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holmesticeTitle: Won't be the same dear, If you're not here with me
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alafaye
Author:mahmfic
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Fluff. Angst. Hurt/Comfort.
Summary: Sherlock and John feel the strains of a long distance relationship with John stationed overseas. When John is put on a black ops mission with no time table and orders not to contact family, Sherlock does not react well.
"Bored."
John snorted and rolled his eyes. The resolution of the screen was low and grainy and didn't at all capture John's true mannerisms. Thousands of miles away, separated by ocean and desert, over the air and the WiFi wasn't good enough. Sherlock knew that John's right eyebrow would be raised, crinkling his forehead. When he snorted, he'd slightly lift the right side of cheek, and his mouth would curl into a sideways smile. All those tiny details were lost over the less than desired connection.
"You just solved a triple homicide and you're bored?"
It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. "Kidnapping gone wrong. The kidnappers were facing bankruptcy and were going to lose their home. The husband lost his job and had his resume and a few business cards on his person. The wife had paper cuts and callouses from all the couponing she'd been doing to save up. Both of their fingers were covered in the silver latex that you have to scratch off with coins on credit cards or scratch-off lottery tickets."
John nodded. "So they were desperate."
"I should think so. Tomorrow was the day the bank was forcing them to leave the home that had been in the husband's family for four generations, that had been built by his great-grandfather's hands. They had lost everything. But if they won the twenty-six million pound lottery they would be able to turn their lives around. Fools."
The doctor wasn't sure what to say to that. Sherlock could see John tilting his head fifteen degrees and chewing on his lower lip. When John didn't reply, the detective continued. "They like everyone, knew about the jackpot. Did their research on the lottery girl—"
"Evie Mallon?" John interjected. "Tall, blonde, gorgeous, wears that ridiculous ball gown just to say a few numbers?"
"That's the one." Sherlock smiled. "The kidnappers kidnapped her partner and were holding her for ransom as it were. If Ms. Mallon didn't pick the right lotto numbers, then her partner would die."
John sat up straighter. "Christ. How could she pick the right numbers? It's random."
"At their house, Lestrade's team found table tennis balls, stencils, black spray paint, and canned air. What does this tell you, John?"
John's lips quirked up. "That they're awful at beer pong?"
"No, think, John! It's so obvious!" He tapped his temples for emphasis.
The doctor leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. Sherlock watched the screen intensely. He could see the cogs moving in his lover's brain. It was kind of beautiful. Suddenly, John's eyes snapped open. "They were making dummy lottery balls!"
Sherlock clicked his fingers. "Exactly, John! The lotto balls in the machine are weighted the same, making the probability of each table tennis ball getting sucked up into the tube completely random. But," he stuck out his pointer finger at the screen. "What if certain balls were weighted differently? Weighed lighter? Each weighted slightly more than the last to determine the order in which it would be chosen. So that when the balls are sucked up into the tube, if someone had stamped numbers on each ball, they had all of the odds of winning the big jackpot in their favor."
John's tongue darted out, licking his lips. "Do you realize how many times you said the word 'balls' or 'ball' just now?"
"Five." He couldn't help but grin at John's priorities.
"Did it work? Did they win the lotto?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied. "But they were greedy and scared, I suppose. They had a major witness to their crime who could easily pick them out of a line-up. So they killed her. But then, a tiny thought slips in their minds. Twenty-six million pounds? What could I do with all that money? Wouldn't have to share it if my spouse was gone, would I? Wouldn't have to worry about them turning on me later. So what do the kidnappers do? Murder each other for a lottery ticket. Bit like a duel, really. They were paces away from each other when they both pulled the trigger."
John laughed darkly. "You're brilliant." He sniffled and rubbed his nose with his sleeve. "That was utterly depressing but… you're good."
Sherlock shook his head. "It was dreadfully boring. Too easy. I think they got the idea from an episode of that dreadful American TV show about the detective and the writer solving crime. And you're a doctor, you should know better than to wipe your nose with the sleeve of your shirt."
