Fic for Nottoolateforthegame: Lilacs
Jun. 20th, 2018 09:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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holmesticeTitle: Lilacs
Recipient: nottoolateforthegame
Author:dryadinthegrove
Verse: BBC Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Rating: Gen
Warnings: none
Summary: What was it about airports?
"Watch out - " John gently manoeuvered Sherlock out of the way of the smashed ice cream cone with one hand, ignoring Sherlock's amused glance. Yes, obviously Sherlock had already seen the vanilla sorrow, that wasn't the point.
No, the point was that he, John Watson, had failed in his mission. He was off, still, in a way that defied comprehension, had been for months. He wouldn't say he was preoccupied, no, it was just…he wasn't right. No one seemed to notice, which was good. Or, rather, he was sure Sherlock did, yet oddly, Sherlock never brought the topic up. And, in all fairness to himself, John made sure he was not in his cups when he drank at home. He made the effort not to be exceedingly maudlin when he was with Lestrade or anyone else he knew when they went to the pub. He had had a couple of flings, nothing more than stress relief, really. He half felt like he should be looking for love or something, yet he couldn't make stretch to consider it seriously.
"This way."
He dutifully followed Sherlock to the counter where they did the ticket thing and checked their luggage.
"Coffee?" asked Sherlock as they passed through the gate.
John shrugged. He wasn't in the mood for coffee, nor tea. Airports outside of Britain never made tea right anyway. "I'll just grab a water."
The airport's mall was larger than he expected, though given a moment's thought it was only obvious. One of the bigger hubs in America, surely thousands of people passed through it every day and night, all wanting this or that or entertainments to carry them through the hours of flight. "I'm convinced that once you're in the air you enter another dimension," he said, trying to break his feelings from spiraling any further out of control."
"Absolutely," Sherlock replied, leading the way to a corner kiosk selling smoothies and other drinks. "One water, one...peach sunrise. With cherries."
The girl behind the kiosk nodded and set to work.
"No doubt Einstein would come up with some kind of theory as to why time stands still despite the movement of clockworks," said Sherlock, watching the yellow whir of fruit inside the mixer. He turned back to John. "The truth is that no one knows. We can take all the tests in the world that prove time does not, actually, suspend itself, but to our tiny minds that is no respite. Our experiences in our human time frame do not allow for the existence of science at thirty thousand feet. Thank you."
John was fairly sure Sherlock was humouring him. He paid for their drinks, took a sip of the thick substance in the tall cup, made a face. "That's not even sweet!"
"I would have thought that would please you."
Not when he could steal some when Sherlock wasn't looking. Besides, it was less a smothie and more of a cold porridge. No amount of crushed ice could save that from being a slaggy, slippery mess.
"I see a bookstore," said Sherlock abruptly, speeding off past the escalator.
John trailed after Sherlock slowly, looking at his fellow travellers and wondering if any of them were rushing off to something unpleasant. Besides the hassle of travelling countries, obviously. Oh, he needed, he didn't know what he needed. Something.
The bookstore was medium sized for an airport venue, half of it open to passersby. There was floor to near ceiling shelving and honestly, who would bring a hardcover on an airplane?
Sherlock took no notice of John lifting the front cover of the book he was heavily involved in - Emotional Intelligence - which was good, as John only just managed to supress his snort. He shouldn't mock, really. Sherlock had grown a great deal in the time John had known him, even though he was still a pillock. He wasn't sure he could say the same about himself. Leaving Sherlock to it, John meandered among the shelves.
The mystery thriller section was filled with the usual; Clive Cussler and Lee Child (okay he liked Lee Child), Jodi Picoult (Mary had inhaled her books) and Louise Penny (both of those were good, actually), Elly Griffiths and Tana French, Archer Mayor and Jacqueline Winspear and Ruth Rendell. There were lots of authors he didn't recognise, others he had read and dismissed. Cozy mysteries weren't his thing - that was his daily, non-doctor-ly life in a nutshell. No Agatha Christie, in short. And anything with a theme of murder and food, murder and knitting, murder and cats, or murder and gardening. Rosemary and Thyme, the tv show, had been surprisingly pleasant and Felicity Kendall in jeans was no bad thing, but he wasn't in the mood for that now. Nothing light. Scandinavian mysteries...hmm, maybe. Henning Mankell was out, too depressing. Jo Nesbo, too gritty. Arnildur Indridason might be good, but John wasn't going to chance it until he found a decent translation. Maybe he would hit up the library or ebay when he got home.
