Oh, look we’re just sitting here being all professional and—-hang on. What. Is that a…is that a camera?
GODDAMMIT, MYCROFT.
A continuation of the tales of what would happen if Bernard Black was actually Sherlock Holmes’ little brother
So…would this be blacklock? Booklock? Either way, I need more of it.
Sherlock stopped mid-deduction as his phone vibrated and sighed, taking it out. For a moment, he just stood there, staring down at his phone, trying to decipher the jumble of letters that presented themselves.
Needsj helsdjppppp -B
John peered over his shoulder, trying to find out what had made Sherlock stop talking. It nearly never happened, especially when Sherlock was deducing. However, a look of slight foreboding seemed to cloud his eyes.
“B? Who’s B?”
Sherlock shook himself and looked back at John. “Nobody,” he said, putting his phone back into his pocket, looking slightly lost. “Where was I?”
“You were telling me about the scratches on the handbag,” John said, eyeing Sherlock worriedly. “Look, are you alright? You look a bit—”
“Nothing,” Sherlock said. “It’s nothing. I just—” he jumped slightly as his phone buzzed again.
“Sherlock?”
“I’m fine,” Sherlock muttered, whipping his phone out again.
HRE WNTS MY THUFMBDDDSSS -B
Sherlock closed his eyes, apparently very stressed out. He thought he had seen the last of…him years ago. He ignored the text once more and slipped the phone back into his pocket, answering the questions he knew were on the tip of John’s tongue.
“Family. Don’t want to talk about it.”
John raised his eyebrows, but ventured to say nothing more on the subject. Sherlock was always touchy about his family. Mycroft seemed to be the only relative he was in contact with, and that too, very unwillingly.
Sherlock opened his mouth again to explain how the scratches on the woman’s handbag meant that the murderer was her brother when—
Knock, knock, knock.
They heard the door open and Mrs. Hudson cry out in surprise. Jumping up, Sherlock dashed down the stairs only to find a black haired man, obviously drunk, being towed to the door by a police officer.
“Is this yours?” the officer asked, jerking her head testily at the inebriated man, who was clutching a bottle to his chest.
“I—”
“Sherlock!” the man slurred, swinging the bottle outward, missing the doorframe by inches. “I…broughtyouthe…p’lice!”
John frowned, looking to Sherlock for an explanation. However, Sherlock seemed to be staring at the man with a mixture of shock and something else that John couldn’t put his finger on. He expected Sherlock to deny that he knew the man, but to his surprise, Sherlock nodded and stepped aside, allowing the man to stumble into the foyer.
“There…see? Toldja I knewhim…” he muttered to the police officer, who simply gave him a withering look before stalking off, muttering about lousy drunkards. “Shedidn’tbelieve—hic—me.”
“I’m sorry, but who are you?” John asked, staring at the man, who was now slouched against the wall.
“Who are you?” the man asked. “And shtop moving. Damn, there’sh twoofya…” he blinked, squinting at John. “Yoursdoesn’thaveabeard. Good. Nashtythings, beards…get…” he swung his arms out again, flailing them about, “ALLOVERTHEPLACE!”
Sherlock stared at him, tightlipped, before speaking in a very low voice. “What are you doing here, Bernard.”
“Lockedout,” Bernard mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Stupid…stupid Manny.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What about your other friend….Jan?”
“Fran…and she’s…inastrop.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“C’n I…sleephere? Pleeeeeeeeeease?”
John expected Sherlock to refuse, but was surprised once again when Sherlock nodded. Bernard grinned widely before stumbling forward and into the flat.
“You’re sleeping on the couch!” Sherlock called after him before turning to John, who was wearing a look of complete shock.
“Sherlock, who’s—”
“My younger brother, Bernard.”
John held back a groan. Another Holmes? He already had his hands full with two, but three?
“I—you never said you had a—”
“It was never relevant,” Sherlock said shortly before turning on his heel and leaving John standing in the foyer, making his way to his room, only to find Bernard sprawled out on his bed with one shoe on, fast asleep, his mouth wide open. He crept up by the bedside, reaching out to shake the man awake, only to draw his hand back.