The army surgeon reared back his head and laughed. "Oh fuck! No one cares about that here." He gazed slightly off-screen, his eyes narrowed and lips in a thin line. "I miss you, Sherlock."
He was stunned at the admission. John was well, John. He was more emotional and stereotypically normal than Sherlock. But through-out their all of their vid chats John always was cheerful, and stoic. Always interested in Sherlock's cases and experiments. They tried their best to ignore the distance that had been forced between them. The rule was to act like the other was right there.
And John had just broken the rule.
Sherlock looked down at his hands in his lap. They were fisting his tailored pants and his knuckles were white. He exhaled a calculated long sigh. "It's boring without you."
"I'm being put on a black ops mission. Top secret."
Sherlock snapped his head. "What?" he hissed.
"I'm being sent out in the morning." John sighed, letting his whole body sag with him. "This is the last time I can contact you 'til I come back."
"No," Sherlock said defiantly. "No, no, we can get you out of this." He rose from his seat and began to pace the length of the living room. "There must be something in your contract! Or I could bribe your commanding officer or God forbid—"
"I asked for it."
The detective stopped dead. "You what?"
"I volunteered for the mission. I don't know how long I'll be gone."
"Why? Why would you do that!?" He didn't care how loud his voice was growing. This separation had been unbearable. He'd felt empty ever since that damned letter arrived at 221 B.
To Sherlock and John's horror, another soldier came on the screen. "John, mate. You're times up. Other people have to skype and your bloke is freaking people out with his yelling."
John looked frantically from the solider back to Sherlock. "Wait, no. Rich, please. Sherlock—"
The screen went dark.
Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, staring at his laptop. The screen seemed to be laughing at him.
John.
John was leaving him. He was gone on some dangerous mission and Sherlock didn't know why, where or how long he would be gone for.
Sherlock growled, picking up the laptop and threw it against the wall. The glass screen shattered into hundreds of pieces and he was sure he heard of the resounding crack of the motherboard breaking.
His mobile buzzed against the wood of the coffee table making one of the most irritating noises in the world, next to the sound of desk being scraped against the floor when the teacher forces the students to rearrange them. Three more buzzes and it stopped.
Sherlock pulled John's beige jumper over his nose and breathed in the lingering scent.
His mobile buzzed again. "Fuck," Sherlock growled and roughly yanked out his mobile from its plug and threw it; where he didn't care. He curled back into the couch, his back facing the door. The telly was on and tuned in to an old Top Gear rerun. John loved that show. Damn. Sherlock didn't have any energy to change the channel so he was forced to let Clarkson's ranting drift him off to sleep.
Then his mobile buzzed again from the depths of hell. He ground his teeth together. Whoever the hell needed to get in touch with him could just bloody well die.
The door of their flat opened and closed. The footfalls that proceeded were too heavy to belong to Mrs. Hudson bringing him tea or going on an odd cleaning binge.
"My, my. Looks like you've redecorated, brother. Dreadful work. I'd fire the decorator."
Sherlock inhaled deeply, balling up his fists. "Piss off, Mycroft."
"Yes, and hello to you as well, Sherlock." The detective heard the telltale sounds of his brother crossed the room, tsking at all of the debris from Sherlock's rages and lack of cleaning. The springs of John's chair groaned under Mycroft's weight. "I'd ask how you're doing but it's more than obvious."
Sherlock still had his back turned from his brother. "You know why," he said accusingly. "Why didn't you stop him?" Sherlock whispered.
Mycroft's voice was full of sympathy, faked or not, Sherlock didn't care. "We all have to do our duty for King and Country, Sherlock. John, even if he is your lover, he is not immune."
They sat in silence for a long time; enough for the Top Gear episode to end and an American film starring Jim Carrey begin.
