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Cessation v1.0 by Ericson Martinez
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msaether: A VERY happy Birthday (yesterday i am so late i am so sorry) to the amazing Megan from me and Damian. He had the brilliant idea of OT3 JohnLockStrade..sher…strade…john..? john…strade..lock??? and tattoos and we hope you like it! Happy Birthday! You’re amazing and we adore you! M, this is your little ficlet to go along with Kam’s illustration.  I apologize that it’s a bit late!  There’s a link to AO3 or you can just ‘read more’ below.  WE LOVE YOU. —- - I - The room is buzzing from the static of emotional electricity.  Greg is standing in the kitchen in a defensive stance - knees bent, hands open at his waist - as if he anticipates an attack.  John is by the window where Sherlock used to play and he is breathing heavily, jaw clenched tight. Everything inside him wants to bellow, to shout abuse and obscenities until his voice is as raw as his heart.  But he convinces himself that he is in better control than that.  He swallows the lump of rage in his throat and exhales slowly through his nose. “What do you mean ‘there’s someone else’?” Greg adjusts his posture, moving over to the kitchen table and leaning on it heavily.  He sighs, the escaping air causing his chest to deflate.  John notices that the muscles in his neck seem tense and strained. “I know what this sounds like,” Greg begins.  He lifts his gaze to make eye contact with John.  ”But I need you to hear me out.” “It sounds like you’ve been cheating on me,” comes John’s venomous retort.  ”Are you telling me that’s not the case?” “No.  Yes.  I-” Greg stumbles.  ”Look, I’m trying to say that it started before this- before us.  There is someone else, but technically, it’s you.  You’re the other man.” John bristles, confused.  “You were already in a relationship?” he asks.  ”And you never felt the need to mention that?” Greg takes several steps from the kitchen into the sitting room, closer to where John is standing. “I felt the need to mention it almost every day, but-” he stops, reconsiders.  ”But it’s not that simple a thing to just bring up and the decision wasn’t solely my own.” “I don’t know what you expect me to say, Greg.”  John crosses his arms over his chest and tries to hold back the tears that are stinging at the corners of his eyes.  ”You cheated on me.” “Well, not exactly.” “And I was going to ask you to move in, and-” John pauses, turns.  ”What do you mean ‘not exactly’?” “Well, it’s not exactly as if we were exclusive - we’ve never even discussed it.  And, I mean, when we started seeing each other you admitted things about Sher-“ “Stop!” John snaps unexpectedly.  ”Don’t you say his name.  Don’t you dare bring him into this.  It is not the same.  We were never physical and I never disclosed to him how I felt.” “John, please,” Greg pleads, hands outstretched.  ”That’s what I’ve been trying to say.  He’s a bloody detective - you didn’t have to tell him.” Movement from the back of the kitchen distracts John from responding.  The door to the empty bedroom is pushed open and Sherlock steps out, incredibly and impossibly alive. “I always knew it,” he says. John falls to his knees, hands over his mouth. - II - It’s dark in the room but it’s the kind of inky blackness that allows for soft details and vague shapes to be visible.  John’s eyes have adjusted to the low light, but his exhaustion from the events earlier in the day have made his eyelids heavy.  He is looking at everything through a gentle squint, pleasantly fatigued. His hands are holding Sherlock’s face as they kiss and he is nearly destroyed by the sensation of warm skin beneath his fingertips.  The last time they touched, Sherlock’s skin was cold and pulse-less  a memory that John has tried tirelessly to obliterate.  He focuses instead on the way their lips meet and the sound of Sherlock’s breathing. John’s blood is pounding in his ears, a constant beat of “he’s alive, alive, alive.”  He doesn’t bother holding back the tears this time.  They stream unbidden down his face and John can taste the salt in each kiss. Behind him, strong and familiar hands wrap around his midsection.  Greg presses kisses along the plane of John’s shoulder where it is stained with ink.  It’s a reminder that he is there with them, but happy to be on the peripheral.  At least for now. Sherlock’s kisses are hungry and insistent; he is fond of biting at John’s lower lip and holding it between his teeth.  Quietly, he breathes his name, “John”, and it seems to dissipate on the exhalations that follow.  John is convinced that he has never heard anything so beautiful as the way his name sounds in the tone of Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock runs his hands down John’s side and bumps into Greg’s arm.  He pulls back from John slightly to smile at the other man, an expression on his face that is softer than any other John has ever seen on him before.  He presses a kiss into Sherlock’s jaw and mumbles against his throat. “I want you to watch him taste me.” # There is not enough oxygen in the room, yet John takes greedy gulps of it without a care for the other two men who are breathing with him.  He is having difficulty processing the array of sensations moving through his body.  He is laying on his side and Sherlock is deep inside him, moving with a languid rhythm.  John leans slightly against him, back pressed to his chest, and has one arm wrapped around behind his neck.   John looks down for a moment to watch Greg - laying on his stomach in front of him - with his lips wrapped around his cock.  John focuses on the feeling of Greg’s fingertips digging into his thigh and tries to hold on.  He fears that when it is over, he will wake from this impossible dream. Greg moans and the vibrations travel the length of John’s cock.  His body tenses in pleasure and Sherlock pushes deeper in response.  He grips John at his hip bone and fucks him harder, faster.  Greg grins and slides his mouth off, switching over to pumping John’s cock with his hand in time with Sherlock thrusts.  John is moving inevitable closer and more rapidly towards orgasm and there is nothing he can do to slow it.  He is in ecstasy.  He bites his lip, hard, and comes like a wave crashing into shore. All at once he spills over Greg’s hand and then recedes into Sherlock’s warm, sweat slicked arms.  He closes his eyes and tries to catch his breath while the aftershocks of pleasure travel the length of his body. He feels tingly and content, exhausted and relieved.  Emotions wash over him, in and out like the tide, and he shakes gently from the fatigue.  He has never felt so many things once.  After several long moments with just the sounds of their breathing to fill the room, Sherlock speaks. “Okay, soldier.  On your knees…” - III -  John re-enters the bedroom and sits back down on the edge of the bed, careful to keep his mug steady.  Greg is scanning the newspaper and Sherlock has his laptop perched on his knees while he busily types away at the keyboard.  When John settles back in, he catches Sherlock watching him from the corner of his eye. “What?” John asks, with a playful tip of his chin.  ”Something you want to say?” Sherlock smirks and redirects his attention back to the computer.  ”Just admiring your ink, is all.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen it all uncovered before.” Greg laughs and interjects.  ”What he means is that he was admiring your arse in those pants.  Don’t believe his lies.” John snorts a laugh and takes a sip of his tea, blowing on it when he discovers it’s still a bit too hot for his liking.  ”Well if we’re discussing wardrobe choices, I’ll have to admit that sweater looks far better on you than it ever did on me.” Sherlock nods and adds:  ”Agreed.  I approve.” Greg leans over and rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, smiling.  John peers over at what he is reading.  The headline ‘SUSPICIOUS MURDER SUICIDE IN SUSSEX’ is followed by a half-page feature with a photo of small country inn. “Any chance you boys fancy a bit of a holiday?”  John asks.  ”I hear Sussex is nice this time of year.” Sherlock beams and looks down at Greg. “On one condition,” he responds.  ”We’re getting a room with a King size bed.”

