weren’t his style. At least, not today. In an hour or so's time (probably) he’ll have a criminal to catch and it will not do any good to his reputation to wear a silly grin when he most probably will threaten him with a gun. “I’m just amazed. That’s all.”

“Amazed?” Sherlock’s frown made small creases appear at the sides of his eyes; John found it worth his attention, though he preferred when they appeared when he was smiling.

“With you.”

“How so?”

“You practically paid a compliment to me just now.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “In fact, I did.”

0.

It had taken a chase gone wrong and a house on fire and almost-though-not-really panic attack in fear for John’s life for Sherlock to realize –

(When a paramedic came to check John over himself (a mild case of smoke inhalation), a fierce protectiveness rose in Sherlock and he didn’t want him to move out of the range of his touch. He knew that it was unreasonable but he couldn’t help that feeling; to ease it though, he settled for watching him instead. A few minutes later, John caught Sherlock’s eye and smiled. Something warm unfurled in his stomach and stayed.)

– John was a part of his life and he’d not trade him for anything.

2.

“Ah, Mister Holmes, great to see you again,” the jeweller greeted Sherlock the day after solving the case, smiling like he had been waiting for him to open the door to his shop the whole day.

Sherlock inclined his head in answer and took off his gloves. He hesitated for a second, his eyes glancing over at the glass-cases, full of all sort of jewellery, before saying, “I came to see about those rings, Mr. Jones.”

“Perfect, perfect,” he muttered and gestured with his hand to follow as he led him deeper into the shop and through a narrow door on the left. “This is where I put all my best models. Please, sit, Mr. Holmes.” Mr. Jones gestured for him to occupy one of the two available chairs by the wooden table. “I’ll be right back.” And he disappeared through another door.

With one look Sherlock took in the heavy wooden furniture and the rather small window and half-closed curtains; everything was either brown or pale shade of yellow and rather dull, Sherlock concluded, sitting down in one of the chairs, and waited.

5.

A week later he still had the rings in his jacket’s pocket and, all facts considered, he had come up with a plan, sort of; actually, not really. If he made tea, offered to buy groceries or do any other mundane things, John would only question his sanity and ask silly questions. John was a person who valuated his privacy, so anything public was out as well; it left Sherlock with nothing but blunt honesty.

Blunt honesty it was, then. And he was doing it today.

Where are you? SH

On my way already

Good. Don’t take long. SH

Will try not to, mother

I mean it. SH

Me too

Great that we agree on something. SH

I won’t honour this with an answer

You already did. SH

I’m glaring at the phone right now, by the way

I’m glad I amused you, too. SH

It’s hopeless to argue with you

Of course. SH

Never mind. Do you need anything from the grocery shop?

Yogurt. SH

Do you even drink it?

Experiment. SH

That explains a lot.

Yes. And make it quick. SH

Jeez, okay

6.

As small blue, velvet box was placed on John’s laptop, when he came home on Friday evening. It was so out of place in the middle of the chaotic table, too classy perhaps; it looked tempting, though. But before he did anything, he had to know how it got there and, most importantly, who left it there, so blatantly on display to anyone who dared as much as to open the door.

“It’s for you. Open it.” Sherlock was standing in the doorway to kitchen, hand tapping against his left thigh. The light of the lamp caught the sharp angle of his chin, the slight lift of his lips and the intensity in his eyes.

“It’s from you.”

“Indeed.”

Something was entirely off about the situation, from the way Sherlock was watching him to his perfect black suit. John walked towards the table, stopping only when his legs hit the side of it. When he reached for the box he had a moment where he thought that there was marriage ring inside it, but he cast the idea aside as ridiculous, though his hands trembled a little when he picked it up.

“It won’t bite. Trust me.” Sherlock commented, sounding impatient.

John turned his head, frowning a little. It appeared that Sherlock was full of jittery nerves.

The Sherlock Holmes John knew wasn’t all jittery nerves; well, this Sherlock wasn’t much either, but he could feel all the fizzling energy just under the surface, ready to break free, and it wasn’t the sort – adrenaline-filled, full of anticipation – he was used to.

John turned back to the box in his hand and lifted it, slowly, slowly. It seemed to annoy Sherlock as he exhaled loudly. The same moment John gasped. Two identical rings sat inside it.

“They are mix of titanium and silver. The titanium part makes them lighter than any other ring made only of silver.” Sherlock wasn’t looking at his incredulous face instead he seemed fascinated with the rings.

“Why?”

Sherlock ignored his question, though. “You should try the left one out. It’s for you.”

“Sherlock, why?” John asked more forcefully.

“It’s a gift. Obviously.”

John couldn’t decide which he wanted to do more - slap the answer out of Sherlock or throw the rings out just to see him react somehow. “Sherlock, why are there two? Why? You know what, don’t bother, I’ll leave them where they were and we won’t speak of this again, if you’re so inclined to not answer my questions.”

“No. Stop. I’m doing this wrong.”

John waited, watching Sherlock stand straighter and walk out of the shadows. He ran a hand through his hair and stopped in front of John. In this position John was backed up against the table and he had no place to escape if the conversation called for it.

In attempt to cover his nervousness, John raised an eyebrow and asked, “Well? I’m waiting.”

“I’ve come to be well adapted to your personality and presence around me in these months. In fact, I rather enjoy and like you around, I didn’t even realize to what extent until a few weeks ago. At the same time I came to a conclusion about the depth and direction of it which was rather surprising given my style of living and other factors.”

John held his breath, hoping for the best. Sherlock took out one of the rings, and held it in front of his face, slightly to the side. John didn’t understand what he was supposed to be looking for until he saw the engraving – John. If that was for him, the other must be for Sherlock and they were identical, so that meant –

“Will you do the honour of being my boyfriend?” Sherlock took his hand in his.

