Study in scarlet
The hound of the baskervilles
the scorch trials
A dance of dragons
Panic! at the disco
Fall out boy
i’ve never believed the penis size theory. i thought it was a joke but then people started acting like it was cannon.
there are a few theories out there and i will go over the ones that make the most sense to me.
1) Billy is commenting on how John walks. and as many people have mentioned in the past John walks with a military stride. that along with his old injured leg that bothers him sometimes might give him an odd walk.
2) chaffing might be saying John walks like he has a stick up his arse or is very stiff. this ties into an idea that Billy might be commenting more on chaffing in John and Mary’s relationship. aka John’s not getting any, he’s tense.
Sherlock of course knows John’s tense person and he cock blocked him for most of the time they lived together so he knows chaffing stiff John well.
3) i want to just comment a bit more about chaffing between Mary and John. the whole time Billy’s deducing John he’s describing a very unhappy marriage. he’s talking about how John is packed and ready to leave at a moments notice which isn’t good for someone so newly wed.
then he gets to the chaffing and we see Sherlock’s face. he considers the information and it’s like he’s realizing John isn’t ok without him. John isn’t off getting his leg over. John is bored. perhaps Sherlock says what he says to helps John out. to be kind. he does do that sometimes, even when it does’t seem like it.
4) John is biking to work and maybe the chaffing is from biking to and from work.
those are a few of the theory’s i have come across, liked, made up myself. i really think it’s about an emotional factor as well as being physically uncomfortable. but thats just me.
John lives for this. It aches, his knees are bruised, his knuckles are a fucking wreck, and his practitioner doubts that he’ll make it to seventy; but he lives for this.
The basement of 221 B has one lone light bulb and dusty detritus in its corners. Kicking it away are boys like Sean, he who kick him while he’s down; Charlie, who’s broken John’s rib at least once; and Immanuel, who uses his fucking nails until John bleeds.
It hurts like hell every morning, and John lives for it. He fucking worships the red-blue-black-yellow of his bruises in fresher, brighter light, and he can spend whole extra minutes stroking ‘em while he washes up. Feels it sting. He’ll grapple with it, with his own self control and halting breaths and fucking stiffy when he squeezes his scratches, his welts, all the pain he’s overcome, all the shouts and harsh breaths, and fists against his back and arms down there in that filthy basement room, concrete floor his only bedding— and he’ll come shaking, aching, a shivering mess against his wet shower wall without even a stroke at his cock.
The first time Sherlock joins them, he walks down with his arms crossed. Lips twitching, furious that John Watson, Doctor and man of comparative sanity, is going about and smashing himself to bits in the sanctity of their home. He stands against the farthest wall, light barely touching him—watching. Eyes on the poor worldly fighters hauling one another to the floor while he, on his pedestal among ‘em, views the goings on; dusting off, occasionally, the finely tailored blazer of his, reeking of posh and money, and git.
It’s that final thought, ‘git,’ that brings John to shout, voice hoarse and wrecked, “Care to join, then?” at his flatmate, brushing off blood from his cracked knuckles. The air is sucked from the room in the ensuing silence, and it’s only then that the duo make eye contact. Sherlock’s are cold, calculating, while John’s are on fire.
In silence, Sherlock Holmes shrugs off his blazer (drops it to the floor), unbuttons the clasps at his wrists, and shoves his sleeves up his arms. Circumambulates the doctor, as Charlie skulks from the center of the room. The dynamic has changed, suddenly, from homey and cathartic to—something else entirely. Sherlock prowls the perimeter, head tilting from side to side, considering. John’s suddenly reminded of his brutal wanks in the shower, hard, fast, almost painful—
Sherlock Holmes lunges. He steps to the side, arms curled in front of him, and smashes John square on the jaw. He didn’t expect it, didn’t see it; that, he supposes, would be Sherlock’s strength. Strategy and deception. John stumbles back, shakes his head to interrupt the ringing in his ears, zig-zags back to the center of the ring, aiming a low blow to Sherlock’s abdomen, John’s arm close to his own body for minimal surface area unprotected—and is slammed down to the floor by the shoulders.
He’s gasping for breath, eyes bulging out of him, and the sting on his shoulder blades has him seeing stars. There’s a harsh squeeze to his wrists, and Holmes is leaning over him, snarling, pinning him to the floor—John could get out, if he wanted. Easily.
But there’s the dastardly distraction of Sherlock’s cock against his crotch, and it’s hard and firm against him. Oh. John’s breath hitches. Suddenly the escape sounds far more difficult; that requires the heat against his chest, the heaving of his flatmate’s breaths expanding Sherlock outward, brushing his nip—oh, Jesus—
“Get out.” A low growl above him that John can feel. Directed toward Immanuel, Charlie, Sean, and—good God— Sherlock’s hips buck against his own, and John’s hardening faster than he’s ever done in his life. Only distantly does he hear the retreating footsteps of his mates. Much closer, much deeper, much lower, “You’re not doing this again.” He’s livid.
“I’m a consenting adult,” John counters, lifting his hips against Sherlock’s own. Shit, that’s—
“You’ve been in hospital twice.” That’s an outright grind on Sherlock’s part, and John’s gasping, he’s wriggling, Christ, if his flatmate would move his bloody hands off him—“No more.” Sherlock makes eye contact, and no one mentions that they’re breathing much harder than necessary.
John rolls his eyes, “For God’s sake, Sherlock, I can—” Another roll of his hips, and this time it hurts, and the grip on his wrists grows tighter, bruising, he can barely breathe, he’s going to—shit, he’s going to—
“No,” the detective’s voice is at its lowest, barely distinguishable from the rumbling at his chest, and John is harder than he’s ever been in his life. This is either bliss or blistering, and if he doesn’t escape or get off soon, he’s going to implode. “You’re going upstairs,” Sherlock clarifies, rocking forward with little sways of his hips, “And you’re going to fix yourself up.”
Looking up at him, in the eyes, really paying attention to him, John finds that Sherlock’s nostrils are flaring. There’s tension all up his neck and well into his jaw, and it’s all that ‘Mr Married-To-His-Work’ can do to keep himself in line. “And if I don’t?” John can’t see Sherlock’s face anymore, it’s buried in his neck; the consultant’s grip on his wrists have shifted to his forearms, and, good God, he’s never felt Sherlock this close, this hot against him, this, this—
Holy fucking shit. He’s seeing white. His right shoulder is screaming at him, he’s being pierced, he’s struggling against Sherlock’s hold on him like nothing before; an animal trying to escape, he’s fucking petrified, he’s fucking going to die here, he’s—He feels something pull out of his skin, he feels warm blood on his neck, tears against his cheeks and falling to his hairline. He’s a shivering, quivering mess, and Sherlock Holmes is staring down at him only mildly mollified. “You’re coming upstairs.” His teeth are red. His eyes are ice.
John’s coming upstairs.
yep that’s exactly how it went
I’m a piece of shit
"Romeo And Juliet" Act I scene I
imagine ur otp
the forehead touch
now imagine ur otp doing the forehead touch
as one of them dies in the other’s arms
take that somewhere else
"Stiles is very frenetic, hyperactive, and he’s always moving. Void Stiles is very still."