msaether:

A VERY happy Birthday (yesterday i am so late i am so sorry) to the amazing Megan from me and Damian. He had the brilliant idea of OT3 JohnLockStrade..sher…strade…john..? john…strade..lock??? and tattoos and we hope you like it!

Happy Birthday! You’re amazing and we adore you!

M, this is your little ficlet to go along with Kam’s illustration.  I apologize that it’s a bit late!  There’s a link to AO3 or you can just ‘read more’ below.  WE LOVE YOU.

—-

- I -

The room is buzzing from the static of emotional electricity.  Greg is standing in the kitchen in a defensive stance - knees bent, hands open at his waist - as if he anticipates an attack.  John is by the window where Sherlock used to play and he is breathing heavily, jaw clenched tight.

Everything inside him wants to bellow, to shout abuse and obscenities until his voice is as raw as his heart.  But he convinces himself that he is in better control than that.  He swallows the lump of rage in his throat and exhales slowly through his nose.

“What do you mean ‘there’s someone else’?”

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May. 19, 2013 @ 2:09PM - 274 notes
Finished part 2 of 2 for kriskenshin’s ‘Sherlock as Moriarty’ prompt, which was a simply inspired choice on her part.  Thank you for letting me write this for you, I really hope you like it!  And thank you to Kam, M and Ray - you know what for.  <3 Preview: “You know, I heard someone say once that there was a problem with disguises.  However hard you try, it’s always a self portrait.” Sherlock lets his head fall forward, chin to chest.  John’s words chill him, especially the ones he doesn’t say outright.  Murderer.  Criminal.  Liar.  This is what you’ve always been. “Says the vigilante to the assassin,” Sherlock mutters in reply. John reacts like the crack of a whip.  In the next second he has one hand around Sherlock’s neck and for the second time that night, their faces are nearly occupying the same space. “What did you say?” John asks through clenched teeth. Read ‘War Paint’ (on AO3)

Finished part 2 of 2 for kriskenshin’s ‘Sherlock as Moriarty’ prompt, which was a simply inspired choice on her part.  Thank you for letting me write this for you, I really hope you like it!  And thank you to Kam, M and Ray - you know what for.  <3

Preview:

“You know, I heard someone say once that there was a problem with disguises.  However hard you try, it’s always a self portrait.”

Sherlock lets his head fall forward, chin to chest.  John’s words chill him, especially the ones he doesn’t say outright.  Murderer.  Criminal.  Liar.  This is what you’ve always been.

“Says the vigilante to the assassin,” Sherlock mutters in reply.

John reacts like the crack of a whip.  In the next second he has one hand around Sherlock’s neck and for the second time that night, their faces are nearly occupying the same space.

“What did you say?” John asks through clenched teeth.

Read ‘War Paint’ (on AO3)

