John: Hey, hey sehr… Hey, Sherlawk… You’ve got a nice ass, did you know that..?
John got drugged on a case… yup.
he lost his shoe *sad face*
And I walk there every day.
Take that Sean Bean.
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Bored, bored, bored, BORED.
Redid a sketch I uploaded a while back but I put it on Paint Tool Sai
Happy New Year!
So, he’s capable of making his own tea. Don’t tell mrs. Hudson.
I’M SO BORED HELP ME PLEASE GAAAAAH
30 Day OTP Challenge Day 2: Cuddling Somewhere
If there were anything John could say about the day Sherlock returned from the dead, it’s that it was all a bit…shouty. The entire day, mind you, not the Sherlock-not-being-very-dead-after-all-thank-you bit.
It started out with the case he had been helping Lestrade with. Well. Bullied Lestrade into letting him help with. It’d become a habit, really, without either of them noticing or actually caring, when it came down to it. Not to lose track of the day Sherlock came back, but about a year ago, Lestrade had phoned John out of the blue after seven months of no contact with him. He couldn’t say why he’d done it, but the two of them wound up in a pub that night, absolutely smashed, and more or less shouting about Sherlock Holmes.
It was a good night, and established a good, shouty basis for Lestrade’s working relationship with John. Because in addition to shouting about Sherlock, they also discussed an odd case Lestrade was stuck on, and John shrugged non-committally when Lestrade invited him to take a look at the victims body the next day. And then, despite both of their rather spectacular hangovers, John had shown up at the morgue, greeted a surprised and stuttering Molly Hooper, and had a look at the body.
It was oddly pleasant. If he ignored the strange, throbbing ache somewhere in the center of his chest each time he started to reflect on what clues Sherlock would be looking for. His chest ached quite a bit really.
But. Ultimately, he enjoyed it. And really it only happened about once a month, if that, though he and Lestrade worked to keep their nights at the pub a regular weekly thing. Mary was happier for it, for the most part. Said it did him good to be out, having adventures, and John never told her how much it tore him up inside when she said he looked like ‘his old self’. Because she had never really seen John at his best, if he was honest. There was only one person who had ever actually known that John and they were…well. Obvious.
But the not telling and the little quirks of hers had just started to grate on his nerves just so the last few weeks. Habits he had found endearing when they had begun dating (finding her socks under the couch, leaving crumbs in the butter) nowdrove him mad and dear GOD these things were nothing, nothing, compared to the agony of living with Sherlock Holmes. But.
He tried not to reflect on that too much.
It was this tight combination of frazzled nerves and honest annoyance with his relationship that made the drive to Bart’s The Night Sherlock Stopped Being Dead rather unbearable.
The traffic also played a rather large role, what with it being stopped and Greg demonstrating his rather vast and colorful vocabulary at the drivers around them. After thirty minutes of this, John joined in on the abuse, and all of the mothers of London would have wept to hear them.
BECAUSE JOHN IS A BAMF AND I LOVE HIM.
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