Letters, Resolved (2/14)
Nov. 3rd, 2013 01:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
earlgreytea68Title - Letters, Resolved (2/14)
Author -![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
earlgreytea68
Rating - Teen
Characters - Sherlock, John
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - The letters have been written, read, and discussed. But that doesn't mean anything's been resolved. Yet.
Author's Note - Thank you toarctacuda for the beta and flawedamythyst for the Britpick.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
John woke quickly, disoriented but with the clear knowledge that something was wrong. Something out-of-place had startled him out of sleep, and he reached for the gun by the bed quickly—
And Sherlock said, sounding breathless, “It’s me. It’s just me.”
John blinked, his vision adjusting to the darkness of the room, making out Sherlock’s silhouette just inside his bedroom door. “Jesus Christ,” he said, putting the gun back and digging his heels into his eyes as he leaned back against the headboard. His heart was pounding with adrenaline, and he took a deep breath to try to tamp down on it. “I could have shot you.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sherlock.
He sounded strange, and John put his hands down slowly, suddenly worried that his initial instinct that something was wrong had been correct after all. “You okay?”
“Yes,” Sherlock answered. Too quickly, John thought.
“What are you doing in here?” John asked, his mind cycling through possibilities. Was there someone else in the villa? Holding Sherlock hostage? Was that why Sherlock was behaving so oddly?
“I…” said Sherlock. “I… Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He was speaking rapidly now, his words pouring out in a rush. “I didn’t think you’d wake up. I mean, you were sleeping so soundly, and I was just going to… Sorry. I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.”
“Okay,” said John, confused, watching Sherlock’s silhouette leave his bedroom. What the hell had that been about? John wondered, as he settled himself back down into bed.
Then Sherlock came back into the bedroom. “It’s just… Do you mind if I…just sit here for a little while?”
“Sit where?” asked John, confused, sitting up again.
“Here at the desk.” John heard the room’s desk chair scrape out.
“Sherlock,” began John, in exasperation, leaning over and turning on the bedside light. Sherlock flinched and squeezed his eyes shut, and John stared across at him, startled. Because Sherlock was trembling uncontrollably, John could tell even from the distance they were at. “Sherlock,” John said again, realizing.
“I’m fine,” said Sherlock, automatically, without opening his eyes, and John knew now why he’d been speaking so oddly, he was trying not to betray the chattering of his teeth.
And John knew, so well, how miserable it was to wake up from a nightmare into a full-blown panic attack. He leaned over and turned off the light and said, lightly, “Don’t be an idiot. Come and get into bed.”
It was a testament to how shaken Sherlock was that he bounded over immediately, crawling onto the other side of John’s bed, on top of the thin bedspread.
“You can get under the covers,” John told him.
“I’m not cold,” said Sherlock, and John believed him. He might have been shivering, but John knew he probably felt claustrophobically warm. “I thought… I just thought…that you wouldn’t mind…if I…”
Sherlock was speaking in disconnected gulps, and John interrupted, softly, “Sherlock. Take a deep breath, love.” He heard Sherlock obey. “Okay, hold it. Now let it out slowly. Do it again. And again.” John talked him through five deep, slow breaths, and then said, “Better?” He could tell it was already because Sherlock had stopped shuddering.
There was a long period of silence before Sherlock said, calmly, “My pulse is back to normal. Thank you.”
Ah, thought John, he’d been taking his own pulse. “I don’t mind. You’re not alone anymore. That’s the point, right? Now go back to sleep.”
Sherlock laughed, harshly and without humor. “I really don’t want to go back to sleep.”
“Okay, then,” said John, and promptly got out of bed.
“What are you doing?” asked Sherlock, sounding shocked.
John turned on the light in the lounge area and glanced back at Sherlock. “If you don’t want to go back to sleep, it does you no good to lay in bed and brood about the nightmare. So. Get up. We’ll do something else.”
“But…But you’re tired. You were sleeping,” protested Sherlock.
“I’ll survive. I used to be a soldier. And a doctor. You may be the champion of surviving on little sleep, but I bet I could medal.” John busied himself in the kitchen, frowning at the tea they’d been provided.
“You’re going to make tea?” Sherlock had at least got out of bed and was now standing in the bedroom doorway.
“Yes. Do you want some? We didn’t stop for milk, so you’ll have to have it black.”
“That’s fine.”
“Good.” John turned away, losing himself in the ritual of the tea-making. When he was finished, he found Sherlock sitting at the dining table, watching him closely. “Come over to the sofa,” said John, carrying the tea over there. Sherlock obeyed, and John turned on the television.
