Fic: Momentum (1/8)
Title: Momentum (1/8)
Links: AO3, LJ
Rating: Explicit (this chapter T)
Author: 30percent
Pairing: John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Irene
Word count: 2108
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: Irene has a proposition, and Sherlock accepts. For science. Not because of any unresolved feelings for a certain flatmate. It's just research. Right?
***
The stones sift through Sherlock’s fingers as easily as water, cool and smooth. He catches one before it slips away, worrying it between thumb and forefinger. It’s oddly hypnotic: the occasional rasp of callus over stone the only interruption in the otherwise effortless motion.
The silence of the flat is a near-tangible weight on his skin, all of London enjoying a lazy Sunday, apparently. John is off at the shops, Mrs. Hudson is visiting her niece.
Eyes closed, he slumps further down in his armchair, stretching his bare feet in front of him, and raises the stone to his lips, considering.
It’s grown slightly warmer than the ambient temperature, thanks to his fingers, but it’s still cool against his skin. He rubs it over his lower lip, more sensitive than fingertips. Minor imperfections. Some veining, worn until nearly imperceptible: the barest catch, nothing more. He touches the tip of his tongue to its surface.
Mineral. Residual salt from handling. Nothing distinctive. Unlikely Ogden Marsh went about tasting the stones, anyway, expert or not.
He considers.
Tiger’s eye?
He opens his eyes and scowls.
Rose quartz.
It’s just too unlikely. Tourmaline and turquoise, maybe. Obsidian and opal, certainly. But the malachite and tiger’s eye and garnet and topaz: they’re just too similar. The weight, the texture: even factoring in Marsh’s experience, there can’t be more than a twenty percent chance he’d choose the same stone on a single try, let alone eight times in a row. The chances would fall to less than 0.1 percent.
He must be the murderer. Marsh hadn’t been sitting in the dark, sorting gems as practice. No, the lights were on, Marsh had been waiting to confront his nephew about the missing jewelry, and he’d mindlessly sorted out the tiger’s eye as was his habit when nervous.
With the light on, Marsh certainly wouldn’t have mistaken Francis for an intruder, keyless and climbing in the window or not.
He’s certain. Well, nearly certain. Unless he’s missing something.
He drops the stone back into the bowl in disgust. Semiprecious stones. Advertising drivel for idiots, no doubt. About as sensical as partially priceless or mildly invaluable. He envisions the ad campaigns and suppresses a shudder.
Well, he might as well let Lestrade know. He pats the empty pockets of his dressing gown, and growls. His phone’s in the kitchen.
He pitches his voice to carry up the stairs. “John, I need you.”
Silence.
Right. At the shops. Useless.
He groans, letting his head fall back and arms sprawl wide, and glares up at the ceiling.
The kitchen! Dull, and so very far away. Where is John?
After an interminable wait, during which time Sherlock devises and then discards three separate plots to draw John home from the shops without leaving his armchair, John’s feet sound on the stairs.
“Finally! What in the world could you possibly be doing for so long at a Tesco’s?”
John emerges from the staircase as if ejected, an incongruous spring in his step. He comes bearing the expected milk, biscuits, fruit, and tinned food of sorts Sherlock finds consistently disgusting, along with something unexpected.
A bouquet of flowers.
Sherlock narrows his eyes. “You’re inviting a woman over.”
John is unruffled in the way only unfounded optimism can make him, popping the flowers into a vase and humming. It’s repulsive. “Indeed I am.”
John’s foolish grin irks Sherlock on a cellular level. An itch under his skin, a vibration in the backs of his teeth. He scowls. “Quit looking so pleased with yourself.”
“I’m about to have a very good weekend.”
“Nothing in this world is good enough to merit that ridiculous expression.”
“You can’t faze me, Sherlock. Olivia is coming over, it’s a sure thing, we’re going to have a lovely weekend, and you can’t ruin it.”
Sherlock narrows his eyes, then jumps to his feet and stalks into the kitchen.