"Find anything?"
John shrugged, put back Tana French back on the shelf. "I think I've already read that one, but it's got a different title. She's good, though, for an American. Has a great understanding for the Irish lilt."
"This one," said Sherlock, reaching over John's shoulder to pluck a book off of one of the top shelves. It was hardly out of reach for John, but his shoulder was still sore and he felt a thrill of appreciation for the gesture.
"I Shot the Buddha?" John read aloud. "A Dr. Siri mystery."
"Mummy assures me they are very good, and take place in Laos, where you have never been."
"Ah...yes. All right, why not," John answered. "What about you, anything?"
Sherlock held up his own choice, a book with a bright yellow cover and a retro font. "For Molly."
You are a Badass. Molly was already halfway there, in John's opinion. "You know she could just - . No, you're right, she'll like that you picked it out for her."
"Do you think?" asked Sherlock, eyes wide, his mouth turning down at the corners.
"Fuck off," John muttered fondly. Sherlock knew very well just how much Molly would like the gift, even though she was no longer sweet on him. And thank goodness for that. No one had wanted to break the news that Sherlock was never ever going to be interested, no matter what.
Sherlock grinned and, surprisingly, paid for both items. They then strolled down the hallway and passed through the second set of security gates, taking seats by the floor to ceiling windows to watch the planes land.
What was it about airports? Such transient spaces that made John want to both shout to the heavens that he was a new man, eager to step foot onto new ground, while at the same time making him wish he was safe at home.
Well...not safe. That was the wrong word. He liked being on the move, having places to go and people to see. It was just that he also liked reading the newspaper over toast and tea in their comfortable living room. Sometimes he was torn between the two. Like now, for example. Or maybe it was because they were in America, and he was always overwhelmed by America. Such a more complicated country that newspapers and visiting tourists would suggest. Even Canada was like that, the same, but different. He wasn't sure about Canada, either.
"You've been quiet."
John glanced at Sherlock, who was staring out the window. "Hmm?"
"You've been very quiet. At home. Do you regret coming back to 221B?"
John snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. Where else would I go?"
Sherlock turned to look at him then. "Not a resounding message of hope. Am I your last resort?"
How the hell this had turned into a pointed conversation about the two of them was beyond John's comprehension. "No, no! Of course not!"
Judging by the set of Sherlock's mouth, John plunged on. "I could have kept the house, I could have stayed there with Rosie, but I didn't want to. Sherlock, I didn't want to, I wanted to be with you and Mrs. Hudson. There's no one else I'd rather live with, come on."
"No one else would tolerate you."
"There's that, too," Internally John wobbled on the shifting ground between himself and Sherlock, but he hoped nothing showed on the surface. Sherlock, for all his cleverness, could be surprisingly obtuse when it came to those to whom he was closest. Though he was learning.
"I...I worry, John."
John nodded tightly to himself. Damn if Lestrade hadn't been right.
"He's not going to take you at face value again," Lestrade knocked back the tot of whiskey and winced. "Christ, I've certainly gotten what I've paid for."
"That's because we're undercover in a dive," John had drunkenly whispered back. "Cheap and effective."
"Remind me to get a bottle for home, for when I need to get bladdered as fast as possible."
They had clinked shot glasses and ordered more, plus bags of crisps and a couple of pies.
"Anyway, like I said, he's not going to...ignore you, not after this whole...sister thing."
The whole sister thing, the whole wife thing, the whole child thing. John realized he was shaking his head and stopped at once. "I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll stay."
"I can't promise that. The flat's small for two men, a pensioner, a nanny and a young child."
"Then we'll move, or I'll buy next door!"
What the hell? Where was this coming from?
"You've been different, since Mary died. I understand that, but you're not back to normal!" Sherlock said, his tone growing in intensity even though he kept his voice low.
"Ye-e-e-s," answered John, trying to figure out why Sherlock was so needy all of a sudden. "Is this because of the case?"
Sherlock shifted in his seat and ah, all became clear. John shifted too, facing Sherlock. "She wasn't running away. The accident happened because she was going to get her things and bring them back to their house. She was coming back."