“Telly?” said Sherlock, incredulously. “We’re going to watch telly?”
“Yes. I’m looking forward to some quiet time, so I’m not going in search of a crime to keep your mind busy. So, shopping network. An insomniac’s best friend.”
Sherlock regarded the television screen dubiously. “Well, she was clearly shagging the director.”
John smiled and looked from Sherlock’s profile to the television. “Of course she was.”
“What is that awful thing they’re attempting to sell, anyway? Oh, she was shagging that bloke, too.”
“She got around.”
“Mmm. And she’s been married three times. Is that stupidity or optimism, do you think?”
John chuckled. Sherlock already sounded much better. Shopping networks, John thought, could be magic. “I choose to believe it’s optimism.”
“Or maybe optimism is just a kind word for stupidity,” mused Sherlock.
“It’s not,” John said, firmly. “It’s really not.”
Sherlock turned to face him fully, propping an elbow on the back of the sofa and cupping his tea in his other hand. “Why didn’t you ever get married?”
They had never discussed this before, and it seemed like an odd conversational topic for Sherlock to choose, but John went with it. “Never met the right woman.”
“Is there any such thing? You must have had your pick of women, there was no one close enough to be right?”
“Well, what about you?” countered John.
Sherlock looked perplexed. “What about me?”
“Why didn’t you ever get married?”
“Me? Married?”
“Why not?”
“Can you imagine me married?”
“I can, actually.”
“Really?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. “And what, exactly, is my wife like?”
“Who says you have a wife?”
“Ah. Touché. What, then, is my husband like?”
Sherlock was so irritated by this topic of conversation that he wasn’t even catching the undercurrent of John’s words. And John found that adorable. “He finds you delightful,” John said, warmly.
Sherlock laughed. “Does he? Not an adjective usually applied to me.”
“Delightful,” repeated John, insistently. “Irreplaceable.”
“Now that I can believe,” agreed Sherlock, wryly, sipping his tea. And then he suddenly looked at John, as if finally comprehending what John had been talking about all along.
“There is such a thing as the right person,” said John, honestly. “I never got married because I was sure that there was. And I was right. I just had to wait long enough.”
Sherlock, after a second, cleared his throat and looked away, looking uncomfortable. He sipped his tea again. John turned back to the television, thinking Sherlock needed processing time.
After a moment, Sherlock said, “You’re a terrible cook, but you’re the best at making tea.”
Which John knew was almost Sherlock’s way of saying, I think I found the right person, too. He said in response, “I’m glad you like it. I promise to always make you tea.”
“Even when I’ve upset you by putting slivers of pigs’ feet in the toaster?”
“Even then,” replied John, and then, “You’ve just filed that away in your mind palace, haven’t you?”
“I’ve put it in a display case in the front foyer,” rejoined Sherlock.
John laughed and loved him more than anything else on the planet.
“That man there primarily makes his money from pornography,” Sherlock said of the new presenter on the screen.
And John loved him even more.
***
The following morning John convinced Sherlock that they should breakfast at the hotel restaurant, and it was really quite pleasant. They were up before any of the other guests, and the little terrace was deserted. They sat there and watched the ocean, and John made Sherlock eat most of a croissant and refused to let him read the newspaper. As they were finishing, the concierge came up to them with a parcel.
“As you requested, Mr. Kelly,” he said, handing it across to John.
“Oh, yes, of course. Thank you.”
Sherlock’s eyes were sharp on the package. “What is that?”
“For you.” John nudged the package across.
“When did you do this?” Sherlock asked, suspiciously.
“Called down to the front desk for it while you were napping yesterday.”
Sherlock opened the box, pulling out a selection of true crime novels. John knew Sherlock had been recently traumatized but he also thought Sherlock would benefit from remembering who he had been, before all this had happened.
“I thought you might like something to read. I can only depend upon you to watch terrible telly with me for so long, after all.”
Sherlock looked pleased, and John was glad he’d had the idea. “This is wonderful,” he announced, and then he promptly spent the entirety of the day lounging in the hammock on the veranda, reading. John cycled out to him cups of tea and pieces of fruit, and Sherlock ate and drank without speaking, and seemed much more like his old self.
John spent the day watching terrible television and poking around on Sherlock’s laptop for places where he could learn to scuba dive.
And he updated his blog.
In the evening, he persuaded Sherlock to once again go to the hotel restaurant with him. It was more crowded, but Sherlock was in a good mood and spent the entire dinner telling John all about the books he had read so far and eating. John knew he was eating without thinking, but John was pleased all the same.
