manercatserman asked: *facedesk* I am a terrible team member and kind of sort of forgot that this was even going on. I just wanted to apologise for being bloody useless! Everything you guys did looks amazing though.
Don’t let is stress you out. :) It seems like the same thing happened to a lot of people. And I think Shanzay mentioned that there might be another Johnlock Party in the future! So maybe you can come to that one! All is not lost! -knowledgeiscake
“For God’s sake Sherlock will you please just lay down!” John roared, his brain exploding from several emotions running riot in his brain.
Sherlock froze and dropped the hospital cover clenched in his hand. He looked up into Johns eyes, huffed and, carefully, laid back down. He closed his eyes in annoyance and clenched his fists by his side.
“You are the worst patient ever!” John continued, his anxiety finally leaking through. “Why can’t you understand that you need to stay still, minimal movements Sherlock! Else you could…you could…” He didn’t finish the sentence, his anger had gone. He slumped into the chair beside the hospital bed and shielded his face from Sherlock’s view. Sherlock couldn’t see him like this. John wouldn’t let him. Letting out a few shaky breathes helped John to relax and calm down before he stood and grabbed his coat.
“Where are you going?” Sherlock said quietly, his eyes still closed.
“Lestrade needs to discuss some details of the case with me.” John says calmly, pinching at the bridge of his nose.
“You’re using your walking stick again.” Sherlock observes, leaning his clasped hands on his nose.
“Yes, I am Sherlock. Great observation.” John can’t help the frustration leak into his voice. “We were in a car crash and you weren’t the only one injured.” John stormed from the room as quickly as his walking stick would allow.
“Dr Watson.” Lestrade greets, he gestures John into one of the family rooms and closes the door behind him.
((By noshitdoctorsherlock))
This is what happens when you ask your brother for ideas and he says Sherlock and John should be cheeses.
Sherlock and John were cheeses; Sherlock was an extremely unusual brand with cranberries. John was cheddar that looked mild but packed a punch. They were an odd combination, but Mike Stamford had found that putting the two together in perfectly equal quantities served to make a perfect meal.
Sherlock and John couldn’t talk very much, but it was pleasant to sit in a cool fridge together for a few days. Sherlock rested on John, and John was perfectly happy to take his weight for a little. Blue wrapping rested on brown, whilst the butter on the right fumed jealously, and the tomato puree on the left looked on indulgently.
All the eggs tried to work out who had cracked one of their team and wished they could consult the cranberry cheese about it, but the rack was too far away. The broccoli sat in the vegetable door and secretly plotted revenge with his close friend Seb, who was a cauliflower. Another odd combination, but they’d made it work.
The cake on the top shelf oversaw everything – Mycroft had the best view of the fridge and kept a special eye on the cranberry cheese – it and Sherlock didn’t mix, but it didn’t stop him having a duty towards him.
Sherlock and John, brought together by Mike and oblivious of everything else, continued to lean on each other until they were both mature.
((By gallifreyanatthecornucopia))
Warnings: Blood, violence.
Sherlock’s back is resting against the wall, the material warm and solid beneath his shoulder blades. It’s very comforting, to know that he doesn’t have to use his legs and yet still remain upright; he doesn’t know why he’d never considered the act before. Maybe there was some kind of difference in how comfortable walls were. He should do an experiment sometime.
He tries to move and test a different wall straight away, but there’s that knife sticking through his chest and pinning him there.
X
“What are you doing John?” was the first thing Sherlock said when he came through the door, snow on the top of his head and his scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. John paused guiltily in a frankly absurd position with a milk carton held under his chin. The radio was blaring out one of the latest pop songs.
For a second John remained, frozen and bright red, before his mouth closed with a snap and he stood straighter. “I was just singing.”
“No you weren’t.”
John flushed darker and made his way to the kitchen with the milk, switching off the radio as he went. “I was.”
“Singing implies you were making a noise. You were simply miming, and using the milk as some pretence of a microphone, if I’m not mistaken.”
There was the sound of a kettle being switched on a little too aggressively. “If you already knew then why did you ask?”
He took off his coat and hung it on the back of the door, where it dropped a pile of snow to the carpet. The pattern it made was fascinating; he would have to study snowfalls some time.
