Fic for Flecalicious: Silent Night
Dec. 16th, 2010 08:56 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
colebaltblue.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmesticeTitle: Silent Night
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
morelindo
Recipient:flecalicious
Pairing: John/Sherlock if you squint and tilt your head (it's not intended to be slash but you can read it as such if you want)
Rating: G
Spoilers: None
Words: around 1,000
Summary: It’s almost Christmas 2012. John Watson is in for a surprise.
Notes: Thanks to my beta (you know who you are) for the time and patience you had with me and for the fantastic suggestions for improving this. Happy holidays to everyone!flecalicious, I hope this is what you had in mind. Enjoy!
John spends Christmas 2010 with his girlfriend Sarah at her place. It’s been eight months since he was pulled out under a pile of rubble and she has been a trooper through all this time. She’s made a gorgeous meal and on the whole it’s a lovely couple of days. He really can’t complain, he thinks.
On Twelfth Night, he places a candle on Sherlock’s grave. He never got to celebrate Sherlock’s birthday while he was alive, so it seems only fitting to do so now at least.
***
For Christmas 2011, Mike Stamford and his partner have invited John. They try to be nice and very considerate with their display of affection because they know about his breakup with Sarah. It is a nice enough evening, but John can’t help but feel a pang when he sees the two other men holding hands.
***
It’s December 23, 2012. John is dragging two carrier bags from Sainsbury’s up the two flights of stairs to his flat. Clapham’s not as central Baker Street, but he likes this part of London and it’s convenient for work. He struggles for the key, unlocks the door and gasps for air as he puts the shopping on the kitchen table. He gets a mug of tea and goes through to the living-room.
Someone is sitting on his sofa. In his living-room. With his computer.
Someone who supposedly died three years ago.
John nearly drops the mug, then puts it down on the table instead.
“Your blog is very active these days. Not that there’s anything worth reading in it, but I must say your writing style has improved. Congratulations.”
John is unable to say anything. He’s wondering if he’s dreaming.
“You are certainly doing well for yourself. Your NHS name badge is on the key rack beside the door, so you’re in gainful employment. Your job must pay better than the last one you had or else you wouldn’t be able to afford this place. You’re single - if you were still with Sarah, you would have moved in with her by now. Could be you found someone new, but if you have, it’s nothing serious - everything in this place is yours, there’s not even a second toothbrush. Plus, you update your blog very regularly with posts about things that piss you off. That says you don’t really have anyone to vent your personal frustrations to, so, single it is. You tried to patch up things with your sister, but it didn’t work out. Probably she’s tried to get in touch on the phone before she resorted to sending you letters that you throw away unopened.”
John blinks and licks his lips, folding his arms.
Sherlock takes his eyes off the computer screen to look at him for the briefest of moments, then jumps up to perch on the sofa and steeples his fingers.
“OK, you’ve got questions.”
There’s a brief pause before he carries on. His voice is monotonous, like he’s reciting the phonebook.
“The pool collapsed, you were knocked unconscious, I wasn't, Moriarty got away. Mycroft gave me a hand in making it look as though I’d died so they could catch Moriarty in the act. Put you under surveillance to make sure Moriarty didn't go after you. The Yard tracked down one of Moriarty's men, one Moran. They had a rather intense personal relationship, so we were able to get to Moriarty through him. So, Moriarty’s locked up for good, I’m back in 221B and I'm investigating a case. You might have seen it on the news - Ronald Adair, socialite, shot in his front room after coming home from a casino. Classic Locked Room mystery with some rather peculiar features. Very good puzzle. Will you come?”
The feeling of John’s hand connecting with Sherlock’s cheekbone is oddly satisfying. Sherlock’s head flicks to the side and he nearly keels over, but he catches himself and blocks the next hit. John drops his arms and turns his back, hands curled into fists at his side.
“You’re such a bloody idiot. How could you... Why did you not let me know?”
“I had my reasons.”
