JohnLock

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Hikaruchan717, Mar 5, 2012.

  1. John pauses on the stairs, tilting his head and listening for a moment. Was that.. a gunshot? He shakes his head, bemused, and forces his legs to start moving again, even though it's the last thing he wants to do, even though he would be happier if time just froze and he could stand on those stairs forever, because he does not want to go up into that flat with that man whose eyes will instantly burn through him and see everything he's been trying to hide. But go he does.

    “Hello, John.” Another shot.
    The gun hasn’t helped with the frenzy going on inside him. Sherlock’s face however is the same sort of cool pool that it usually is, he’s in his robe, fallen back like it’s any caseless day.
    But the silence that has fallen on the room kills him, because he doesn’t even have to turn around to know that John is still standing in that door way. So the anticipation of what will happen when he sees the expression of his doctor holds him in a sort of lock.


    He looks... bored. Like it's any other day. Like he hadn't been turning John's world upside down via text. He's just sitting there, not even bothering to look at him, and John can't help the tightening feeling in his chest that asks: Was it just a distraction to Sherlock? He can't bring himself to step into the room, frozen by Sherlock's apparent indifference. He shuffles his feet, adjusts the bag. "Erm. Hi."


    ”Yes, well, preliminaries.” He jumps off his seat, still attempting not to turn around and look John in the eyes. Because if he sees, well then, there was no point in attempting to hide anything, the fear, the wreck, the emotions he felt for Watson.
    His Watson.
    He strides over to the kitchen table, picking up the two coffees, ready to turn on his heels. Ready? Hah, ready was relative.
     
  2. He clears his throat awkwardly. "Er... preliminaries?" Despite Sherlock's protestations to the contrary, it certainly sounds like it's all just a big experiment, and- yes, it already hurts, especially so because of that hope, that stupid hope that he can't quite eradicate. He puts on his "brave soldier" face - the face he only wears when he has to hide how he feels, and oh, he does - yet even so, his eyes involuntarily follow Sherlock, as they so often do. He suddenly realizes that he's still standing in the doorway and forces himself to take a few jerky steps into the room, stupid heartbeat still hammering away in his veins, too quick, too quick, he'll notice-! He takes a deep breath to try to calm himself.

    It's not doing any good.
     
  3. "Er..." He turns around and forces himself to look at John, that stoic face whose eyes seem to be burning a whole in Sherlock. He holds out the coffee to John, because he doesn't know what to do. All that cleverness, those deductive skills, they all protested against his emotional side. So how exactly was he supposed to muddle through this. It's different, texting. He didn't have to worry about his expressions messing with his head, John's expression messing with his head.
    Sherlock rests himself on the arm of the chair, averting his eyes. "How exactly do these sorts of things work?"
     
  4. A sudden realization bursts into John's mind, sweeping warmth through his veins, somewhat assuaging his fears. The way Sherlock avoided his gaze, the shooting of the wall, his awkward question... Suddenly things clicked into place, and John blinked with surprise. He may not be the world's only consulting detective, but he knows Sherlock the way nobody else does, sees him the way nobody else cares to, and he understands.

    Sherlock wasn't being clinical. He was nervous.

    Sherlock.

    John sets the bag of milk carefully on the floor, not particularly caring about it at the moment, and takes a few cautious steps to where Sherlock is perched. He takes the coffee from Sherlock's hand, but immediately turns and sets it down on the nearest flat surface. He looks down at Sherlock - something the part of his brain that's somehow still functioning registers as a novelty - and tries to calm his racing pulse, to put on an air of confidence that he doesn't feel.

    "That depends," he says slowly, tentatively, "on you."
     
  5. Fantastic. Even in his head, Sherlock is sarcastic. He takes a sip of his coffee, trying to not look up at that face. John's waiting for him, waiting for him to say something that he knows he'll mess up. After all, the only relationship experience he had was books and Molly's failed attempts at affection. John was something familiar, but this was all too new for Sherlock.
    There was a comfort in a case, where he could be as detatched as he wanted, cool, emotionless detective. To calm his nerves, he glances down and sees the upturns of his doctor's jean cuffs.
    He can't help himself, he makes a thousand observations, but nothing that will help. John was in a hurry when he was on his way here. That's it, he can't focus enough on anything but the current situation.
    "Well, then, John, so when you said "Maybe" did that mean...well...you know...?" Now he couldn't even speak. No, it didn't take Criminal Consultants or serial killers to make Sherlock Holmes less then brilliant. All it took was a very special blogger.
     
  6. John's mouth goes dry, and it is only his military training which keeps him standing straight and tall, which prevents him from stepping back or just outright running away, because here it is, the question that could ruin everything. He knows exactly what Sherlock is asking. And he knows the answer. "I-" he starts, determined to be brave, to just say it, say it, just let loose those words he's always having to stop himself from blurting out - but his voice comes out unsteady, and damn it, damn it, he can't do this - "Did that mean what, Sherlock?" he finally asks, dodging the question and inwardly kicking himself for his cowardice.

    He just can't force himself to say the words that could end it all, not when one thought keeps circling around in his mind.

    I don't know what I'd do if I lost you now.
     