Disheveled hair. Dark circles under his eyes. A scratch on his cheek, which was quite red. Fran had slapped him. His coat was on strange, the bottom nearly ripped. Bar fight? No, there were traces of rust along the tear. Drunk, slapped by Fran, stalked off, caught his jacket on a rusty nail, ran into the police.
Sherlock drew a hand over his face. As much as he declared that he had no time for sentiment, he did…worry about Bernard. His alcoholism was getting out of control, and it brought back painful memories of Sherlock’s own addiction. His loss of control. The way he would do anything just to feed his drug addiction.
Of course, Bernard hadn’t always been like this. He had been brilliant, always dragging Sherlock and Mycroft to the library so that he could pore over books, balancing stacks that were much too large for him all the way back home, babbling on and on about so-and-so book and so-and-so author. Sherlock had actually looked forward to the library visits, as much as he had feigned otherwise. Bernard had been the closest thing he had for a friend as a child and to see him drowning in alcohol made his chest feel horribly tight.
Sherlock supposed being disowned by the family might have had something to do with Bernard’s alcoholism. He had turned up to Christmas dinner, completely drunk and ended up stripping his pants off and mooning their Great Aunt Georgia, who promptly passed out from shock. Out of anger, Mummy had declared that he should leave and never come back, and Bernard (always one to take things seriously) did so at once. He even changed his last name to Black and lost all contact with the family for about six years. All Sherlock knew was that he owned some sort of bookshop and that he spent most of his time getting drunk.
Sherlock turned his attention back to his brother, who was muttering in his sleep, his eyelids twitching. Carefully, he arranged the blankets around Bernard with an unusual gentleness before straightening up.
“Idiot.”
A continuation of the tales of what would happen if Bernard Black was actually Sherlock Holmes’ little brother
So…would this be blacklock? Booklock? Either way, I need more of it.
I’m doing it wrong.
so…рисовала я как всегда, что-то стандартное про встречу этих двоих в третьем сезоне, а потом мне стало лень рисовать и я сделала это.
JIAERHGO;IAERGH;AEI YOU MIXED BEAUTY AND THE BEST WITH THIS AND I LOVE YOU OH MY GOD
maverick flies again
What’s this, John?
What’s what?
This box. This box here.
I’m guessing it’s not a box of kittens.
Of course not. There’s a horde of little tiny people here and they all seem to be yelling something.
What? Dammit, Sherlock, I thought you were done with cocaine!
I’m not on cocaine, John. I’m serious.
Let me see.
…
Oh, god. They’re all holding…hang on…is that a poster of you and me…oh god.
Shut up, they’re yelling something.
…
John…lock…what the hell is Johnlock?
Hell if I know. Where did you even get the box?
An early birthday present from Moriarty.
…and you accepted it?
I was curious.
Did it come with a note?
Yes. He calls it…tumblr.
Sherlock. John. Not a couple, you say, John?
Hmm. Rigghhhhhht… ;-)
I like imagining all of these in great detail…
Pffffft oh god. Yes.
This would be major heartfail!
oh god…I…I
It had been two years, nine months, four days, seven hours and thirty-three minutes since Sherlock Holmes had jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew’s hospital to his supposed death.
Today had been like any other day. Sherlock burst into the flat, hair wet, jacket sopping, a faint fleck of some unknown substance on his face. John looked up at him and sighed, “Christ, Sherlock.”
“John, I am so sorry. I—“
“Sherlock, it doesn’t matter. It’s fine.” His friend’s voice was level, as though it had been only a day since they’d last seen each other, that he’d never jumped off that roof, that he’d never hidden himself away and forced his friend to endure unbearable amounts of pain.
Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He expected something, anything. Yelling, screaming, crying, punching, he wouldn’t even have put it past John Watson to throw the pocket knife lodged in the side table at him. He guided himself to the couch and sat down, the entire flat seeming as though it were made of eggshells, as though one wrong word, one wrong breath and the entire house of cards would come down around their ears.
