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Just a collection of some johnlock oneshots.

In a world where you're born with the first name of your soulmate on your wrist, some people spend their whole lives waiting, while others know too many people with the same name. Sherlock Holmes has always found the concept of soulmates frustrating and tiresome and, secretly, quite lovely. Or perhaps that's due to spending too much time in the morgue with Molly. Either way, as a boy, he found it quite frustrating that his soulmate has such a generic name. I mean, really, couldn't his parents have been a little more unique with their choice of names? John Watson has spent most of his life ignoring the name on his wrist. He wasn't even sure he was gay, and what kind of person has such an odd name, anyway? So John keeps moving through life, intent on choosing his own path in life. So what happens when these two cross paths?

John is put in charge of guarding the prince. At first he thinks it will be just another spoiled brat who doesn't want to do anything. But he is very mistaken when he meets Sherlock Holmes for the first time. COMPLETED

Teenlock! Like I said before, I don't usually do AUs, but I had the sudden urge to do a teenlock. I sent this to a friend and asked her to come up with a title with me, but she hasn't responded yet. I just put in a line for later, but if any of you have ideas for titles I'd love to hear suggestions. Later chapters to include Johnlock. Cover art by http://cinnamonplayground.tumblr.com/ who was amazing enough to let me borrow it.

Simply exhausted of all colour. Wasted. I didn't lie down. I didn't blink. I just sat there, staring into nothingness, waiting for something to materialise into my vision. Something. Anything. I had kept Sherlock away. Kept him away from his death, for so long. So long. Little did I know, all he needed was a little jump from a rooftop. It wouldn't take me long either, would it? I wasn't going to die. I needed relief. I needed disconnection. Disorientation. Oblivion. Ignorance. Because ignorance is bliss. It was in my hand, now. Like vengeance disguised in forgiveness. Breathe. Steady. Hold. Control. . . . Now. Pain shot through my arms and my palms, like my nails were being pulled out. It spread like fire, like ice cold fire, still burning like coals. My limbs were numb. I fell onto the bed, my mouth pressed into the sheet at an odd angle. I was too fatigued to change it. Too drowned to change it. Drowned too deep. To change anything. I'd never done this. Was I going to die? It'd be better if I died. What would that feel like? Flying? Better that this I suppose. Don't you think, Sherlock? [TW: IF YOU ARE STRUGGLING WITH PTSD SCHIZOPHRENIA DEPRESSION ANXIETY PANIC DISORDERS DRUGS OR ARE TRIGGERED BY ANYTHING ELSE PLEASE PROCEED WITH DISCRETION. GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF NEAR- SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AND VIOLENCE AND ZERO CLOSURE LIKE LITERALLY NO CLOSURE]

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.

The detective and his blogger start drifting away after the marriage of Dr. Watson. When an unfortunate accident happens, it brings them closer than ever. No matter how platonic Watson and Holmes think their relationship is in the beginning; no one can deny the unmistakable spark between them. A spark on the verge of being blown into a dangerous flame. Sherlock and John are stuck in Baker Street, neither of them wanting to leave each other. As John spends more and more time with his flat-mate, he realizes that he desperately needs Sherlock to get over the death of his wife. More so, John starts to slowly understand that it's not just the crushing grief that is binding him so tightly to Sherlock, but something much stronger. After all, every Watson needs their Holmes.

The stage is set, the curtain rises. We are ready to begin. ~ The lights. The music. The people. The money. The rush. John craved everything, all the time. That was before Sherlock. In his veins, there was no blood. Just liquefied rubies rushing in circles through his body, to his pearl fingertips, his gold hair, his sapphire irises. Everything he touched became a mine of perfection, just waiting to be exploited and sold to every crevice in society. That was before Sherlock. When John tried to recall a good life before Sherlock, he failed. Because in this life, he had never held something so precious in his hands as a single silky chestnut curl or a perfectly sculpted alabaster jaw. After he met Sherlock, it was never enough. Lights became unwelcome spotlights. Music became noise. People became ragdolls. Money became worthless. The rush was still there, though. Just a hundred times stronger. They were incandescent. The wick had been set aflame - a raging hellfire that they knew would shatter their ordinary lives. But a flame that blazes so bright is never meant to last. A story of morbid, freakish love and bitter revenge that challenges the rules of the nineteenth century. Cover credits: @anonymiae (SHE IS UNDOUBTEDLY THE BEST) (Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters from BBC Sherlock. All that brilliant stuff came from Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Any real life resemblances are purely for fictional purposes.)

John Watson thirty-two years old wasted his entire life with failing dates with women. Until someone simply told him that he was gay. Published DEC 2016 A Johnlock fanfiction ~ Johnlock ~ Johnlock AU ~ Started writing 6 december 2016 and finished the story 17 April 2017