He takes in John’s clothing, grocery selection, meticulous grooming and suspiciously cheerful manner. “Olivia. Not a new girlfriend: someone you know well, or did, years ago. Old schoolmate, perhaps? Yes, but not a girlfriend: you’re not torn about seeing her. A friend, and an occasional… intimate partner. Coming out of the woodwork, years later. Recently divorced, most likely; living somewhere quiet and stodgy, come to London for the weekend to reclaim some lost youth. With you, in part.”
“Okay, that’s enough -- I’d rather not be traumatised before I’ve had my tea. Budge over, I need to put the groceries away.”
Sherlock grudgingly cedes six inches of counter space. John leans past him to shelve biscuits and tea, and knocks Sherlock’s hip with his own. “I even got those tarts you like.”
“Bribery? Isn’t that beneath you?”
“No. And accepting isn’t beneath you.”
“I suppose you want me to be charming.” Sherlock curls his lip.
“Nope.”
“No?”
“I want you to ignore her completely. Just pretend we’re not even here. That should be familiar enough.”
Sherlock folds his arms, and twitches a shoulder in John’s direction. “Fine.”
John closes the cupboard, and drops a palm onto Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing once. “Thank you.” Sherlock’s gaze jumps up.
John meets his eyes, smile turning hesitant at the edges. “Just.” He licks his lips. “I need this, okay?”
A sarcastic response about the necessity of sex with near-strangers dies in Sherlock’s throat, and he nods. He’s rewarded with another squeeze of John’s hand before it slips away. Sherlock rolls his shoulder, experimentally.
He waits for John to ask him about the bowl of gemstones under his arm. He’s still waiting when John finishes up in the kitchen and climbs the stairs to his room, whistling something excessively jaunty.
Sherlock plucks another stone from the bowl and slips it into the pocket of his dressing gown, sliding his thumb over the polished surface without a glance.
One more try.
****
Curiosity over this Olivia (who knew John as a uni student, of all fascinating things) wars with his distaste of witnessing John mid-courtship, a typically excruciating affair of affable small talk and flirtatious smiles.
He glances out the window.
The sullen drizzle that’s been gracing London for the past week is perfect to test out some hypotheses he’d developed around footprints, mud, and the weight distribution of crutches.
Decision made, he retreats to his room long enough to change out of his dressing gown and locate three pairs of crutches in the back of his closet. He hesitates only briefly in the doorway, plucking the mystery stone from his dressing gown and slipping it into his trousers pocket.
Then he’s charging down the stairs while John’s still in his room, no doubt preparing for his lovely weekend.
****
He returns to Baker Street four hours later, soaking wet and weighed down by roughly half of Regent’s Park. His fingers have long since gone numb, and he lost fine motor control ninety minutes earlier, but he’s armed with all the data he needs for an update to The Science of Deduction. “The Effects of Tread Variation on Depressions in Damp Soil.” The idiots who read John’s blog may not appreciate it, but he deals in facts, not melodrama.
Satisfied, he props the crutches in the entryway, toes off his muddy shoes by the door, and shucks his coat in the en suite before raiding the fridge.
Ah yes, two of those lemon tarts are lurking near the back, a happy six inches away from the marinating toes. He snags them both, carrying them into his room along with John’s laptop.
The flat is dark and still, but muffled voices drift down the stairs and through the floorboards, punctuated by tinkling laughter and tipsy shushing. They sound like a pair of teenagers away at boarding school. Is there anything more obvious than an amorous couple attempting to keep quiet?
As the minutes tick by, the pauses between the words stretch longer and longer, and eventually fade into soft moans and bitten-off curses and the creak of bedsprings.
Sherlock’s progress on his blog post diminishes from limping to nonexistent, and he snaps the laptop shut with a growl. He slides down into his bed, rolling onto his stomach and pressing a pillow over his head.
Why? It makes no sense. He seethes. Inducing orgasms doesn’t actually require the input of another person -- in fact, another partner is likely to be less effective at it, if anything. Why John insists on spending all this time and going through these silly machinations, all for--
His train of thought grinds to a halt at a sound that can be nothing other than John Watson having an orgasm. A flush steals up Sherlock’s neck. Embarrassment, no doubt.
