Fic: Oscillate (Complete)
Title: Oscillate
Links: LJ, AO3
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete
Author: 30percent
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word count: 1188
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: Once upon a time they might have laughed it off: an exhilarating brush with death, nothing more. But neither are so invincible, anymore.
Author's note: Written for Let's Write Sherlock, Challenge 1.
***
The whir of the cab’s engine isn’t enough to break the silence between them as they glide through the darkened streets of London. The impatient thrum of the cabbie’s fingers on the steering wheel, the fading strains of drunken revelers hooting out on the pavement, the click of the indicator: all just serve to underscore the weight of words unspoken, sitting heavy in the space between them.
The cab arrives at Baker Street, and they slip up the stairs and through the door of the sitting room without a word, neither turning on the light.
John is the first to break the silence. His voice is rough, as if unused for days instead of minutes. His fingertips brush against the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat. “Sit down,” he murmurs.
Sherlock can’t quite lift his gaze to John’s, but he follows the line of John’s chin to the armchair, placing one foot in front of the other with deliberate care. He shrugs his shoulders, letting his coat slip to the floor, and sinks into the chair. His gaze drifts to the pile of expensive wool, pooled in a patch of light from the street lamp.
The tips of John’s shoes appear in his line of sight. Sherlock didn’t hear him coming. He should be startled, but instead he just blinks. John sets his med kit at Sherlock’s feet and clicks on the reading lamp. Of course.
John sinks to his knees. He reaches a palm toward Sherlock, fingers still. “Give me your hand.”
Sherlock frowns. He turns his palms up, pale and ghostly. The streaks of blood are nearly black in the dim light. His fingertips are raw, nails torn and bloodied. He flexes them experimentally, and barely feels the sting.
Clinging by his fingertips to the roof of an eight-story office building. Scrabbling at nineteenth century brickwork, stone dusty and crumbling under his grip, turning slick and treacherous with blood.
John wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s wrists, warm and light, and guides Sherlock’s hands to the circle of light cast by the reading lamp.
He swipes at Sherlock’s fingers with iodine-soaked pads, trading cotton for tweezers to pluck out bits of grit and rubble.
John’s face, eyes wide and terrified, as he drops to his knees and lunges over the edge, reaching for Sherlock’s arm.
John’s fingers: gentle and sure, winding gauze around Sherlock’s palms.
John tapes up the bandage, but his hands don’t move away. His thumb drifts up and down the line of Sherlock’s wrist, not so steady, now.
John’s head tips down and his breath grows ragged. His voice is barely more than a breath. “Sherlock....”
The suspect, little more than a shadow, looming up behind John with a chunk of rebar in his hands.
Sherlock holds himself perfectly still.
John lets out his breath on a ragged sigh.
Sherlock watches, as John reels himself in, so carefully. His breathing grows controlled and even once more. His fingers loosen on Sherlock’s wrists and slip to the floor. He lines up iodine, and cotton pads, and gauze and tape in neat rows in his med kit, and eases the case shut with barely a sound.
A minute twitch of his shoulders, and soon John will be himself again. Genial, irreverent, long-suffering. He rises to his feet, and turns his back on Sherlock. A shift of his hips, and he’s about to step away.
It’s untenable.
Sherlock sways forward. His arms slip around John’s waist of their own accord, and he presses his face to the small of John’s back.
John is warm and solid and stiffens in surprise, just for a moment.
A length of rebar, John’s cry of pain.
Sherlock’s heart pounds for no reason at all. He breathes into the fabric of John’s shirt. John turns in the curl of Sherlock’s arms, fingers slipping into his hair. Sherlock can’t look up.
A gentle gust of wind as a body plummets past Sherlock, into the darkness.
He presses his face to John’s stomach, numb, gauze-wrapped fingers tightening in John’s shirt. It wasn’t John. He should’ve known. The size, the coat -- it was all wrong.
But.
But.
Spinning, choking, gutting horror. Muscles gone lax with shock. His fingers, slipping off the ledge. His stomach in his throat as he falls.
John’s fingers curl around the nape of his neck. “Sherlock...”
Sherlock makes a sound he doesn’t recognize, and John sinks to his knees. Sherlock follows, sliding off the armchair. His arms slip from John’s waist to his ribcage, narrower than it looks, and far too fragile.
John’s fingers don’t leave his hair, and his breath is unsteady in Sherlock’s ear.