May. 8, 2013 @ 11:14PM - 47 notes
kriskenshin asked for:  &#8221;After the fall Sherlock creates the character &#8216;Moran&#8217; so he can control Moriarty&#8217;s network and take it down.  John is also trying to take down Moriarty&#8217;s network and plans to kill &#8216;Moran&#8217; not knowing it is Sherlock.&#8221; I am really incredibly stoked for this prompt and I really just hope I don&#8217;t fuck it up.  (This has been in my drafts for ages but I was lucky enough to meet Kris at 221b Con and I wanted to get this done for her. &lt;3) There&#8217;s an odd hush about the compound as everyone readies their equipment.  Buckles are snapped shut, zippers are pulled closed and ropes are wound.  It is not silent, but the sounds are merely out of necessity.  No one speaks for fear of breaking the delicate calm. John checks the magazine before snapping it back into his gun.  He adjusts the volume on his radio and recites the pass code for the storage yard in his head.  Months of planning have brought him to this very instant and he can&#8217;t let himself down by not being ready.  He is.  It&#8217;s time. John looks around at the group of men and women around him, dressed in black and leather, and grins out of the side of his mouth.   &#8220;Put on your war paint,&#8221; he tells them, at last.  Black lines are drawn under eyes and wool balaclavas are pulled down.  They pile into an unmarked van and manhandle their hostage into position.  Then they are out on London&#8217;s dark streets, driving towards destiny. # &#8220;Listen to me you ignorant fucks,&#8221; he growls into the speaker phone.  &#8221;I gave you one bloody task.  ONE.  So get the hell back out there and bring me Zane Adams.&#8221; He jabs the disconnect button and falls back into his chair, huffing out all the air in his lungs.  There was no way that he was going to let one egotistical drug dealer jeopardize his entire plan.  If Sebastian Moran had a legacy, it would be one of fear, retribution and utter loyalty.  And Sherlock Holmes would do anything in his power to perpetuate the almost mythological stature he had built for himself through Jim Moriarty&#8217;s supposedly &#8216;left-hand&#8217; man. &#8220;Sir!&#8221;  Sherlock as Sebastian stands from behind the table as one of his men comes jogging into the room. &#8220;What is it?&#8221; &#8220;Someone&#8217;s here.  There&#8217;s a van parked at the back of the warehouse.  We missed it on the cameras and Levinsky says it&#8217;s empty.  Whoever drove it here is already in the storage yard.&#8221; &#8220;You know, you people never fail to astound me with your sheer incompetence.  Lock it down!  And someone get me a gun!&#8221; # John and a kid named Mason climb a ladder that clings to the exterior of the building.  Roof access allows them one severe advantage - access to the junction box. Mason uses a bolt cutter to break through the padlock, then pops open the casing with a crowbar.  He looks over at John and nods before sprinting across the roof to the maintenance stairway door.  It&#8217;s currently locked down with a magnetic lock and release system, but that won&#8217;t really be a deterrent once John cuts through every wire in the box. John takes the handful of colourful wire and exhales heavily.  He knows that once he cuts, everything will jolt into motion.  And if everything goes according to his plan, he&#8217;ll be standing face to face with Sebastian Moran in mere minutes.  And he will have his revenge. Inhale.  Exhale.  Cut. # The lights go out and there is a heavy metal clunk as numerous doors release their magnetic locks.  An unfamiliar sensation crawls up Sherlock&#8217;s spine - cold and sharp.  He barks orders at a few lackeys in the room, instructing them to cover the entrances. &#8220;Who the hell could&#8217;ve tracked us here?&#8221;  He directs the question at the closest gunman. &#8220;No one, Moran,&#8221; comes the reply, &#8220;the network thinks you are in Paris.  It&#8217;s impossible.&#8221; &#8220;Well evidently not,&#8221; Sherlock replies, flatly.  &#8221;Go see to-&#8220; Before he can continue, shouting and gunfire erupts from the north west entrance to the building, interrupting him.  