okay there I finished this one too
I think I took a leaf out of practicefortheheart book there with the coloring and lineart WELP 

okay there I finished this one too

I think I took a leaf out of practicefortheheart book there with the coloring and lineart WELP 

found an old sketch and more or less finished it up while a kitten slept on my tablet’s hotkeys

found an old sketch and more or less finished it up while a kitten slept on my tablet’s hotkeys


Sherlock, it’s not the same a solving a murder.

I know John, it’s much more simple, sit down and hold still.

_φ( ̄ー ̄ )

angiefsutton said ((7 months ago)): Oh, you know what *I*’m going to ask: Steampunk Sherlock/John, baby. ;-)


the first johnlock kiss is absolutely 9000% required to include john’s fingers in sherlock’s hair

there is no other way

John decided a long time ago that the first time he kissed Sherlock would absolutely, one-hundred-percent, without-a-doubt-or-so-help-me-God include his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.

It wasn’t a decision he really remembered making on any particular day, nor would he actually admit to having made it, because that would mean admitting to thinking far too hard about kissing his flatmate. But he had decided it nonetheless, because Sherlock’s hair was simply made to be played with. Curly hair always had an extra element of desirability to it. Sherlock’s was extra so, because, well, Sherlock.

He refused to believe Sherlock wouldn’t like it either; the number of times he’d watched Sherlock tweak his own curls or run his hands through it in thought or frustration were their own testament.

It didn’t matter, really, because there wouldn’t be any kissing of Sherlock in the first place. Still, it was a nice thought that John sometimes indulged on his lonelier nights.

And then he actually does get to kiss Sherlock, and he almost forgets that personal little promise to himself.

John certainly hadn’t planned it. He’s not sure Sherlock had planned it, either. One minute, they’re standing on the street in front of the flat. The next, Sherlock’s hand is on John’s shoulder and Sherlock’s mouth is warm and soft and so delicate on John’s that it hurts.

It’s good. It’s very, very good. John’s brain is a bit behind in the proceedings, but he’s aware enough to know that much. Sherlock is actually terribly inexperienced, and John can feel that in the stiff but eager movements of his mouth, but it’s still good. Brilliant.

Before John can react, Sherlock pauses. It’s only been a couple of seconds, somehow. Sherlock is hesitating, his mouth a tantalizing centimeter away, his breath warm and quick against John’s face.

“John?” he asks. The word is a bare whisper of sound. John never wants to hear his name spoken any other way again.

Sherlock’s hair is disheveled, curls falling enticingly across his brow. John lifts a hand to brush them away. He lingers, letting his fingertips graze along skin, and smiles.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” he replies before he presses forward again, catching Sherlock’s lips with his own. And because he 100%-for-sure-before-God promised himself, he tangles the fingers of his left hand into Sherlock’s curly hair.

Just like he figured, Sherlock’s hair is soft and full to the touch. Individual ringlets lovingly wind themselves around his fingers as John grips, ever so slightly, eliciting the faintest gasp from Sherlock. The sensation and the noise ground him to this moment: proof that it’s real, not another fantasy.

Then John laughs out loud, startling himself and Sherlock, because really—promising to fiddle with his best mate’s hair the first time they snog? Good god.

Sherlock looks understandably affronted. His eyes search John’s for some explanation. When he finds none, his expression softens with confusion and a hint of trepidation. John shakes his head, still giggling.

“Sorry,” he says, stroking his thumb along Sherlock’s jaw. “It’s—it’s fine. It’s fine. Don’t stop.”

Sherlock sudden grin is dazzling. He rests his hand over John’s, pressing John’s palm around the curve of his jaw and John’s fingers into his hair.

And that, somehow, is even better.

fics where Sherlock fucks it up and makes John think he doesn’t want him

where he spends days trying so hard and not understanding and saying the wrong things over and over and trying and John getting angrier and angrier until somebody has a breakthrough 

ugh these are the actual worst

John accidently blurting out "gorgeous" instead of "brilliant" after Sherlock made a deduction And Sherlock blushing and looking away while clearing his throat
+ anotherdayin221b-deactivated201


please please please 

Sherlock’s mind is whirling with the thrill of the case. He paces the locked room one end to the other, while Lestrade and his team look on. John is standing with military bearing, arms crossed, his eyes tracking every movement. The window—now open—lets in a stream of early evening light, casting golds and oranges on the grisly blood-stained scene. It’s almost beautiful, in a macabre way. He barely notices except to point out the clues. 