John’s eyes widened. Oh my God.

“Yes!”

Sherlock beamed.

The ring slipped on John’s finger and before he knew he was being pulled against Sherlock’s chest, one arm going around his waist, and Sherlock was leaning in, kissing him senseless.

Oh wow.

John’s hand moved up Sherlock’s side and through his hair, stopping at the nape of his neck to pull him closer. He was so going to enjoy the rest of the evening; especially judging by the way Sherlock’s arousal was pressed against is thigh.

The end

Fic; H/D; Not an Ordinary Snowy Day

emerish — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 17:18:56 GMT

Title: Not an ordinary snowy day
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG
Beta: bleedforyou1 (Thank you!)
Word count: 1,300 words
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling. I own nothing but the plot.
Summary: Being attacked by an angry snowman was not Draco’s and Harry’s idea of fun.
a/n: Enjoy! :D

“I told you not to use that spell,” Draco shouted at Potter as they ran from one alive, angry snowman.

“But how could I have known that he’d act like that?”

“It, Potter. That you used a spell to make it alive doesn’t make it an actual living thing.”

“But – but it’s moving and doing things and –” Harry trailed off, slightly out of breath, and Malfoy quickly cut off whatever else he was going to say on the matter.

“Yes, I see, and it’s dead-set on killing us as well. Watch out!” Malfoy pulled him down by the collar when another large snowball was thrown at them, and they both tumbled in the snow, rolling and trying to hide behind the trees. Malfoy groaned when most of it got under his robes as well in the process. “If only you hadn’t dropped your wand, we won’t be in this situation.”

“I was shocked,” Harry argued.

“I wouldn’t have dropped my wand if the situation was reversed.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Git, now shut up. All we have to do is to get back to the castle.”

“Well observed, Potter, but how do you think we’ll do that? We’re almost in the Forbidden Forest and there’s a huge clearing all the way up to the castle.” Malfoy gestured in the vague direction of it.

“Your optimism astounds me,” Harry added with a touch of sarcasm.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I’m being realistic.”

Harry ignored Malfoy’s last comment as he peered from behind a large tree they managed to hide behind in order to avoid the angry snowman. It was looking around for them, turning his big round head right and left. If the snowman wasn’t so angry and dangerous, he’d laugh at how it moved (jumped would be the correct word) around since it had no legs. He stopped himself from chuckling, and his eyes dropped to the snow. A few feet away from one of the trees, his wand was lying in a pile of snow that had gathered where they had been having a snow-fight right before Harry had thought of using that spell on the snowman.

He narrowed his eyes, measuring the distance between the wand and snowman and them and how long it would take. Right now, the snowman had no large snowballs in his hands (made of fallen branches) and he was turning away to look – Harry knew what he had to do.

After quickly whispering “If you say so” Harry ran after his wand, the deep snow making the run harder than he thought it would be.

“Where are you going –” Malfoy must have noticed the same moment he did that the snowman turned, a large snowball already in his right hand, but Harry didn’t stop to think; the wand was so close, just two steps – one step. He leaned down, grasped it, relief washing over him and then – the wind was knocked out of him. “Harry!”

He heard Malfoy murmur something about bloody idiots and fools and he wanted to shout to look out or don’t come here, or something along the line, but he felt too dazed after the fall to concentrate. But then he felt the wand being taken out of his hand. It was wonder he still had such strong grip of it, and Malfoy shouted the spell to reverse the effect, and he lifted his head to look; the snowman was frozen once again, this time with a snowball in his hand, and Harry sighed in relief, his head dropping back against the cushion of the white cold snow.

“Come on, Harry. Let’s go back inside.” Malfoy offered his hand and Harry gratefully took it, and only then noticed something not the way it always was.

“You called me by my first name.”

“Judging by your reaction, one may think nobody has ever done that.” Malfoy smirked. (No, it’s Draco, his mind supplied cheerfully.)

“But.”

“After all, I saved you from an attack of a vicious snowman, I have the privilege now.” Draco handed Harry his wand and he took it, stuffing it back in his robe’s pocket.

“Vicious, you say?” Harry smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, a vicious, angry monster made of harmless snow, with branches for hands, carrot for the nose and black coals for eyes, two times bigger than any human. Poor you couldn’t fight such a monster, so I had to interfere and save your lovely arse.” Draco’s eyes were shining with amusement, and Harry lightly shoved him.

“Git.” Harry tried to appear affronted, but had hard time hiding his grin and in the end he gave up the fight and started to laugh. “You are right; it was kind of a pathetic situation to begin with.”

“Yes, it was, Harry.”

There was something about the way Draco said his name that made Harry think, maybe, he had been searching for an excuse to do so all along, who knew. Not that Harry complained.

They left the snowman behind unharmed, much to Draco’s displeasure.

And only about half-way to the castle, Harry noticed that it was snowing lightly – the kind where one can see a clear shape of the snowflake when it lands on the skin or clothes – and it was Harry’s favourite kind of snow. He eagerly spread his hands, a small smile spreading on his face, and stopped, waiting for the snowflakes to land. He had forgotten all about the snowman and Draco that moment, because this – even after eight years of being able to go out in the snow and do what he pleased – didn’t lose the novelty it held the first time. He must look like a fool; frankly, he didn’t care, so –

“Harry, what are you doing?” A slightly amused voice cut through his train of thoughts, and he looked up, startled only to be met with a pair of amused grey eyes very close to him. Harry’s eyes widened and his back stiffened, just a bit, not enough to be noticeable, and waited for Draco’s mocking to come but he met nothing. The silence stretched between them.