“I suppose what I wanted to know more was why you were doing it.”
John stumped back into the lounge, still red, and dumped two mugs of tea on the table, slopping half of it over yesterday’s newspaper (no cases of interest).
“Because I’m a normal person. When normal people are alone and a song they like comes on the radio, they might pretend to sing it.”
He blinked. “Why?”
John took a sip of tea – it had to be too hot for him, but he swallowed valiantly, too proud to spit it out. “Because it’s fun. Alright? I like to have fun sometimes.”
“Am I not fun?”
“You were out. It was just a simple thing; I don’t know why you always have to pick everything apart all the time.”
He’d offended him. He had to stop doing that.
Whilst John was fuming over his tea Sherlock crept into the kitchen and turned the volume on the radio right down, twiddling the dial until he found a station that was playing the right song, the one about moving or jagged or something. What people listened to was really very strange.
He carried the radio back through and pushed the volume up high again. “You can dance if you want.”
John rolled his eyes, but Sherlock saw him quirk a smile in the corner of his mouth. “Thank you, but it’s the kind of thing you can only do alone.”
Sherlock hesitated. “Will you teach me?”
“Teach you?”
“To dance. Like that.”
John protested, said it was stupid and flat out refused at first, but as the song hit the halfway mark Sherlock saw his foot tapping against the carpet. By the end of the song they were both breathless and laughing, and as the last note played John kissed him.
X
He can’t even remember the title, but it wasn’t the sort of song he thought he would have had in his head whilst he was pinned to a wall, blood rolling in a line down his shirt and leaving a startlingly ugly red pool around his feet. But it reminds him of a time when John had been happy, and that should be enough for anybody.
There’s no-one else in the room. He really hopes Scotland Yard isn’t so incompetent they won’t be able to figure out the cause of death, even if the man who did it is long gone.
He can deduce even with his eyes half-closed and his face matted with sweat, deduce where the blade is. Left lung, a bad wound, won’t hold out for long. His lung is slowly deflating. He’s losing a lot of blood too, blood still dripping around his feet, which are only just touching the ground – the assailant had been taller than him, pinned him there and rammed the knife home. He’d like to work out whether he’s going to die from the lung or the lack of blood first, but he’ll forgive himself for forgetting some facts. Every time he tries to breathe it’s complete agony, as the blade rubs organs that should never have seen day, making the hole inside him deeper and deeper until it’s burning him all over.
By the time there’s a distant bang and a door bursts open somewhere he’s almost completely numb. He can feel bubbles forming in his mouth, bubbles that burst with a sprinkle of red every time he breathes. Bad sign that.
It’s dripping from the side of his mouth, and he knows he should close his eyes – doesn’t really want to freeze with them open, it might unnerve John.
John will be unhappy about this.
Suddenly someone is touching his hands, shouting his name, Sherlock, Sherlock. Lestrade; or maybe someone else, but not John. No point in opening his eyes; he’ll be dead soon anyway.
The hands leave, and then something is touching them again, something rough and soft, managing to be both at the same time, screaming oxymoron. Someone is speaking, shouting, his name again, but now it was John.
He debates on whether he should make the effort. Surely it would be better to just stay like this, let John think he isn’t in pain, because he isn’t, not really. But John will hate not to say goodbye, and the thought doesn’t much appeal to him either.
John’s face is blurry and indistinct, which irritates him. He blinks a few times and takes another breath that rattles around inside his empty lung. More blood slips down his chin; he must look disgusting.
“Who did this to you Sherlock?”
John’s trying not to cry. He’ll do that later, in the shower. John always cries in the shower because he thinks the water hides his red eyes.
He tries to say something, but there’s no breath left. John shakes his head, blinking too much. Sherlock tries not to blink; it’s harder to open his eyes again every time.
“No, what am I saying? I should be saying you’re going to be alright, everything will be fine.”
But I’m not going to be fine, John, he thinks. John’s a sensible man and a doctor to boot; he knows that. Unable to keep them open fully his eyes slide half-shut, blurring out everything but the rough soft oatmeal jumper with cables now spattered with crimson.
The grip tightens on his hands. “No, not yet, no!” John thinks he’s already gone, he doesn’t realise there’s these last few seconds, a minute or two perhaps, where Sherlock can still hear him.