Springtime in New England meant lilacs, as John had discovered. Purple, white, that peculiar shade of red-purple that wasn't wine or maroon or pomegranate, but something in between. Finding poor Ellen Lacroix face down at the base of of the lilac hedge by the old farmhouse had been terrible for its unexpectedness. Murder was one thing, finding a woman dead because she had turned at the wrong moment, cutting her neck on a dead branch was one thing entirely another, never mind how bizarre the method of death in the first place. It was unfortunate, and nothing that was going to happen to him, he was certain of it.
He didn't know what else to say, how else to reassure Sherlock that they were fine, everything was fine. Maybe there was nothing he could say, maybe Sherlock was just going to have to trust that John, for all his daring, could take care of himself in a way that Ellen Lacroix had not. "How about I buy you dinner when we get back? Molly tells me there's an Ethiopian place that's fantastic. They eat off bread the size of a table."
"Injera," said Sherlock, who was staring out the window once more. "A thin, fermented piece of bread upon which foodstuffs are served."
"Yeah, that's it," John replied, still unsure of what was happening, yet feeling inexplicably better.
"Yes, let's."
"We are now beginning pre-flight boarding for families with young children, families with young children, please come to the front desk."
Neither of them moved. After a moment, listening to irritated groans of the passengers around them, John ventured forth. "That'll be us, next time."
At Sherlock's drawn brows, John continued on. "When we take Rosie abroad, we'll get to board first."
Sherlock's expression softened immediately. "I suppose so."
"Good, that's settled, then," answered John, very pleased with himself.
"People will think she has two fathers."
John shrugged. "So she does, no big deal."
Recipient: nottoolateforthegame
Author:
dryadinthegroveVerse: BBC Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Rating: Gen
Warnings: none
Summary: What was it about airports?
"Watch out - " John gently manoeuvered Sherlock out of the way of the smashed ice cream cone with one hand, ignoring Sherlock's amused glance. Yes, obviously Sherlock had already seen the vanilla sorrow, that wasn't the point.
No, the point was that he, John Watson, had failed in his mission. He was off, still, in a way that defied comprehension, had been for months. He wouldn't say he was preoccupied, no, it was just…he wasn't right. No one seemed to notice, which was good. Or, rather, he was sure Sherlock did, yet oddly, Sherlock never brought the topic up. And, in all fairness to himself, John made sure he was not in his cups when he drank at home. He made the effort not to be exceedingly maudlin when he was with Lestrade or anyone else he knew when they went to the pub. He had had a couple of flings, nothing more than stress relief, really. He half felt like he should be looking for love or something, yet he couldn't make stretch to consider it seriously.
"This way."
He dutifully followed Sherlock to the counter where they did the ticket thing and checked their luggage.
"Coffee?" asked Sherlock as they passed through the gate.
John shrugged. He wasn't in the mood for coffee, nor tea. Airports outside of Britain never made tea right anyway. "I'll just grab a water."
The airport's mall was larger than he expected, though given a moment's thought it was only obvious. One of the bigger hubs in America, surely thousands of people passed through it every day and night, all wanting this or that or entertainments to carry them through the hours of flight. "I'm convinced that once you're in the air you enter another dimension," he said, trying to break his feelings from spiraling any further out of control."
"Absolutely," Sherlock replied, leading the way to a corner kiosk selling smoothies and other drinks. "One water, one...peach sunrise. With cherries."
The girl behind the kiosk nodded and set to work.
"No doubt Einstein would come up with some kind of theory as to why time stands still despite the movement of clockworks," said Sherlock, watching the yellow whir of fruit inside the mixer. He turned back to John. "The truth is that no one knows. We can take all the tests in the world that prove time does not, actually, suspend itself, but to our tiny minds that is no respite. Our experiences in our human time frame do not allow for the existence of science at thirty thousand feet. Thank you."
John was fairly sure Sherlock was humouring him. He paid for their drinks, took a sip of the thick substance in the tall cup, made a face. "That's not even sweet!"
"I would have thought that would please you."
Not when he could steal some when Sherlock wasn't looking. Besides, it was less a smothie and more of a cold porridge. No amount of crushed ice could save that from being a slaggy, slippery mess.
"I see a bookstore," said Sherlock abruptly, speeding off past the escalator.
