"Tarantella", Sherlock (BBC), Rated G
Title: Tarantella
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC Miniseries)
Rated: G
Word Count: 1173
Characters/Pairing: Implied John/Sherlock
Summary: After a chase, John is tired. For foucaultisourking, because she wanted a fic with the phrase "plays him like a fiddle." (Not Beta read. Please excuse awkwardness and errors)
Disclaimer: All characters in this work of fanfiction belong to Stephen Moffat, Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, etc.
John flopped down on his bed, utterly exhausted, shoulder and leg throbbing. He swallowed to wet his dry throat, quickly, so he could get back to breathing heavily.
Damn that man. That insufferable man. Why did he have to make him run all the time? It was so unnecessary. Psychosomatic limp or no, he still was not as fit as Sherlock, and his legs were far shorter. He often felt like a tiny scruffy little terrier, having to take three steps for every one that that Afghan hound of a man took.
And in about five minutes Sherlock would probably call for him again from the living room, asking him to get him a cup of tea or bring him a fresh shirt from his closet or something inane that he was perfectly capable of doing on his own. And John would complain about not having got his wind back yet. And Sherlock would ignore him. Like clockwork.
Sherlock’s propensity to play John like a fiddle was turning into hourly violin practice. And John’s strings were about to break.
“John, get my pen, would you?”
John was about to get up when he had a thought. Maybe it was his turn to play the music, on Sherlock this time. Sherlock was always messing with him-let’s see how he reacted to being messed with. He toed his shoes off, wiggled out of his jacket and jumper, and lifted his legs up to scrunch off his jeans. Then he slipped under the covers, and slipped into sleep almost as soon as he’d closed his eyes.
“John? John, I know you’re up there!” Sherlock listened, and heard nothing but a bit of rustling. “It’s all the way on the other side of the room. You have to get it for me!” He sat for a few moments. “John, don’t be childish. Go and get it for me! If you don’t, I’ll…” He looked around and focused on something. “If you don’t I will throw out all the jammy dodgers! ALL OF THEM! You will have no jammy dodgers for the rest of the month because Mrs. Hudson is still on holiday!”
No response. Not even rustling. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Something was wrong if John wasn’t responding to threats against his biscuits. He threw his scarf down on the chair next to him, tugged off his coat, pitching it to the same spot as the scarf, following it with his gloves. He strode quickly across the balding carpet, and stomped upstairs to John’s bedroom, very ready to give him a strict talking-to about just who was the one who just kept him from getting killed by a serial murderer…
Until he saw John fast asleep, bundled under his covers like a tiny bunny in his burrow. He crept closer, cataloguing eye movement and depth of breathing, finally concluding that John was not faking and was quite asleep indeed. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, intent on figuring out why he’d taken off his clothes and gone to sleep…
They’d been in chases before and John had always had enough energy to make him some tea or text someone for him afterwards, so it couldn’t be the chase…
John’s health hadn’t been deteriorating lately, he’d gotten plenty of sleep the night before, and he didn’t have any early appointments tomorrow…
He was doing this to annoy him, wasn’t he?
He was.
The silly thing. The silly childish man was trying to annoy him just the way he…
He didn’t annoy John that much, did he? He knew that he was naturally infuriating to anyone who wasn’t on his intellectual level, and even then there was a degree of frustration. But John was always very tolerant of his moods and his eccentricities. At least he seemed to be. Perhaps, Sherlock thought, he hadn’t been paying enough attention. Or rather, he hadn’t been paying enough attention to the right things.
Sherlock crossed his arms. Should he wake him up, or… No. He’d leave him be. He’d let him think he’d succeeded. He walked quietly to the door and turned back to look at John once more, at that oatmeal-colored head poking out from under oatmeal-colored sheets, on top of which a rumpled oatmeal-colored jumper lay. Sherlock smirked. Oatmeal. That was John. Warm, comforting, good for you, simple but still delicious. Delicious? That wasn’t John. Good. If John were a taste, John would just taste good. Pure and good. No fancy words like delicious or delectable. Those were words for more pretentious, more fake, more… high-fallutin’ men than John, to use a godawful, antiquated American colloquialism. John was real. He kept Sherlock’s fickle electricity grounded.