When they were done, Sherlock said, “Your turn to pay, Mr. Kelly.”
“My turn? I’ve paid for everything so far. This entire holiday is on me, apparently. How’s it feel to be a kept man?”
“Brilliant,” Sherlock grinned at him, and then practically leapt out of his chair. “Pay the bill. I’ll be right back.”
John kept an eye on Sherlock as he darted into the lobby area, scrawling a fake signature on his fake credit card receipt. Sherlock returned in a few moments, looking like the cat who’d caught the canary.
“What was that all about?”
“Nothing,” responded Sherlock, sounding like the very opposite of innocent.
John smiled and decided to allow him whatever subterfuge he was planning. They walked slowly together back up the beach to their villa, and then John said, “No crime novels before bed. Terrible television instead.”
Sherlock sat curled into his corner of the sofa and complained about everything John chose to watch, and eventually John shut the television off and said, “Never mind. You’re cranky. Let’s go to bed.”
“I’m not cranky,” protested Sherlock.
“Come on,” said John, standing and walking past him into the bathroom. When he emerged from the bathroom, Sherlock was still sitting on the sofa, and he looked uncertain. “Sherlock,” said John, patiently. “Whose bed would you rather share? Yours or mine?”
Sherlock’s fingers tapped against each other, and John thought of the violin that wasn’t there. “I…”
“I think you’ll do better if you fall asleep knowing that you’re not alone.”
Sherlock appeared to give this thought then agreed, slowly, “Okay.”
“Okay. Come to bed, then,” said John, and went into his bedroom, hoping that Sherlock would eventually follow.
He did, hesitantly, and John pretended to be asleep so as not to alarm him as he crawled oh-so-carefully into the bed next to him. But John was not asleep. He was awake long after Sherlock’s breaths had evened out into sleep, staring at the lump next to him and thinking how he needed to make him feel safe for the rest of his life.
***
John woke to bright sunlight and Sherlock curled on his side next to him, sound asleep. John didn’t want to leave Sherlock to wake up to an empty bed, so he simply laid there watching him until he woke himself, his nose twitching into a yawn.
“Good morning,” he slurred, sleepily, closing his eyes again.
“Good morning,” John agreed. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock responded.
John dropped a kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose because he couldn’t help it.
When John got out of the bathroom, Sherlock was back in his hammock. He’d snagged John’s sunglasses, so that all John could see was his own reflection when Sherlock looked at him and said, “Oh my God, what are you wearing?”
John glanced down. “Swimming trunks,” he said, because he thought that was obvious. It wasn’t as if it was a Speedo, for Christ’s sake.
“I didn’t think there was anything in the world that you could have poorer taste in than jumpers. You have just proved me wrong.”
“Oh, stop it,” said John. “I had to buy them in a hurry in the airport in Frankfurt while we were switching planes, so it’s not like there was a great selection.”
Sherlock had put his book down on his chest, open so it was holding his page. “Why are you wearing those terrible things?”
“Because I’m going to the beach today.”
“Are you?” Sherlock sounded as if this were an astonishing thing to do, as if the idea of going to the beach had never occurred to him.
“Yes. And you’re coming.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. The beach is only a few steps in that direction, and you can read just as well there. And I bought you trunks, too. I left them on the bed for you. So, get dressed and make sure you put on sun cream.” John, grabbing a banana that he’d snagged from the lobby the day before, took his towel and walked out to stake a claim on the sand in front of their villa.
Sherlock arrived thirty minutes later, dressed in trousers and a white button-down shirt. The shirt was untucked. John supposed this was Sherlock’s concession to the activity.
John squinted up at him. “What about the trunks?”
“I am not so depressed to appear in public in those,” responded Sherlock, indignantly.
John laughed and settled his head back on the towel. “Fine. Suit yourself.” The sun was warm but not overpowering, and Sherlock might not be overly uncomfortable in what he was wearing.
Sherlock fussed with his towel and eventually lowered himself to the sand, shifting about and grumbling to himself. John opened one eye and watched the operation, amused. Sherlock, John thought, really wasn’t a beach person. Maybe John had been cruel to tell him to come and lay on the sand with him. John was about to tell him to forget it and go back up to the hammock when Sherlock winced and carefully adjusted his position, favoring a spot low on his ribcage.
“How is everything healing?” John asked.
“Fine,” Sherlock bit out, still carefully settling himself.
“Would you let me take a look later? Just to make sure?”
“It’s all fine.”
“You escaped from hospital long before you would have been discharged. At least let me look to make sure you don’t have some sort of festering infection.”