Not right-handed, as you thought,” he says, gesturing about, and he rattles off his deductions as they come to his mind. The case is coming together—it’s been a grueling twelve hours, but it’s all worth it in the end, when the puzzle pieces start to slot themselves into place and the crime is solved. The suspect is not who they thought at the beginning. The fingerprints were all wrong.

"The criminal couldn’t have escaped through the window, the lock was stuck and had been for months if you looked at the dust, and the door was locked from the outside. You assumed that meant he covered his tracks but he was an architect, he knows his way around houses, and if he did not escape through normal means … "

Sherlock crosses the room, keenly aware of everyone’s gazes. It’s his imagination, he knows it is, but he fancies John’s feels the most intense. He removes a framed poster of a rock band from the wall, runs his fingers along the exposed plaster, and pushes. For a moment, it resists, and then the panel swings open, revealing a cramped and dusty, but recently used, tunnel leading up through the wall.

"The house has no attic but that doesn’t mean he can’t reach the roof," Sherlock says, triumphant.

Lestrade sighs in that way that means he’s agitated but impressed. Anderson sneers as he moves forward to inspect the tunnel.

"Gorgeous," John murmurs. Sherlock’s head snaps up to look at him.

John’s expression is stricken; he quickly realized what he had said. An accident. He had meant to say his usual—brilliant, fantastic, amazing. Never gorgeous before. How often had he thought that before? Did he always think Sherlock was gorgeous? Had he ever thought other adjectives? Beautiful, handsome, attractive—

Sherlock’s face is burning. He wants to know now. He wants to grab John by the shoulders and demand to hear everything John has ever thought on the matter but never said.

He doesn’t do that. Instead, he turns his head in a futile attempt to hide the red in his cheeks. He can feel John watching him again.

"Well." Sherlock clears his throat and wills the damn blush away. "Anyway, the murderer should be easy enough to track from here. Call me if you have anything truly interesting for me. I have other things to take care of."


sherlock text posts


Molly’s reaction to Lestrade’s theory vs. Tom’s theory

*bonus: Lestrade’s reaction to Tom’s theory:




John buying little sugar skulls for Sherlock’s tea.


They were kind of a morbid buy, John thought even as he clicked the button to order them online. He’d never seen sugar skulls in stores—plain little skulls made of pressed white sugar, not the decorative Mexican sort—and he had to admit they were kind of cute. In a morbid way, which was par for course in his life nowadays. 

Sherlock would get a kick out of them, at any rate. John didn’t take sugar in his coffee or his tea, but Sherlock did. Their cases were a little slower in the last few weeks, and Sherlock was becoming steadily stroppier and distressed. A little present couldn’t hurt.

The package arrived two weeks later, after John had completely forgotten about his silly impulse buy. Sherlock was out running mysterious errands when Mrs. Hudson brought the mail up to the flat, so he was gone when John unwrapped the box.

He felt a little silly as he arranged the box on the counter next to the kettle. Really, they were nothing more than expensive sugar cubes. He couldn’t even guarantee Sherlock would care one way or another about the damn things; he might even scoff at John for having spent ten dollars on having special sugar cubes shipped to the flat.

Too late now. John settled into his chair to watch some telly and wait.

Sherlock came home that evening, satisfied and with his shirt stained with a substance John dared not ask about. While Sherlock ducked into the shower (as John would not give any kisses until Sherlock was clean), John set the kettle to boil and prepared two mugs for tea.

Sherlock finished his shower just as the kettle finished boiling. Without a word, he went into the kitchen and sidled up behind John, resting his chin on John’s shoulder in the needy way that meant he wanted attention.

"I want a case," he muttered.

"I can’t get you one, Sherlock. Not without murdering someone." John smiled as he poured boiling water over the teabags.

"Nonsense. Your murders would be boring. An idiot could solve them." Sherlock sighed and pressed his face into the side of John’s neck, softening the barb. Then he paused. "John?"


"What are these?" He didn’t wait for an answer, letting go of John to reach for the box of sugar skulls on the counter. He picked up the box and seemed to scrutinize the contents.

"Figure that’s a bit obvious. Got a label and everything." John mixed a little bit of milk into one mug. "Thought you might like them."

Sherlock stared at the box a moment later, then scoffed. “Ridiculous,” he said.

John bristled and frowned down at the mugs. A few seconds later, Sherlock’s pale hand dragged the milky tea across the counter, and Sherlock delicately dropped in two sugar skulls. John looked up, and Sherlock smiled at him over the rim of the cup as he took a sip.

John sighed in exasperated fondness and got a sweet, tea-flavored kiss in apology.


One of the sugar skulls made its way to the living room mantel, resting against Billy the Actual Skull. John didn’t put it there. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge that it was there.