****
The next morning dawns clear and bright, as Sherlock can attest to firsthand, still awake and pacing about the sitting room. His seething frustration has settled into skin that feels a bit too tight.
He peers through the blinds down at Baker Street, at the cars lined up like children’s toys, clean and bright and gleaming in the early morning sun. It reeks of optimism and new beginnings, and he turns his back to the window. In an act of defiance, he retrieves a cigarette (secreted amongst the microscope slides) and climbs onto the fire escape on bare feet.
It’s colder than it looks, and the plume of smoke wars with the steam from his breath.
He smokes the cigarette down to the filter, watching the occasional intrepid pedestrian brave the early morning chill. His feet turn numb and his fingers uncoordinated, but he doesn’t climb back inside until the he hears the first stirrings of life drift down the stairs.
He collapses into bed and falls into a deep sleep, still wearing his dressing gown.
****
Muzzy and disorientated, he awakens hours later to an unfamiliar sound.
The muted hiss of running water, the rattle of dishes and clink of cutlery: the reassuring sounds of John washing up in the kitchen. Common enough. But there’s something else.
John is singing.
It’s atrocious - John’s abuse of the principles of melody would render it unrecognizable even if it was something he knew. No doubt it’s some specimen of whatever passes for popular music these days.
He rolls out of bed, dressing gown twisted around his body, and strides into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
John glances over his shoulder, flicking soap suds into the sink. The upward trajectory of his eyebrows suggests Sherlock’s hair has reached an advanced state of disarray. “Dishes?”
“I mean that… singing.”
“Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?”
Sherlock scowls, and moves toward his microscope, perching on the stool and peering through the eyepiece, though the slide he prepared last night has long since desiccated. “It’s fine.”
John flicks the kettle on. “Tea?”
“Mm.” Sherlock stares into the microscope, idly twisting a knob, and listens to John pull mugs from the cupboard and spoons from the drawer. “Where’s your girlfriend?”
“Visiting friends. She’ll be back tonight. And she’s not my girlfriend.”
Conversation subsides into the clink of spoon against ceramic. And then John starts to hum.
Sherlock’s palms fall to the table, his fingers splaying over scarred wood. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why does this make you so happy?”
John pauses. “You know how I feel about tea.”
“Don’t be obtuse, John.”
John shrugs one shoulder, diffident. “Sex. With someone you like. It makes most people happy.”
“But she doesn’t even live in London! She’ll go back to whatever miserable little town she lives in, and you’ll never see her again.”
“It’s still nice.” John sets a mug of tea on the table and nudges it in Sherlock’s direction.
“It’s just so… pointless.”
“To you, maybe.” John frowns, sniffing the air. “Have you been smoking?”
Sherlock’s fingers curl, and he stares at the lazy whorls of steam rising from his tea. “I’m going to Bart’s. I’ll probably be late.”
John sighs. “Great, have fun. Don’t adulterate too many corpses.”
****
Midnight finds him sprawled on his back in his darkened bedroom, gaze fixed on the ceiling. He’d meant to stay out most of the night, perhaps to check on his homeless network, but something drew his feet back to Baker Street after he’d finished up at the morgue.
Once again, the sounds of a happy couple soak through the floorboards, and once again, Sherlock tugs at his hair in frustration.
He's not missing anything. Is he?
His phone sighs obscenely, lighting up the room with its lurid blue glow.
Irene.
She likely has a sixth sense for couples in compromising positions.
After a few moments, the screen goes dim, and he’s plunged into darkness once more. Thirty-seven seconds pass before he huffs and snatches the phone off the nightstand, waking up the screen with one thumb.
He opens his messages and scrolls through weeks of one-sided conversations. Let’s have dinner and I like your funny hat and you looked sexy on Crimewatch, until he reaches the most recent.
“Fancy a nightcap?”
His thumb hesitates over the keyboard. A particularly enthusiastic moan sounds from upstairs.
He taps out a reply.