To not make this moment more awkward than it was already – the tension of their closeness was palpable in the air around them – he brushed his wet hands against his trousers and took a step back, saying, “Nothing, just – it’s snowing, as you see. Let’s go.”

He tried to sidestep Draco but he blocked his way. “Fool. I was just asking. I don’t mind... oh, stop with your silly grinning; seriously, I’m not – amghm.”

And Harry kissed him. The angle was slightly off and Harry’s glasses were in the way, digging into Draco’s cheek, but it was damn perfect as it was – the wet slide of their lips, the taste of oranges on Harry’s lips – but it ended almost as quickly as it started, Harry pulling away and looking at Draco wide-eyed and slightly scared.

“I didn’t mean to. I was just so – and you looked so – and I thought I could –”

Draco wouldn’t let him slip away, not like this, so he grabbed him by the wrist to prevent from running away and asked, calmly (as calmly he could, with his heart beating wildly in his chest). “Did you want to do it before?”

Harry looked like he wanted to deny it at first, but then sighed and admitted. “Yes.”

“And you won’t regret this later?” Draco leaned closer to show his intent.

Harry’s answer came with no hesitation. “Definitely not.”

“Good,” Draco murmured against his lips.

This was not how Harry had imagined his day to go when Draco had agreed to his suggestion to head out for a walk but it was all right, since the result was so much better than he could’ve dreamed of.

The end

fic; Sherlock/John; I don't care if we don't sleep some night

emerish — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 05:30:26 GMT

Title: I don’t care if we don’t sleep some night
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,290
Warning: none
Summary: They catch a criminal and later celebrate Christmas in their own way.
a/n: thank you to my wonderful beta devikun. It was written for morelindo as a part of 221b_slash_fest exchange.

They were close, so close; John could see it in the way Sherlock pushed himself to the limit – his breathing was irregular, laboured, and he didn’t even pretend that he could run with his mouth closed anymore. Their footsteps echoed in the dark, empty street, and a glimpse of Sherlock’s face as he passed under a fitful streetlight showed John that he wasn’t wrong. Sherlock’s upturned mouth, the clench of his fists, told John that he was ready, that he knew what to do and that the man he chased was in his hands already in all senses but the most mundane.

They turned right on Hanson Street, took sharp turn on the left right after St. Charles cathedral and then – John got distracted when he met with a loud crowd of teenagers coming the opposite way – he lost sight of Sherlock until he saw a tall figure running across the street. He cursed under his breath and dashed right after Sherlock, making sure that he avoided being hit by a car; that was the last he needed right now. The first thing as to follow Sherlock –where was he again – he stopped on the pavement, breathing harshly and looked every direction, and then he noticed the start of a street. Sherlock must have gone there.

He wasn’t wrong, he saw Sherlock, shadows bouncing off the brick walls as he ran and John set right after him. The street turned out to be short and they ended up on

What’s written there?

John tried to figure out as they stopped at a crossing. Ah –

But he had no time to mull over what he just read (Riding House Street, wasn’t it?) when they were already running across the street, and there they stopped after a few steps. John looked up, confused and out of breath and where is that fucking criminal? And saw a rather large white building he thought he had vaguely seen somewhere and only then his mind caught up with what he was staring at.

Middlesex Hospital.

“What are we doing—” John started to say in a rather embarrassingly loud voice but Sherlock shushed him with a finger on his lips – it tingled but John didn’t dwell on that – and a glare. John wisely shut up and, satisfied that he wasn’t going to try to say anything else, Sherlock determinedly turned on the right, walking down Nassau Street this time, along one side of the Hospital. John knew that he – no, they’d be in trouble if he said a thing.

As they rounded the corner, there the man was, by the backdoor (at least John thought it was the backdoor, what else such a plain-looking door be?), franticly trying to pick the lock but by the look of it, unsuccessfully. Sherlock stopped a few feet away from him, looking down at the crouched figure with disgust.

Then the man – dressed in an oversized jacket, black hat, and jeans – saw them and froze. John frowned because there was nothing worth freezing over about them except...

John turned to Sherlock –

Except Sherlock was holding his gun quite confidently, looking cold and deadly. What John really wanted to know was when and how the hell he got it. He didn’t have time even to get carried away in his thoughts when Sherlock spoke.

“Tell me – how you did it”

John frowned. Was this the right time and place to start an interrogation? Sherlock had the weirdest of concepts about such things. He had half mind to say that out loud when a warm had slipped into his between their bodies, and he looked up, startled. Sherlock didn’t even glance in his direction but the hand squeezed his, and then a thumb caressed the inside of his palm; John suppressed a shiver.

“Did what?” the man asked back, ending on a slightly high note, giving away the fact he was scared. When silence followed he babbled on, “The murder? It was all easy and simple; so easy to get him drunk and then tell him that he’s forgotten his hat in the car.” He was talking on and on like he feared that if he stopped Sherlock would shoot him. John was certain that he wouldn’t.

It seemed that Sherlock had gotten bored of his rambling as well. He glanced at John, and then slowly leaned closer to his ear and whispered in a low voice, “Call Lestrade.”

And John did.

-

When it was all over – the criminal taken by the police and everyone else gone –, Sherlock pushed John against a cold wall and, while they both were still high on adrenaline, kissed him senseless.

They knew they wouldn’t sleep tonight, and when Sherlock whispered in his ear, “let’s go to the flat.” John gladly agreed to the suggestion, not only because he wanted it desperately but also because he was tired of the merciless teasing Sherlock had suggested him to; first, as they had been answering to Lestrade’s questions, and then as they watched the police take care of the criminal and drive off; his hands had been anywhere, John could swear, though not being obvious about it.

And later when John asked about it, lying beside him, Sherlock answered that it had been an experiment and John may or may not have murmured out loud – did you ask for my permission first? – before he drifted off to sleep as the first rays of the sun filtered through the curtains.