“I don’t have an infection, John. I’m not an idiot.”
John closed his eyes and said, confidently, “I’ll take a look tonight.” If he said it confidently, he thought Sherlock would feel less able to argue with him about it.
***
Eventually they trailed back inside for showers before dinner. John emerged from his shower to find Sherlock perched on the veranda railing, looking out at the beach. He didn’t look like he was keeping watch; he looked more relaxed than that, and John was pleased. He walked over to stand beside Sherlock and look up and down the length of the beach. The sun was setting, and most people had straggled back inside to get ready for supper.
“So that was a day at the beach,” remarked Sherlock, musingly.
John grinned. “Did you like it?”
“Didn’t see the point.”
“Which is precisely the point.” John experimentally reached out and put his hand in Sherlock’s hair, because it was too tempting not to. Sherlock, to John’s relief, tipped his head against the pressure, seeming to invite more, and John ran his fingers lightly along Sherlock’s scalp. “What do you want to do for dinner?” asked John, casually, so as not to reveal how much his heart was pounding because he had a hand on Sherlock’s head.
“Mmm,” said Sherlock, pressing back against John’s touch. “The restaurant.”
John wanted to suggest that they order in, but he also didn’t want to alarm Sherlock. And anyways, he was taking it as a good sign that Sherlock seemed less jumpy about being around others. Maybe John could convince him to leave the villa the next day. John thought he needed to try to slowly reintroduce the idea of normality to Sherlock.
John forced himself to drop his hand from Sherlock’s hair. “Shall we go then?”
He expected Sherlock to protest that he wasn’t hungry, but Sherlock practically bounced his way down the beach. John was bemused until the concierge intercepted them and handed Sherlock a package.
“For you,” Sherlock said, bright-eyed with anticipation as he handed it to John.
“Ah,” said John, smiling, and opened the box to a selection of books on astronomy. He laughed.
“You need to be better at the constellations,” Sherlock told him. “And this will be something for you to do instead of watching that horrible television you insist on watching.”
“Thank you,” said John.
“You like them,” announced Sherlock, not quite a question.
“I love them,” John replied honestly.
“Good.” Sherlock was fiddling with his napkin now, and John watched his eyes slide over the other occupants of the restaurant.
Tell me, John wanted to say. Tell me everything that happened to you over the past six months so that I can fix it for you.
Instead John said, “Tell me what you read about today on the beach.”
And so Sherlock did.
Next Chapter
Author -
earlgreytea68Rating - Teen
Characters - Sherlock, John
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - The letters have been written, read, and discussed. But that doesn't mean anything's been resolved. Yet.
Author's Note - Thank you to
arctacuda for the beta and flawedamythyst for the Britpick.Chapter One
Chapter Two
John woke quickly, disoriented but with the clear knowledge that something was wrong. Something out-of-place had startled him out of sleep, and he reached for the gun by the bed quickly—
And Sherlock said, sounding breathless, “It’s me. It’s just me.”
John blinked, his vision adjusting to the darkness of the room, making out Sherlock’s silhouette just inside his bedroom door. “Jesus Christ,” he said, putting the gun back and digging his heels into his eyes as he leaned back against the headboard. His heart was pounding with adrenaline, and he took a deep breath to try to tamp down on it. “I could have shot you.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sherlock.
He sounded strange, and John put his hands down slowly, suddenly worried that his initial instinct that something was wrong had been correct after all. “You okay?”
“Yes,” Sherlock answered. Too quickly, John thought.
“What are you doing in here?” John asked, his mind cycling through possibilities. Was there someone else in the villa? Holding Sherlock hostage? Was that why Sherlock was behaving so oddly?
“I…” said Sherlock. “I… Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He was speaking rapidly now, his words pouring out in a rush. “I didn’t think you’d wake up. I mean, you were sleeping so soundly, and I was just going to… Sorry. I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.”
“Okay,” said John, confused, watching Sherlock’s silhouette leave his bedroom. What the hell had that been about? John wondered, as he settled himself back down into bed.
Then Sherlock came back into the bedroom. “It’s just… Do you mind if I…just sit here for a little while?”
“Sit where?” asked John, confused, sitting up again.
“Here at the desk.” John heard the room’s desk chair scrape out.
“Sherlock,” began John, in exasperation, leaning over and turning on the bedside light. Sherlock flinched and squeezed his eyes shut, and John stared across at him, startled. Because Sherlock was trembling uncontrollably, John could tell even from the distance they were at. “Sherlock,” John said again, realizing.
