What to do When Your Flatmate is Homicidal by hyacinth_sky747.
A hilarious not just slightly silly work - enjoyable for the crazy 
Sherlock's POV

“Do you want to have sex with me, Sherlock?” he said after several years had passed.
“No,” I said. “Sometimes I want to taste what you’ve eaten. I think that means I want to kiss you, but I can live without it.”
I must have nodded or something because John was kissing me. He does this thing where he takes my bottom lip between his own and breathes in deep like I’ve hurt something in him. And then he does dirty things with his tongue.
“What do you think?” he said after an interval during which the moon waxed and waned and the sun did back flips and the galaxy swooned.
“I don’t know how the universe works,” I said. “I’m just glad you’re in it.”

“It just takes practice. Just take a deep breath, think of a dirty word and yell it out.”
I had my doubts but I closed my eyes, took a breath and yelled, “Ejaculate!”
It felt really good actually. I opened my eyes and John was smiling at me. I turned around to see what Lestrade thought and he and Molly were sitting with their hands over their mouths. John grabbed my chin.
“Ignore them. Try another. Dirtiest thing you can think of.”
“E Coli!” I yelled.

“What?” I yelled.
“Keep your voice down. I said, I sent him a picture of my cock.”
My boyfriend is a prostitute. My boyfriend is a prostitute with my brother. My boyfriend trades sexual favors for holidays at New England fishing villages. I am living in a Shakespeare play.

It’s worse. John says it’s not really a picture of his cock that he sent. He says he sent a picture of mine. I am living a in a Shakespeare play set in Las Vegas.

Last edited by Harriet (August 18, 2014 9:36 am)

Part 2 of my favourites of What to do When Your Flatmate is Homicidal by hyacinth_sky747.

John is all full of giggles. It is so wrong.
“Sherlock,” he said. “At this very moment Mycroft is wanking to a picture of his brother’s cock.
It’s perfect. It’s the perfect punishment for lusting after his brother’s boyfriend.”

This is how sweet John is: very.
After that night he’s been holding my hand very often. On the plane and queuing for customs and so on. I don’t know if it’s because I buggered him or because I said those words but some part of him is different. I think it’s the part that makes a grown man act like teen-aged girl. He’ll be writing our initials in hearts soon.

I am rubbish at thinking up gifts. Blessed are our Scottish brethren in the north because they make an endless variety of whiskey.

We’d not had an argument in awhile so when he mentioned reading an interesting article about how this moon way out there may have life on it, I scoffed at him. I’m an excellent scoffer. John proceeded to cite bits of the article at me and I just said, “No that’s wrong,” or, “I don’t believe that for a blessed minute,” to him. Sometimes I just rolled my eyes and said nothing even though Mycroft showed me that alien once.

I will never get used to sharing my living space with this terror. I’ll never get any work done. It’s unhygienic to keep animals in the home.
“I think you should have discussed this with me before you took him in and became all attached,” I told John.
“Yes, isn’t it annoying when someone brings something unsanitary and dangerous into your home?” John said and he allowed that dog to lick him all over his face.

Harriet, I have no idea what this is all about - but it's obviously deliciously funny. What a way to start the day! Thanks for that!

Harriet wrote:

What to do When Your Flatmate is Homicidal by hyacinth_sky747.
A hilarious not just slightly silly work - enjoyable for the crazy
Sherlock's POV

You made me look.  I can't seriously think of these as the actual characters (and I don't think I'm meant to), but it's very funny!  It reminds me of the The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, but more sweary.
 

Last edited by Liberty (August 19, 2014 8:17 am)

Silent Auror: Honour vs. Home

Post-TRF

And then Sherlock had jumped. In the weeks and months that followed, a terrifyingly dark mass of lifetime where all the days and nights ran together and he’d felt like he was going half out of his mind, John had gone through that final phone call over and over and over again, thinking of things that he could have said. Ways he could have prevented it from happening. Things he could have said instead of his useless denials – no, you’re not really doing this, I don’t believe it, stop this now. What if he’d said, instead, You know that I believe you, believe in you. You know that I’ll stand by you no matter what the newspapers say. If you need to leave London, I’ll go with you. I’ll never abandon you and I don’t believe for a second that you’re a fake. Why are you doing this? Are you trying to protect me? What’s going on? I love you. Don’t leave me. But he hadn’t said any of that, and Sherlock had jumped.