John turns around to face Sherlock. “Right. Let me guess, you couldn't bothered to reach for the phone?”
It takes all the restraint he has not to lash out again. Sherlock closes the laptop and looks at John.
“I did this for your own good, John. I couldn’t risk Moriarty’s people going after you. They would have done if they had known I was alive. I couldn’t let anyone know. Especially not you. It was the logical thing to do. It was the only thing.”
“You let your brother know. Of all people. Your brother.”
Sherlock sighs. “That was different.”
“And then you had him put me under bloody surveillance. I don’t believe this.”
John runs his hand over his face, rubbing his lips. Words won’t fix this, he thinks. He unbuttons his shirt, half- shrugs it off and turns sideways. There is a tattoo on his left upper arm: the initials SH, beautifully lettered, and underneath, a date: 30-03-2010.
“Oh, John...” Sherlock gets up and slowly advances, as if afraid that John will hit him again if he gets too close. John lets him come up close, closer, closer, until Sherlock’s fingers are on his arm. Sherlock traces the letters and numbers one by one while John looks down at the floor.
For a fleeting second, John wishes that this was all it took. That somehow this gesture could make everything okay. The warmth from Sherlock’s fingertips makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Sherlock’s voice is very close to his ear, little more than a whisper.
“I missed you too, you know. John, I never meant for you to get caught up in all this. My life. After what you did at the pool, I just wanted you safe.” Sherlock spreads his hand over the tattoo.
John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with you.”
The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch upwards for a second. “You could offer me some tea. And the bottom third of a door-handle of a Chinese around the corner didn’t look too bad.”
***
John puts the kettle on while Sherlock orders takeaway online. While they’re eating, John tries to make easy conversation but soon has to fold. There is just no way you can “make conversation” with Sherlock Holmes. So Sherlock says two sentences about how boring Lestrade’s cases usually are and how phone signals are better now than they used to be and then there is silence. There are still many unasked questions in the air, but this is not the time or the place. It’s not Christmas 2012 either but John figures it’s the closest he’ll get.
Author:
morelindoRecipient:
flecaliciousPairing: John/Sherlock if you squint and tilt your head (it's not intended to be slash but you can read it as such if you want)
Rating: G
Spoilers: None
Words: around 1,000
Summary: It’s almost Christmas 2012. John Watson is in for a surprise.
Notes: Thanks to my beta (you know who you are) for the time and patience you had with me and for the fantastic suggestions for improving this. Happy holidays to everyone!
flecalicious, I hope this is what you had in mind. Enjoy!John spends Christmas 2010 with his girlfriend Sarah at her place. It’s been eight months since he was pulled out under a pile of rubble and she has been a trooper through all this time. She’s made a gorgeous meal and on the whole it’s a lovely couple of days. He really can’t complain, he thinks.
On Twelfth Night, he places a candle on Sherlock’s grave. He never got to celebrate Sherlock’s birthday while he was alive, so it seems only fitting to do so now at least.
For Christmas 2011, Mike Stamford and his partner have invited John. They try to be nice and very considerate with their display of affection because they know about his breakup with Sarah. It is a nice enough evening, but John can’t help but feel a pang when he sees the two other men holding hands.
It’s December 23, 2012. John is dragging two carrier bags from Sainsbury’s up the two flights of stairs to his flat. Clapham’s not as central Baker Street, but he likes this part of London and it’s convenient for work. He struggles for the key, unlocks the door and gasps for air as he puts the shopping on the kitchen table. He gets a mug of tea and goes through to the living-room.
Someone is sitting on his sofa. In his living-room. With his computer.
Someone who supposedly died three years ago.
John nearly drops the mug, then puts it down on the table instead.
“Your blog is very active these days. Not that there’s anything worth reading in it, but I must say your writing style has improved. Congratulations.”
John is unable to say anything. He’s wondering if he’s dreaming.
