Brittanie

"I'm not a huge fan of wraps because they always seemed like a "healthy option" (which I could care less about) and I'm a bread lover - the more bread, the better. But I wanted to try something a…" - Brittanie

Duty; sacrifice; another shot at life. Sherlock may not be an expert in emotions, but he knows John. He knows where this is leading, and it's an operating table where they'll open John up and carve something vital out of him. With searing clarity it surges through him, a hot tide that washes away all of his doubts, and in that moment Sherlock knows that he'd rather have them cut into his own flesh. He wobbles upright and balances on unsteady feet. John is right: sometimes you have to do unpleasant things for the person you love. - Brittanie

John watches Sherlock sleep. Restful. Soon, he’ll wake; and the game will be on, Sherlock’s tremendous mind having deciphered one or another clue that will break the investigation open, labyrinth untangled. While they chase Sherlock’s conclusions down, Sherlock may or mayn’t discuss what of John he would like to keep, forever, for always, their strange yet intimate game. “Maybe your heart,” Sherlock might say, sidelong and sly, making a joke of a threat, “Seeing as our friend M has promised to burn mine out of me.” - Brittanie

With a few mellifluous words, Mr. Norbury puts Sherlock to sleep. When he wakes again, Mr. Norbury tells him he’s been sanded and waxed, and it should hold, but there will be no replacement limbs, no new ball bearings. “But don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll be right as rain before you know it.” “I never worry,” Sherlock tells him, and tastes ash. - Brittanie

The Beast is shrinking, twisting. Bones realign themselves into human patterns; fur vanishes to reveal pale skin; paws expand to long, graceful fingers with too-long nails. The mane becomes a wild tangle of curls, the face smoothes into a familiar shape of high cheekbones and full lips. It’s the man from the painting. When the transformation is finished he falls bonelessly; John is barely quick enough to catch him. - Brittanie

“What do you want, then? If not to be my angel of mercy. If not to bring me gifts.” “To be human,” John rasps out, his voice nearly gone from screaming, his whole body on fire. “Just - to be human.” - Brittanie

John shivered, and this time he wasn't able to prevent flinching away. "Be glad I've restrained myself this long," Sherlock said sharply. "This could have been on the street, in a restaurant, in the back of a cab. Do you think anyone would have batted an eye? Luckily for you I do see the value of discretion in some arenas." He opened his mouth against John's neck and bit him, suddenly and hard. - Brittanie

To strip themselves bare of everything, of clothes and pretences and normality and skin. And just crawl into each other, beneath everything, all the flesh and muscle and bone. Sherlock wants to put his head under John’s ribcage and hide there, rest his ear against that hot, beating heart. Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud against my ear. “Sherlock?” - Brittanie

Sherlock/Neverwhere AU crossover; Sherlock thought about Doctor John Watson and attempted to the put the world back to rights. Only it seemed to shift out from under his feet every time he thought about John and remembered what he’d just done. The man with a shaking hand, psychosomatic limp and a cable-knit Aran jumper had seemed harmless. John Watson was not even close to ordinary and he was the only reason Sherlock was alive. Not once, but twice over, and to think Sherlock had brushed him off. Had deduced him to be harmless and he’d been wrong. - Brittanie

Sometimes he thinks about what it would be like. Seeing him again. He imagines he'd hit him if given the chance. Crack him right across that stupid jaw. He'd like to make him bleed, on some days. Watch the color drain out of him and stain the floor. But then he remembers it again, how it already has, and he stops thinking like that. - Brittanie

John Watson does not have him. Many people do not have Sherlock Holmes. Many people have expressed strong feelings regarding gratitude for this state of being. But nonetheless, it hurts John. It is hurting John. Sherlock is hurting John. It was the only possible action he could have taken, so it is entirely illogical to feel anything. Except, possibly, pride for saving John’s life. But pride is not what Sherlock is feeling. - Brittanie

John was put back together once and he does not have it in him to do it again. Sherlock said Come anyway, Sherlock said Could be dangerous and John followed him. John followed him and picked up his gun again and aimed it into the night shadows that Sherlock ran straight into. John allowed Sherlock to say Give me your hand and Come here and he let himself be put back together. - Brittanie

The sounds I heard, they were… unambiguous. I knew what I would find even before I opened that door. I remember that I stood there, praying I was wrong. Then I did open the door." WARNING: sexual abuse of a child (in the past) - Brittanie

The sounds I heard, they were… unambiguous. I knew what I would find even before I opened that door. I remember that I stood there, praying I was wrong. Then I did open the door." WARNING: sexual abuse of a child (in the past) - Brittanie

Turning toward Sherlock, John froze for a second, just a second; Sherlock could see a soldier's appraisal of the situation in his eyes and stance. John then brought his weapon to bear, drawing closer. - Brittanie

"OllieCake and Urban Cookies are housed in the same building and come from the same till but since I got a cookie and a cupcake, I'll review them separately. We arrived later in the day so they were…" - Brittanie

"OllieCake and Urban Cookies are housed in the same building and come from the same till but since I got a cookie and a cupcake, I'll review them separately. The cookie selection is housed in jars…" - Brittanie

He liked to make Thor beg for it, to see him stripped down to a desperate, mewling thing that had no concept of pride or propriety, whose only thoughts were of more and please and now. - Brittanie

He can't for the life of him figure out where Sherlock picked up those bizarre ethics. It makes him smile, makes him sick, makes him want to laugh hysterically. It breaks his heart and it's incredibly infuriating. His little brother, his brilliant genius little brother, is an idealistic fool. God, he'll never be able to stop worrying about him, it will go on forever. - Brittanie

Many happy returns, says Sherlock, and a thin red bead forms at corner of his mouth. Mycroft looks down. Oh, yes. The blade. - Brittanie

His feet are bound too, at the ankles. There isn’t much room, and John can feel other objects around him, can brush them with his shoulders and feet. Cold, cloth-covered metal. Containers, too, that clank sharply at every turn and motion of the car. Outside is too quiet. He’s not in the city any more. - Brittanie

John chuckled. “No, it wasn’t, was it? Not offensive at all.” In fact, it felt like pieces coming together. Him and Sherlock. Like a puzzle solved. They could do this if they wanted, kiss and shag, hypnotize and be hypnotized, argue and share meals and solve cases. It could all work. John felt giddy and happy, and his chuckle turned to an all-out laugh as he suddenly thought of his sister. If only she could hear that assessment. John, the dull heterosexual, snogging a bloke and enjoying the hell out of it. - Brittanie

Sherlock exhales. “But, we’re still here, yes?” John’s fingers move again, coming to rest on the steady pulse in his neck. This seems to please him. He exhales, too. “We are.” - Brittanie