JohnLock

Sherlock, for the first time in his life, can legitimately say he's frozen in shock. Because even though they've kissed and held hands, and John's called him 'Love', it's not the same as this. As hearing John utter those words directly that can break him into some mundane man.
And then in those few moments where they're both silent. Everything else stops mattering, Moriarty, cases, the Yard, safety...all he can see, all he wants to see is John.
This man who has the ability to make him less and more than human all at the same time with just his voice.
"John...John, please...can you say that again. Not the stammering, what you said before that." His speech is so quite that for a minute there he doesn't think that John heard him.

(AH, I KNOW, THERE IS TOO MANY FEELINGS ABOUT THIS THAT EVEN THIS GIF CAN'T SHOW MY FEELINGS ABOUT THIS RP
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Although I have had a couple other Johnlock RPs, I must say, I love this one the most. Cause it's not just pointless, we are having romantic and plotful development all entwined and it's just so BEAUTIFUL. AND FEELINGS. CAN'T FORGET THE FEELINGS.)

 
((ACK sorry it took me so long to respond. Distracted by going through the backlog of Tumblr posts and then I didn't hear my email alert and then I had to write it perfectly because THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL IT HURTS AND IS MY FAVORITE THING EVER. THE PLOT AND THE FEELS AND THE DEVELOPMENTS AND AGH))

John opens his mouth, only to find that no words are coming out. He just said them once, why is it so hard to say it again? Because you're afraid, he thinks. Because you're terrified of what he might say. Sherlock looks... shocked. And John can't tell whether he's shocked because he's pleased or because he's horrified. When he spoke, his voice was quiet- so quiet that John can't get anything from that, either. He swallows hard. The damage is done. Sherlock heard him, of course he did. There's no taking it back now.

The silence is deafening.

"I-" he starts. Swallows again. Deep breath. "I love you." And all of his pent up emotion comes rushing out in those three words, the three words he would not allow himself to say for so long, for so long watching Sherlock work and not knowing why he enjoyed it so much, for so long catching himself staring and not realizing why, for so long finally figuring it out, and for so long accepting it, and for so long spent hoping and wishing and praying that "married to my work" would have changed, for so long looking at Sherlock looking back at him and thinking it might have but his heart breaking when Sherlock looked away, for so long admiring Sherlock and getting to know him and learning him through and through and years and years spent coming to the conclusion that he loved Sherlock, and that he always would, and for so long hiding it because he would do anything just to stay with Sherlock, anything to protect him, because I love you and all of that comes out wrapped in those three little words, three words containing his heart, and he gives it to Sherlock because it always belonged to him anyway.

He's petrified.
 
That look on John, mortified, wheN Sherlock first sees that expression, it hurts. It hurts so bad because for a moment there, it seems as though John doesn't want to feel this way. The utter heartache of it all.Then Sherlock notices the deep intakes of breath, the tilt of the frown lines, the emotion in those gorgeous eyes that he wants to know he can turn around and see them looking back.
It's a different fear from the one with Moriarty, it's deeper than that. It's that fear of heartbreak painted across John's face like some tragic masterpiece. That's what their lives had been like, up until that first case, the first time he and John had ran through the back alleys of London. Sherlock was a tragedy without his John.Sherlock hasn't had any experience with this sort of thing, he's never had anyone say 'I love you.'
And he never imagined it being this beautiful. Beautiful in the John's hesitance m, the way it had slipped out so naturally at first, because being with John wasn't something he had to adjust to. They were literally complimentary to each other.
Sherlock leans closer to John, "Don't be afraid. Please. Because...John, I-" he presses his lips to John softly so he knows that he means every word of it.
"I love you too. So much." So much even though it hurts sometimes.
And then he lays his face against that jumper of his John's.
 
It feels like his heart is expanding. It feels like his chest is too full. It feels like he's flying and it feels like he's falling and it feels like he's being caught, and it feels like he's just been handed a miracle and his whole world suddenly makes sense.