A choked voice and some very gentle pressure against his almost-too-numb-to-notice lips…is John kissing him? He must be getting blood all over the place. “Not yet Sherlock, you have to wake up, you always wake up when I kiss your lips, right? You always wake up, you say ‘good morning John’ and then we have tea and you have far too much sugar in yours, but you wake up every time…”
The voice trails off, and Sherlock can’t tell whether it’s because he really is going or if John has stopped. He feels guilty for doing this, hopes John will get some sense into him at last and marry a sensible girl.
The feeling’s falling out of his hands with the blood that drips off them in trickles, but he can still feel John’s fingers there, and he tries to squeeze, doesn’t know if he manages it or whether it’s just wishful thinking…
There’s a horrible wrenching pain around his chest and skull, white light blinding him, and all he can hear is that tune in his head, and it’s like John’s dancing before him, stupid and wild and happy, pretending to sing and he realises he’s still singing in his head, just before he’s gone:
And it goes like this…
((By gallifreyanatthecornucopia))
I apologise for the awfulness of this, it appears I’m not very good at it. Plus, I only have crappy Paint on my computer :/
((By noshitdoctorsherlock))
Not sure if this could count towards the bonus round, any thoughts? If not then it can be for Prompt 7 :)
((By noshitdoctorsherlock))
It had been three weeks since the Sherlock and Johns face-off with Moriarty, it had been a week since Sherlock had woken from the coma and it had been two days since Sherlock had been declared fit enough to return to 221B Baker Street. Everyone had presumed John would be happy about this and he was, just not as happy as he could be.
* * *
When Sherlock awoke from his coma he didn’t know anything; he didn’t know his name, who the three men standing in front of him were, he tried to speak but the words got lodged in his throat. He could understand everything everyone was saying but he couldn’t respond and that frustrated him even more than his missing memory.
He sat in the hospital bed, a picture on his lap and Speech Therapist sat in the chair beside the hospital bed. Tell me about the picture, she had said. He could say it all in his head; there was a man sleeping on the sofa - a cat had been chasing a mouse and knocked the books on the shelf which were moments away from hitting the slumbering man. He could say it all in his head. But he couldn’t vocalise it. He started simple - ‘cat’ but all that came out was ‘ah’. The therapist was far too patronising and Sherlock gave up quickly; a feeling of embarrassment washing over him.
The man he was told was his brother, Mycroft, had apparently hired the best Speech Therapist England had to offer. If this was the best, Sherlock thought, then he had no hope.
* * *
John stood at the kitchen counter ,waiting for the kettle to boil, staring into space when Sherlock appeared at the entrance.
“Tea.” He choked out, a look of uncertainty clear on his face.
Sherlock had never been that easy to read, was John’s first thought before he realised the enormity of what Sherlock had managed. Don’t go over board, he told himself. “Do you want a cuppa?” He asked, trying to stick to what was normal.
* * *
Sherlock nodded and left the room with one glance back. He ambled over to the window and pushed the curtain back. Not even the street was familiar, Sherlock hated this lost feeling. Feeling like he didn’t belong anywhere, that h couldn’t trust anyone. Mycroft had offered to take him to their mothers, but the prospect of having to be around another person that would fuss over him and try to make him remember had him shaking his head and stepping towards John. The short man had been the only person not to press him or patronise him. He had been the only one to let him take his own time and that drew Sherlock towards him. Though Sherlock also had an underlying reason for trusting this man - there was something about. Sherlock just wished he knew what it was.
((By noshitdoctorsherlock))
Cracky sort of fluffy..stuff..
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” John hissed as Sherlock tipped beer over his head. “For a start it’s a waste of perfectly good alcohol.”
Sherlock threw some of the beer in his own face and swilled the dregs around his teeth before spitting it out again. “Drinking’s bad for you.”
“But drugs and cigarettes and half-starving yourself are alright?”
“I quit the first two.”
“You haven’t eaten in three days!” John allowed Sherlock to run a comb backwards through his hair and ruffle it, then he un-tucked his causal shirt at one side and rumpled the bottoms of his jeans. “You’re not telling me you’ve never been out drinking.”
“I don’t drink.” Sherlock loosened his collar and shook his curls out so they looked windswept. “Mummy didn’t like it.”