-

That was the last case before the Christmas. John was fairly certain that Sherlock had turned Lestrade down once (he had heard Sherlock arguing over the phone one night), and he felt oddly proud to be someone that Sherlock cared enough to put before his work.

The next day, John decorated the living room – the skull got Santa’s hat on its head and he put green and red Christmas lights all around the windows – and went to fix himself a cup of tea and maybe read a newspaper and wait for Sherlock to get home –

The outdoor slammed shut and footsteps ran up the stairs.

In retrospect, John should have predicted that Sherlock wouldn’t like the lights, not talking about the hat on the skull (seriously, John, what were you thinking), but he didn’t; it all turned into an argument until Sherlock walked in the kitchen and saw what John had done with the table – he cleaned a bit and made place for more experiments, because he had felt that generous and they never ate there. He expected another outburst. He was ready for it but nothing came; Sherlock turned instead and smiled; he fucking smiled and there was no storm in his eyes.

John frowned.

And Sherlock kissed it away. John sighed in the kiss.

-

The whole affair of the Christmas was rocky and strange (remember – Mycroft and Harry) and they didn’t even celebrate it properly (no Christmas tree and definitely no lights), though there was sex – lot of it and some experiments and puzzles (apparently, Sherlock loved to see him solve them) and definitely texting. And dates and –

-

As it turned out they got along more amazingly when they were on a case (not that they didn’t on regular basis) but when they did things together – as a team –, chased after a criminal or like now when John just smelled the clothes of the victim – a man in his thirties, found dead in a backyard of his house – and simply came to the conclusion as Sherlock.

“He died from smoke inhalation.”

And Sherlock turned to him, snow in his dark hair and his open coat swishing, and strode right up to a confused John and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

The end

fic; Sherlock/John; Chasing Butterflies

emerish — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 16:45:36 GMT

Title: Chasing Butterflies
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,138
Warnings: implied drug use, guns, kidnapping (but nothing explicit or dark)
Summary: Angry with himself and John, Sherlock left on a case. Alone. And things went badly wrong.
A/N: Thank you to my wonderful beta devikun. This fic was written for patster223 as a part of holmestice challenge.

(He felt the pulse against his fingertips. So strong, a constant thump, thump against his sensitive skin. He let go but the world continued to spin on its axis. And hands. Hands touched scars and the silk wrapped around the mattress. It was warm, then hot. And he fell, hands digging into the silk for support. Mouth shaped silent words that would never be spoken, not in the daylight. They didn’t belong. And he was numb when the warmth dissolved into a rhythmic pounding of the rain against the windowpane.)

Once there was time when the world kept spinning, when everything was a blur and the lightness in his limbs and their lack of coordination wasn’t a blessing but a curse. His mind flew free of its restrains, of the interruptions of everything else like a bird (weren’t they evil? Mocking human at every chance they got, so easy on the eyes but not even once could you get close to their secret), flying in the direction he anticipated.

There were times when he could tell hallucinations from the truth, but this truth (the soft sound of hushed footsteps on the carpet, the dipping of the sofa, and hands, those hands in his hair, and warmth. Why did it always disappear? Ah,) felt so fucking real, so close to what he denied (when you tell yourself that you don't deserve it for long enough, it becomes a truth in your mind) that when the world stopped spinning and the haze lifted from his mind, the first thing he did was to make sure he was alone.

He was. Not a sound, nothing.

He threw a glass against the closest wall. It was not supposed to be like this.

(Everything smelled of flowers. He brushed against their colourful heads, walking in one particular direction. His feet knew the way, the lush grass bending under his shoes. And there he was, in the middle of the field, alone, beautiful. He let himself breathe freely for the first time in a decade... But colours blurred. Everything went white like an empty canvas he had to fill. He hung his head. The rain didn’t stop, wherever it had come from.)

“You have to stop this, Sherlock,” Mycroft said in worried voice but Sherlock decided to ignore it with a huff of a breath and looked away. The sky was grey, depressing and so boring (When he will come home? He wanted to play the violin for John like that time, draw a smile from him).

Mycroft was saying something again. “You are wasting away. I’ll make you an appointment with a psychologist so you can work out what’s wrong with you.” It wasn’t a suggestion, an order more likely. He was sick of it. Sick and tired.

“No, stop the mothering and leave me alone.”

Mycroft stopped leaning against his umbrella and looked in his eyes with all the concern and anger of a brother.

“You’ll do as I say. Sherlock, I’m not kidding, what John thinks about—”

I fucked up again, that's what. “It’s none of your business. Leave me, I said!” Sherlock lost it this time and Mycroft had the decency to look taken aback. “Don’t interfere with my life, Mycroft. Ever again.”

Before leaving, Mycroft gave him one last look that said more than words and Sherlock knew he was worried (Was he a genius or not? But to know his brother he didn’t need any of that) but there was nothing his money could fix this time.

(The stairs were cold under his numb fingers. The clock ticked somewhere in the distance and he continued to sit and wait, wait. He twisted the fabric of his coat between his hands. They didn’t think they belonged on that material. He expected different hands on the coat, around him, searching, giving. A door slammed shut. He was met with tired blue eyes and they offered what he had always hoped for. And he bolted to his room and the white canvas filled the space. It felt like disappointment against his fingers.)

The scent of coffee filled Sherlock’s nostrils and invited him into the kitchen. John was making it, quietly humming to himself. He looked relaxed, but then his shoulders tensed as if sensing Sherlock’s presence. Sherlock didn’t let that minor detail discourage him. He walked straight up to John, draping one arm around his stomach and kissed the back of John’s neck (he wanted to linger, feel more of that skin but he knew—) and John almost noticeably shuddered.