Bursts from the firearms throw staccato shadows across the roof and walls.  Sherlock&#8217;s eyes sweep around in the darkness, but he can only make out rough shapes and blurred motion.  The ruckus continues for a few long moments, then dissipates into shuffling feet and hurried whispers. Sherlock settles into his alter ego and thumbs the safety off his gun.  He readies himself for battle. # John and Mason each take a handful of Zane Adams&#8217; jacket and drag him across the concrete floor.  His hands are zip-tied behind his back, so his attempts at struggle are laughable at best. &#8220;MORAN!&#8221; Mason calls into the darkness.  &#8221;Show yourself!&#8221; There is no reply. &#8220;If you don&#8217;t come out, we&#8217;ll put a bullet in your dealer&#8217;s head.&#8221; A soft laughter emanates from the back corner of the room.  &#8221;Be my guest,&#8221; Moran replies, &#8220;saves me the trouble.&#8221; John narrows his eyes and nods at two of his colleagues.  They peel off from the main group and try to circle around to the source of the voice.   &#8220;I knew you were a rat, Sebastian, but I didn&#8217;t know you were a coward,&#8221; John calls out.  It will be easier to find him if they can keep him talking.  &#8220;Far from it, I&#8217;m afraid,&#8221; Moran replies.  This time, his voice comes from the opposite end of the room.  &#8221;A self-preservationist, perhaps.&#8221; Mason brings his gun down hard on Zane Adams&#8217; head and knocks him out cold.  He gestures into the darkness in the direction of the voice and leaves John alone in the only pool of light. &#8220;Oh, a &#8216;self-preservationist&#8217;.  I see,&#8221; John continues, drawing his gun.  &#8221;Don&#8217;t forget to add &#8216;murderer&#8217; to the list.&#8221; In the next moment, there&#8217;s the sound of fabric rustling and the scuff of shoes on concrete.  Then John feels the cold barrel of a gun pressed against his temple.  Warm lips move against his ear, in a whisper. &#8220;I&#8217;ll never forget the lives I&#8217;ve taken.&#8221; John reacts without a second thought.  He stomps down on the foot of his assailant and throws an elbow backwards.  It connects with Moran&#8217;s solar plexus and John can hear the rush of air escape his lungs.  He takes two steps backwards and holds his gun straight out in front of him, safety off and hammer cocked. Sebastian moves almost as quickly.  He assumes a similar position - gun drawn and pointed at John - and they find themselves in a stand-off.  John tries to glean as much information about Moran as he can in the next few seconds.  He needs every advantage he can get. Most noticeably, he&#8217;s tall and lean.  Ginger-haired and smartly dressed.  He holds the weapon more like a sportsman than a soldier, but John has no doubt about his ability to pull the trigger.  The darkness of the room obscures most of his face in shadow, but it appears angular and sharp. &#8220;Who are you?&#8221; Moran finally demands. John removes one hand from his gun to pull off his balaclava, and discards it on the floor.  &#8221;John Watson,&#8221; he replies.  &#8221;I&#8217;m sure you&#8217;ve heard of me.  We actually have a lot in common.  I believe you also watched my best friend throw himself off a roof.  Only you did it through the scope of a rifle.&#8221; Sebastian seems to falter slightly, his hands dipping for a moment before he becomes rigid again. &#8220;John?  But how did you-&#8220; &#8220;Shut up!  Lower your weapon.  You&#8217;re outnumbered and surrounded.  Just give it up.&#8221; &#8220;You&#8230; you tracked me here?  You found me, by yourself?  No police?&#8221; John swallows, impatient.  &#8221;No police.  Which, if I were you, would worry me more than if they were here.  Because if you don&#8217;t drop that bloody gun, I&#8217;m going to put a bullet through you and plead self-defense.&#8221; Sebastian takes a step closer, further into the light, and slowly crouches.  He places the gun on the floor and holds his hands up in surrender. &#8220;John,&#8221; he says again, but this time, his voice sounds different.  Impossibly different. # (tbc)