John let the matter rest and held up the two signs he’d created earlier –pieces of cardboard with ‘free hugs’ written on it in a messy but readable scrawl, and a string run through the top. He passed one to Sherlock and put the other around his own neck, just as there was a knock at the door.
“That’ll be Lestrade,” said Sherlock as they passed into the hall. “I hope he’s convincing.”
“Are you sure this is going to help us catch a murderer?” He pulled open the door and was greeted with an alcoholic smell so strong he was almost pushed backwards – Scotland Yard had really overdone it with the ‘drunk and disorderly’ effects. Lestrade was wearing jeans with stains on them,Andersonlooked very disgruntled in a loud green t-shirt and covered in lipstick marks. Sally Donovan was wearing clubbing wear, deliberately with half the straps hanging off. All of them were wearing signs with ‘free hugs’ scrawled on them in various kinds of handwriting.
“Good,” said Sherlock, glancing over them. “But where’s Sanders?”
“Tilly couldn’t make it,” said Lestrade sheepishly. “She got that flu that’s going around.”
“That’s no good!” Sherlock exclaimed, looking like a child that had just had an ice-cream snatched away from it. “We need another female or it won’t be convincing enough.”
“I thought of that,” Lestrade cut in, “and luckily I phoned one of your friends.”Andersonpushed Molly to the front of their group – she was wearing a short dress and her hair down, also smelling strongly of vodka. John resisted the urge to grin.
“Hello!” she said breathlessly. “I heard and I just had to come along.”
“Yes, very well,” said Sherlock stiffly. “Now let’s go. Remember we’re a drunken group of Friday night party-goers who’ve decided it’s a good idea to stand on the street and offer free hugs. You girls are most likely to get the brunt of it, but everyone be on the watch for our suspect. If I’m right he’ll mistake us for his contacts undercover, walk over and say “hello, have you got a map to Fenchurch sweetheart’, and then we’ll have him.”
“You’ve told us a thousand times,” said Sally, beginning to turn towards the stairs. “It’s been arranged to smuggle him out of the country with a group of illegal immigrants, who are now in our custody. The free hugs thing is a message to him – we understand.”
Sherlock pouted all the way to the square.
X
“Hey!” called yet another drunken reveller, coming over. “Is that you Larry?” He made a beeline for Sherlock, pushing John out of the way, and threw his arms around the consulting detective. “How’ve you been?”
“Sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” Sherlock said, somehow manage to remain in the guise of someone hopelessly drunk whilst being half-smothered. “My name isn’t Larry.”
John pried the man off and pushed him away a little too forcefully, suddenly feeling protective of Sherlock, who looked rather squashed.
“Oh. Sorry mate – thought you were someone else.” The man staggered off and yet another person came, hugged one of them and left. Sherlock had been right – it had been Sally and Molly receiving most of the attention, but that didn’t mean the rest of them were ignored. John had been on the receiving end of hugs from at least twenty different women (alright, two of them had hugged everyone, but it still counted), and even one or two from very drunk men.
He, Sherlock, Lestrade and Anderson had made it into a sort of game amongst themselves, seeing who could attract the most hugs. So farAndersonwas flagging and Lestrade one or two above John, but Sherlock seemed to be getting most of the attention. For some reason this made John extremely jealous; not that he would ever admit it. Of course he was jealous of Sherlock, and not the people who were hugging him. That’d be just silly.
Just as Lestrade waded over to extricate Molly from an over-zealous clubber Sherlock tapped him on the shoulder and jerked his head in the direction of a man who didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the crowd – balding, at least fifty-odd, and quite clearly dressed for the cold on a warm summer’s night. He was carrying a suitcase, and made straight for Sally.
“Hello, have you got a map to Fenchurch sweetheart?”
To give her credit, Sally didn’t even blink; she just whipped out a pair of handcuffs and clapped them straight onto him, and that was that.
X
They left Scotland Yard still smelling strongly of alcohol, rumpled, tired and hungry. Sherlock carried the stack of free hugs signs slung over one arm and remained surprisingly quiet in the taxi home; John had expected him to be boasting about his brilliance all the way back.
“So, it worked,” he said, wondering if Sherlock needed prompting, although he had no idea why he’d want to set himself up for a long speech rattling off deductions about wedding rings or socks or some other seemingly mundane object. “The free hugs thing actually worked.”