He sits there dazed with Sherlock against his chest, and then he's wrapping his arms around him, pushing his fingers into those curls, holding him tightly. His throat is choked up and he almost feels like he's going to cry just because of how utterly happy he is, but he doesn't. Tears are for being sad, for being alone, for when your world is ending or when you just can't keep your sadness inside anymore. John is so far from all of that. Because he's not alone anymore, finally he's not alone; he has Sherlock and Sherlock has him and neither of them will ever be alone as long as the other is alive, and his whole world started turning the moment he met Sherlock and hasn't stopped since.

So he continues crushing Sherlock, his Sherlock, to his chest, one hand in Sherlock's hair and his face pressed against the top of Sherlock's head. Into those dark curls, he murmurs quietly, "I love you, I love you so much." It's like he can't get enough of saying it now that he's allowed. He loves Sherlock so much it feels like he burns with it.

((DEAD. I AM DEAD, THIS RP KILLED ME. IT'S TOO BEAUTIFUL.))
 
[FONT=Tahoma, Calibri, Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif]It's...an alien feeling, saying these sort of things. Even with John, Sherlock hasn't been this open ever. He's never had someone hold him like this, the way John is clutching him as if survival depended on it. All this rampant emotion...[FONT=Tahoma, Calibri, Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif]And then there is the excellent fact of John muttering in his ear those words, making some sort of drunken stupor coming over him. He can't think straight, any matter of deduction is inhibited by his doctor's voice ringing through his head. [/FONT]
[FONT=Tahoma, Calibri, Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif]It's slightly frightening, the affect that he's under. But Sherlock trusts John. So he doesn't make any attempt to move from this hold.It's...an alien feeling, saying these sort of things. Even with John, Sherlock hasn't been this open ever. He's never had someone hold him like this, the way John is clutching him as if survival depended on it. All this rampant emotion...[/FONT]
[FONT=Tahoma, Calibri, Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif]And then there is the excellent fact of John muttering in his ear those words, making some sort of drunken stupor coming over him. He can't think straight, any matter of deduction is inhibited by his doctor's voice ringing through his head. [/FONT]
[FONT=Tahoma, Calibri, Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif]It's slightly frightening, the affect that he's under. Though he knows that he's felt this way for the longest time, he's had that aloof way prevent this. It's not as though he's going to change, no, he just wants his doctor to finally know that he does give more than a damn.
Because Sherlock always trusts John. So he doesn't make any attempt to move from this hold.[/FONT]
[FONT=Tahoma, Calibri, Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif]
[/FONT]
[FONT=Tahoma, Calibri, Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif](this RP's beauty is very very very fatal. <3[/FONT]
[FONT=Tahoma, Calibri, Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif]It makes me wonder how their cabbie is doing....probably not very good.)[/FONT]




[/FONT]
 
John sits there for a moment, stroking his fingers through Sherlock's hair, trying to compose himself. They are still in a cab, for heaven's sake, and Bart's is just around the corner. He exhales, letting the happiness he doesn't want to shake off wash through his limbs, wiping away some of the fear, the stress. He raises his head, kisses the top of Sherlock's. "We're almost there," he murmurs, tone a bit rueful, relaxing his grip on Sherlock just enough that Sherlock can pull away when he wants to, sit up, whatever he wants to do. What John wants to do is go straight back to 221B and proceed to kiss Sherlock until neither of them can breathe, but he knows this has to be done. They have to find this woman and stop her before she kills again. They have to figure out her message. They have to take Moriarty down. John knows this. He just has a bit of a problem accepting this.

((He must be a robot. Only explanation of all of the facts.))
 
(OMIGOD WHAT IF THEY HAVE A SANTA ROBOT CABBIE LIKE IN "THE RUNAWAY BRIDE"?)

He clears his throat, "Right."
Sherlock assumes that forceful grip relaxing means he should sit back up and behave himself. Even though I severely don't want to. He pulls away, but only slightly, crouching on the faux leather seat. All he does is stare at John with such an intent, smirking at the effect it has on him. For further notes, Sherlock puts this fact away in his mind palace, he assumes that it could be quite useful at another point. Being with John wasn't an experiment, but Sherlock still has to figure out what things he can do to make John...interested.
The cab pulls over in front the hospital, and only when it stops does Sherlock withdraw his gaze to get out of the car. He holds open the door, waiting patiently for John.
 
