The Science of Phonaesthetics

mazarin221b:

agameofscones:

Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project — published, submitted, in progress, for your cat — whatever.

John doesn’t even think, just starts unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt as Sherlock undoes his belt. “They’re in your shirt, Sherlock, Christ, here, let’s get it all off, sorry,” John says, and strips Sherlock as efficiently as he ever has any emergency patent until Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room in nothing but his bright blue pants.

“Oh, hell, Sherlock, they really did get you,” John says, examining what looks like over two dozen stings on Sherlock’s chest and legs. “Tell me you’re not allergic.”

“No,” Sherlock moans piteously. “But it burns.”

John takes him by the arm and pulls him upstairs. “I imagine it does. Come on, up you go. I sound like my mum, but you’re getting an oatmeal bath.”

The prospect of more Through the Clouds makes me get all:

mazarin221b:

madlori:

mydwynter:

mazarin221b:

Sherlock smiles, a tinge of thanks in his gaze. “Any chance we could get Chinese delivered out here? I’m famished.”

John looks around at their home, feels the unrelenting quiet of the place without the bustle of London all around them. “Sherlock, and you know I say this as your friend, without malice. But there isn’t a chance in hell.”

With more than heartfelt thanks - with a whole lot of fucking gratitude - to Mydwynter and HiddenLacuna, who kicked my ass, put up with my whining, and made sure this chapter was better than they found it. <3

Sorry for how long this has taken to update. This chapter almost killed me, ya’ll. The dreaded middle, my new nemesis.

Dreaded middle be damned. I love this story.

*RUNS LIKE A MANIAC*

Hahaha, you nut. I really hope it satisfied.:)  And thanks, Bran. it wouldn’t be half of what it is without your help.

Also, timezone reblog! :)

Reading this lovely story thus far has been like curling up in your favorite chair by the fire with a blanket, a hot toddy, and a good book. It’s warm, quiet, and full of promises of good things to come. 

John and Sherlock meet the first time during the summer of 1992 in Bournemouth - John is a lifeguard, earning money during his gap year before he goes to medical school. Sherlock has been dragged along on a final family holiday before he goes to Cambridge. They meet, and its the most interesting thing that’s happened to either of them the entire summer.

He’s a bit of an oddity, this beautiful boy with his bucketful of jellyfish, but John likes him immensely. Proud and defiant and brilliant. John grins at him and gently swirls a stick through the bucket of jellies, watching them pulse and float through the water.

“You’re not wrong. You’re amazing, in fact. I’m John Watson. Would you like to go, maybe get something to eat?”

The boy grins, a bright, lopsided smile that makes John’s heart skip a beat. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes. And I’d love to.”

Maz wrote a new fic. Maz wrote a new fic. Maz wrote a new fic. Maz wrote a new fic. Maz wrote a new fic.

Did I, um, mention that Maz wrote a new fic? Yes? Oh, good.

:)

mazarin221b:

Rating: NC-17 (eventually)

Pairing: John/Sherlock

Summary: Sherlock takes a remarkably early retirement at 47, and convinces John that a change of pace would do them both good. They buy an old cottage on the South Downs, and exchange their nonstop life in Baker Street for quiet contemplation, bee studies, and book writing.

They might go completely insane, but sometimes it takes stepping outside of the life you’re living to find the life you want.

Sherlock takes one last look out to the horizon, mouth downturned and brow furrowed, before seeming to shake himself and catching up to John with a few long-legged strides. John turns back toward the path cut into the cliffs, climbing steadily toward the rolling downs already green and lush in the weak April warmth.

They reach the top and Sherlock strikes toward the west, back to where their hired Land Rover sits a mile away in a public carpark. John falls into step beside him and takes a deep breath.

“I expected a case,” he starts. “A bit chilly for a walk, really, so. D’you mind telling me what we’re doing out here?”
Sherlock doesn’t even pause, simply tucks his head down against the wind and continues walking.

“I’m retiring,” he says simply.

RRRRRRRRRRRRUNS DOES NOT WALK.

I’m so very excited for this :)