dramatis-echo:

John and The Doctor skidded to a hault in the midst of their search for his best friend.

Said-best friend appeared to be standing right in front of them; a mildly bewildered (but more condescending) look on his face. “What are you both doing?” Sherlock asked.

“Looking for you.” The Doctor tilted his head in an almost puppy-like fashion as he looked between the two boys.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Dull.”

”Not dull if you’ve been MISSING for two days!” John corrected in a firm tone. “I told you to stop running off without me. If we’re best friends, you better start acting like it.”

The dark-haired boy tensed, “I didn’t tell you because I don’t need you for this. There is no reason for you to be involved! It’s safer if I don’t tell you.” Sherlock argued.

“So it’s better running around an abandoned factory after a cult that specifically targets children ALONE?!” John yelled, clenching his hands into fists by his side.

The Doctor moved forward, “Alright, alright, enough for now. We’ve more pressing matters to deal with, don’t we boys? I didn’t come all this way and do all this work for you two to die at the hands of some silly cult, now did I?” He grinned. “Now hug and make up.”

Sherlock took a step forward and opened his arms up to John with a petulant pout.

John stepped forward, and shoved Sherlock angrily in the chest, before storming back off down the hall. The budding young detective seemed offended (and unspokenly surprised) at his rejected apology.

“You can try again later when he’d calmed down.” The Doctor mused, nudging Sherlock forward. “Let’s finish this nonsense, hm?”

#wholock #kidlock

shooting-stetsons:

buttergin:

sherlockismyholmesboi:

theinsultingdetective:

somepeoplesayimpotato:

whatsbadwolf:

idk why but i’m picturing him on the train going to hogwarts

WHAT IF HE IS A PROFESSOR AT HOGWARTS

Finally, a decent Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.

oh god yes

John is the new flying instructor and Quidditch referee, who retired from his professional Quidditch career after some kind of accident

Lestrade is the Transfiguration teacher

Molly is a nurse

Jim teaches Potions 

Anderson and Donovan are the annoying as **** prefects

Mycroft holds a minor position in the Ministry of Magic

Boom. Someone fic this. 

It seemed to be some sort of tradition that Hogwarts had to have at least one professor no one could stand. Before, when Harry Potter was around, it was the infamous Professor Snape. After that, there had been an Arithmancy professor named Wiggins who was so unbearable that most students blocked him out of their memories completely. Now there was Holmes.

He wasn’t so bad - at least according to the girls who sighed and fawned over him. And some of the boys. Certainly enough, Holmes was good looking, but that seemed to be a running trend among the staff lately. Professor Lestrade, in Transfiguration, couldn’t go more than an afternoon without a student coming in for extra practice, usually with form. Professor Watson, who doubled as flying instructor and the dueling team’s coach, had more broomstick and wand jokes aimed at him than anyone cared to hear in a lifetime. But he had an easygoing personality that made him easy to joke around with. Even the teensy-bit unbalanced potions master, Professor Moriarty, had a sort of deranged charm to him, and Nurse Molly was sweet and remembered all her patients’ names.

There was no longer a curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, but after the first week with Holmes, most students wished it would come back. He showed up five minutes late for the first lesson and then burst in with a swish of his trailing cloak, mouth going at a thousand miles a minute.

“Wands out, everyone, and you’d better behave responsibly if you’ve been trusted with them for three years. That means no poking, no unauthorized spells, and no being idiots, understand? Most professors like to say there’s no such thing as a stupid question - I disagree; there are a lot of stupid questions, especially if you don’t listen. Take every word I say as gospel and don’t fall asleep or I’ll throw the nearest projectile, and don’t think I’ll pity you if you can’t deflect it in time. There will be no skiving off, because I’ll know if you’re lying, and random pop quizzes through the term. We’ll start with Shield Charms, something even the most inadequate first-years can grasp, shall we?”

Even if he hadn’t talked to them like babies at the end, everyone hated him.

Holmes was never happy with anyone, never smiled, and never gave praise, even if a student did something truly brilliant and inspired with his lessons. The closest he would get at complimenting someone was to lean back in his chair, feet on the desk, and say, “You could have done worse, I suppose. At least you didn’t kill me.” He only ever looked interested when a student lipped off in class or Professor Lestrade showed up for a word.

That was another funny thing about Professor Holmes. He liked mysteries, but not in the way that most people liked mysteries. He solved them, even mundane ones like missing magical creatures that escaped into the forest, or students who cheated on their exams. Professor Lestrade seemed to have a lot of trouble with cheaters, and Holmes always found them, which only made the student body resent him even further.

His pursuits brought him to dueling club practice one day, where for the first time he met Professor Watson. The moment he entered the practice room a hush fell over the students, causing Watson to look up in alarm; they all knew that one of their number was going to get in big trouble.