“I’ll come to you.”
Links: AO3, LJ
Rating: Explicit (this chapter T)
Author: 30percent
Pairing: John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Irene
Word count: 2108
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: Irene has a proposition, and Sherlock accepts. For science. Not because of any unresolved feelings for a certain flatmate. It's just research. Right?
***
The stones sift through Sherlock’s fingers as easily as water, cool and smooth. He catches one before it slips away, worrying it between thumb and forefinger. It’s oddly hypnotic: the occasional rasp of callus over stone the only interruption in the otherwise effortless motion.
The silence of the flat is a near-tangible weight on his skin, all of London enjoying a lazy Sunday, apparently. John is off at the shops, Mrs. Hudson is visiting her niece.
Eyes closed, he slumps further down in his armchair, stretching his bare feet in front of him, and raises the stone to his lips, considering.
It’s grown slightly warmer than the ambient temperature, thanks to his fingers, but it’s still cool against his skin. He rubs it over his lower lip, more sensitive than fingertips. Minor imperfections. Some veining, worn until nearly imperceptible: the barest catch, nothing more. He touches the tip of his tongue to its surface.
Mineral. Residual salt from handling. Nothing distinctive. Unlikely Ogden Marsh went about tasting the stones, anyway, expert or not.
He considers.
Tiger’s eye?
He opens his eyes and scowls.
Rose quartz.
It’s just too unlikely. Tourmaline and turquoise, maybe. Obsidian and opal, certainly. But the malachite and tiger’s eye and garnet and topaz: they’re just too similar. The weight, the texture: even factoring in Marsh’s experience, there can’t be more than a twenty percent chance he’d choose the same stone on a single try, let alone eight times in a row. The chances would fall to less than 0.1 percent.
He must be the murderer. Marsh hadn’t been sitting in the dark, sorting gems as practice. No, the lights were on, Marsh had been waiting to confront his nephew about the missing jewelry, and he’d mindlessly sorted out the tiger’s eye as was his habit when nervous.
With the light on, Marsh certainly wouldn’t have mistaken Francis for an intruder, keyless and climbing in the window or not.
He’s certain. Well, nearly certain. Unless he’s missing something.
He drops the stone back into the bowl in disgust. Semiprecious stones. Advertising drivel for idiots, no doubt. About as sensical as partially priceless or mildly invaluable. He envisions the ad campaigns and suppresses a shudder.
Well, he might as well let Lestrade know. He pats the empty pockets of his dressing gown, and growls. His phone’s in the kitchen.
He pitches his voice to carry up the stairs. “John, I need you.”
Silence.
Right. At the shops. Useless.
He groans, letting his head fall back and arms sprawl wide, and glares up at the ceiling.
The kitchen! Dull, and so very far away. Where is John?
After an interminable wait, during which time Sherlock devises and then discards three separate plots to draw John home from the shops without leaving his armchair, John’s feet sound on the stairs.
“Finally! What in the world could you possibly be doing for so long at a Tesco’s?”
John emerges from the staircase as if ejected, an incongruous spring in his step. He comes bearing the expected milk, biscuits, fruit, and tinned food of sorts Sherlock finds consistently disgusting, along with something unexpected.
A bouquet of flowers.
Sherlock narrows his eyes. “You’re inviting a woman over.”
John is unruffled in the way only unfounded optimism can make him, popping the flowers into a vase and humming. It’s repulsive. “Indeed I am.”
John’s foolish grin irks Sherlock on a cellular level. An itch under his skin, a vibration in the backs of his teeth. He scowls. “Quit looking so pleased with yourself.”
“I’m about to have a very good weekend.”
“Nothing in this world is good enough to merit that ridiculous expression.”
“You can’t faze me, Sherlock. Olivia is coming over, it’s a sure thing, we’re going to have a lovely weekend, and you can’t ruin it.”
Sherlock narrows his eyes, then jumps to his feet and stalks into the kitchen.