“I’m fine,” said Sherlock, automatically, without opening his eyes, and John knew now why he’d been speaking so oddly, he was trying not to betray the chattering of his teeth.
And John knew, so well, how miserable it was to wake up from a nightmare into a full-blown panic attack. He leaned over and turned off the light and said, lightly, “Don’t be an idiot. Come and get into bed.”
It was a testament to how shaken Sherlock was that he bounded over immediately, crawling onto the other side of John’s bed, on top of the thin bedspread.
“You can get under the covers,” John told him.
“I’m not cold,” said Sherlock, and John believed him. He might have been shivering, but John knew he probably felt claustrophobically warm. “I thought… I just thought…that you wouldn’t mind…if I…”
Sherlock was speaking in disconnected gulps, and John interrupted, softly, “Sherlock. Take a deep breath, love.” He heard Sherlock obey. “Okay, hold it. Now let it out slowly. Do it again. And again.” John talked him through five deep, slow breaths, and then said, “Better?” He could tell it was already because Sherlock had stopped shuddering.
There was a long period of silence before Sherlock said, calmly, “My pulse is back to normal. Thank you.”
Ah, thought John, he’d been taking his own pulse. “I don’t mind. You’re not alone anymore. That’s the point, right? Now go back to sleep.”
Sherlock laughed, harshly and without humor. “I really don’t want to go back to sleep.”
“Okay, then,” said John, and promptly got out of bed.
“What are you doing?” asked Sherlock, sounding shocked.
John turned on the light in the lounge area and glanced back at Sherlock. “If you don’t want to go back to sleep, it does you no good to lay in bed and brood about the nightmare. So. Get up. We’ll do something else.”
“But…But you’re tired. You were sleeping,” protested Sherlock.
“I’ll survive. I used to be a soldier. And a doctor. You may be the champion of surviving on little sleep, but I bet I could medal.” John busied himself in the kitchen, frowning at the tea they’d been provided.
“You’re going to make tea?” Sherlock had at least got out of bed and was now standing in the bedroom doorway.
“Yes. Do you want some? We didn’t stop for milk, so you’ll have to have it black.”
“That’s fine.”
“Good.” John turned away, losing himself in the ritual of the tea-making. When he was finished, he found Sherlock sitting at the dining table, watching him closely. “Come over to the sofa,” said John, carrying the tea over there. Sherlock obeyed, and John turned on the television.
“Telly?” said Sherlock, incredulously. “We’re going to watch telly?”
“Yes. I’m looking forward to some quiet time, so I’m not going in search of a crime to keep your mind busy. So, shopping network. An insomniac’s best friend.”
Sherlock regarded the television screen dubiously. “Well, she was clearly shagging the director.”
John smiled and looked from Sherlock’s profile to the television. “Of course she was.”
“What is that awful thing they’re attempting to sell, anyway? Oh, she was shagging that bloke, too.”
“She got around.”
“Mmm. And she’s been married three times. Is that stupidity or optimism, do you think?”
John chuckled. Sherlock already sounded much better. Shopping networks, John thought, could be magic. “I choose to believe it’s optimism.”
“Or maybe optimism is just a kind word for stupidity,” mused Sherlock.
“It’s not,” John said, firmly. “It’s really not.”
Sherlock turned to face him fully, propping an elbow on the back of the sofa and cupping his tea in his other hand. “Why didn’t you ever get married?”
They had never discussed this before, and it seemed like an odd conversational topic for Sherlock to choose, but John went with it. “Never met the right woman.”
“Is there any such thing? You must have had your pick of women, there was no one close enough to be right?”
“Well, what about you?” countered John.
Sherlock looked perplexed. “What about me?”
“Why didn’t you ever get married?”
“Me? Married?”
“Why not?”
“Can you imagine me married?”
“I can, actually.”
“Really?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. “And what, exactly, is my wife like?”
“Who says you have a wife?”
“Ah. Touché. What, then, is my husband like?”
Sherlock was so irritated by this topic of conversation that he wasn’t even catching the undercurrent of John’s words. And John found that adorable. “He finds you delightful,” John said, warmly.
Sherlock laughed. “Does he? Not an adjective usually applied to me.”
“Delightful,” repeated John, insistently. “Irreplaceable.”
“Now that I can believe,” agreed Sherlock, wryly, sipping his tea. And then he suddenly looked at John, as if finally comprehending what John had been talking about all along.
“There is such a thing as the right person,” said John, honestly. “I never got married because I was sure that there was. And I was right. I just had to wait long enough.”
