bluecastle: (sherlock couch)
In cleaning out my email inbox, I came across this Sherlock file that was driving me batty the other week. I kept trying to bash it into some kind of coherent shape as a whole. But as it's warming up outside, and in the spirit of Spring cleaning, I think I'm just going to post the bits and be okay with them being what they are.

Warmth )

Comfort )

Breathless )
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bluecastle: (watson)
So yesterday I started thinking about writing some Sherlock|John where they are very close, but not sleeping together. To try and see what that looks like. It was just a fleeting thought that I jotted down to explore later.

But when I got to work this morning, the first line of this little not-quite-a-drabble popped into my head and I started writing. I want to do more with this, but here's my 90 word morning's inspiration:

“Don’t take the piss with me. You’ve got to be shagging him.”

John smiled into his pint.

“So everyone says,” he replied, eyes twinkling.

“So you’re…” Lestrade floundered, his face asking what he seemed unable to vocalize.

“Happy?” John asked pointedly, swallowing down his pint and signaling for another.

“Bloody Hell,” Lestrade muttered.

John took pity on Lestrade then.

“Shagging. No.” John said, adding, “Is there a word for people who are more than mates, and less than lovers?”

“Hell if I know.”

John snorted.

“Yeah. That works” and laughed.

This entry was originally posted at
bluecastle: (sherlock couch)
Title: All that and a Bag of Cats.
Fandom: Sherlock, 2009 BBC Adaptation
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Word Count: 1297
Rating: PG

a/n: Yeah, I don’t know exactly what this is. The first sentence, mildly edited, was some prompt that got me going on NaNo day 2. Felt like posting something today so I tarted it up, and here it is in all it’s oddity.

click here for the story... )

This entry was originally posted at
bluecastle: (sherlock couch)
I've read a bunch of Sherlock/John porn (not that there's ANYTHING wrong with THAT) but I kept looking for some fic with a bit more oomph behind it. Some layers, some style, some ... SOMETHING that would set it apart from the rank and file PWP.

And Lo I found a couple fics lately that have really stood out to me, and so I thought I'd boost the signal on them a bit.

The Death and Resurrection of the English Language
Rating: NC-17

Sherlock here is borderline certifiable. But I rather like that he's dark and twisted and possessive and messed up. It's a deep dark ride, but well worth it.

"What have you done?" ...

John won't look up from his tea and paper when he repeats this question, and that is...that is just so bloody beautiful. Blinking, Sherlock finds that he can only smile. He has just been outplayed. Expertly outplayed, and it feels wonderful, it really might as well be Christmas, except that Christmas comes once a year and outplaying Sherlock comes perhaps once every three to four years after Mycroft is discounted, the smug bastard. Sherlock feels like laughing, feels it creeping up from his ribs to his lips. So very few people ever dare to challenge him, possibly fearing that he might tie them up for days and have his way with them. With John, that danger is obviously...rendered a moot point. Sherlock can tie John up and have his way with him for days anytime he wants, he's beginning to quietly, rapturously, tremblingly suspect, and so outplaying the detective is not risky. It's fun."

and then for a bit of a change of pace, a fic that explores the backstory of Mycroft and Sherlock.

Sonata Form
Rating: PG-13

This is the sort of fic I always wish my writing felt like ... spare and poetical and lovely. Full disclosure, I haven't actually read this one, but I listened to the podfic of it in bed last night, and it is now lodged surely in my own 'head canon.' The Holmes boys are awkward and prickly and connected in ways they'd rather not think about. Truly a terrific piece of writing!!

"Rain patters down softly against the windowsill, forming small rosettes of water, frail and soon gone.

The stereo is on, volume turned low.

“I abhor Mozart,” Sherlock drones from the sofa.

“You are in my house. We will listen to whatever I choose.” Mycroft stares at his brother with tired eyes and twists one corner of his mouth down. “I am anticipating a full refund for the spectacular damage done to my undeserving bedroom, by the way.”

Sherlock snorts, but only because they both know he’s poor as a church mouse and a thousand times less faithful.

The music rolls on.

“‘Confutatis… maledictis…’” Sherlock chants along with the choir. “They’re singing about Hell.”

“‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are here,’” Mycroft quotes automatically.

Sherlock’s gaze flits to his brother, then back away. His closeness is strange and unusual, body oddly foreign in this context. “How true,” he says, before letting his eyelids fall shut."

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