He’d let him be. He could get his pen later.
John awoke three hours later to the faint sounds of pizzicato issuing from the sitting room downstairs. No freakishly tall genius standing over his bed looking disapproving. Nothing strange going on in his room at all. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and moved to the edge of the bed, where he began putting on his jeans and jumper.
The strains of a tarantella came from downstairs now, sounding like sinister background music from a Coppola film in the shadows of the Baker Street flat. Jumper on, hair mussed, John shuffled downstairs in his stockinged feet to find Sherlock wailing away on the battered old Czech violin, curly hair bouncing and shaking so he looked for all the world like Beethoven in the throes of inspiration. His eyes were closed, nostrils flaring to inhale during rests in the music, swaying back and forth on his long, long legs. With a final flourish, Sherlock brought his bow up high into the air and opened his sharp, glacial eyes, which came to rest on John.
“You’re up. Do get me my pen, won’t you? I’ve been waiting since after seven.” Sherlock flopped gracelessly down into an armchair, rested his violin across his knees and began to rosin his bow.
John gave a despondent sort of sigh. Playing him just like he’d played that tarantella only moments ago. “I guess he never stops practicing,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Here’s your pen.” If Sherlock had been his girlfriend, John’s mates would have said he was whipped. He supposed he was, regardless of whether Sherlock was a girl or not. He could see himself, ten year down the road, still fetching and carrying and running after Sherlock, scaring away every woman he met as soon as she saw his flatmate. Whether he liked it or not, John thought, Sherlock was his significant other. That was okay. He was fond of him, of his adorable ignorance about the quotidian minutiae of the world, of his endless knowledge of just about everything else. John jammed his hands in his pockets.
“Tea?”
“Earl Grey.”
“You’ve got it.”
“And biscuits.”
“I’ll see what we’ve got.”
It wasn’t sinister, Sherlock’s playing of John. It just was. The virtuoso needed his violin. And that was just fine with the violin.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC Miniseries)
Rated: G
Word Count: 1173
Characters/Pairing: Implied John/Sherlock
Summary: After a chase, John is tired. For foucaultisourking, because she wanted a fic with the phrase "plays him like a fiddle." (Not Beta read. Please excuse awkwardness and errors)
Disclaimer: All characters in this work of fanfiction belong to Stephen Moffat, Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, etc.
John flopped down on his bed, utterly exhausted, shoulder and leg throbbing. He swallowed to wet his dry throat, quickly, so he could get back to breathing heavily.
Damn that man. That insufferable man. Why did he have to make him run all the time? It was so unnecessary. Psychosomatic limp or no, he still was not as fit as Sherlock, and his legs were far shorter. He often felt like a tiny scruffy little terrier, having to take three steps for every one that that Afghan hound of a man took.
And in about five minutes Sherlock would probably call for him again from the living room, asking him to get him a cup of tea or bring him a fresh shirt from his closet or something inane that he was perfectly capable of doing on his own. And John would complain about not having got his wind back yet. And Sherlock would ignore him. Like clockwork.
Sherlock’s propensity to play John like a fiddle was turning into hourly violin practice. And John’s strings were about to break.
“John, get my pen, would you?”
John was about to get up when he had a thought. Maybe it was his turn to play the music, on Sherlock this time. Sherlock was always messing with him-let’s see how he reacted to being messed with. He toed his shoes off, wiggled out of his jacket and jumper, and lifted his legs up to scrunch off his jeans. Then he slipped under the covers, and slipped into sleep almost as soon as he’d closed his eyes.
“John? John, I know you’re up there!” Sherlock listened, and heard nothing but a bit of rustling. “It’s all the way on the other side of the room. You have to get it for me!” He sat for a few moments. “John, don’t be childish. Go and get it for me! If you don’t, I’ll…” He looked around and focused on something. “If you don’t I will throw out all the jammy dodgers! ALL OF THEM! You will have no jammy dodgers for the rest of the month because Mrs. Hudson is still on holiday!”