kriskenshin asked for:  ”After the fall Sherlock creates the character ‘Moran’ so he can control Moriarty’s network and take it down.  John is also trying to take down Moriarty’s network and plans to kill ‘Moran’ not knowing it is Sherlock.”

I am really incredibly stoked for this prompt and I really just hope I don’t fuck it up.  (This has been in my drafts for ages but I was lucky enough to meet Kris at 221b Con and I wanted to get this done for her. <3)

There’s an odd hush about the compound as everyone readies their equipment.  Buckles are snapped shut, zippers are pulled closed and ropes are wound.  It is not silent, but the sounds are merely out of necessity.  No one speaks for fear of breaking the delicate calm.

John checks the magazine before snapping it back into his gun.  He adjusts the volume on his radio and recites the pass code for the storage yard in his head.  Months of planning have brought him to this very instant and he can’t let himself down by not being ready.  He is.  It’s time.

John looks around at the group of men and women around him, dressed in black and leather, and grins out of the side of his mouth.  

“Put on your war paint,” he tells them, at last.  Black lines are drawn under eyes and wool balaclavas are pulled down.  They pile into an unmarked van and manhandle their hostage into position.  Then they are out on London’s dark streets, driving towards destiny.

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Apr. 17, 2013 @ 11:26PM - 179 notes

So I finally managed to get two clean prototype shirts screenprinted!  THANK GOD.