“You are certainly doing well for yourself. Your NHS name badge is on the key rack beside the door, so you’re in gainful employment. Your job must pay better than the last one you had or else you wouldn’t be able to afford this place. You’re single - if you were still with Sarah, you would have moved in with her by now. Could be you found someone new, but if you have, it’s nothing serious - everything in this place is yours, there’s not even a second toothbrush. Plus, you update your blog very regularly with posts about things that piss you off. That says you don’t really have anyone to vent your personal frustrations to, so, single it is. You tried to patch up things with your sister, but it didn’t work out. Probably she’s tried to get in touch on the phone before she resorted to sending you letters that you throw away unopened.”
John blinks and licks his lips, folding his arms.
Sherlock takes his eyes off the computer screen to look at him for the briefest of moments, then jumps up to perch on the sofa and steeples his fingers.
“OK, you’ve got questions.”
There’s a brief pause before he carries on. His voice is monotonous, like he’s reciting the phonebook.
“The pool collapsed, you were knocked unconscious, I wasn't, Moriarty got away. Mycroft gave me a hand in making it look as though I’d died so they could catch Moriarty in the act. Put you under surveillance to make sure Moriarty didn't go after you. The Yard tracked down one of Moriarty's men, one Moran. They had a rather intense personal relationship, so we were able to get to Moriarty through him. So, Moriarty’s locked up for good, I’m back in 221B and I'm investigating a case. You might have seen it on the news - Ronald Adair, socialite, shot in his front room after coming home from a casino. Classic Locked Room mystery with some rather peculiar features. Very good puzzle. Will you come?”
The feeling of John’s hand connecting with Sherlock’s cheekbone is oddly satisfying. Sherlock’s head flicks to the side and he nearly keels over, but he catches himself and blocks the next hit. John drops his arms and turns his back, hands curled into fists at his side.
“You’re such a bloody idiot. How could you... Why did you not let me know?”
“I had my reasons.”
John turns around to face Sherlock. “Right. Let me guess, you couldn't bothered to reach for the phone?”
It takes all the restraint he has not to lash out again. Sherlock closes the laptop and looks at John.
“I did this for your own good, John. I couldn’t risk Moriarty’s people going after you. They would have done if they had known I was alive. I couldn’t let anyone know. Especially not you. It was the logical thing to do. It was the only thing.”
“You let your brother know. Of all people. Your brother.”
Sherlock sighs. “That was different.”
“And then you had him put me under bloody surveillance. I don’t believe this.”
John runs his hand over his face, rubbing his lips. Words won’t fix this, he thinks. He unbuttons his shirt, half- shrugs it off and turns sideways. There is a tattoo on his left upper arm: the initials SH, beautifully lettered, and underneath, a date: 30-03-2010.
“Oh, John...” Sherlock gets up and slowly advances, as if afraid that John will hit him again if he gets too close. John lets him come up close, closer, closer, until Sherlock’s fingers are on his arm. Sherlock traces the letters and numbers one by one while John looks down at the floor.
For a fleeting second, John wishes that this was all it took. That somehow this gesture could make everything okay. The warmth from Sherlock’s fingertips makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Sherlock’s voice is very close to his ear, little more than a whisper.
“I missed you too, you know. John, I never meant for you to get caught up in all this. My life. After what you did at the pool, I just wanted you safe.” Sherlock spreads his hand over the tattoo.
John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with you.”
The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch upwards for a second. “You could offer me some tea. And the bottom third of a door-handle of a Chinese around the corner didn’t look too bad.”
John puts the kettle on while Sherlock orders takeaway online. While they’re eating, John tries to make easy conversation but soon has to fold. There is just no way you can “make conversation” with Sherlock Holmes. So Sherlock says two sentences about how boring Lestrade’s cases usually are and how phone signals are better now than they used to be and then there is silence. There are still many unasked questions in the air, but this is not the time or the place. It’s not Christmas 2012 either but John figures it’s the closest he’ll get.
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