  7. He can't help but feel dissapointed, Sherlock's been waiting for this these few months when he realized just how Important John was.
    "That you, might, by some chance, have feelings. Regarding me. Good ones." His voice is all choppy, broken apart by his anxiety. Because what happens if his doctor says no. What will Sherlock do then, because he can't go back to his old ways. When he woke up in an empty flat, talking to a skull all day. When he was a smoker, heading down a wrong track and John just swept it all away. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that the army doctor was the best thing to happen to him in a very, well ever.

    (going to bed now, G'night!)
     
  8. Come on, Watson, he chides himself. This is Sherlock. This is- he stops the thought in its tracks, but of course, by trying not to think of something all you do is think about it - all you've ever wanted. John clears his throat, looking away. Bollocks. "And, er, if I did?" he finally works out, voice too quiet, too hesitant, but at least the words were out. That was good, he thinks. Close enough to yes to answer his question if he returned his feelings, but still a question if he didn't. Plausible deniability.

    The problem was, he couldn't deny anything with Sherlock. The man saw through him in seconds. So it was a shallow victory anyway.

    (Night!)
     
  9. Well then, I wouldn't let you out of my sight. Of course, he didn't vocalize this particular thought. He puts down the mug on the side table, trying to calm the pounding in his head. Because now, now he has to look John in the eye. Those piercing sort of grayish-brown eyes that Sherlock knows all too well, that at the moment are utterly indiscernible.
    He realizes he has to say something. The problem is it feels like its some sort of test, as if he does answer wrong, John will walk away and never come back. He swallowed.
    "I'd be....pleased."
     
  10. John's head snaps back around to find that Sherlock has finally looked up, and John's breath catches in his throat as their eyes lock. While his expression is still set to "Sherlock default", as John thinks of it - perfectly calm, almost bored but not quite - his ice-blue eyes have an intensity to them which freezes him in place. They look like he's trying to lift John's thoughts straight from his head, like he wants to pick him apart piece by piece and examine him until he knows everything. It's the look that he was afraid of, the look that sweeps through him and breaks him down until he is positive that Sherlock must be able to see how he feels, and John is acutely aware that he is not exactly in control of the expression on his face or the way he can't take his eyes off of Sherlock's because they're just so wonderful and terrifying and beautiful-

    "Y-you would?" he manages to work out.
     
  11. There is no point in trying to turn away, not when locked in such a gaze as this. He can't bury the feeling of wanting to pull John in, hold him, kiss-He catches himself. Those thoughts shouldn't be allowed to even touch the surface or Sherlock would risk losing his concentration. But it is so unbelievably hard when they are this close to each other. When they're talking about...things.
    He wonders if John can see the slight smirk on his face when the doctor stutters, which he finds so adorable. The wide-eyed expression that catches Sherlock in some sort of stasis. This is what he wants. His John, his John Watson.
    There's something else too, the way the lines are, near his eyes, how he crinkles his nose, he's hopeful, so very hopeful in his anticipation. He wants to hear Sherlock say words, say those words that he's never said to anyone. Words he has never dreamed of saying to anyone but John.
    And then there's fear. But why on earth would John be fearful? Surely Sherlock hadn't been that callous that John still believed this was some study?
    He adjusts his shoulders, his volume no higher than a murmur.
    "Of course.", then he speaks a bit more loudly, "So where does that leave...this?"

     
  12. John blinks, distracted by Sherlock's piercing gaze - a problem not helped by the emotions ransacking his brain at the words "of course", or the way Sherlock's voice goes devastatingly low when he says it. "I..." he starts, dazed.

    Suddenly the absurdity of the situation hits him, and he laughs nervously, rubbing his neck and finally looking away. "I don't know," he says honestly, an awkward smile on his lips as he looks back, head slightly tilted. How do you proceed when you and your flatmate, your best friend, suddenly acknowledge your- he mentally stutters over the words - feelings for each other? "I've never..." he trails off, gesturing vaguely with his other hand, then shakes his head, almost bewildered. "God, it's like I can't get my thoughts in order with you."
     
  13. He props himself back up, walking into the adjoining kitchen, "Perhaps I should go then...Give you some time to clear your head."
    Sherlock doesn't look back at him as he grabs his smokey-gray coat off the chair, pulling it over his arms and popping up his collar. In actuality, the fact that John is being so hypothetical and general and secretive...it does hurt. And that honestly scares him. No one, not Mycroft, not Mrs. Hudson, was ever as close to him as his blogger. Maybe it was a mistake to care.
    "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. "

    He hates to think that his brother was right. Mycroft doesn't know John, no matter how much surveillance he has on them. Sherlock wants to believe he can trust it, but why must there be this nagging feeling?
    He strides over to the door, still avoiding that gaze
     
  14. A bolt of alarm shoots through John at the unmistakable look of hurt in those beautiful eyes, and he stumbles through the mess to get to Sherlock before he can leave. "No, Sherlock, that's- wait, that's not what I meant, hold on!" he says in a rush, grabbing Sherlock's arm and turning him so they're face to face. "I can't think," he explains slowly, "because it's very..." his feels his eyes trail over Sherlock's lips, and has to force them back up, thinking not now, John... "...distracting, when you look at me that way." He clears his throat, embarrassed, and releases Sherlock's arm, and suddenly he's babbling. "And because you confuse me and because I've never done it like this before and because I can't think straight when it comes to you."

