Going on a school trip into the mountains for a month sounds simple enough. But when John meets his cabin roommate, Sherlock Holmes, a leisurely vacation soon turns into a hectic summer. [Rated Mature for smut scenes, language, ideologically sensitive material, and alcohol consumption] =△▽△▽△= Cabinmates now has a sequel called Exmates! Be sure to check it out after reading this~

a collection of johnlock oneshots/song fics {beautiful cover by the beautiful @queen_mycroft}

John's never had a patient quite as broken as Sherlock Homes. Or as ignorant of the fact that he is, indeed, broken. He speaks rarely, and when he does it's this torrential flow of insults and hurt memories and sadness. He speaks like he doesn't know that he's broken yet, like he thinks he's fine, and superior to everyone else in the room. Maybe he is. John doesn't know. Maybe he's not as beautiful, and clever, and graceful as he believes. Maybe he isn't some kind of ethereal creature that John has had the honour of beholding. Maybe he's just broken. And useless. And alone. John doesn't think so. John thinks he's everything, broken man and all. * Sherlock's never done anything quite like dancing. When he was there, wood springing under his feet, soft and warm and secure, he was happy. Sure. But he didn't know then that he'd give anything to be able to dance again. To have the pain of crushed toes, blisters, aching and biting all the fucking time. He didn't know he'd miss it like he misses breathing. But he does. Sherlock forgets to breathe, sometimes.

John's never seen a kid like him. He has this beautiful, crazy grace - withheld behind a smug smile and wisecracks that make John frustrated in so many different kinds of ways. And his eyes; crystal clear, decisive, cleaning through the unimportant things to find the valuables in life. He may or may not have a thing for smoking and James Bond, his favorite ice cream is mint with a chocolate swirl, and he is absolutely addicted to Pop Rocks and toffee. He enjoys pretty boys and warehouses, where he can hoard and think and be alone. Also, bumper cars, and John Watson. But Sherlock Holmes's thing, his niche, his calling in life... is to steal. Books. Wallets. Phones. Cars. Everything you've ever wanted, he's had. Everything you've ever wished for, he's stolen. Everything you are, everything you told yourself that you weren't, he owns, and he plays you like an out-of-tune violin. Does that mean that John's going to let him steal his heart? Not a shot in hell.

He is lavish. Masterful. Intellectual, inexplicable, overt. Sexual. Sherlock Holmes defines extravagance. He isn't exactly the best thing for John's tireless, bland stability. John works the nine to five and tries not to lose sleep over the small things - like the labor of his fiancée's expectations, and the sirens that fill his head with noise after curfew. He finds comfort in art, and drinking. Besides the war making its presence known, slowly creeping its black tendrils into the heart of Bristol - John's life is quiet. Given that, he's not surprised when he is dragged into Sherlock Holmes's orbit. There is no manual to help him navigate the moment their eyes first meet; he presents himself as the perfect distraction, a beautiful incendiary miracle. John thinks that maybe he was hoping for this, because: Sherlock is potent, and inflammatory, and perfectly willing to make John's life hell for his own self-indulgent pleasure. With one touch, John's sense of self is corrupted. And what does it matter if the world implodes? It was never kind to them to begin with.

Sherlock Holmes had never been one to embrace the concept of caring for another human being. All it does is bring about unneeded complications and these messy things called 'feelings'. Yet, when he crosses paths with an invalidated army doctor named John Watson his entire way of thinking is forced to be changed. Will this change be for better or for worse?