He takes in John’s clothing, grocery selection, meticulous grooming and suspiciously cheerful manner. “Olivia. Not a new girlfriend: someone you know well, or did, years ago. Old schoolmate, perhaps? Yes, but not a girlfriend: you’re not torn about seeing her. A friend, and an occasional… intimate partner. Coming out of the woodwork, years later. Recently divorced, most likely; living somewhere quiet and stodgy, come to London for the weekend to reclaim some lost youth. With you, in part.”
“Okay, that’s enough -- I’d rather not be traumatised before I’ve had my tea. Budge over, I need to put the groceries away.”
Sherlock grudgingly cedes six inches of counter space. John leans past him to shelve biscuits and tea, and knocks Sherlock’s hip with his own. “I even got those tarts you like.”
“Bribery? Isn’t that beneath you?”
“No. And accepting isn’t beneath you.”
“I suppose you want me to be charming.” Sherlock curls his lip.
“Nope.”
“No?”
“I want you to ignore her completely. Just pretend we’re not even here. That should be familiar enough.”
Sherlock folds his arms, and twitches a shoulder in John’s direction. “Fine.”
John closes the cupboard, and drops a palm onto Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezing once. “Thank you.” Sherlock’s gaze jumps up.
John meets his eyes, smile turning hesitant at the edges. “Just.” He licks his lips. “I need this, okay?”
A sarcastic response about the necessity of sex with near-strangers dies in Sherlock’s throat, and he nods. He’s rewarded with another squeeze of John’s hand before it slips away. Sherlock rolls his shoulder, experimentally.
He waits for John to ask him about the bowl of gemstones under his arm. He’s still waiting when John finishes up in the kitchen and climbs the stairs to his room, whistling something excessively jaunty.
Sherlock plucks another stone from the bowl and slips it into the pocket of his dressing gown, sliding his thumb over the polished surface without a glance.
One more try.
****
Curiosity over this Olivia (who knew John as a uni student, of all fascinating things) wars with his distaste of witnessing John mid-courtship, a typically excruciating affair of affable small talk and flirtatious smiles.
He glances out the window.
The sullen drizzle that’s been gracing London for the past week is perfect to test out some hypotheses he’d developed around footprints, mud, and the weight distribution of crutches.
Decision made, he retreats to his room long enough to change out of his dressing gown and locate three pairs of crutches in the back of his closet. He hesitates only briefly in the doorway, plucking the mystery stone from his dressing gown and slipping it into his trousers pocket.
Then he’s charging down the stairs while John’s still in his room, no doubt preparing for his lovely weekend.
****
He returns to Baker Street four hours later, soaking wet and weighed down by roughly half of Regent’s Park. His fingers have long since gone numb, and he lost fine motor control ninety minutes earlier, but he’s armed with all the data he needs for an update to The Science of Deduction. “The Effects of Tread Variation on Depressions in Damp Soil.” The idiots who read John’s blog may not appreciate it, but he deals in facts, not melodrama.
Satisfied, he props the crutches in the entryway, toes off his muddy shoes by the door, and shucks his coat in the en suite before raiding the fridge.
Ah yes, two of those lemon tarts are lurking near the back, a happy six inches away from the marinating toes. He snags them both, carrying them into his room along with John’s laptop.
The flat is dark and still, but muffled voices drift down the stairs and through the floorboards, punctuated by tinkling laughter and tipsy shushing. They sound like a pair of teenagers away at boarding school. Is there anything more obvious than an amorous couple attempting to keep quiet?
As the minutes tick by, the pauses between the words stretch longer and longer, and eventually fade into soft moans and bitten-off curses and the creak of bedsprings.
Sherlock’s progress on his blog post diminishes from limping to nonexistent, and he snaps the laptop shut with a growl. He slides down into his bed, rolling onto his stomach and pressing a pillow over his head.
Why? It makes no sense. He seethes. Inducing orgasms doesn’t actually require the input of another person -- in fact, another partner is likely to be less effective at it, if anything. Why John insists on spending all this time and going through these silly machinations, all for--
His train of thought grinds to a halt at a sound that can be nothing other than John Watson having an orgasm. A flush steals up Sherlock’s neck. Embarrassment, no doubt.
