JeanProuvaire

London.  It’s November.  Brisk wind.  The trees, branches without leaves.  Moon.  Clear and sharp in the cold night.  Stars.  Same as the moon, crisp and bright.  Shiver.  No snow.  But it’s so cold.  No coat.  No hat.  Alone.  And cold, so cold. He could be cold, too.  Harsh sometimes.  But not unkind.  Not to you.  He was different with you.  Still distant, but softer.  Closer.  Until now.  Now he’s so far away.  So very, very far away… For such a cold, sharp mind, his body was surprisingly warm.  All those times his arm brushed against yours, or he leaned in close to read something over your shoulder, or when he

Sherlock rested on his side, propping himself up on one elbow, cheek resting on his fist.  John wasn't awake yet.  He slumbered on breathing deeply, evenly, calmly.  Warm morning sunlight filtered in through the window and pooled in John's mussed hair.  Sherlock lay still, watching John's chest rise and fall, studying the freckles on his nose and the way his eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks.  Watching John sleep, Sherlock felt his own eyelids grow heavy and fall shut.  He snaked an arm around John's waist and snuggled closer, resting his head on the sleeping man's chest.  Listening to the familiar sound of John's heartbeat-that wonderfu

O! rye chip, I love thee dear. My heart beateth fast Just to know you are near! I'll eat thee, it's true, But before that day comes, I'll adore every bit of you, Your salt and your crumbs. You're the best of all snack foods, You shine like a star! I wish all the things I eat Were as tasty as you are. Picking through the bag Of Gardetto's snack mix, I wish there were more of you Instead of pretzels and sesame sticks. O! delicious rye chip, I write this ode to thee. Thank you for satisfying my hunger And always being there for me!

  "That wasn't so bad, was it?"   Sherlock grumbled as he kicked off his shoes, shrugged off his coat, and fell onto the couch.   John walked into the room after him and nearly tripped over the shoes laying in the doorway.  He sighed, turned on the light, and nudged Sherlock's shoes out of the way.   "Well, except for that bit when you started in on Anderson.  That...was maybe not so good."   The blond man walked over to the couch and sat down by Sherlock's feet.  He grabbed his laptop from the table, planning on updating his blog.  As the flipped the computer open and began to type, Sherlock shifted and flipped himself around until his head