John trailed after Sherlock slowly, looking at his fellow travellers and wondering if any of them were rushing off to something unpleasant. Besides the hassle of travelling countries, obviously. Oh, he needed, he didn't know what he needed. Something.
The bookstore was medium sized for an airport venue, half of it open to passersby. There was floor to near ceiling shelving and honestly, who would bring a hardcover on an airplane?
Sherlock took no notice of John lifting the front cover of the book he was heavily involved in - Emotional Intelligence - which was good, as John only just managed to supress his snort. He shouldn't mock, really. Sherlock had grown a great deal in the time John had known him, even though he was still a pillock. He wasn't sure he could say the same about himself. Leaving Sherlock to it, John meandered among the shelves.
The mystery thriller section was filled with the usual; Clive Cussler and Lee Child (okay he liked Lee Child), Jodi Picoult (Mary had inhaled her books) and Louise Penny (both of those were good, actually), Elly Griffiths and Tana French, Archer Mayor and Jacqueline Winspear and Ruth Rendell. There were lots of authors he didn't recognise, others he had read and dismissed. Cozy mysteries weren't his thing - that was his daily, non-doctor-ly life in a nutshell. No Agatha Christie, in short. And anything with a theme of murder and food, murder and knitting, murder and cats, or murder and gardening. Rosemary and Thyme, the tv show, had been surprisingly pleasant and Felicity Kendall in jeans was no bad thing, but he wasn't in the mood for that now. Nothing light. Scandinavian mysteries...hmm, maybe. Henning Mankell was out, too depressing. Jo Nesbo, too gritty. Arnildur Indridason might be good, but John wasn't going to chance it until he found a decent translation. Maybe he would hit up the library or ebay when he got home.
"Find anything?"
John shrugged, put back Tana French back on the shelf. "I think I've already read that one, but it's got a different title. She's good, though, for an American. Has a great understanding for the Irish lilt."
"This one," said Sherlock, reaching over John's shoulder to pluck a book off of one of the top shelves. It was hardly out of reach for John, but his shoulder was still sore and he felt a thrill of appreciation for the gesture.
"I Shot the Buddha?" John read aloud. "A Dr. Siri mystery."
"Mummy assures me they are very good, and take place in Laos, where you have never been."
"Ah...yes. All right, why not," John answered. "What about you, anything?"
Sherlock held up his own choice, a book with a bright yellow cover and a retro font. "For Molly."
You are a Badass. Molly was already halfway there, in John's opinion. "You know she could just - . No, you're right, she'll like that you picked it out for her."
"Do you think?" asked Sherlock, eyes wide, his mouth turning down at the corners.
"Fuck off," John muttered fondly. Sherlock knew very well just how much Molly would like the gift, even though she was no longer sweet on him. And thank goodness for that. No one had wanted to break the news that Sherlock was never ever going to be interested, no matter what.
Sherlock grinned and, surprisingly, paid for both items. They then strolled down the hallway and passed through the second set of security gates, taking seats by the floor to ceiling windows to watch the planes land.
What was it about airports? Such transient spaces that made John want to both shout to the heavens that he was a new man, eager to step foot onto new ground, while at the same time making him wish he was safe at home.
Well...not safe. That was the wrong word. He liked being on the move, having places to go and people to see. It was just that he also liked reading the newspaper over toast and tea in their comfortable living room. Sometimes he was torn between the two. Like now, for example. Or maybe it was because they were in America, and he was always overwhelmed by America. Such a more complicated country that newspapers and visiting tourists would suggest. Even Canada was like that, the same, but different. He wasn't sure about Canada, either.
"You've been quiet."
John glanced at Sherlock, who was staring out the window. "Hmm?"
"You've been very quiet. At home. Do you regret coming back to 221B?"
John snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. Where else would I go?"
Sherlock turned to look at him then. "Not a resounding message of hope. Am I your last resort?"
How the hell this had turned into a pointed conversation about the two of them was beyond John's comprehension. "No, no! Of course not!"
Judging by the set of Sherlock's mouth, John plunged on. "I could have kept the house, I could have stayed there with Rosie, but I didn't want to. Sherlock, I didn't want to, I wanted to be with you and Mrs. Hudson. There's no one else I'd rather live with, come on."
"No one else would tolerate you."
