Continuing the uploading of old(er) art with this johnlock grab bag challenge piece from last year, never gave it a post of its own!
'It was Mycroft!'
smoky Mycroft! first time I draw him, not easy peasy but funny face!
Here is a lovely bit of art for my story Hacked (go give it a read)
Created by the lovely and immensely talented, Alessia Pelonzi <3
" Tentatively he brought the tip of the brush to the paint and dipped it in, He allowed the bristles to take on a soul of their own as they swept moved across the canvas. Sherlock had so many feelings running through him, and at the heart of every one was a single word: John.
He allowed himself to bask in the emotions as he continued to paint, repeatedly returning the brush to the acrylics he had laid out before him. The piece was beginning to take shape, though it still had a long way to go. Sherlock could see it in his head; a warm cave, safe from the harsh London rain that lay just outside the entrance. Inside the safe harbour was bursting with warmth; hues of reds, oranges, and golds. The feeling of security trying to burst through the colours and convey every emotion painted there. Just beyond the doorway was cold and ugly. Blues, blacks, and greys that wanted to cut through you. All of the harshness and cruelty lay just beyond the threshold, but inside, inside was purely John. Warm, inviting, secure… safe.
Sherlock painted it as he saw it in his mind; a fortress of love that succeeded in keeping away all of the hurt that the outside world threw his way. In every stroke of red there was the wool of one of John’s jumpers. In every brown or gold lay the hint of John’s favourite tea. The oranges of the flowers in bloom were the exact shade of the worn out medical books that lined their bookshelves.
Subconsciously Sherlock had been melding himself into the painting without realising it as well. When he took a step back to admire his work, he noted the deep chocolates favoured the shade of his violin, and that the earthy hues of the moss resembled the slides under his microscope in the kitchen. Their life, his and John’s, woven together seamlessly in an array of colours and textures that protected them from the bitterness of the world beyond the sanctuary they built together.
The sun was rising and London was waking up in the streets below, yet Sherlock remained aloof to this fact, concentrating on the finishing touches of the scene he had been working on all through the night. Only when he was satisfied that it was perfect did he sit the paintbrush down and step away from the easel. He could hear John stirring upstairs, the noises from the streets below wrestling him out of his slumber. Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and paused outside of his flatmate’s bedroom door before bringing his fist up to knock against the wood. “John,” he called. “John, you should probably get up now.”
A muffled groan came from the other side and Sherlock could hear the sleepy steps drag across the floor, moving closer to where he stood. The door separating the pair had opened, and John peered up at Sherlock. As his friend rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the detective took the opportunity to look at him and smiled at the sight. The shorter man was missing a sock, lost among the blankets and his plaid pyjama bottoms were twisted at the waist, making the seam run along his thigh. The rumpled grey shirt was wrinkled and had a crease that matched the one on John’s right cheek. His hair was in complete disarray as it stood straight out on the left side and was flattened against his skull on the right. Sherlock gave a small but hearty chuckle before asking, “I trust you slept well?”
“Sh’up ‘Lock,” came the groggy response of his doctor, which made Sherlock smile even wider.
Composing himself, Sherlock watched as John straightened up and eyed the taller man in front of him. Upon seeing the bare chest and the paint speckled trousers, he frowned. “You didn’t sleep.”
Sherlock at least has the good sense to pretend to be embarrassed, after all, John had asked him to do something that he ignored, but he didn’t have time to worry about that right now. He simply shifted his weight and angled his body so that John could follow his gaze downstairs where the easel sat. “Yes, well… As you can clearly see, I’ve been a bit busy.”
John brushed past him and went down the stairs to stand in front of the painting. “Sherlock,” the detective watched him turn to stare up at him and follow his movement as he made his way to the sitting room and came to stand next to John, “Sherlock,” he started again. “This is amazing.” “
“You think so?” The detective asked, please that John apparently appreciated the piece he had spent the last several hours working on. He hadn’t realised how much he craved John’s approval until he actually had it, and he was elated.
“Absolutely, quite remarkable.” “
"There’s a spot very near 221B that John knows Sherlock loves. It’s where Baker Street meets Marylebone Road and John’s pretty sure Sherlock loves it because it’s…well it’s a lot like Sherlock’s brain."
AM I TOO LATE FOR EASTER
Sherlock and Bluebell
So I doodled some height difference kisses.