((THAT IS IT. THAT'S WHO'S DRIVING THEM. I'M CONVINCED. HEADCANNON ACCEPTED.))

God damn it, how does he do this to me? John wonders. The way Sherlock is staring at him, the way those eyes pick him apart, has suddenly got him frozen in place. He feels a bit lightheaded... what was he supposed to be thinking about? Then he sees the smirk on Sherlock's face and knows that he sees it all. He huffs as Sherlock gets out and holds the door for him. It's not like it's his fault that he can't think straight around Sherlock. Sherlock is just unfairly beautiful.

He feels the need to tell Sherlock this, as sort of an explanation. "You are just unfairly beautiful, you know that?" he says, indignant, as he gets out of the cab. "You being all... all intense and distracting like that. It makes it very difficult," he emphasizes, "to stay focused." He starts off for the front door of Bart's before his ears can go red. Or before he can get distracted.

((Okay, just for future reference, can we determine where we draw the line with the physical stuff? Personally I'm perfectly okay with anything up to making out (I don't even care if they talk about being aroused, I mean, who WOULDN'T be, looking at Sherlock?), but I am not even remotely touching sex with a ten foot pole. XD What about you, where do you draw the line?))
 
(in my mind this is how it might work out:
Santa robot pulls out the flame trumpet
(both Sh and Jw are backing away)
John:Sherlock, that Santa has a flame throwing trumpet!
Sherlock:(sounding completely calm) Of course John. And it's not a person, it's an animatronic device, most likely radio controlled, look at those movements! The trumpet seems to have an internal combustion casing, oh that's a bit clever, not fantastic. Shall we call The Doctor?
John: Doctor who?)

Beautiful? I'm not beautiful. It's just transport, isn't it?
Well, it wasn't just transport anymore. Kissing John was an experience he would never give up. And, he had a feeling he wasn't going to become bored with it either. 
"I'll take note of that."
He still is smug, glad that he can have such a reaction from John.
Sherlock strides ahead of John back into detective mode, all the more motivated. He yanks open the door to the morgue, startling Molly.
"Sherlock, what are you-"
"Need to see Sylvia Downing."
He glances from John to Molly and adds a soft, "Please."

(yeah, me neither. Did I make it sound weird in my last post, cause I'm really sorry if I made it seem awkward or anything. I was looking at my dash and I saw this really intense pic of Benedict staring and I was all, Canon accepted! Sorry!)
 
((YOU WIN ALL OF THE AWARDS FOR THAT. ALL OF THEM. FOREVER.))

John feels a bit proud of himself, that he can temper Sherlock's behavior like that. Poor Molly doesn't deserve Sherlock's dismissive behavior, her more than most because of her cru-

He suddenly realizes that she doesn't know about the two of them. Oh no.

It's not like he wants to hide it from Molly. He doesn't want to hide it from anyone. But he hopes they can at least be gentle about it, or that she finds out some other way than by it being shoved in her face. Sherlock probably wouldn't even notice, but it's going to be a big deal to her. She's a sweet girl, she really is, and John doesn't want to hurt her feelings. She probably already knows, or guesses, but still. The confirmation's going to sting.

He smiles at her, as he always does. One of them has to be kind to her, at least. "Afternoon, Molly," he says. "Do you mind? If we see the body?" He shrugs a bit, making apologies for Sherlock as always.

((Nonono, it didn't sound weird or awkward at all! Canon accepted for me too, right there. I just wanted to know for the future and I figured that while John was contemplating how goddamned attractive Sherlock is was as good a time as any to ask. XD))
 
(if I weren't replying of my iPod, I would put one of those Martin BAFTA pictures up here)

Molly raises her eyebrows at the 
two of them, "Right...right, of course, just give me a moment."
He smiles at her halfheartedly, perhaps confusing the girl a but more. She walks to the back of the room where the large metal boxes are, filled with corpses. As she does so, Sherlock turns to John, leaning in so he can whisper in his ear.
"I said, 'please', John. Why'd you have that face, like you were...apologizing?"

