Be prepared for a huge amount of Benedict Cumberbatch and Sherlock fandom here. Also a ton of John/Sherlock slash.
This tumblr may or may not also contain the following: kimono. Hannibal. Tom Hiddleston. Photography. Supernatural. Nail polish. Classic American muscle cars. Comic books. Science fiction. Alex Kingston. Kitties. Jensen Ackles. Stupid internet memes. Cephalopods. Jewelry. Flowers. Tea. Doctor Who. Harry Potter. True Blood. Tom Felton. Misha Collins. Anne Hathaway. Batman. Catwoman. Teen Wolf. Spidergate.
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belovedmuerto is my beloved lovey and pieuvrecakes is my darling fishwife
Hanlock AU - Sherlock/Hannibal
Hannibal thinks he found someone who shares interest with him, but he is mistaken.
The tongues were in the oven, the sauce simmering on the stovetop. A reduction of blackberries and the vitreous fluid from inside the eyeballs he’d found in the fridge.
Mr. Holmes was fascinating, in his own way. Coarse and rude, but Hannibal was willing to overlook that for the time being; it was unusual to be more interested in the workings of someone’s mind than the brain it was housed in, especially when they were so abrasive.
But then he’d found the body parts, all neatly catalogued and organised inside the fridge. He was surprised Mr. Holmes’ room-mate, and a doctor on top of that, allowed it, but they did have a rather unconventional relationship.
He was humming quietly, Donizetti’s “Il Campanello”, when he heard the door opening.
“Welcome home, Mr. Holmes.” He smirked slightly at the silly rhyme. Holmes quirked an eyebrow, acknowledging that they were both above the low-brow humour.
“Dr. Lecter, what a surprise. Why are you here?”
“I took the liberty of preparing a supper for you and Dr. Watson. Does he indulge as well, or just turn a blind eye when you do it?”
For a moment, Sherlock looked off his footing. Hannibal fixed the image in his mind, suspecting it was a rare thing indeed.
“Indulge? In eating?”
“Eating the… finer things.” Hannibal waved one hand over the pot. “I found the tongues and the eyeballs in the refrigerator. It’s rare when one finds people with a common interest.”
The expression Holmes gave him was one Hannibal had never seen. It was an impossible combination of mild revulsion, fascination, and exultation.
“Aha. I thought so.” The detective nearly shouted.
“Your interest in a more esoteric diet. From the way you held your knife at the restaurant last night.”
Hannibal looked down at his hands.
“Ah, yes, of course. Well, I do hope this doesn’t make things awkward. It would be a shame to… waste that brain of yours.”
He grinned at this, and for a moment Hannibal was reminded of some predatory cat. Those strange, pale eyes glinted in the dim light.
“And give up the experience of a lifetime?” He leaned over the counter, and dipped his finger into the saucepan. Hannibal had to restrain himself from rapping Holmes’ knuckles with a spoon. “I think not.”
Because Sherlock is glancing at John before he answers to Mrs Hudson’s “I wish you could have worn the antlers.” and then John is smiling and looks so happy.
Don’t know what I’m saying as always.
John doesn’t need to use his imagination. He’s seen Sherlock in the antlers.
The soft, broken strains of Sherlock practicing float out of the lounge, drawing John in. He leans against the door for a moment, studying Sherlock in silence. He must shift his weight and cause the floorboards to creak or something, because Sherlock pauses and looks up, smiling at him.
“You’re going to make her evening, you know that? You’re not as cold as you’d like people to think.”
Sherlock huffs, trying (and failing) to hide a smile. “Not for her. She’s different.”
“You going to wear the antlers, then?”
The look on Sherlock’s face is priceless. A mask of unguarded horror. “Certainly not. They’re ridiculous. Even for Mrs. Hudson.”
John grins. “Have you even tried them on? C’mon, humour me.”
Sherlock narrows his gaze, but John continues to smile passively, holding the antlers at arm’s length. He shakes them lightly, causing the bells to jingle. It’s a bit like playing with a cat.