Something bubbles in Sherlock’s chest, hot and tight. His fingers tighten in the fabric of John’s shirt, and he shivers.
A conveniently placed fire escape, nearly invisible in the darkness. Barely a drop at all. Lucky, lucky.
Once upon a time they might have laughed it off: an exhilarating brush with death, nothing more. But neither are so invincible, anymore.
John brushes his lips over the hair at Sherlock’s temple. “We’re okay,” he breathes.
Sherlock closes his eyes, and breathes open-mouthed against John’s skin.
“We’re okay,” John repeats, running his lips over the shell of Sherlock’s ear. It’s not enough.
Sherlock shifts, sliding his face along the line of John’s jaw, the hint of stubble rough against his cheek. Their noses bump, and John’s fingers tighten in Sherlock’s hair. Their chests rise and fall in tandem for the space of one breath, then two. On the third, their lips touch.
Just the lightest catch, at first. Sherlock prepares for John to pull away, to make a joke. But instead he slides his hands down Sherlock’s face to cup his jaw, so carefully it makes Sherlock's throat feel tight. Relief slides through his veins, hot and sweet.
He rubs his cheek against John's, pressing his lips to the corner of his mouth until John makes a small, broken sound, and his mouth opens over Sherlock’s and oh, it's glorious.
John’s mouth is hot and slick, and the taste of him is at once familiar and heady and new. With his eyes shut he’s drowning in sensation, surrounded by John. Sherlock pulls him closer, still, but it's not enough. He thinks maybe it never will be.
When John’s fingers slip to the nape of Sherlock’s neck to sink deeper, heat spirals through Sherlock’s gut, heavy and thick. It feels like falling. Finally.
Nothing in his life prepared him for this. The heat of John’s mouth. The frantic thud of John's heart where they're pressed together. The catch of John’s breath when Sherlock rubs his thumb over the bumps of his spine.
Long minutes pass before they part for breath, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air.
Sherlock spreads his hand between John’s shoulder blades, struggling for breath. He swallows. “Don’t die, John.” He means to infuse his words with the strength of command, but they emerge closer to a plea. “I won’t allow it.”
John strokes his thumb over the line of Sherlock’s cheek. Long, still seconds pass. “I won’t if you won’t.”
Sherlock closes his eyes, and nods.
Links: LJ, AO3
Rating: PG-13
Status: Complete
Author: 30percent
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word count: 1188
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: Once upon a time they might have laughed it off: an exhilarating brush with death, nothing more. But neither are so invincible, anymore.
Author's note: Written for Let's Write Sherlock, Challenge 1.
***
The whir of the cab’s engine isn’t enough to break the silence between them as they glide through the darkened streets of London. The impatient thrum of the cabbie’s fingers on the steering wheel, the fading strains of drunken revelers hooting out on the pavement, the click of the indicator: all just serve to underscore the weight of words unspoken, sitting heavy in the space between them.
The cab arrives at Baker Street, and they slip up the stairs and through the door of the sitting room without a word, neither turning on the light.
John is the first to break the silence. His voice is rough, as if unused for days instead of minutes. His fingertips brush against the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat. “Sit down,” he murmurs.
Sherlock can’t quite lift his gaze to John’s, but he follows the line of John’s chin to the armchair, placing one foot in front of the other with deliberate care. He shrugs his shoulders, letting his coat slip to the floor, and sinks into the chair. His gaze drifts to the pile of expensive wool, pooled in a patch of light from the street lamp.
The tips of John’s shoes appear in his line of sight. Sherlock didn’t hear him coming. He should be startled, but instead he just blinks. John sets his med kit at Sherlock’s feet and clicks on the reading lamp. Of course.
John sinks to his knees. He reaches a palm toward Sherlock, fingers still. “Give me your hand.”
Sherlock frowns. He turns his palms up, pale and ghostly. The streaks of blood are nearly black in the dim light. His fingertips are raw, nails torn and bloodied. He flexes them experimentally, and barely feels the sting.
Clinging by his fingertips to the roof of an eight-story office building. Scrabbling at nineteenth century brickwork, stone dusty and crumbling under his grip, turning slick and treacherous with blood.
John wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s wrists, warm and light, and guides Sherlock’s hands to the circle of light cast by the reading lamp.
He swipes at Sherlock’s fingers with iodine-soaked pads, trading cotton for tweezers to pluck out bits of grit and rubble.
John’s face, eyes wide and terrified, as he drops to his knees and lunges over the edge, reaching for Sherlock’s arm.