"There's that, too," Internally John wobbled on the shifting ground between himself and Sherlock, but he hoped nothing showed on the surface. Sherlock, for all his cleverness, could be surprisingly obtuse when it came to those to whom he was closest. Though he was learning.
"I...I worry, John."
John nodded tightly to himself. Damn if Lestrade hadn't been right.
"He's not going to take you at face value again," Lestrade knocked back the tot of whiskey and winced. "Christ, I've certainly gotten what I've paid for."
"That's because we're undercover in a dive," John had drunkenly whispered back. "Cheap and effective."
"Remind me to get a bottle for home, for when I need to get bladdered as fast as possible."
They had clinked shot glasses and ordered more, plus bags of crisps and a couple of pies.
"Anyway, like I said, he's not going to...ignore you, not after this whole...sister thing."
The whole sister thing, the whole wife thing, the whole child thing. John realized he was shaking his head and stopped at once. "I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll stay."
"I can't promise that. The flat's small for two men, a pensioner, a nanny and a young child."
"Then we'll move, or I'll buy next door!"
What the hell? Where was this coming from?
"You've been different, since Mary died. I understand that, but you're not back to normal!" Sherlock said, his tone growing in intensity even though he kept his voice low.
"Ye-e-e-s," answered John, trying to figure out why Sherlock was so needy all of a sudden. "Is this because of the case?"
Sherlock shifted in his seat and ah, all became clear. John shifted too, facing Sherlock. "She wasn't running away. The accident happened because she was going to get her things and bring them back to their house. She was coming back."
Springtime in New England meant lilacs, as John had discovered. Purple, white, that peculiar shade of red-purple that wasn't wine or maroon or pomegranate, but something in between. Finding poor Ellen Lacroix face down at the base of of the lilac hedge by the old farmhouse had been terrible for its unexpectedness. Murder was one thing, finding a woman dead because she had turned at the wrong moment, cutting her neck on a dead branch was one thing entirely another, never mind how bizarre the method of death in the first place. It was unfortunate, and nothing that was going to happen to him, he was certain of it.
He didn't know what else to say, how else to reassure Sherlock that they were fine, everything was fine. Maybe there was nothing he could say, maybe Sherlock was just going to have to trust that John, for all his daring, could take care of himself in a way that Ellen Lacroix had not. "How about I buy you dinner when we get back? Molly tells me there's an Ethiopian place that's fantastic. They eat off bread the size of a table."
"Injera," said Sherlock, who was staring out the window once more. "A thin, fermented piece of bread upon which foodstuffs are served."
"Yeah, that's it," John replied, still unsure of what was happening, yet feeling inexplicably better.
"Yes, let's."
"We are now beginning pre-flight boarding for families with young children, families with young children, please come to the front desk."
Neither of them moved. After a moment, listening to irritated groans of the passengers around them, John ventured forth. "That'll be us, next time."
At Sherlock's drawn brows, John continued on. "When we take Rosie abroad, we'll get to board first."
Sherlock's expression softened immediately. "I suppose so."
"Good, that's settled, then," answered John, very pleased with himself.
"People will think she has two fathers."
John shrugged. "So she does, no big deal."
no subject
Date: 2018-06-21 04:09 pm (UTC)"There's that, too," Internally John wobbled on the shifting ground between himself and Sherlock, but he hoped nothing showed on the surface. Sherlock, for all his cleverness, could be surprisingly obtuse when it came to those to whom he was closest. Though he was learning.
I really liked that bit. Same with John's conversation with Lestrade. And that last line!
eta: Living in New England myself, I loved the reference to lilacs in spring. So true! They're not here long, but I love them so much while they're in bloom (esp when there are no dead bodies to be found underneath!).
This is lovely! Thank you for sharing it!
no subject
Date: 2019-08-29 11:30 pm (UTC)*nods* I knew my fellow New Englanders would understand the lilacs.
Thank you so much for reading!
no subject
Date: 2018-06-21 10:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-06-21 10:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-08-29 11:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-06-25 03:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-08-29 11:32 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for your comment!
no subject
Date: 2018-06-28 03:49 am (UTC)Some of the little details here hint at a bit of post-series four growth--Sherlock mentioning his mother, John shrugging at the thought of two dads. Thanks for that.
So well done! M.
no subject
Date: 2019-08-29 11:33 pm (UTC)And yes, airports and flying are simply timeless. As in, time actually stops, no?