In the old days, he would have taken him away as a child. Snatched him out of a bedroom window or a garden when his mother’s back was turned, or straight out of a cradle at night. He would have put a changling in his place, and kept the human to grow and keep forever in his homeworld. How tedious and stupid humans were now. How completely inane it was to obey their rules when he was faerie born! Still, at least now Sherlock had him, this human named John, this golden engima.

johnwantsit:

John Watson with his unassuming jumpers and his friendly smile. John Watson who could cure the sick and yet also kill from yards away, unseen and quick as Mab’s steeds. John Watson, who was so warm to touch. Sherlock wondered how long he could get away with it. How long before John realized what Sherlock put in his evening tea? How long before the glamour wore off and John would realize who was sucking him off, or gently thrusting in to him each night when the old soldier thought it was a dream?

But Sherlock couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not for another seven full moons. Not until John had consumed enough of the drink. Not until he’d slept with him for that whole length of time, and his magic and his body were irrevocably connected with John. When that happened, he would approach John properly, without use of glamour or fae-made mixtures, without the disguise of a dream. He would ask John to be his, eternally. Human convention be damned! Then he could show his lover true adventure, forever.

*sobs*

IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL.  I’M SO HAPPY.