“Do you want coffee too?”

“Yes, I would.”

John moved out of his hold, increasing the distance between them and Sherlock didn’t let disappointment rule him. He could shut such emotions out easily before but now…

John avoided eye contact. He had been doing that a lot lately and he possibly had a good reason. Sherlock wasn’t a boyfriend anyone would dream of having, though these days he had been thinking that possibly that label didn’t apply to them anymore. John was pulling away, after all. He knew the signs when he saw them.

“Here,” John said, handing him the cup and their fingers brushed. Sparks still flew, but John didn’t seem to care. “I’ll be in my room. If you need anything, just ask.”

“Wait!” Sherlock stopped him by grabbing his wrist. This wasn’t how he wanted to spend rest of his days. As much as he hated to do it, he had to ask, “What exactly is wrong?”

“What do you mean?” John’s face became weary. Sherlock hated that.

“You pull away; you barely look at me anymore.”

“You figure it out. You’re always so bloody smart. Why don’t do it yourself? I’m tired.” John forcefully pulled his hands out of his grip and went upstairs.

That evening Sherlock left on a new case. Alone.

(His heart beat wildly like it wanted to escape his chest. One step. Two steps… three— a gunshot)

Chained to a chair, blindfolded, Sherlock felt like an idiot. And somewhere in the distance Moriarty was laughing like a maniac. That lunatic might think that he had the great Sherlock Holmes in his hands (“quite willing, wasn’t he?” Moriarty had said) but he knew exactly where they were (East London, an abandoned building, third floor) and Mycroft will come to rescue him soon and John was safe.

He could bear to be a little uncomfortable. He decided to ask questions to pass the time. He needed answers and he knew that Moriarty would give them, either to humour him or to relish the fact that he had the power; Sherlock didn’t care much either way.

“Why am I here?” he asked in a loud and clear voice.

“Sherlock, you already know,” Moriarty answered cheerfully.

That bored lunatic.

Right, to burn out my heart. “I just wonder, how you plan to do it,” Sherlock mused out loud.

“We’ll have fun first… you and me. It will be marvellous.”

“Oh, I doubt it.”

“Don’t be so sceptical, Sherlock. You’re surrounded. It’s me and… you now.”

Moriarty was so close to him now, he felt his breath brush over his ear. He kept his face expression carefully blank, leaning slightly away from him.

Moriarty suddenly clapped his hands together. “Then, let’s start.”

Why was no-one coming to his rescue? Had he really—

-
Run, this may be the only chance you've got.

John ran like he had never run before in his life (not even from police or crazy murderers or in the army). That idiot thought that he could— and now he was kidnapped and alone and Mycroft was hesitant to interfere (now of all times). John didn’t want to waste any more time in his and Sherlock’s flat. Instead, he found the address written in Mycroft’s neat handwriting in his coat pocket. Without thinking more about the situation, John got his gun and went out in a cold, early morning.

It had been snowing the day before. Everything was covered in white and it was strangely beautiful, but John couldn’t appreciate the sight, though he loved snow.

He took a taxi as far as he dared to, and then ran the rest of the way.

His heart thumped in his chest, scared, because they had met Moriarty before (I’ll burn you… I’ll burn the heart out of you) and he knew what Moriarty was capable of, better yet Sherlock knew it too yet he went there alone (now I know your weakness, isn’t that beautiful?), and John hated that.

-

Sherlock didn’t even get a chance to finish his thought when the door burst open and Moriarty’s slightly surprised voice asked, “John Watson?”

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged, heart picking up speed and he started to twist against his restraints. Not John, not again. Fuck.

Suddenly, John’s level voice filled the room.

“Don’t dare to even move. I’ll kill you.” He had the gun. The probability filled Sherlock with relief but it wasn’t enough. Moriarty had his snipers lurking around, waiting. Besides, this blindfold was starting to get on Sherlock’s nerves. He wanted to see.

Sherlock listened instead. Slow, measured footsteps were approaching him. John. Suddenly the blindfold was lifted from his face and he looked straight in John’s blue eyes. He saw fear; he saw worry, and he couldn’t take it. Was this how guilt felt? Then he didn’t want to feel it ever again; it was weighting him down like an anchor.

“Such big words, John.” Moriarty was smiling. Fucking smiling.

“Shut up. You don’t have any say now.” John had the gun trained at Moriarty, hands not shaking one bit. His posture was rigid, one he had learned in the army, face set in a hard, cold expression. He looked menacing, someone to be afraid of.

Moriarty didn’t seem to care about any of it. “Dear John, I don’t think so.”

Sherlock saw tiny red dots (yes, in plural, precisely three) appear on various parts of John (heart, neck and stomach) and he wanted to jump up, stand in front of the foolish man. John didn’t know what he was doing (to Sherlock).

“I know what game you’re playing,” Sherlock spoke up, bravely gazing at Moriarty. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John turn his head and then widen his eyes. Ah, he had the snipers pointing at him as well, then.

“Tut, tut, Sherlock, I hadn’t even explained the rules to you yet.”

“It’s not necessary,” Sherlock dismissed Moriarty with an arrogant wave of his head.

It angered Moriarty just as Sherlock had expected. Moriarty’s eyes narrowed and his voice had a dangerous edge to it when he finally spoke.

“Okay…” Moriarty stepped closer to the door (how had he gotten so close already, that sneaky bastard), one hand settling on it as he added, “Say goodbye.”

When the meaning registered in his mind, Sherlock had a brief flare of panic that seized his heart, squeezing till he thought he’d never get air into his lungs and his mind went, John, John—

A shotgun rang in the room, echoing around the naked walls, and Sherlock’s eyes widened.

No!