The tip of Mycroft's umbrella hit the floor, and his brother groaned as he made to get out of John's chair. "You've been ignoring Greg's texts. He's got a rather interesting case for you, apparently. Something to do with being strangled with a piece of yarn. Hmm," Mycroft offered casually. His footsteps became lighter and lighter until they faded away completely.
Sherlock jumped up thirty seconds after Mycroft shut the door. "Where's that blasted phone?" he muttered to himself searching amongst the mess he'd created. "Ah!" It had fallen below the window. When Sherlock grabbed it and stood back up, he was met with the sight of the snowfall. He frowned. The first snow this winter.
Sherlock was bent over his oversized desk. The severed leg took up most of the space but that wasn't what he was working on currently. He was elbow-deep in about thirty different ears. Sherlock was performing a rather delicate experiment when the door to the flat opened and closed.
The detective grunted. "For fuck's sake, Mycroft if this is another offer to work for you—"
"It's Christmas Eve and this is how you spend your time?"
Sherlock dropped his syringe and vial on the pile of ears, effectively ruining the entire experiment. He twisted around and gaped unseemly.
"John," he breathed like a prayer.
John waved. "That'd be me."
Sherlock took a step forward. "John."
"Yes, we both know that it's me." John turned his head to the side like he would when he thought something was funny. His eyes were bright and shining. The corners of his mouth curled upwards and his eyes seemed to smile too; the crow's feet were more distinct. "Sherlock have you hit your head or something?"
Not being able to stand the distance any longer, Sherlock crossed the room in a few strides. He cupped John's face, caressing the bone under the eye with his thumb. John closed his eyes and melted under the detective's touch. Sherlock bent down, devouring John's mouth and inhaling his unique scent that had been denied him for the last ten months.
John pushed back with equal passion, slipping his tongue between Sherlock's lips, exploring and caressing. The doctor wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist drawing him closer. "Take me to bed, damnit."
The rays of the morning sun and the howl of the wind woke Sherlock on Christmas Day. He stretched and groaned, smiling that his body pleasantly ached. He rolled over, automatically grabbing his mobile to check for messages. There were three wishing him a Merry Christmas from Molly, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Nothing important.
Sherlock sat up and set his feet on the cold floor. In fact, the whole flat was freezing. He must have forgotten to put the heating on. Usually he'd just grab the bedclothes to wander around the flat but now that John was back, now that it was John's first night back. Sherlock found an old pair jeans and one of John's jumpers and put them on. Before leaving the room, he grabbed his mobile and kissed John's sleeping form.
He set about making some tea, grateful that there was still some of John's favorite earl gray left in one of the cabinets. The kettle had just whistled when Sherlock felt John curl his arms around his middle and rest his head on his shoulder.
"Happy Christmas, Sherlock." John kissed the juncture of his shoulder and neck. "Hmm, is that earl gray?"
"Yes," he affirmed, leaning back into John's embrace.
John hummed, reaching over and to turn off the stove. "There isn't any real food in the fridge, is there." A statement not a question.
"No, just another leg and another box of ears."
Sherlock felt the movement of the doctor shaking his head and jostling of his laughter. "Well, we can always order Chinese, I suppose. I'll go get dressed. You pick the place and put in a DVD of Doctor Who. We can watch until the real thing airs tonight." John paused at the frosted window, wiping it with his arm. "Hey did you know it's snowing? Snow on Christmas!" His smile was giant and infectious. "Maybe we'll go outside and make a snowman later, invite Mrs. Hudson too."
Sherlock stared at John as he retreated back to their room. He made a mental note that he must make John walk around in the nude more often. Especially if he was going to get unadulterated sights of John's gorgeous bum.
His mobile vibrated in his pocket. One new text message. Sherlock's eyebrows rose when he read the text.
Recipient:
alafayeAuthor:
mahmficCharacters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Fluff. Angst. Hurt/Comfort.
Summary: Sherlock and John feel the strains of a long distance relationship with John stationed overseas. When John is put on a black ops mission with no time table and orders not to contact family, Sherlock does not react well.
"Bored."