“So, the best technique would be to - guys?” asked Watson, turning to see Holmes in the door. His eyebrows rose. “Oh, Professor Holmes, what a pleasant surprise. Are you here for a lesson?”

There were scattered giggles around the room as Holmes scowled. By then it was common knowledge that, though he was a genius in almost every other respect, Holmes was a terrible duelist. “Actually, I was going to correct your form,” he retorted.

Hushed “Ooooh”s spread across the room. Watson smirked slightly. “Really? And what’s wrong with it?”

“It’s - ah - crooked.”

“Crooked?”

More giggles. “Perhaps it could be more improved if you didn’t have a psychosomatic limp.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me loud and clear. Your limp is psychosomatic. It’s all in your head.”

“And what does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing, really. But I bet you ten Galleons I can fix it.”

“Oh, really?”

“Flipendo!”

Watson dodged immediately away and shot back a spell of his own. They weren’t even on the dueling tarmac, and students had to quickly back away against the walls as the fight very quickly got messy. Holmes either didn’t know the rules of dueling or disregarded them completely, amplifying his voice and shrieking or shooting off blinding sparks to disorient Watson before shooting a curse. Though even then Professor Watson managed to keep the fight even.

With an almost lazy flick of his wand the spells momentarily stopped flying, and Watson snapped, “This isn’t exactly a fair fight, Professor.”

The taller man grinned. “Oh, come on, Professor, even your Muggle sister could do better after indulging her alcoholism.”

Watson dropped his wand and charged at him. For a moment Holmes’ eyes widened with pure panic before immobilizing Watson with a leg-locker jinx. He knelt at his colleague’s side, handing back his wand. “I told you it was in your head,” he smirked before getting up again to point at Miranda Hodgins. “You. With me to the Headmaster’s office, now.”

He swept out, with Miranda timidly following and the remaining students in awe. Watson reversed the jinx and gaped after Holmes while absently stretching his leg. Holmes was right; he hadn’t limped at all during the fight.

Most students thought the professors would hate one another on principle after that incident, and were taken by surprise when the pair were practically inseparable from that moment on.

dramatis-echo:

“Explain.”

Hamish sheepishly looked up toward his father. Sherlock was sitting beside John on the weathered love-seat against the wall of Molly’s flat. She wasn’t home, currently, which served to amplify the level of trouble Hamish knew he was in.

“I already told dad.”

“Yes, and now you’re going to tell me.” Sherlock instructed firmly; regarding his young son with a casual, but stern demeanor from his position on the love seat. He had one leg crossed over the other, and seemed more at home in Molly’s flat than his husband was.

He had initially been standing, but John being the ‘peacekeeper’ of the family, made him sit. He had told Sherlock that confronting children about their ‘misbehavior’ was better done at eye-level so the child didn’t feel intimidated. Sherlock rather liked intimidation because of his height, but listened to his partner regardless. John had a gentler, more emotionally-aware tactic during these confrontations that had proved effective in the past.

“School is dull.” Hamish finally answered.

Sherlock scoffed, “Yes, but that’s hardly an excuse. I have cases at Scotland Yard that require my attention - which is difficult to keep when your incompetant teachers continue to ring me.”

“Actually they ring me, but keep going.” John chimed in quietly, glancing around Molly’s flat. “Actually, no. I’d rather talk about your growing habit of breaking and entering.”

Hamish pouted, “Molly doesn’t mind.”

“Only because she doesn’t know.” John countered with an unimpressed look. “She gave us that key for emergencies. Her flat isn’t a hideout for you to ditch school, Hamish. You didn’t have permission.”

“Father does it.”

John sighed, and looked to Sherlock. “Told you.”

“You cannot always justify your behavior by linking it back to me.” Sherlock huffed. “If I jumped off a bridge, would you?”

Hamish shot his father a look; it was of frustration and annoyance. Every time John saw that look, he saw Sherlock in their son. It was amazing, really. “Yes, because chances are you’re jumping off a bridge for a good reason. You’re smarter than anyone else.”

Sherlock tilted his head in thought, and then smiled.

“Hamish, don’t distract your father with flattery.” He groaned, shaking his head. “You’re going to be punished for this. And you’re going to apologise to Molly - and I am going to set about hiding her key in a more secure place.”

Hamish pouted more. “I’ll still get in.”

“Sounds like a wager to me.” Sherlock muttered, glancing around Molly’s flat for himself. “It wouldn’t take much. Might be a good experiment to see how Hamish could adapt to the lack of a key, obstacles or witnesses who may catch him in the act of breaking and entering. Perhaps we c-“

“Sherlock.” John snapped, quickly silencing his partner. “Hamish, you’re grounded for the next week. And you’re going to continue to attend school. If I find out otherwise, I’ll send you to stay with Mummy Holmes and you can spend a few months being privately tutored at the estate.”