    It's the most honest he's ever been with Sherlock, and it terrifies him. He looks away, feeling vulnerable under the scrutiny of those piercing eyes, and continues more quietly. "I don't know what to do, because I don't want to do something wrong and lose you."
     
  15. The way Sherlock looked at him? Obviously, John had no idea of what his own appearance at the moment was. Desperation reflected in those eyes, that expression just made him want to lean in and-
    God, could he not control himself anymore? It was just as John had said, they were both under that same exact anxiety, fears, vulnerability. How could he have missed that before?
    Sherlock looks at him, those inexplicably sad eyes staring right back.
    He laughs at himself, gazing up at the ceiling, because for all that cleverness, he is so undoubtedly stupid.
    "Believe me, John, if there is one thing that will never happen, is for you to walk out that door without me following right behind."
     
  16. John looks up at Sherlock, at his reassuring smile, his disheveled curls, the utter promise in his eyes, and suddenly he stops repressing his feelings and lets himself want it, want it all. He wants to have a relationship with Sherlock, wants to have the nights they go out to dinner not to be just platonic, wants to stop having to correct people who assume they're dating (denying it both in the hope Sherlock will protest and to kill that kind of hope before an apparently uninterested Sherlock could), wants to spend a day curled in his arms, wants the irritation and the frustration and the struggle, wants to see that face when he wakes up every morning, wants the violin at three in the morning (which he secretly loves, which he's always secretly loved), wants to always stand by his side, ready to protect him, wants to spend every day knowing that Sherlock was his, his alone, his forever-

    He wants Sherlock. He wants a life with Sherlock.

    He clears his throat of the sudden emotion choking it. "Who said I was going anywhere?"
     
  17. Sherlock is smiling. He can't believe it much himself, a full-fledged grin spread across his face because of John and his voice and his words.
    This was happy, right here, wasn't it? Happiness had a physical form and it was a short, blogging ex-army doctor who was determined and strong and never ever ordinary.
    How could I not see this? He lets go of the doorknob and wants to literally kiss John at that moment, but is it the right time? It doesn't matter, because he can wait if he must, if Watson is saying what he thought he was saying. That Sherlock gets to keep his pocket John.
    He never had thoughts like this before and it stunned him, the way there was no pessimism once his doctor had spoken, no facts, no observations, well, less than usual. Why should he ignore the emotions of John? Beautiful. That was certainly new.
    "So, am I right to assume that's a yes?"
     
  18. John wants to laugh at the feeling bubbling up from his core, the pure unadulterated joy of it - this was Sherlock, his Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, asking him if he wanted to be with him! If he weren't positive he were awake, he could almost believe that it was a dream. He'd certainly had enough similar ones. Dreams of being with Sherlock, of having that kind of relationship, of their future. He could feel that future, the one imagined for so long, in this moment, and it was so close he could almost touch it, if only he could reach out his hand and grab it-

    He suddenly realized that maybe he could.

    They're still so close, not even a step away from each other, and as John mutters, "Of course it's a yes, you idiot," it's no trouble, no trouble at all, to take that last step and reach up, grabbing that upturned collar with both hands and pulling Sherlock's lips down to finally, finally meet his.
     
  19. (I'm going to take a moment to say I dropped dead from the overload of adorable on your post)


    He has to admit, he didn't see this coming from John. Well, he had seen it before, but that was daydreams, they didn't count. Not like the feeling of John on him.
    He can taste the burnt coffee on his tongue, feel the intensity of John's emotions, all wrapped in this blissful existence of a kiss.
    Sherlock wraps his arm around his John's waist, pulling him closer to try and eliminate any space. He can say that now with legitimacy, his John. His fantastic John whom he loves so immensely.
    "I hope you realize, " he muttered in between kisses and breath, the latter so much more boring now, "that I have no plans for letting you go."

    (I'm going to bed now, G'night! I'll reply in the morning.)
     
  20. ((And I'm going to take a moment to say that I have been in a repeated die-and-get-resurrected-and-die-again cycle from the adorable of YOUR posts, you beautiful human being! Can we just, like, marvel at the pure cavity-inducing wonderfulness of our creation?))

    He is kissing Sherlock Holmes.

    He is kissing Sherlock Holmes, and it's so much more than he had ever hoped it would be, so much better than he had ever imagined it would be, that from the moment their lips touch everything that isn't Sherlock doesn't just stop mattering - it winks out of existence.

    He can't get enough of this, of Sherlock, after so long wanting and trying not to want, so he is fiercely glad when Sherlock wraps a possessive arm around his waist to pull him closer, and even gladder when Sherlock's words, low and breathy, wrap even more possessively around his heart. He smiles into Sherlock's lips, chuckling. "That's good," he murmurs, releasing Sherlock's collar to wind his fingers into those beautiful curls, just because he can, because he's allowed, "because I have no intention of ever moving again."

    ((Night!))