Sherlock, after a second, cleared his throat and looked away, looking uncomfortable. He sipped his tea again. John turned back to the television, thinking Sherlock needed processing time.
After a moment, Sherlock said, “You’re a terrible cook, but you’re the best at making tea.”
Which John knew was almost Sherlock’s way of saying, I think I found the right person, too. He said in response, “I’m glad you like it. I promise to always make you tea.”
“Even when I’ve upset you by putting slivers of pigs’ feet in the toaster?”
“Even then,” replied John, and then, “You’ve just filed that away in your mind palace, haven’t you?”
“I’ve put it in a display case in the front foyer,” rejoined Sherlock.
John laughed and loved him more than anything else on the planet.
“That man there primarily makes his money from pornography,” Sherlock said of the new presenter on the screen.
And John loved him even more.
***
The following morning John convinced Sherlock that they should breakfast at the hotel restaurant, and it was really quite pleasant. They were up before any of the other guests, and the little terrace was deserted. They sat there and watched the ocean, and John made Sherlock eat most of a croissant and refused to let him read the newspaper. As they were finishing, the concierge came up to them with a parcel.
“As you requested, Mr. Kelly,” he said, handing it across to John.
“Oh, yes, of course. Thank you.”
Sherlock’s eyes were sharp on the package. “What is that?”
“For you.” John nudged the package across.
“When did you do this?” Sherlock asked, suspiciously.
“Called down to the front desk for it while you were napping yesterday.”
Sherlock opened the box, pulling out a selection of true crime novels. John knew Sherlock had been recently traumatized but he also thought Sherlock would benefit from remembering who he had been, before all this had happened.
“I thought you might like something to read. I can only depend upon you to watch terrible telly with me for so long, after all.”
Sherlock looked pleased, and John was glad he’d had the idea. “This is wonderful,” he announced, and then he promptly spent the entirety of the day lounging in the hammock on the veranda, reading. John cycled out to him cups of tea and pieces of fruit, and Sherlock ate and drank without speaking, and seemed much more like his old self.
John spent the day watching terrible television and poking around on Sherlock’s laptop for places where he could learn to scuba dive.
And he updated his blog.
In the evening, he persuaded Sherlock to once again go to the hotel restaurant with him. It was more crowded, but Sherlock was in a good mood and spent the entire dinner telling John all about the books he had read so far and eating. John knew he was eating without thinking, but John was pleased all the same.
When they were done, Sherlock said, “Your turn to pay, Mr. Kelly.”
“My turn? I’ve paid for everything so far. This entire holiday is on me, apparently. How’s it feel to be a kept man?”
“Brilliant,” Sherlock grinned at him, and then practically leapt out of his chair. “Pay the bill. I’ll be right back.”
John kept an eye on Sherlock as he darted into the lobby area, scrawling a fake signature on his fake credit card receipt. Sherlock returned in a few moments, looking like the cat who’d caught the canary.
“What was that all about?”
“Nothing,” responded Sherlock, sounding like the very opposite of innocent.
John smiled and decided to allow him whatever subterfuge he was planning. They walked slowly together back up the beach to their villa, and then John said, “No crime novels before bed. Terrible television instead.”
Sherlock sat curled into his corner of the sofa and complained about everything John chose to watch, and eventually John shut the television off and said, “Never mind. You’re cranky. Let’s go to bed.”
“I’m not cranky,” protested Sherlock.
“Come on,” said John, standing and walking past him into the bathroom. When he emerged from the bathroom, Sherlock was still sitting on the sofa, and he looked uncertain. “Sherlock,” said John, patiently. “Whose bed would you rather share? Yours or mine?”
Sherlock’s fingers tapped against each other, and John thought of the violin that wasn’t there. “I…”
“I think you’ll do better if you fall asleep knowing that you’re not alone.”
Sherlock appeared to give this thought then agreed, slowly, “Okay.”
“Okay. Come to bed, then,” said John, and went into his bedroom, hoping that Sherlock would eventually follow.
He did, hesitantly, and John pretended to be asleep so as not to alarm him as he crawled oh-so-carefully into the bed next to him. But John was not asleep. He was awake long after Sherlock’s breaths had evened out into sleep, staring at the lump next to him and thinking how he needed to make him feel safe for the rest of his life.
***
John woke to bright sunlight and Sherlock curled on his side next to him, sound asleep. John didn’t want to leave Sherlock to wake up to an empty bed, so he simply laid there watching him until he woke himself, his nose twitching into a yawn.
“Good morning,” he slurred, sleepily, closing his eyes again.
“Good morning,” John agreed. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock responded.