(I suppose John is the biggest fan girl of them all... :D)
 
John gives Sherlock that "you're being socially inept" face he so often has to wear. "Well, firstly because you have a terrible habit of telling, not asking," he murmurs back, raising his eyebrows pointedly. "And secondly," he drops his voice even lower, "because Molly doesn't know that we're together yet, and I feel bad because I know it's going to hurt her feelings. Not that it changes my mind, of course, but she's a nice girl, and I hate to see her hurt."

At Sherlock's blank expression, like he still doesn't quite get it, John rolls his eyes. "Sentiment," he simplifies.

((Of course he is. Classic case of "the lady doth protest too much". XD))
 
Sherlock nods at John's clarification. Sentiment, he supposed, was often the cause of many actions. Of course, just because he is experiencing, well, being in love, doesn't mean he understands any of it. Sherlock Holmes is anything but domestic. 
When Molly returns, he tries to heed John's words to be a bit more...polite, he supposes is the word. Sherlock unzips the black bag as he looks back at her, "Thank you, Molly."
It sounds civil enough, at least he wasn't accidentally calling her 'John.'
/Sylvia Downing, considerably older than Hayley, early fifties. Confirms the fact the letters if the name are the only decisive factor. She isn't married-/, he lifts up her right wrist, /and the tan line suggests she isn't from around London./
While he's observing, he can hear the murmurs of Molly that are directed towards John.
"Is Sherlock feeling alright, he seems a bit off?"
He pretends that he can't hear, because he'd rather have John explain anything. After all, he knows he can be slightly...tactless.

( Oh, John :P....)
 
John clears his throat quietly, glancing at Sherlock. He can probably hear them, but for Molly's sake he'll pretend that he doesn't know that. "He's fine," he murmurs back to her. "I'm trying to get him to be a bit more polite."

She laughs. "How's that going then?" she quips with her usual nervous smile.

He grins, looking at Sherlock. "Absolutely nowhere." And the truth is, for all his complaining and attempts to change it, John wouldn't have it any other way.

He can see Molly looking at him in his periphery, tilting her head. "There's something off about you too," she muses. "Well, not off, just different." He glances over at her. She drops her voice even lower, but he knows Sherlock can still hear. "It's the way you look at him," she says with an understanding smile and a flick of her eyes towards the detective. Her voice is tentative, even more shy than usual, like she's afraid of offending him. "Usually you try to hide it, when you look at him like that. But not today."

It's quiet for a moment. "What do you mean, when I look at him like that?" he asks slowly. "How do I look at him?"

She opens her mouth to reply, but hesitates, looking for the right word. She regards him contemplatively for a moment, then watches Sherlock, facing away from them and busily inspecting the body. "Like he's your whole world," she replies quietly.

Molly Hooper is not stupid. John knows this. He knows how smart she is, even if Sherlock doesn't see it, even if she can be a bit foolish sometimes. He knows that Molly notices things, and that she figures things out. So when he gazes back at Sherlock, a small smile quirking his lips, and softly says, "He is," he knows that she'll understand what's happened. And she does.
 
"Good. You know, John, I feel-"
He looks back up, realizing he was supposed to be pretending he couldn't hear a damned word. But it was the way John spoke, he couldn't help but want to confirm the feeling was mutual. Well, mostly anyways. In his world, there was still at least a continent devoted to cases. Or he was being too analytical of the metaphor.
"Ah well. It's not as if we're keeping secret, I practically kissed him in front of Lestrade."
There's a silence in the air that Sherlock can't seem to understand, "Er, not good again, I'm guessing. Anyways, let's move on to a different subject." he points to a marking on the body, "Have you done lab tests on that?"
Molly shakes her head, "Isn't it just a tattoo?"
He paces around the tables, "Yes, but if we test the ink, it will tell us that tattoo was made a few hours before Sylvia was dumped in the pool. Mrs. Jones had the same mark, didn't think of it until now. Also, the shape! It's a square like some QR code. The killer left us a message on it, intended for Moriarty or me."
QR code, you need a computer scanner or-
"John, get me my phone."