Part 1 of Silent Auror: Pattern Behaviour - about John's habits

Memories of Buckingham Palace stir; me in a sheet – at one point nearly nothing at all, thanks to the infantile behaviour of my brother – and John thoroughly embarrassed to be seen with me, siding with Mycroft. Yet: moments before Mycroft’s appearance, staring unabashed at the region of my anatomy where, in his opinion, pants should have been. He is an anomaly, John Watson.
(Theory yet to be tested. Still vague.)

We leave for dim sum at precisely twenty minutes past seven. For once, John hasn’t complained. (For once, I paid attention to the time and arranged to not be working at seven, then waited twenty minutes for him to say he wanted to leave.)
(The things I do.)

Am not sure exactly why John’s mating rituals make me hate him so, but they do. I want to shake him by the shoulders and either tell him he can do better or to just give up with this ridiculous dating business. It is undeniably true that he could do better. The women he chooses are so plain, on average, that I am literally at a loss to see what John could possibly fancy in them. Is this is just setting the bar deliberately so low that someone is surely bound to take pity on his sex-starved body and have sex with it? Perhaps. (Stop: it suddenly occurs to me that perhaps John chooses plain women because he thinks they are the only ones he has a chance with. Possibility. Makes me feel strangely… sad. Angry. Not certain why.) It isn’t their physical plainness that bothers me so much as their all-around plainness. Their terribly boring, insipid personalities. They are, with the possible exception of Sarah (whose sexual compliance was apparently in the keeping of Vatican City, according to John’s frustrated complaints), the sorts of women who buy cheap, celebrity gossip magazines and are always on a diet, because what could be more important than physical beauty? (And these are the sorts John thinks he has the best chance with? Honestly, John. It must mean that he finds them truly attractive. Cancel earlier pity.)

Part 2 Silent Auror: Pattern Behaviour - Sherlock's habits

And he wants to tell me, wants an audience for his misery. He deliberately left the tea closer to my chair than to my laptop. (Well: his laptop. Let’s call a spade a spade.)

“You wouldn’t think,” John says, clearly immensely frustrated, “that there would be a bloody fire in the restaurant just when my date takes a turn for the better. I mean, what are the chances?”

He has admitted it was a date. Indication: he cares more about having a sympathetic audience to his story of woe than risk the standard fight me with concerning him having had a date. Interesting. “A fire?” I repeat, finding something else to look at. Must keep face neutral.

“Yes, a fire that started in the kitchen somehow. Everyone had to leave, so we all stood there outside for awhile until they said the fire had got out of hand and we wouldn’t be able to go back in. So I walked Melissa home and we watched it on the news with her flatmates. Apparently the restaurant is fine, no major damage at all.”

(Good; Mycroft won’t be able to tax me with property damage on this one, then.)

John has copied me, lifting his own cup to his mouth. (Always liked watching him drink tea for some inexplicable reason.) He contemplates for a long moment, eyes on the tea.
“Probably not,” he says after a bit. He drinks, puts the cup down. “I mean, she’s a bit too young for me. I didn’t really realise, but all of her flatmates are still in uni. God. They seemed so young next to her, and then I realised suddenly that she’s one of them.”
“Mmm.” I make it sound understanding. As if I ever thought for a second that she was an appropriate choice.
John sighs again. “Guess I’m just stuck with you, then,” he say, not quite smiling. It’s meant to be funny.
(It’s not.)

So here is one from a very beautiful canon-style fic, "Cryptology" by Jane Turenne:
http://archiveofourown.org/works/14256?show_comments=true&view_full_work=true#comment_14523477

 
While his hands were busy unfastening my collar, he mumbled to me between kisses, "I fully intend that the list of things which you did not know yesterday but shall know by tomorrow will be encyclopaedic, my dearest Holmes."

Go and read the story, tonnaree! It is perfectly written, sexy and heartbreaking. The way canon should have been. 

Just bookmarked it Susi!