“Hmm.”
John was worried – Sherlock hadn’t eaten in three days, and it was possible he was suffering from fatigue, but maybe now the case was closed he’d have something. No matter how tired he was John resolved to cook something half-decent and force it down the detective’s throat.
They padded up the stairs and into the lounge, not wanting to wake Mrs Hudson at three in the morning, and John left Sherlock standing next to the sofa whilst he put the kettle on and ran two glasses of water – the taste of the beer was beginning to make him feel queasy. By the time he’d returned Sherlock had dumped all but one of the signs on the sofa and was holding the remaining one loosely in his other hand.
“Are you alright?” he said, passing Sherlock one of the glasses. “You seem a bit…weird?”
“I’m fine.” Sherlock coughed and took a sip of water, then placed the glass on a nearby table and suddenly placed the last sign around John’s neck. John almost dropped his own water as Sherlock suddenly came up to him and hugged him tightly.
“What-what are you doing?”
“It said free hugs.”
John pulled away. “Yes, because you put it there! If you want a hug just say.” He suddenly realised how that sounded and felt his face heat up. “I mean I-”
Suddenly he had another armful of sleepy detective, as Sherlock draped himself around him yet again. He sighed and patted Sherlock’s head awkwardly.
“Alright, you can let go now.”
“You remind me of a kitten,” said Sherlock fuzzily from his shoulder. “When I was small we had this little kitten and you’re just like it.”
John gingerly manoeuvred Sherlock to the sofa and plunked him down. “Yes, alright, I’m a kitten. Now take a nap and I’ll bring you some food in an hour or so, okay?”
Sherlock gave a sleepy mumble and pulled John into an awkward hug on the sofa. “You’re my kitten.”
John wriggled, but couldn’t get free; if it was the only way he could get out of a hug that seemed to be rather non-platonic between his flatmate and himself he might as well say it. Mycroft better not be watching.
“Yes Sherlock. I’m your kitten.”
((By noshitdoctorsherlock))
3rd place is an excellent showing, I think. :) Not to mention how quality all of our products were. You guys really pulled out all the stops and it’s BRILLIANT.
I’m still posting a few things that got sent to the blog, so those will be going up today. Then when I get a chance I’m going to try and make a blog page for every prompt so things will be a bit easier to find.
I love you all. You’re fantastic writers and artists and thanks for being patient with me as I tried to get this blog up and running (and purple).
-Mary (knowledgeiscake)
P.S. If there’s ever another Johnlock party, I expect to see you all competing!
Our first ever Johnlock Party has been such a huge success, thanks to all of you that participated! We have some unbelievable entries, and we can’t wait to share them with you all.
The scores for the final day only, Day 7, are: (Bonus Points are in the parenthesis)
1. Team Orange (Mycroft) - 34 + (52) = 86
2. Team Pink (Molly) - 23 + (61) = 84
2. Team Green (Anthea) - 27 + (38) = 65
3. Team Purple (Mrs. Hudson) - 15 + (43) = 58
4. Team Blue (Lestrade) - 13 + (30) = 43
5. Team Red (Moriarty) - 23 + (12) = 35
The total scores overall for the entire week are:
1. Team Orange (Mycroft) = 232
2. Team Pink (Molly) = 230
3. Team Green (Anthea) = 207
4. Team Purple (Mrs. Hudson) = 180
5. Team Red (Moriarty) = 166
6. Team Blue (Lestrade) = 141
…
So, Congrats Team Mycroft! You have won our week-long Johnlock Party!
The members that contributed include:
And an extremely close second place goes to Team Molly as well! Congrats you guys, for contributing so much to us in a fearsome return! :D
Again, we’d like to thank every single other individual in remaining teams, and remind you all that some of your works will be selected to go into the “Our Favorites” Section, because their quality is not ranked by these scores!
We hope you’ll join us in our future events that we’re planning on doing, and enjoy them every bit as much as you enjoyed this one!
Finally, the lovely mods for this party were:
le main: Shanzay (me)
the lovely: Freya
our originator: Maayan
So thank you to you guys as well!
We love you all, and hope you’ll all indulge in the submissions as exultantly as we did! ^^