John dropped a kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose because he couldn’t help it.
When John got out of the bathroom, Sherlock was back in his hammock. He’d snagged John’s sunglasses, so that all John could see was his own reflection when Sherlock looked at him and said, “Oh my God, what are you wearing?”
John glanced down. “Swimming trunks,” he said, because he thought that was obvious. It wasn’t as if it was a Speedo, for Christ’s sake.
“I didn’t think there was anything in the world that you could have poorer taste in than jumpers. You have just proved me wrong.”
“Oh, stop it,” said John. “I had to buy them in a hurry in the airport in Frankfurt while we were switching planes, so it’s not like there was a great selection.”
Sherlock had put his book down on his chest, open so it was holding his page. “Why are you wearing those terrible things?”
“Because I’m going to the beach today.”
“Are you?” Sherlock sounded as if this were an astonishing thing to do, as if the idea of going to the beach had never occurred to him.
“Yes. And you’re coming.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. The beach is only a few steps in that direction, and you can read just as well there. And I bought you trunks, too. I left them on the bed for you. So, get dressed and make sure you put on sun cream.” John, grabbing a banana that he’d snagged from the lobby the day before, took his towel and walked out to stake a claim on the sand in front of their villa.
Sherlock arrived thirty minutes later, dressed in trousers and a white button-down shirt. The shirt was untucked. John supposed this was Sherlock’s concession to the activity.
John squinted up at him. “What about the trunks?”
“I am not so depressed to appear in public in those,” responded Sherlock, indignantly.
John laughed and settled his head back on the towel. “Fine. Suit yourself.” The sun was warm but not overpowering, and Sherlock might not be overly uncomfortable in what he was wearing.
Sherlock fussed with his towel and eventually lowered himself to the sand, shifting about and grumbling to himself. John opened one eye and watched the operation, amused. Sherlock, John thought, really wasn’t a beach person. Maybe John had been cruel to tell him to come and lay on the sand with him. John was about to tell him to forget it and go back up to the hammock when Sherlock winced and carefully adjusted his position, favoring a spot low on his ribcage.
“How is everything healing?” John asked.
“Fine,” Sherlock bit out, still carefully settling himself.
“Would you let me take a look later? Just to make sure?”
“It’s all fine.”
“You escaped from hospital long before you would have been discharged. At least let me look to make sure you don’t have some sort of festering infection.”
“I don’t have an infection, John. I’m not an idiot.”
John closed his eyes and said, confidently, “I’ll take a look tonight.” If he said it confidently, he thought Sherlock would feel less able to argue with him about it.
***
Eventually they trailed back inside for showers before dinner. John emerged from his shower to find Sherlock perched on the veranda railing, looking out at the beach. He didn’t look like he was keeping watch; he looked more relaxed than that, and John was pleased. He walked over to stand beside Sherlock and look up and down the length of the beach. The sun was setting, and most people had straggled back inside to get ready for supper.
“So that was a day at the beach,” remarked Sherlock, musingly.
John grinned. “Did you like it?”
“Didn’t see the point.”
“Which is precisely the point.” John experimentally reached out and put his hand in Sherlock’s hair, because it was too tempting not to. Sherlock, to John’s relief, tipped his head against the pressure, seeming to invite more, and John ran his fingers lightly along Sherlock’s scalp. “What do you want to do for dinner?” asked John, casually, so as not to reveal how much his heart was pounding because he had a hand on Sherlock’s head.
“Mmm,” said Sherlock, pressing back against John’s touch. “The restaurant.”
John wanted to suggest that they order in, but he also didn’t want to alarm Sherlock. And anyways, he was taking it as a good sign that Sherlock seemed less jumpy about being around others. Maybe John could convince him to leave the villa the next day. John thought he needed to try to slowly reintroduce the idea of normality to Sherlock.
John forced himself to drop his hand from Sherlock’s hair. “Shall we go then?”
He expected Sherlock to protest that he wasn’t hungry, but Sherlock practically bounced his way down the beach. John was bemused until the concierge intercepted them and handed Sherlock a package.
“For you,” Sherlock said, bright-eyed with anticipation as he handed it to John.
“Ah,” said John, smiling, and opened the box to a selection of books on astronomy. He laughed.
“You need to be better at the constellations,” Sherlock told him. “And this will be something for you to do instead of watching that horrible television you insist on watching.”
“Thank you,” said John.
“You like them,” announced Sherlock, not quite a question.
“I love them,” John replied honestly.
“Good.” Sherlock was fiddling with his napkin now, and John watched his eyes slide over the other occupants of the restaurant.