He waited for him to say something, thinking that perhaps John had gone into shock and didn’t know how to react. Sherlock stared at him, two-day old shirt, cold tea, book he’d already read twice—no, three times—judging by the dog ears on the pages. He hadn’t slept well, the bags under his eyes looked worse than when he’d been kept up because of the blind banker.
“Sherlock,” John said, not looking up from his book, “you’ll mould the carpet and Mrs. Hudson will put it on our rent.”
He hadn’t even noticed the rain puddling around his feet, a dark ring etching itself against the fabric of the carpet. Of course. The jacket was placed on the coat rack, along with his scarf, and he went to make himself a cup of tea. Something about this situation was bothering him. He kept looking at the various things in the flat, doing his best to find something, anything that could tell him why John wasn’t reacting like he knew John Watson would have reacted.
But there was nothing. Nothing but a string of unanswered question marks that led right to his only friend.
______
“DAMN!” The shatter and loud outburst actually made Sherlock startle—something that hadn’t happened in longer than he could accurately remember. When he looked, he saw John cleaning up a beaker that he’d knocked over.
He hesitated. John was perfectly capable of cleaning up after himself, and something told him to stay away. “Are you alright in there?” he offered, much more quietly than his normal inquisitions.
“Yeah, fine, I just…damn burner. I wish you’d not leave them so near the edge of the table like that, Sherlock!” The sound of the rubbish bin opening , the glass tinkling in, and then silence. When Sherlock looked up from his work, he saw John standing, facing the sink stock still. His head was hung low and his shoulders were sagging. Sherlock felt a tugging in the center of his chest, and he couldn’t understand why. Again, he looked at the signs, observed everything, but all that lay on those slumped shoulders of his friend was another line of question marks.
This happened every once in a while. Something would break, John would drop something, or he would suddenly go quiet and stand in the kitchen as though a man possessed. Sherlock never assisted him, not unless he saw John in any immediate danger. And when he did, he made sure not to touch him.
Once, he had touched John as he helped clean a shattered teacup and spilt Ceylon tea. John had frozen solid for the faintest of moments, a dark colour flashed through his eyes. But he didn’t look at Sherlock. He took what Sherlock saw as calming breaths and continued cleaning it up.
Sherlock didn’t dare touch him again.
____
A particularly quiet day nearly a month after his return, Sherlock had been watching John write on his computer for the past two hours. “John…is everything…are you alright?”
“Yes…” John only locked eyes with his friend for a hair of a second before burying his nose back in the computer, “Yes, I’m…I’m fine.”
____
When John was at work one day, Sherlock had phoned Lestrade. He was going absolutely mental without anything to do. He’d gone far past bored, and he wasn’t about to let his mind go fallow.
One afternoon, a few days later, Lestrade came up to the flat. John made himself tea and offered some to the DI, who politely refused.
“I won’t be here long enough for tea,” he said, brushing past John and coming to stand in front of Sherlock, “I know you’ve been home long enough, but we’ve got a suicide that couldn’t possibly be a suicide. Large metal doors bolted from the inside and a man who couldn’t even open his hands to hold a gun, let alone shoot it. Will you come?”
Sherlock looked from the Detective Inspector to John, and that tugging at his chest happened again.
John was paralyzed. The tea was slowly dribbling to the ground as his arms went to his sides of their own accord. His jaw was hanging slack.
Carefully, Sherlock stood and came towards him, “John, John are you alright?”
He didn’t answer him. “L-Lestrade…You can see him, too?” he whispered.
“Bloody hell….” Lestrade covered his mouth and scrubbed at his cheek with his hand as the situation sunk in around the two of them.
It …it couldn’t be. Why hadn’t he noticed? The question marks disappeared as Sherlock chanced a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, “Oh, John….”
Excuse me while I sob into my pillow. I need fluff. I need it so bad.
—
For once in his life, Sherlock forgot about the case. About everything. Lestrade seemed to melt into the background until there was nothing remaining but what mattered.
John. Shocked. Broken. And fragile. So, so fragile.