Before John even has time to notice, Sherlock’s snatched the antlers out of John’s hand and pulled them onto his head. They’re mussing his curls in an entirely new way, and he’s right, he looks completely absurd. John can’t help the barking laugh that escapes his lips.
“See?!” Sherlock grumbles and pulls them off, throwing them onto the sofa. “There’s no way anyone is ever going to see me wearing them.”
There’s a playful glint in John’s eye. “Someone just did, Sherlock?”
The irritation melts off Sherlock’s face, fades into something softer, indefinable. “Yes, but you’re different.”
Sighing contentedly, John lowers himself into the bathtub. He’s even gone and indulged in stealing a bit of Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive shower gel, and the bath is covered in a thick layer of foamy suds. It’s ridiculously extravagant, but after the day he’s just had, he deserves it.
He can hear Sherlock banging around outside, but manages to tune it out. Right now the world is narrowed down to the warm, moist space of the bathroom. John, the water, the bubbles. Nothing else.
He should have known it wasn’t going to last though. Before John even has time to sink down under the water and let the heat soothe his aching muscles, Sherlock kicks the door in.
“Oi! Sherlock, I’m naked in here.”
Sherlock cocks his head, confusion plain on his face. “I should hope so, John. Taking a bath with your pants on is inefficient.”
Groaning, John shifts slightly, ensuring at the very least that his cock is covered by the frothy suds of the bath. Knowing that trying to reason with Sherlock is a lost cause, John just glares at him. The effect is spoiled somewhat by a trickle of water falling into his eye and causing him to squint.
“Can I help you with something, Sherlock? Or were you just bored with the view in the lounge?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “Where did you put the potassium permangante? And the sulfuric acid?”
Covering his face with his hands, John slides down under the surface of the water. He’s all contorted now, and probably exposing himself in an unflattering manner, but somehow that doesn’t seem important anymore.
Resigned, John sits up again, feeling the warm water slide off him.
“Sherlock, you are not going to make things explode while I am in the tub. And would you please, for the love of god, stop barging in here while I am naked and trying to relax?”
Sherlock shrugs. “Suit yourself. It seems a shame to waste that bath though.”
John looks down at the water. “What do you mean, waste it?”
“Well, I am going to blow things up whether you’re in there or not. If you insist on supervising, you’re going to have to get out of the tub.”
“This is a lost cause, isn’t it?”
The grin Sherlock gives John in response is at once utterly charming and completely bloody infuriating.
“Just give me my towel, you sodding git.”
DO NOT READ THIS IF SPIDERS MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE.
So apparently, right around the time that filming of S3 started in Cardiff, they discovered the presence of an asbestos-contaminated tarantula. I like to imagine Sherlock is to blame.
It’s the sound of the blowtorch that gets John’s attention. With trepidation, he heads into the kitchen.
“Sherlock! Bloody Christ, what are you doing? It’s just a harmless Chilean Rose Tarantula. They’re placid, unless you start chasing them around with a blowtorch!”
Sherlock sighs, the dramatic, put-upon sigh of one whose genius is being overlooked yet again.
So we know Sherlock has indexed his own socks, and according to the Casebook has done the same with John’s ties. I was just tickled by the idea of Sherlock hiding out at Molly’s post-Reichenbach, and doing the same with her most personal of laundry items.
Sherlock steps back, eyeing his work with satisfaction. The brassieres have separated by colour and usage - the frilly, brightly coloured ones in one drawer and the more utilitarian ones Molly seems to favour when she’s ovulating or pre-menstrual in another. The pants have been similarly arranged; date-night knickers in one section, arranged by colour, and the big beige ones with the control tops that she doesn’t need but insists on keeping in another part.
The sun and the moon. (er night sky?)
inspired by this!
Dawn and dusk. Dusk and dawn. Since the beginning of time, that’s all they’ve had. A few scant minutes per cycle, twice a day.
John is drowsy, pink and aflame with oncoming sleep. Sherlock thinks he’s beautiful that way. He warms them both - bright rays of sunset reflecting off Sherlock’s silver surface, casting the faintest hint of pink across his cheekbones.