But it wasn’t John who went down. Nobody did, in fact. The door was closed, Moriarty was gone and no red dots decorated John’s body. Sherlock exhaled loudly in relief, his lips stretching into a smile. Mycroft.

John dropped to his knees behind the chair Sherlock sat in. The gun clattered on the ground and slid away from them. With barely controlled hand movements (to don’t let them shake) John undid the ropes. Somewhere in the distance they could hear police sirens and someone yelling. As soon Sherlock’s numb arms were freed, he flexed them and jumped to his feet, turning to John.

“What were you doing, fool? Do you ever think for a moment? I didn’t need your bloody help,” Sherlock shouted.

John snorted. “Of course you didn’t need it. That’s why you were chained to the chair in the first place.”

“It was all part of a plan.” Sherlock gestured with his right hand as if say oh please but it came out kind of jerky and his hand was shaking (he hadn’t realized). He hid it in his pocket, willing the shake to stop. It was ridiculous since he had endured things more than this, more than— it was all because of John.

“Plan, my arse. Sherlock, just admit that you had no plan and if I or Lestrade hadn’t came you’d most probably be bleeding to death by now.”

“Lestrade can’t put two and two together so fast, let’s face it, so it was all up to Mycroft, wasn’t it?” He left you a clue, that bastard, didn’t he?

“What the bloody difference does it make?” John looked Sherlock straight in the eyes. The anger was building in John to match Sherlock’s own fear.

“None. As I said, you were a fool to come here.”

“You left me behind,” John accused.

Sherlock shrugged. Play it cool. “You didn’t want to speak to me.”

“I wanted you to—”

“I know. But I had a case.”

“Of course, married to the work.” There was no humour behind the muttered words.

“When has that bothered you?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“And when has the fact that I didn’t want to speak to you bothered you?” John asked right back, not loosing his cool, hands in fists by his side.

“Don’t answer my questions with more questions.”

“Why not?”

“It’s annoying.”

John’s mouth promptly shut without uttering a sound. Sherlock knew that John wanted to say something. It was as obvious as the fact that he had to get away, had to be as far from John as humanly possible right now before he did something that he’d regret.

He turned on his heels without a word and headed for the door. It was so close, so—

“I just wanted to help you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock spun around.

“You could’ve been shot, you idiot! What then?” Tell the truth, tell him— “I wouldn’t— couldn’t cope with that.” Smooth. Even the voice in his head was sarcastic now.

Sherlock felt uncomfortable and exposed. It wasn’t what he wanted to say at first, yet his heart calmed in his chest. Silence fell upon them (John was watching him, of course) and he refrained from biting his lower lip in worry. There was nothing to worry about, nothing left to say. If he’d just—

“You care,” John stated and that simple statement, the wonder hidden behind the words, made Sherlock, yell out,

“I’m bloody in love with you. Of course I care! Don’t be daft.”

He had insulted John more than once during his yelling, mixed a confession in between it all (wait! What? Oh God), yet John was smiling at him like Christmas came early.

The realization dawned on his face, clear and bright, when John walked forwards, stopping right in front of him, and leaned closer, whispering against his lips, “Took you long enough to admit that.”

“You didn’t—amph.”

It seemed like the dam had broken. John yielded to his lips from the moment they touched and Sherlock knew what they had been missing. The feeling of security, the knowledge and freedom to do what they pleased, without worrying if it wasn’t too much too soon— John moaned into the kiss and Sherlock brought one hand to his hair.

Suddenly, Lestrade rushed into the room, took one look at them intertwined, muttered, startled, “Uh, um, I’ll just—” and ran back out just as quickly.

(Whiteness changed into a bloom of colour, so bright. He had to shield his eyes with his arms. He didn’t know this place, these colourful walls or ceiling or the long curtain, half-caught in the open window. But he wasn’t alone, anymore.)

Things weren’t prefect. They never were because it was life; it threw lemons at you and gifted with things you never hoped (dared) to have, but it gave as much as it took. And Sherlock was secretly glad that they'd had that row in that abandoned building.

And John still made tea for them both (Sherlock had better things to do, like observe John, run his eyes over that body he had just the night before— and of course, John would turn and smile knowingly) and they couldn’t agree on many things but (including whispered I want you against heated skin) there were so much more between them now when everything was out in open and—

Christmas was a quiet affair. Of course, as quiet and normal as it could get with Sherlock for a boyfriend (John, no Christmas tree, you know what I’ll do with it eventually), Harry for a sister (she had sent him The Idiot’s Guide to Successful Relationships and he had texted back – the skull is on its way, be prepared for Sherlock’s anger. John), Mycroft for Sherlock’s brother (he even followed them in his black car on Christmas Eve for Christ’s sake) and Mrs. Hudson—

Mrs. Hudson had taken one look at their hands, clasped together (John had blushed, tried to hide them behind his back but Sherlock would have none of it) and said, grinning from ear to ear, “Oh boys, have fun!”

“That’s exactly what we intend to do,” Sherlock had answered without missing a beat and they had left. The night (it had been snowing ever so slightly and their clothes, hair and face were covered in snowflakes- white and melting) had been wonderful (Sherlock hadn’t mentioned anything about a surprise, or a gift, or anything besides a dinner on Christmas and oh my God) and they had kissed on the street on their way back when it had started to snow for real.

The next morning Mrs. Hudson had come in with bright eyes and a smile and Sherlock had whispered in John’s ear, tickling the sensitive skin, “She’s still slightly drunk. She's been celebrating.”

John almost invisibly shivered, watching her go to the kitchen (didn’t she say something about tea?) and asked, “Celebrating what?”

“Us.” Sherlock looked in John’s eyes and smiled. They were so close.

(They will continue one step at a time. Sherlock knew it as much as he felt John smile against his exposed skin).