So, that was what had happened. He couldn’t blame John. He could never blame John. Without thinking, he gathered John up in his arms, holding the smaller man close so that he could hear his slowly increasing heartbeat, whispering softly into his ear, trying to convince John that he was indeed there. He could feel John shaking and tightened his grip and stepped back, taking the army doctor’s hand in his own and bringing it up to his face. John’s fingertips brushed softly against Sherlock’s cheekbones, dragging down to his chin, his nose, his mouth, his eyes, tracing the memories he had kept locked far away since the Fall.
Sherlock closed his eyes, allowing John to touch his face, before capturing the rough hand with his own.
“But…how…”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m here now, and I am so, so sorry.” Sherlock had never been one for apologies, but somehow it felt different when he apologized to John. Everything felt different when he did it with John. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against John’s. He wanted to stay there forever, just like that. Just the two of them.
“You…you won’t leave again? You won’t disappear?”
Sherlock let out a shaky laugh. “No, no I’m one hundred percent here and I’m one hundred percent real.”
And then, just to provide the final proof, he dipped his head down and brushed his lips against John’s. It was the lightest of touches, almost featherlike, but John jolted as if he had been struck by lightning. Sherlock retreated hastily. He had been too forward, too quick, too—
But then, John tangled one hand in Sherlock’s hair, bringing him back down, kissing him firmly, as if to reassure himself that he was real. Sherlock let one of his hands trail down John’s arms until it rested against his waist, cradling John’s head with the other.
Somewhere, far far away, they heard Lestrade clear his throat uncomfortably. Breaking the kiss, Sherlock turned his head to face the Detective Inspector, who seemed to be trying very hard not to look at either of them, staring at his shoes instead. Sherlock let his familiar smirk settle back onto his lips.
“Yes, Lestrade. We’ll come,” he said, putting his coat and scarf back on and looking toward John expectantly. After a moment, John shook himself and nodded.
Sherlock smiled.
It was good to be back.
OH MY GOD MY REICHENBACH FEELS JUST CAME FLOODING BACK AND I’M DROWNING AND I JUST…HELP. PLEASE HELP. I CAN’T DO THIS ALONE. OH GOD.
“Sherlock… Sherlock…”
John has never whimpered before now. He didn’t do it the first time he had to stick his hands in a man’s chest, or when he got shot. He didn’t make a peep when his Dad died, or when Harry’s liver failed and she went to the hospital.
It doesn’t matter. Curled in a cage, waiting for Moran to come finish him off - he’s so tired. He wants to sleep for a million years, until all the aching and pain spreading through his limbs is gone. More than that, though, he wants Sherlock. Wants him to magically appear in a flash of his dark coat and a toss of even darker curls.
But it won’t happen.
Sherlock is dead. Sherlock is gone, forever. And John had been stupid enough, angry enough, to track down Moriarty himself. Righteously angry on behalf of a dead man. And now John is going to join Sherlock in the ground, in death, in wherever he is. He wonders vaguely if they’ll bury him with Sherlock or if there will be a body at all.
x
He can hear the door opening in a far-off corner of the room, though the blanket over his cage prevents him from seeing. The quiet, “Sherlock…” hasn’t stopped - the name is like a lifeline. It seems fitting that even facing his own imminent death the man is on his mind.
The sound of footsteps echoes in the silent room, and the corner of the blanket covering his prison twitches. John steels himself, clenches onto the phone in his hand even tighter, though the thing has been dead for weeks. He’s barely aware of his own strained words; “Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock… save me.”
The blanket pulls away and there, leaning with his face pressed against the bars, is the world’s only Consulting Detective.
“Hello, John.”
my first-ever fic written for tumblr~ yes. i used baskerville caps for this. enjoy (please)!
Oh my goodness, this is beautiful.
art trade with chatonblanc! :D who asked for..wholock….
wait this makes perfect sense because John is like literally a doctor and Sherlock is his companion because
i will take every chances i get to draw him in dragof reasons.oh god idk i’m sorry i can never draw anything seriously but i hope you still like it????????
Oh my god this is perfection.