John snorted and rolled his eyes. The resolution of the screen was low and grainy and didn't at all capture John's true mannerisms. Thousands of miles away, separated by ocean and desert, over the air and the WiFi wasn't good enough. Sherlock knew that John's right eyebrow would be raised, crinkling his forehead. When he snorted, he'd slightly lift the right side of cheek, and his mouth would curl into a sideways smile. All those tiny details were lost over the less than desired connection.
"You just solved a triple homicide and you're bored?"
It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. "Kidnapping gone wrong. The kidnappers were facing bankruptcy and were going to lose their home. The husband lost his job and had his resume and a few business cards on his person. The wife had paper cuts and callouses from all the couponing she'd been doing to save up. Both of their fingers were covered in the silver latex that you have to scratch off with coins on credit cards or scratch-off lottery tickets."
John nodded. "So they were desperate."
"I should think so. Tomorrow was the day the bank was forcing them to leave the home that had been in the husband's family for four generations, that had been built by his great-grandfather's hands. They had lost everything. But if they won the twenty-six million pound lottery they would be able to turn their lives around. Fools."
The doctor wasn't sure what to say to that. Sherlock could see John tilting his head fifteen degrees and chewing on his lower lip. When John didn't reply, the detective continued. "They like everyone, knew about the jackpot. Did their research on the lottery girl—"
"Evie Mallon?" John interjected. "Tall, blonde, gorgeous, wears that ridiculous ball gown just to say a few numbers?"
"That's the one." Sherlock smiled. "The kidnappers kidnapped her partner and were holding her for ransom as it were. If Ms. Mallon didn't pick the right lotto numbers, then her partner would die."
John sat up straighter. "Christ. How could she pick the right numbers? It's random."
"At their house, Lestrade's team found table tennis balls, stencils, black spray paint, and canned air. What does this tell you, John?"
John's lips quirked up. "That they're awful at beer pong?"
"No, think, John! It's so obvious!" He tapped his temples for emphasis.
The doctor leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. Sherlock watched the screen intensely. He could see the cogs moving in his lover's brain. It was kind of beautiful. Suddenly, John's eyes snapped open. "They were making dummy lottery balls!"
Sherlock clicked his fingers. "Exactly, John! The lotto balls in the machine are weighted the same, making the probability of each table tennis ball getting sucked up into the tube completely random. But," he stuck out his pointer finger at the screen. "What if certain balls were weighted differently? Weighed lighter? Each weighted slightly more than the last to determine the order in which it would be chosen. So that when the balls are sucked up into the tube, if someone had stamped numbers on each ball, they had all of the odds of winning the big jackpot in their favor."
John's tongue darted out, licking his lips. "Do you realize how many times you said the word 'balls' or 'ball' just now?"
"Five." He couldn't help but grin at John's priorities.
"Did it work? Did they win the lotto?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied. "But they were greedy and scared, I suppose. They had a major witness to their crime who could easily pick them out of a line-up. So they killed her. But then, a tiny thought slips in their minds. Twenty-six million pounds? What could I do with all that money? Wouldn't have to share it if my spouse was gone, would I? Wouldn't have to worry about them turning on me later. So what do the kidnappers do? Murder each other for a lottery ticket. Bit like a duel, really. They were paces away from each other when they both pulled the trigger."
John laughed darkly. "You're brilliant." He sniffled and rubbed his nose with his sleeve. "That was utterly depressing but… you're good."
Sherlock shook his head. "It was dreadfully boring. Too easy. I think they got the idea from an episode of that dreadful American TV show about the detective and the writer solving crime. And you're a doctor, you should know better than to wipe your nose with the sleeve of your shirt."
The army surgeon reared back his head and laughed. "Oh fuck! No one cares about that here." He gazed slightly off-screen, his eyes narrowed and lips in a thin line. "I miss you, Sherlock."