Tell me, John wanted to say. Tell me everything that happened to you over the past six months so that I can fix it for you.
Instead John said, “Tell me what you read about today on the beach.”
And so Sherlock did.
Next Chapter
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no subject
Date: 2013-11-03 07:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-04 04:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-03 08:02 pm (UTC)This is much more real than a sudden jump out of angst for these two, this slow edging forward. This could work. (Pleeeeeease work!)
(I'm so afraid they won't have enough time before Sherlock is found again....)
no subject
Date: 2013-12-04 05:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-03 08:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-04 05:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-03 11:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-04 12:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-04 01:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-04 04:52 am (UTC)I am completely loving how they are moving so slowly. They both need the time and the talking together.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-04 05:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-04 07:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-04 07:45 pm (UTC)I really hope they'll get the holiday they deserve before reality crashes down on them again, so that they'll be able to face it all together.
Thank you for continuing this verse in such an amazing way! Looking forward to more! :)
no subject
Date: 2013-11-05 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-05 03:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-05 01:17 pm (UTC)Which John knew was almost Sherlock’s way of saying, I think I found the right person, too. He said in response, “I’m glad you like it. I promise to always make you tea.”"
Ah, that was delicious in itself. What a lovely sentiment!
It's so nice to see Sherlock finally unravelling a little bit, or at least trying to relax.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-06 01:35 am (UTC)Aww, he called him "love". It's the first time he calls him "love". Did Sherlock notice that John called him "love"? *loves the fact that John called Sherlock "love"*
“Okay, then,” said John, and promptly got out of bed.
What? No conversation in the dark? WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH EARLGREYTEA?
“I thought… I just thought…that you wouldn’t mind…if I…”
Ow. The way he stammers and trembles and the fact that he doesn't dare to join John in his bed without being asked is a bit heartbreaking. He's so distressed and vulnerable.
“Can you imagine me married?”
“I can, actually.”
*squees inwardly*
After a moment, Sherlock said, “You’re a terrible cook, but you’re the best at making tea.”
Which John knew was almost Sherlock’s way of saying, I think I found the right person, too. He said in response, “I’m glad you like it. I promise to always make you tea.”
In this fandom tea means love. :D John has just promised Sherlock to love him forever. *feels shamelessly sloppy*
And he updated his blog.
BUT??? Isn't it a bit risky? Also, the way you isolate this sentence is quite ominous. Damn.
“My turn? I’ve paid for everything so far. This entire holiday is on me, apparently. How’s it feel to be a kept man?”
I guess Mycroft helps a little? :D
So, get dressed and make sure you put on sun cream.
Well, if John is already on the beach Sherlock will need someone to apply sun cream on his back.
“What do you want to do for dinner?” asked John, casually, so as not to reveal how much his heart was pounding because he had a hand on Sherlock’s head.
I wonder how his heart will cope when, very soon, John has a hand on Sherlock's, er... neck. Of course I mean neck. *coughs*
Tell me everything that happened to you over the past six months so that I can fix it for you.
Aww. You John in a nutshell.
What a lovely chapter. I love the exchange of gifts, and the way John shows his love for Sherlock, and the way you write this character. We should all have a John in our lives. What a tender world that would be. :D So, John is going to take a look at Sherlock's wounds tonight. I don't know if I must rub my hands in anticipation because it may be a bit hot or if I must be afraid because it may be a bit distressing for John (and for us). After all we don't know how much Sherlock is physically hurt. And this blog updating... I'm afraid this peaceful chapter is the calm before the storm! A reproach, though: I'm sorry but you must be aware that this chapter really lacks something. Let me fix that for you.
That's better. :D
P.S. Speaking of Sherlock on the beach, it reminded me of this comic. :D
http://verilyvexed.tumblr.com/post/43975060773/re-posting-this-because-its-one-of-my-favourites
P.P.S. I'm very happy Sherlock's absence only lasted six months. Now we know that in the show John mourns Sherlock for two years and it seems so cruel. *is much too emotionally invested in the show*
no subject
Date: 2013-11-06 05:18 am (UTC)> he promptly spent the entirety of the day lounging in the hammock on the veranda, reading.
"Mr. Mac, the most practical thing that you ever did in your life would be to shut yourself up for three months and read twelve hours a day at the annals of crime. Everything comes in circles—even Professor Moriarty. Jonathan Wild was the hidden force of the London criminals, to whom he sold his brains and his organization on a fifteen per cent. commission. The old wheel turns, and the same spoke comes up. It's all been done before, and will be again…" - Valley of Fear