(He felt the pulse against his fingertips. So strong, a constant thump, thump against his sensitive skin. He let go but the world continued to spin on its axis. And hands. Hands touched scars, touched the silk wrapped around the mattress. It was warm, then hot. And he fell, hands digging into the silk for support. Mouth shaped words that were meant to be spoken, even in the daylight. They belonged and they fit together so well. The warmth stayed with him for the rest of the night. His lips shaped themselves into a smile.)

The end

Fanvid; John/Sherlock: Animal

emerish — Sat, 25 Dec 2010 20:03:05 GMT

title: Animal
pairing: John/Sherlock
spoilers: all three episodes
length: 1:12
disclaimer: No profit is being made, nothing and no one belongs to me (sadly).

Enjoy!

(song: Animal
artist: Neon Trees)

ETA: Now you can also download the video here @ mediafire. =)

fanvid; Sherlock & Moriarty; at the bottom

emerish — Sun, 21 Nov 2010 17:05:35 GMT

title: At the Bottom
characters: Sherlock, Moriarty
spoilers: The Great Game
length: 1:28
disclaimer: No profit is being made, nothing and no one belongs to me (sadly).
a/n: So. uh. I like how it turned out ~~though not the way I wanted to~~. (Also, you could change the quality to HD if you wish.) *g* Enjoy!

(song: At the Bottom
artist: Brand New)

comments are love.

fic; Sherlock/John; I stopped caring once, now there's just you

emerish — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 13:02:36 GMT

Title: I stopped caring once, now there's just you
pairing: Sherlock/John
rating: PG
word count: 1,521
Disclaimer: Do not own anything or anybody mentioned in this fic. Purely fictional.
Summary: Sherlock realized that there was one person he cared about.
Author's note: OMG. My first Sherlock fic. Thank you goes to my wonderful betas kalypso_v and the_gabih

On a boring day there was nothing quite as good as going to a pub. For a person not as smart as Sherlock.

For Sherlock, on a boring day, there was nothing quite as good as shooting the wall, on which he’d glued images of Moriarty’s and (for good measure) Anderson’s faces. With superglue, in case John came in, saying this has to stop, Sherlock, right now, think about the neighbours and went about ripping the pictures off, ignoring the fact that Sherlock could easily shoot him. Why would he? The thought was fleeting and didn’t fully register in his mind. He’d never do that to a friend (John could easily ask for the gun. He’d give it back any moment). He’d gone as far as admitting that (you’re a friend) to John’s face once, resulting in silly grins aimed at him all day. It was quite a spectacle to watch, until John went to sleep and Sherlock had been left alone, awake, wheels spinning, and there was no way he was going to get any sleep.

Today wasn’t any better, except that for once it wasn’t the adrenaline from a good chase or pure stubbornness that was keeping him awake, counting the dots on the wall— one, two, three (why was that annoying fly sitting there?), four, five (John wasn’t home yet and Mrs. Hudson was downstairs, making tea, always making tea, Sherlock smiled wryly for a second), six, seven (his skull could’ve been a better companion and those dreadful walls needed new wallpapers, and why wasn’t Lestrade calling?), eight. (John should be home already and he was bored, bored, bored, bored…).

Sherlock stood up, strode towards the staircase and, taking two steps at a time, approached John’s room. He knew where the gun was; the whole thing was as easy as taking candy from a child. He made a mental note to teach John how to hide things better, but then again, he knew he would find them anyway. He shrugged to himself as he crouched down beside the bed and reached for the metal box where the gun was kept.

It was shiny, black and a solid weight in his right hand. He rather liked it, though he knew John was worried every time Sherlock used it. He wasn’t a fool like John thought.

The gun was the same as ever. Almost. There was one new scratch on it now, close to his thumb as he held it. He kicked the box back under the bed, drew the dressing grown closer to his tall frame, a small crooked smile stretching his lips, and went back downstairs.

Boredom was still causing havoc in his brain, but he felt a hint of the excitement and recklessness he had known when he was a child and ready to do something he knew he’d be punished for. He wondered how far he could push John, exactly how far his tolerance would stretch before...

The first shot, a sound of danger, was like a remedy for his boredom. The second came a minute later. His hand was shaking slightly. It felt like something well-known, like re-reading his favourite chemistry book. The third time— the sound was so familiar he could possibly detect it in his sleep. (Metaphorically speaking, of course— at this decibel level, there was little chance of sleep.) The trigger was easy to pull and the place where his finger rested was smooth. John had used it a lot, even outside the warzone, not counting the time with the cabby. John did that for him after knowing him only half a day. Actions speak louder than words, don’t they? What were the reasons, when, where? He found no answers on the gun. Only John could tell him the truth. There Sherlock got frustrated. People can decline to speak, can tell lies, twist the story however they like. He trusted facts and his own head. But this was John he was thinking about. He wouldn’t lie—but what if?

Sherlock shot the wall just to shut up his own brain. The silence that followed was deafening for a few seconds only. His brain came back with vengeance.

Would John tell him everything, would he trust him? Sherlock almost laughed out loud at his foolishness. John trusted him. The man had killed for him, had run with him on every case. It wasn’t just about the adrenaline any more, that made John’s hands steady and left him with no limp, there was something else. Sherlock couldn’t grasp the concept of that feeling. It was out of his reach, which was highly maddening. He’d get frustrated and play the violin for hours until John would wake up and rush down the stairs to shout just shut up, shut the hell up. It was unlike him, the uncontrolled anger and other emotions Sherlock couldn’t read in his eyes. Yet John sounded a hell of a lot like the voice in his own head that said— don’t fuck this up.