He was stunned at the admission. John was well, John. He was more emotional and stereotypically normal than Sherlock. But through-out their all of their vid chats John always was cheerful, and stoic. Always interested in Sherlock's cases and experiments. They tried their best to ignore the distance that had been forced between them. The rule was to act like the other was right there.
And John had just broken the rule.
Sherlock looked down at his hands in his lap. They were fisting his tailored pants and his knuckles were white. He exhaled a calculated long sigh. "It's boring without you."
"I'm being put on a black ops mission. Top secret."
Sherlock snapped his head. "What?" he hissed.
"I'm being sent out in the morning." John sighed, letting his whole body sag with him. "This is the last time I can contact you 'til I come back."
"No," Sherlock said defiantly. "No, no, we can get you out of this." He rose from his seat and began to pace the length of the living room. "There must be something in your contract! Or I could bribe your commanding officer or God forbid—"
"I asked for it."
The detective stopped dead. "You what?"
"I volunteered for the mission. I don't know how long I'll be gone."
"Why? Why would you do that!?" He didn't care how loud his voice was growing. This separation had been unbearable. He'd felt empty ever since that damned letter arrived at 221 B.
To Sherlock and John's horror, another soldier came on the screen. "John, mate. You're times up. Other people have to skype and your bloke is freaking people out with his yelling."
John looked frantically from the solider back to Sherlock. "Wait, no. Rich, please. Sherlock—"
The screen went dark.
Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, staring at his laptop. The screen seemed to be laughing at him.
John.
John was leaving him. He was gone on some dangerous mission and Sherlock didn't know why, where or how long he would be gone for.
Sherlock growled, picking up the laptop and threw it against the wall. The glass screen shattered into hundreds of pieces and he was sure he heard of the resounding crack of the motherboard breaking.
His mobile buzzed against the wood of the coffee table making one of the most irritating noises in the world, next to the sound of desk being scraped against the floor when the teacher forces the students to rearrange them. Three more buzzes and it stopped.
Sherlock pulled John's beige jumper over his nose and breathed in the lingering scent.
His mobile buzzed again. "Fuck," Sherlock growled and roughly yanked out his mobile from its plug and threw it; where he didn't care. He curled back into the couch, his back facing the door. The telly was on and tuned in to an old Top Gear rerun. John loved that show. Damn. Sherlock didn't have any energy to change the channel so he was forced to let Clarkson's ranting drift him off to sleep.
Then his mobile buzzed again from the depths of hell. He ground his teeth together. Whoever the hell needed to get in touch with him could just bloody well die.
The door of their flat opened and closed. The footfalls that proceeded were too heavy to belong to Mrs. Hudson bringing him tea or going on an odd cleaning binge.
"My, my. Looks like you've redecorated, brother. Dreadful work. I'd fire the decorator."
Sherlock inhaled deeply, balling up his fists. "Piss off, Mycroft."
"Yes, and hello to you as well, Sherlock." The detective heard the telltale sounds of his brother crossed the room, tsking at all of the debris from Sherlock's rages and lack of cleaning. The springs of John's chair groaned under Mycroft's weight. "I'd ask how you're doing but it's more than obvious."
Sherlock still had his back turned from his brother. "You know why," he said accusingly. "Why didn't you stop him?" Sherlock whispered.
Mycroft's voice was full of sympathy, faked or not, Sherlock didn't care. "We all have to do our duty for King and Country, Sherlock. John, even if he is your lover, he is not immune."
They sat in silence for a long time; enough for the Top Gear episode to end and an American film starring Jim Carrey begin.
The tip of Mycroft's umbrella hit the floor, and his brother groaned as he made to get out of John's chair. "You've been ignoring Greg's texts. He's got a rather interesting case for you, apparently. Something to do with being strangled with a piece of yarn. Hmm," Mycroft offered casually. His footsteps became lighter and lighter until they faded away completely.
Sherlock jumped up thirty seconds after Mycroft shut the door. "Where's that blasted phone?" he muttered to himself searching amongst the mess he'd created. "Ah!" It had fallen below the window. When Sherlock grabbed it and stood back up, he was met with the sight of the snowfall. He frowned. The first snow this winter.
