amplificathon

John hears this: ‘Twenty-three year old male, cocaine overdose, fitting, arrhythmia, difficulty breathing, possible heart attack,’ and blinks slowly before tilting his pager up to see where he is needed.

Something dictates that John and Sherlock can only exist together every leap day, but the connection their hearts have wants otherwise. Magical realism.

Sherlock orgasms when John refers to him as 'husband'. Established relationship, romantic, filthy-explicit married sex.

If, a year ago, someone told John that he would be on his back getting fucked enthusiastically up the arse by Sherlock Holmes, he would have decked them with no hesitation. If this hypothetical person had added that he would also be begging for it like a wanton slut, he would have given the first punch an encore. But that person would have been correct.

“Ah yes. Christmas isn’t Christmas until you’ve called someone a — how does it go? Scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot?”

“My thoughts precisely, John,” Sherlock says.

In which evidence is presented that disqualifies Sherlock from being the Grinch, and everyone's shoes fit them perfectly well, thank you.