(sorry bout the wait, I got very sickly a few minutes before you replied :( )
 
John sighs. So much for gentle. At least she had gotten some warning at least. He looks around for Sherlock's phone. "Where is it?" he asks, frowning. He doesn't see it... then he realizes Sherlock never took it out. Then he realizes it must still be in his pocket. He sighs. "Sherlock, you have two very capable hands. You can get your own phone."

When Sherlock just continues to stand there, inspecting the body with his tiny magnifying glass, John sighs again and walks over. "One day," he promises, "one day, I'm going to make you get your own things. You're like a bloody four year old sometimes." He waits for Sherlock to tell him where the phone is, but of course, he doesn't, so John has to go looking for it himself. Delightful. He digs around in the nearest coat pocket, but finds nothing, nor in the other. Which leaves... his trouser pockets. Of course.

Trying to ignore the fact that he is now slowly reaching his hand into his boyfriend's- god, that's so strange, to think that Sherlock is his boyfriend - pants pocket, he tries the right one first. Sherlock looks over at John as he does this, and he gets the feeling that he's being studied again. He avoids Sherlock's gaze. Now would be a very bad time to get distracted. Luckily, the phone is in that pocket. Quickly withdrawing it, he hands it to Sherlock and takes a step back. His face is too warm.

"I'm, er," stammers Molly, her face a rather alarming shade of pink. "I've got to go, I have a-" she's already hurrying out of the room, "-a thing I just forgot about, just call me when you're done and I'll take care of-" and she's gone.

John sighs. "Well, that could have been worse," he says quietly.

((I apologize if that was awkward, but I couldn't RESIST the urge to embarrass the crap out of poor Molly. She's just too adorable when she's flustered. Also, I'm sorry about the illness! Flu bug or just tiny chicken disease [aka the common cold, if you're not a nerdfighter]?))
 
"On the contrary, I think it went quite well. We didn't hurt or feelings, she just was, well, Molly."
He leans over to press his lips lightly to John's as he takes the phone. He figured its a bit better that saying thank you. He can't figure it out though, why that just deepens the shade of red in John's visage.
Sherlock gives him a sort of scanning gaze, an attempt to understand it.
/Flushing cheeks, the blood even went to his ears./ He recognizes that John's a bit flustered. Probably from searching for the phone, because, well he can't think of anything else. 
/Well, besides my apparent lack of tact. But why wouldn't I have deleted that?/
"John, if I embarrassed you.." he says slowly, taking a picture of the tattoo as he speaks.

(Not chicken disease, I'm part of the nerdfighteria however. Basically, it's just a lot of regurgitation. Ha, I wonder how Sherlock would handle chicken disease.)
 
"No, no," John says quickly, face still a bit pink. "No, you're just, it's, erm..." he trails off, searching for the right word, but his brain still isn't quite functioning properly, /thanks again for that Sherlock/, and so he gives up after a moment. "...distracting," he finishes lamely. Why can't he at least SOUND intelligent around Sherlock? Honestly.

((I KNEW you were a nerdfighter! You're too cool not to be! And I think he'd probably just sulk around the flat like "JAAAAAAWN BRING ME SOUP", "JAWN MY THROAT HURTS", "JAWN I DON'T WANNA TAKE MEDICINE IT TASTES LIKE GRAPE-FLAVORED DEATH"))
 
"Apparently."
He doesn't understand that either, why John describes him as such. But what appears on the screen takes away his attention momentarily.
19:00:00
18:59:59
18:59:58
"It's a countdown."
She was literally trying to bring every aspect of his time with Moriarty. She was showing off. 

(Sounds extremely accurate!)
 
John frowns, embarrassed thoughts disappearing from his head. "A countdown?" he repeats, confused. "Like with Moriarty? But what's this one counting down TO?" He steps up to Sherlock's side, peering at the phone. "I mean, with Moriarty, he gave us a countdown after he told us what he wanted us to figure out, but with this..." He considers a moment. "The only thing I can think of is the bodies themselves. Is she setting us a deadline?"
He's worried, but he doesn't show it. He's gotten very good at that, working with Sherlock. He just doesn't like this. It's more people playing games that will get someone hurt.