No response. Not even rustling. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Something was wrong if John wasn’t responding to threats against his biscuits. He threw his scarf down on the chair next to him, tugged off his coat, pitching it to the same spot as the scarf, following it with his gloves. He strode quickly across the balding carpet, and stomped upstairs to John’s bedroom, very ready to give him a strict talking-to about just who was the one who just kept him from getting killed by a serial murderer…
Until he saw John fast asleep, bundled under his covers like a tiny bunny in his burrow. He crept closer, cataloguing eye movement and depth of breathing, finally concluding that John was not faking and was quite asleep indeed. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, intent on figuring out why he’d taken off his clothes and gone to sleep…
They’d been in chases before and John had always had enough energy to make him some tea or text someone for him afterwards, so it couldn’t be the chase…
John’s health hadn’t been deteriorating lately, he’d gotten plenty of sleep the night before, and he didn’t have any early appointments tomorrow…
He was doing this to annoy him, wasn’t he?
He was.
The silly thing. The silly childish man was trying to annoy him just the way he…
He didn’t annoy John that much, did he? He knew that he was naturally infuriating to anyone who wasn’t on his intellectual level, and even then there was a degree of frustration. But John was always very tolerant of his moods and his eccentricities. At least he seemed to be. Perhaps, Sherlock thought, he hadn’t been paying enough attention. Or rather, he hadn’t been paying enough attention to the right things.
Sherlock crossed his arms. Should he wake him up, or… No. He’d leave him be. He’d let him think he’d succeeded. He walked quietly to the door and turned back to look at John once more, at that oatmeal-colored head poking out from under oatmeal-colored sheets, on top of which a rumpled oatmeal-colored jumper lay. Sherlock smirked. Oatmeal. That was John. Warm, comforting, good for you, simple but still delicious. Delicious? That wasn’t John. Good. If John were a taste, John would just taste good. Pure and good. No fancy words like delicious or delectable. Those were words for more pretentious, more fake, more… high-fallutin’ men than John, to use a godawful, antiquated American colloquialism. John was real. He kept Sherlock’s fickle electricity grounded.
He’d let him be. He could get his pen later.
John awoke three hours later to the faint sounds of pizzicato issuing from the sitting room downstairs. No freakishly tall genius standing over his bed looking disapproving. Nothing strange going on in his room at all. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and moved to the edge of the bed, where he began putting on his jeans and jumper.
The strains of a tarantella came from downstairs now, sounding like sinister background music from a Coppola film in the shadows of the Baker Street flat. Jumper on, hair mussed, John shuffled downstairs in his stockinged feet to find Sherlock wailing away on the battered old Czech violin, curly hair bouncing and shaking so he looked for all the world like Beethoven in the throes of inspiration. His eyes were closed, nostrils flaring to inhale during rests in the music, swaying back and forth on his long, long legs. With a final flourish, Sherlock brought his bow up high into the air and opened his sharp, glacial eyes, which came to rest on John.
“You’re up. Do get me my pen, won’t you? I’ve been waiting since after seven.” Sherlock flopped gracelessly down into an armchair, rested his violin across his knees and began to rosin his bow.
John gave a despondent sort of sigh. Playing him just like he’d played that tarantella only moments ago. “I guess he never stops practicing,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Here’s your pen.” If Sherlock had been his girlfriend, John’s mates would have said he was whipped. He supposed he was, regardless of whether Sherlock was a girl or not. He could see himself, ten year down the road, still fetching and carrying and running after Sherlock, scaring away every woman he met as soon as she saw his flatmate. Whether he liked it or not, John thought, Sherlock was his significant other. That was okay. He was fond of him, of his adorable ignorance about the quotidian minutiae of the world, of his endless knowledge of just about everything else. John jammed his hands in his pockets.
“Tea?”
“Earl Grey.”
“You’ve got it.”
“And biscuits.”
“I’ll see what we’ve got.”
It wasn’t sinister, Sherlock’s playing of John. It just was. The virtuoso needed his violin. And that was just fine with the violin.