Sherlock was bent over his oversized desk. The severed leg took up most of the space but that wasn't what he was working on currently. He was elbow-deep in about thirty different ears. Sherlock was performing a rather delicate experiment when the door to the flat opened and closed.
The detective grunted. "For fuck's sake, Mycroft if this is another offer to work for you—"
"It's Christmas Eve and this is how you spend your time?"
Sherlock dropped his syringe and vial on the pile of ears, effectively ruining the entire experiment. He twisted around and gaped unseemly.
"John," he breathed like a prayer.
John waved. "That'd be me."
Sherlock took a step forward. "John."
"Yes, we both know that it's me." John turned his head to the side like he would when he thought something was funny. His eyes were bright and shining. The corners of his mouth curled upwards and his eyes seemed to smile too; the crow's feet were more distinct. "Sherlock have you hit your head or something?"
Not being able to stand the distance any longer, Sherlock crossed the room in a few strides. He cupped John's face, caressing the bone under the eye with his thumb. John closed his eyes and melted under the detective's touch. Sherlock bent down, devouring John's mouth and inhaling his unique scent that had been denied him for the last ten months.
John pushed back with equal passion, slipping his tongue between Sherlock's lips, exploring and caressing. The doctor wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist drawing him closer. "Take me to bed, damnit."
The rays of the morning sun and the howl of the wind woke Sherlock on Christmas Day. He stretched and groaned, smiling that his body pleasantly ached. He rolled over, automatically grabbing his mobile to check for messages. There were three wishing him a Merry Christmas from Molly, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Nothing important.
Sherlock sat up and set his feet on the cold floor. In fact, the whole flat was freezing. He must have forgotten to put the heating on. Usually he'd just grab the bedclothes to wander around the flat but now that John was back, now that it was John's first night back. Sherlock found an old pair jeans and one of John's jumpers and put them on. Before leaving the room, he grabbed his mobile and kissed John's sleeping form.
He set about making some tea, grateful that there was still some of John's favorite earl gray left in one of the cabinets. The kettle had just whistled when Sherlock felt John curl his arms around his middle and rest his head on his shoulder.
"Happy Christmas, Sherlock." John kissed the juncture of his shoulder and neck. "Hmm, is that earl gray?"
"Yes," he affirmed, leaning back into John's embrace.
John hummed, reaching over and to turn off the stove. "There isn't any real food in the fridge, is there." A statement not a question.
"No, just another leg and another box of ears."
Sherlock felt the movement of the doctor shaking his head and jostling of his laughter. "Well, we can always order Chinese, I suppose. I'll go get dressed. You pick the place and put in a DVD of Doctor Who. We can watch until the real thing airs tonight." John paused at the frosted window, wiping it with his arm. "Hey did you know it's snowing? Snow on Christmas!" His smile was giant and infectious. "Maybe we'll go outside and make a snowman later, invite Mrs. Hudson too."
Sherlock stared at John as he retreated back to their room. He made a mental note that he must make John walk around in the nude more often. Especially if he was going to get unadulterated sights of John's gorgeous bum.
His mobile vibrated in his pocket. One new text message. Sherlock's eyebrows rose when he read the text.
Merry Christmas, little brother.
-Mycroft Holmes
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-12-02 02:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-02 02:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-02 02:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-02 02:39 am (UTC)The best kind of Christmas present. I'm talking about the severed leg, of course.
no subject
Date: 2013-12-02 02:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-02 04:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-02 07:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-02 09:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-02 04:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-02 09:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-02 09:52 pm (UTC)This made me laugh loudly -- thank you! Very enjoyable and sweet :)
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Date: 2013-12-03 04:47 pm (UTC)This is perfectly and wonderful and Sherlock pining and John being secretive and Mycroft being Mycroft and...thank you!!
no subject
Date: 2013-12-04 09:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-06 06:30 pm (UTC)Well done!