****
The next morning dawns clear and bright, as Sherlock can attest to firsthand, still awake and pacing about the sitting room. His seething frustration has settled into skin that feels a bit too tight.
He peers through the blinds down at Baker Street, at the cars lined up like children’s toys, clean and bright and gleaming in the early morning sun. It reeks of optimism and new beginnings, and he turns his back to the window. In an act of defiance, he retrieves a cigarette (secreted amongst the microscope slides) and climbs onto the fire escape on bare feet.
It’s colder than it looks, and the plume of smoke wars with the steam from his breath.
He smokes the cigarette down to the filter, watching the occasional intrepid pedestrian brave the early morning chill. His feet turn numb and his fingers uncoordinated, but he doesn’t climb back inside until the he hears the first stirrings of life drift down the stairs.
He collapses into bed and falls into a deep sleep, still wearing his dressing gown.
****
Muzzy and disorientated, he awakens hours later to an unfamiliar sound.
The muted hiss of running water, the rattle of dishes and clink of cutlery: the reassuring sounds of John washing up in the kitchen. Common enough. But there’s something else.
John is singing.
It’s atrocious - John’s abuse of the principles of melody would render it unrecognizable even if it was something he knew. No doubt it’s some specimen of whatever passes for popular music these days.
He rolls out of bed, dressing gown twisted around his body, and strides into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
John glances over his shoulder, flicking soap suds into the sink. The upward trajectory of his eyebrows suggests Sherlock’s hair has reached an advanced state of disarray. “Dishes?”
“I mean that… singing.”
“Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?”
Sherlock scowls, and moves toward his microscope, perching on the stool and peering through the eyepiece, though the slide he prepared last night has long since desiccated. “It’s fine.”
John flicks the kettle on. “Tea?”
“Mm.” Sherlock stares into the microscope, idly twisting a knob, and listens to John pull mugs from the cupboard and spoons from the drawer. “Where’s your girlfriend?”
“Visiting friends. She’ll be back tonight. And she’s not my girlfriend.”
Conversation subsides into the clink of spoon against ceramic. And then John starts to hum.
Sherlock’s palms fall to the table, his fingers splaying over scarred wood. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why does this make you so happy?”
John pauses. “You know how I feel about tea.”
“Don’t be obtuse, John.”
John shrugs one shoulder, diffident. “Sex. With someone you like. It makes most people happy.”
“But she doesn’t even live in London! She’ll go back to whatever miserable little town she lives in, and you’ll never see her again.”
“It’s still nice.” John sets a mug of tea on the table and nudges it in Sherlock’s direction.
“It’s just so… pointless.”
“To you, maybe.” John frowns, sniffing the air. “Have you been smoking?”
Sherlock’s fingers curl, and he stares at the lazy whorls of steam rising from his tea. “I’m going to Bart’s. I’ll probably be late.”
John sighs. “Great, have fun. Don’t adulterate too many corpses.”
****
Midnight finds him sprawled on his back in his darkened bedroom, gaze fixed on the ceiling. He’d meant to stay out most of the night, perhaps to check on his homeless network, but something drew his feet back to Baker Street after he’d finished up at the morgue.
Once again, the sounds of a happy couple soak through the floorboards, and once again, Sherlock tugs at his hair in frustration.
He's not missing anything. Is he?
His phone sighs obscenely, lighting up the room with its lurid blue glow.
Irene.
She likely has a sixth sense for couples in compromising positions.
After a few moments, the screen goes dim, and he’s plunged into darkness once more. Thirty-seven seconds pass before he huffs and snatches the phone off the nightstand, waking up the screen with one thumb.
He opens his messages and scrolls through weeks of one-sided conversations. Let’s have dinner and I like your funny hat and you looked sexy on Crimewatch, until he reaches the most recent.
“Fancy a nightcap?”
His thumb hesitates over the keyboard. A particularly enthusiastic moan sounds from upstairs.
He taps out a reply.
“I’ll come to you.”