John’s fingers: gentle and sure, winding gauze around Sherlock’s palms.
John tapes up the bandage, but his hands don’t move away. His thumb drifts up and down the line of Sherlock’s wrist, not so steady, now.
John’s head tips down and his breath grows ragged. His voice is barely more than a breath. “Sherlock....”
The suspect, little more than a shadow, looming up behind John with a chunk of rebar in his hands.
Sherlock holds himself perfectly still.
John lets out his breath on a ragged sigh.
Sherlock watches, as John reels himself in, so carefully. His breathing grows controlled and even once more. His fingers loosen on Sherlock’s wrists and slip to the floor. He lines up iodine, and cotton pads, and gauze and tape in neat rows in his med kit, and eases the case shut with barely a sound.
A minute twitch of his shoulders, and soon John will be himself again. Genial, irreverent, long-suffering. He rises to his feet, and turns his back on Sherlock. A shift of his hips, and he’s about to step away.
It’s untenable.
Sherlock sways forward. His arms slip around John’s waist of their own accord, and he presses his face to the small of John’s back.
John is warm and solid and stiffens in surprise, just for a moment.
A length of rebar, John’s cry of pain.
Sherlock’s heart pounds for no reason at all. He breathes into the fabric of John’s shirt. John turns in the curl of Sherlock’s arms, fingers slipping into his hair. Sherlock can’t look up.
A gentle gust of wind as a body plummets past Sherlock, into the darkness.
He presses his face to John’s stomach, numb, gauze-wrapped fingers tightening in John’s shirt. It wasn’t John. He should’ve known. The size, the coat -- it was all wrong.
But.
But.
Spinning, choking, gutting horror. Muscles gone lax with shock. His fingers, slipping off the ledge. His stomach in his throat as he falls.
John’s fingers curl around the nape of his neck. “Sherlock...”
Sherlock makes a sound he doesn’t recognize, and John sinks to his knees. Sherlock follows, sliding off the armchair. His arms slip from John’s waist to his ribcage, narrower than it looks, and far too fragile.
John’s fingers don’t leave his hair, and his breath is unsteady in Sherlock’s ear.
Something bubbles in Sherlock’s chest, hot and tight. His fingers tighten in the fabric of John’s shirt, and he shivers.
A conveniently placed fire escape, nearly invisible in the darkness. Barely a drop at all. Lucky, lucky.
Once upon a time they might have laughed it off: an exhilarating brush with death, nothing more. But neither are so invincible, anymore.
John brushes his lips over the hair at Sherlock’s temple. “We’re okay,” he breathes.
Sherlock closes his eyes, and breathes open-mouthed against John’s skin.
“We’re okay,” John repeats, running his lips over the shell of Sherlock’s ear. It’s not enough.
Sherlock shifts, sliding his face along the line of John’s jaw, the hint of stubble rough against his cheek. Their noses bump, and John’s fingers tighten in Sherlock’s hair. Their chests rise and fall in tandem for the space of one breath, then two. On the third, their lips touch.
Just the lightest catch, at first. Sherlock prepares for John to pull away, to make a joke. But instead he slides his hands down Sherlock’s face to cup his jaw, so carefully it makes Sherlock's throat feel tight. Relief slides through his veins, hot and sweet.
He rubs his cheek against John's, pressing his lips to the corner of his mouth until John makes a small, broken sound, and his mouth opens over Sherlock’s and oh, it's glorious.
John’s mouth is hot and slick, and the taste of him is at once familiar and heady and new. With his eyes shut he’s drowning in sensation, surrounded by John. Sherlock pulls him closer, still, but it's not enough. He thinks maybe it never will be.
When John’s fingers slip to the nape of Sherlock’s neck to sink deeper, heat spirals through Sherlock’s gut, heavy and thick. It feels like falling. Finally.
Nothing in his life prepared him for this. The heat of John’s mouth. The frantic thud of John's heart where they're pressed together. The catch of John’s breath when Sherlock rubs his thumb over the bumps of his spine.
Long minutes pass before they part for breath, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air.
Sherlock spreads his hand between John’s shoulder blades, struggling for breath. He swallows. “Don’t die, John.” He means to infuse his words with the strength of command, but they emerge closer to a plea. “I won’t allow it.”
John strokes his thumb over the line of Sherlock’s cheek. Long, still seconds pass. “I won’t if you won’t.”
Sherlock closes his eyes, and nods.