Sherlock would feel regret for a moment, and then he’d turn away silently, the violin hanging lifelessly in his left hand. His mind just wouldn’t shut up and heartbeats would sound like thunder against his ribcage. What caused it? What reason did his heart have for acting so strangely? And John would ask then, through gritted teeth, reining in his voice (and Sherlock knew his hands were in fists), “why can’t you ever take others’ feelings into consideration?”

“I stopped caring,” he’d say, almost in a whisper. John took a step closer (though it had happened only once, a week ago), intent on saying something more, pressing the matter, but changed his mind halfway through and walked back to his room, slamming the door. At first Sherlock feared they’d have to buy a new door soon. They couldn’t afford it at the moment. But gradually his thoughts focused on John. Why was he so strung up? Why there were so many emotions behind his eyes?

John’s gun lay in his hand and the opposite wall looked almost fascinating in the bored state he was in. He needed a new case. New excitement. And more John.

6.15pm.

John must be on his way back home now. The flat looked empty without him. Sherlock felt the same. And the tug of deep worry and indescribable panic he felt when John was in danger confirmed how deep whatever this was actually went.

He had handled John like any other person in his life at first— with carelessness, without considering his feelings, shutting down his own emotions. But John was stubborn, intelligent in his own way, supportive and protective of him like no one else had ever been (his brother didn’t count— he acted like a mother hen that had taken its job to the extreme, overstepping all boundaries) and it had easily undone the lock on his heart, bringing everything to the surface. Alive, he felt fucking alive for once.

He sat down heavily in the armchair and suddenly smiled up at the ceiling, heart fluttering with the newly-discovered emotion and the slow realisation of what all this could be about.

Long minutes later (Sherlock hated to wait) this was how John found him. He stopped in the doorway with a sigh. “What are you doing, Sherlock?” His voice sounded weary and tired. He didn’t want John to sound like he, Sherlock, was a burden, like John could find a better place. Sherlock’s heart hurt at the implication the words left.

Don’t fuck up, just this once.

“I care.”

John stopped halfway through hanging up his jacket, surprised. “What are you talking about?”

Sherlock couldn’t wait any longer. He wanted to believe he was right, so he sprang up from the armchair and with long strides came to stand a couple of feet away from a confused John. He handed the gun to him like a peace offering. John took it, the other hand still holding the jacket.

“I care about you….just you.” Sherlock took a step forward. John still looked as if Sherlock had handed him a huge puzzle and he couldn’t put the right pieces together.

“What are you trying to say?”

Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes, but refrained.

Don’t fuck up, his mind reminded him. He had done enough of that in the past.

“Your question— the one about thinking of other people. I always had the same answer to your question, but now…”

John searched for something in his eyes, brows furrowed, and Sherlock lost his patience, breath leaving in a rush. He put his hands on each side of John’s face. John’s wide blue eyes were the last thing he saw before he leant down and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

The jacket fell to the ground along with the gun, which clattered loudly. Sherlock didn’t care. John was kissing him back, arms wound around his waist. And it was everything he thought it should be, but never had been before.

Halfway through the kiss, he made a mental note to keep John for as long as he could manage.

The end

fanmix; Sherlock: Let The Flames Begin

emerish — Wed, 22 Sep 2010 17:45:04 GMT

Let The Flames Begin, A Sherlock/John based fanmix
9 songs + 3 graphics

a/n: so, this mix was long time coming, ever since I discovered the song 'Let The Flames Begin' and now I finally got around finishing it. Also made three additional graphics, besides the covers.
Comments are love.

I. Matchbox Twenty - Unwell
I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell
I know, right now you can't tell
But stay a while and maybe then you'll see
A different side of me

II. Stars - Fixed
What you want you are
You always were
When the plans fall changing hands
What are the chances of winning?

III. Muse - Unintended
You could be my unintended
Choice to live my life extended
You should be the one I'll always love

IV. Sheryl Crow - Drunk With The Thought Of You
I can't stand all this freedom
I've been there before
And it's such a good bore
You're all I ever needed
If you'd only walk through my door

V. Lifehouse - You and Me
Cause it's you and me and all of the people
With nothing to do, nothing to prove
And it's you and me and all of the people
And I don't know why I can't keep my eyes off of you

VI. The Hush Sound - Medicine Man
I don’t know where to begin
I don’t know how to break the bottle I’m living in
Do any thing to take away the memory of him
Can’t you see that I have no way out
Don’t leave me now

VII. Stars - The Night Starts Here
The night starts here,forget your name, forget your fear
You drop a coin into the sea, and shout out "Please come back to me"

VIII. Paramore - Let The Flames Begin
I give it all my oxygen
So let the flames begin
So let the flames begin
Oh glory, oh glory

IX. INXS - Never Tear Us Apart
I was standing
You were there
Two worlds collided
And they could never tear us apart

Download here

01- icons: Sherlock

emerish — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 19:57:05 GMT

~~Finally got around posting my first batch of icons.~~

[29] Sherlock icons

Teasers:

001

002

003

004

005

006

007

008

009

010

011

012

013

014

015

016

017

018

019

020

021

022

023

024

025

026

027

028

029

Table created with accio.nu's icon table(less) generator

-Credit if you use any.
-Comments are love.

Resources: lady_elayne_art screencaps.

vid; merlin/arthur; hanging by a moment

emerish — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 07:26:10 GMT

title: Hanging by a moment
pairing: Merlin/Arthur
spoilers: season 1 & 2
length: 3:36
disclaimer: No profit is being made, nothing belongs to me (sadly).
summary: um. Merlin likes Arthur who is being difficult about it. (the video made sense. at first. sort of. now, I'm not sure.)
a/n: This is my first fanvideo in two years. Also, it's my first (finished) merthur video. so. um. I'm a little nervous.

song: hanging by a moment
artist: lifehouse

links: youtube | vimeo