A more sentimental Moon would say Sherlock was blushing.
As John sets, as Sherlock rises, for a moment they are level in the sky. They reach out to one another, fingertips locked together, as if gripping each other this way will prolong it. And for a moment, everything is perfect. Everything is in balance, their eyes meeting, lips smiling.
And then Sherlock feels the pull, feels the sky calling him. Feels John falling, setting for the night. They cling together, hands tight, for as long as they can.
At least there’s sunrise tomorrow.
There once was a doctor named John,
His body was fit, tan, and strong.
He lost his red pants,
By some strange circumstance.
Said Sherlock - “Oh just wear a thong!”
mystradedoodles answered: How specific would you like? General: Lestrade please! Specific: Lestrade buried in valentines cards at the yard - hes a good looking guy.
everyone likes greg
Between valentines day and his birthday he has never bought chocolate. He’s got enough to see out nuclear winter.
It’s that time of year again. Greg groans and steps into his office, assaulted by the huge pile of pink and red on his desk.
At first, he’d worried that subordinates were currying favour from him, but then he noticed the chocolates were often arriving anonymously, and sometimes even clearly labelled from his superiors.
They’d been showing up on his desk somewhat regularly for years now, starting from the time his hair had shifted from an indistinct dark brown to salt-and-pepper, and now to full on silver-grey.
It’s not that he minds all the valentines. Not exactly. The flowers make him sneeze a bit and then end up dying in a jar in his kitchen, but the thought behind them is sweet. He’s had to cut down on the chocolates after that last root canal, but he still indulges. The frilly silk knickers were a bit confusing though - Greg wasn’t sure if he was meant to wear them or if someone else already had. He’d stuffed those in a drawer and promptly forgotten about them.
If he’s being entirely honest with himself, it’s that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get the one he’s waiting for. He rummages through the clutter on his desk, a feeble attempt to find the damned paperwork he needs to get done.
It’s then that he spots it. A nauseating pink affair that appears to be handmade out of doilies on it. There’s a fluffy kitten on the front, one with a big bow around its neck. The card is tied to a small stuffed bear, one wearing a tiny jumper with cherries on it.
His heart pounds in his chest. It may be the silliest, twee-est thing he’s ever seen, but without even reading the name on it, he knows. It’s from her.
This started as a bit of a joke last night in the #innercircle. And then this happened. Sorry. There’s some pretty clearly implied sexings going on off-screen here, but it’s not remotely graphic. And doesn’t involve poor Mrs. H, don’t worry. And if you’re wondering why I chose the name Bridget, it’s simply because it’s St. Brigit’s day and I needed a decent-sounding first name.
There’s a scuffle at the front door and the crash of elephants stampeding up the stairs, and Bridget Hudson smiles to herself. Sherlock and John are home, she can relax now. She potters about in the kitchen, humming fondly as she turns on the kettle and gets down the box of digestives.
With a huff, Sherlock shoves the pile of paperwork off the table in the sitting room they’ve come to use as a desk. It lands on the floor with a wholly unsatisfying thump. He runs his hands irritably through his hair before whipping his head around to glare at John.
“Stop looming. It’s distracting. I need to figure out how these cases relate to each other before someone else dies.”
John’s eyes are haggard, unfathomably tired. “Sherlock, you’ve been poring over those papers for over a week now. When was the last time you ate?”
Sherlock shakes his head. “Irrelevant.” Besides, he couldn’t answer even if he wanted to; he can’t remember.
Crossing into the kitchen, John sighs and speaks over his shoulder. “You have to eat something, Sherlock. You can’t live on coffee and nicotine for this long.”
“Try me.” Sherlock snaps irritably. He refuses to believe hunger’s put him in this mood – it’s the lack of answers. Food won’t help.
Silently, John places a plate of toast at Sherlock’s elbow. Accepting the fact that it’s the only way to get John to leave him alone, Sherlock yields. He nods up at John, glowering through the curls of his fringe. John’s expression, a mixture of exasperation, amusement, and concern, is enough to weaken Sherlock’s resolve.
“Alright, maybe just a bite.”