Hamish’s eyes widened. “B-But that’s way outside of London!”

“So’s my patience.” John nodded. “Go to school and there won’t be any problem, yeah?”

Slowly, their son nodded.

“You said I could discipline him this time.” Sherlock complained petulantly crossing his arms and leaning away from John on the tiny loveseat.

John rolled his eyes with a smirk, “For godsake, Sherlock, don’t pout.” He shook his head as he stood up. “Come on. Let’s clear out before Molly gets back from St. Bart’s. I don’t fancy having to explain why we’re all here.” As he passed Hamish, he gave his son a quick ruffle on the top of his head to show there were no hard feelings.

Sherlock stood slowly and walked toward his son; towering over him as he held his gaze. Hamish held his right back, and straightened his posture.

“…How did you find the key?” Sherlock asked curiously.

Hamish stared up at him. “…How did you find me? I tried not to leave any clues.” He sulked.

Sherlock tilted his chin up a bit.

“I’ll tell you, if you tell me.”

Hamish smiled, “Deal.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up into a small grin, before he placed his hand affectionately atop Hamish’s head. His boy smiled back.

# kidlock | # parentlock

aceofholmes:

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Ace!Sherlock+girl!John

Word count: 7439

Summary: John Watson isn’t really sure why she’s living with Sherlock Holmes. Or: The pulse of a human heart.

Oh gosh, this one. I feel compelled to warn that Sherlock is both quite misogynist and totally in-character here, which is kind of unnerving but also, like, probably something that needs to be written about? And I’m sure that tumblr could have a ~lively discussion of how this fic deals with gender, but, well, here we are. It’s really quite good anyway.

dramatis-echo:

It had been the wrong thing to say. Sherlock knew that as soon as the sentence had passed his lips.

John stared at Sherlock; his face clearly conveying the bruise his best friend succeeded in leaving on his heart with those four, little words.

“I don’t have friends!”

The tension in the air was thick amidst the sudden silence in the room.

John felt his eyelashing grow a bit damp when he blinked. He wasn’t crying, but he was close; his vision had already blurred slightly due to the obstructing moisture. Their argument had been heated and both of them had gotten riled up in the process.

Sherlock, however, was actually trembling. His fists were clenched in anger, and he was desperately trying to save face by keeping his petulant glare planted on his features. It was lacking its usual sting, mainly due to the fact that Sherlock was closer to crying than John was.

He had worked himself up into a little tantrum. He’d scaled the lattice-wall that bordered the side of John’s house like usual, slipped through the window John always left open for him - and expected his companion to follow along on their next adventure. There was a series of shop-robberies happening that had caught his interest.

But John had said no. It had something to do with homework, and the fact it was late… but Sherlock hadn’t really been paying attention. He had heard the word ‘no’ - and attacked John out of spite.

He knew deep down that John hadn’t done anything wrong. Not technically. He had no right to drag the boy out, yet again, into a dangerous situation. On the other hand, having a ‘partner-in-crime’ was still very new to Sherlock. He had expected John to drift away from him or call him a ‘freak’ like everyone else. But he had stayed… the ONLY person who had stayed. Which made his refusal to comply to Sherlock’s every whim confusing and infuriating.

“I wonder why…” John finally answered. There was the barest hint of resentment behind his tone, but he didn’t let his pain consume him. This was just typical Sherlock; John knew that. He had almost no filter, and was brutally honest about everything… John included.

It was the price of genius, apparently.

It didn’t make Sherlock’s words any less hurtful. After everything they had been through… John expected to be placed in the category of ‘friend’, at the very least, if not ‘best-friend’.

“Go home, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s chest began to rise and fall more quickly; his breath shorter, his eyes still incredibly close to spilling over while his remained fists clenched, body trembling…

John turned to walk back toward his desk - but unexpectedly found himself latched onto. Sherlock had thrown himself at John’s back, and wrapped his arms tightly around John’s torso; pinning his arms to his side.

They fell quiet again. John kept very still, and listened to Sherlock’s ragged breathing and the occasional sniffle - accompanied by the tightening of his arms, or the feeling of Sherlock’s face burying into his back.

“John…” He said quietly. “I…” He stopped himself. “Y-You…” He stopped himself again.

Whatever it was that Sherlock was trying to say, was apparently, extremely difficult to get out. John had already recognized that his friend didn’t handle his emotions well, and preferred more to front a ‘poker-face’ to the world around him.

“John!” He choked out angrily, once more tightening; as if saying John’s name would get across his point.

His apology.

“It’s fine, Sherlock.” John said. “It’s all fine.”

He meant it.

# kidlock

|| some moar childhood!angst