The Johnlock one says: From knowledge, truth.  (key | gun)

The Mormor one says: Moment to die.  (lock | bullet)

Hopefully I can get a full batch printed up before con season.  Which starts.. uh.. Friday.  /sighs/

Apr. 2, 2013 @ 11:20PM - 53 notes

bakerstreetletters:

2013.03.30 - From JW to SH

With you, I could breathe fire.

Mar. 31, 2013 @ 3:34PM - 55 notes

Consulting Hufflepuff: The Facts Were These »

devinleighbee:

writinginmargins:

At this very moment in a laboratory at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, Sherlock Holmes was thirty-one years, eighteen weeks, four days, and twenty-seven minutes old. His acquired liver tissue sample was two minutes and fifteen seconds old when he received the unexpected news, which caused him to upset the carefully managed pH level of said experiment. Glaring down at his worktop — Petri dish fizzing away at the sudden introduction of hydrogen peroxide — Sherlock cleared his throat. Set the pipette and biro pen near his Moleskine. The activity of catalase was unusual under the lab conditions. Where on another day that might intrigue him, today he turned toward the door with narrowed eyes.

Michael Stamford, Mike to his friends and colleagues, stood with his blazer draped over one forearm as if to shield himself from Sherlock, the human embodiment of an unstable chemical reaction. Rolling down his shirtsleeves, Sherlock watched the man shift on his feet, shoulders drooping and glasses reflecting in the hopeless light of the lab ceiling fixtures. He repeated himself with a self-depreciating duck of his head.

“John’s funeral is tomorrow. John Watson. Just thought you’d want to know.”

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sOBBING

Mar. 26, 2013 @ 9:25AM - 30 notes

bakerstreetletters:

2013.03.23 - SH to JW

Your presence in a room became an anchor for my thoughts.

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Mar. 24, 2013 @ 1:00AM - 71 notes
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A Grim Fandango Sherlock/Greek Mythology AU Chapter 4: Fracture (on AO3) -Art by msaether- ### John woke with a gasp, desperately sucking air into his lungs. He tried to sit upright, but a heavy weight pinned him down. He started to panic, claustrophobia setting in on all sides, and he clawed at his chest. Where he expected to feel hot, sticky blood and the cavernous wound, he instead felt smooth flesh. And then came the pain. (Read More&#8230;) p.s. have a bonus glitch gif

A Grim Fandango

Sherlock/Greek Mythology AU

Chapter 4: Fracture (on AO3)

-Art by msaether-

###

John woke with a gasp, desperately sucking air into his lungs. He tried to sit upright, but a heavy weight pinned him down. He started to panic, claustrophobia setting in on all sides, and he clawed at his chest. Where he expected to feel hot, sticky blood and the cavernous wound, he instead felt smooth flesh. And then came the pain.

(Read More…)

p.s. have a bonus glitch gif

Glitch

Mar. 21, 2013 @ 11:52PM - 58 notes
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thescienceofjohnlock: megg33k: beneighdict: forsciencejohn: X SHERLOCK BATHROOM?????!!!!!!???!!?!?!?!?!?!? !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Am I dead? Is this heaven? Bathroom, bathroom, BATHROOM!  OMG he’s got a green bath, just like mine! Which means we both have crappy 1970s bathrooms.

thescienceofjohnlock:

megg33k:

beneighdict:

forsciencejohn:

X

SHERLOCK BATHROOM?????!!!!!!???!!?!?!?!?!?!?

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Am I dead? Is this heaven? Bathroom, bathroom, BATHROOM! 

OMG he’s got a green bath, just like mine! Which means we both have crappy 1970s bathrooms.

Mar. 19, 2013 @ 9:41AM - 2,801 notes
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rox712: And here we go!! 19timescounting   1st day of filming on Sherlock, lets grab the bull by the horns…. pic.twitter.com/CQE2OQCYJF

rox712:

And here we go!!

 
1st day of filming on Sherlock, lets grab the bull by the horns….
Mar. 18, 2013 @ 9:56AM - 1,094 notes