Eventually
Title: Eventually
Pairing: Sherlock+John strong friendship, mention of Lestrade friendship
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: Not much.
Summary: After a bad injury, John takes a recovering Sherlock to a museum.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes: I'm at college, and missing being a metro ride away from the Smithsonian. There's going to be at least one more fic in this 'verse.
Sherlock cooped up was the most intolerable thing in the entire universe. Miserable, bored, and too fragile health-wise to engage in any of his rather less than wholesome activities. Lestrade had been indispensable, John had been informed that this wasn’t the first time Sherlock had been too badly injured to work cases, thought it was certainly the worst injury he’d sustained.
Deciding to try something different, he called to arrange transportation early in the morning, and went to wake his friend. Sherlock was all the way to one side of the bed, hair all sticking up everywhere, blankets tossed off onto the floor to the side Sherlock was further from, cream-colored sheet tangled around the young man’s lanky body, pulled taught in certain areas, showing the contours of Sherlock’s hip, and knee.
John sat down where Sherlock’s body bent at the hip, creating a small triangle of space on the mattress, laid his hand down, gently caressing his friend’s back through the cotton sheet. Sherlock stirred, a bit, and opened his eyes, raising one pale, long-fingered, delicate hand to rub at his eyes with the ball his palm. Blinking sleepily, he looked up at John, “have I overslept?”
“No, I just thought I’d wake you. How interested would you be in going to a museum?”
Sherlock looked slightly suspicious, but at John’s earnest, honest face, he softened, “which?”
“Natural history, I had thought. And you can complain about idiots all you want, if you like.”
A yawn, and Sherlock pushed himself to a sitting position, “doesn’t sound intolerable.”
John smiled, and got to his feet, “I’ll make us breakfast, then.”
Sherlock nodded, yawning again, widely. John grinned, and headed into the kitchen. Fetching a pan, and oil, he started the burner, and went about cracking eggs, mixing half of them with butter and cinnamon and brown sugar, slicing bread and letting it soak in the mixture. The smell of the hot oil started to permeate the flat, and then the sizzling eggs. Finishing his and Sherlock’s fried eggs, he slid them onto plates, and went about cooking the french toast.
By the time that was done, Sherlock was up and ready to eat, and John was more than pleased by his appetite-he wound up making seconds on eggs for both of them.
Predictably, Sherlock spent more time at the museum complaining about how stupid the people making the exhibits must have been, than actually looking at the exhibits. However, as it wasn’t John he was complaining about, it was a nice change of pace, and John wandered along being, “mmm”ing at appropriate intervals. Personally, he was rather enjoying the exhibits.
Sherlock wasn’t nearly well enough to walk through the museum, they had rented a wheelchair at the front desk, and while John had helped push on an upwards-sloping ramp to save Sherlock the exertion, Sherlock seemed to be getting on quite fine on his own, which was a welcome relief, probably for both of them.
Sherlock seemed to regard most of the actual exhibits with little enthusiasm, until they got to the mummies. Sherlock sat, and stared, examining every centimeter of each in turn. John read all the plaques around the room, listened to the audio tour stations, and settled himself to lean against the doorway of the room, observing his friend’s fascination. He’d been here before, rather recently, and while the mummies were certainly interesting, personally, he didn’t exactly see what Sherlock felt the need to scrutinize so closely. On the other hand, he didn’t understand a lot of what Sherlock was and wasn’t interested by, so he was rather used to being content that Sherlock was entertained.
Eventually, Sherlock seemed satisfied, and they continued on to the food court for lunch. Sherlock did seem a bit tired, but his spirits appeared to be higher than John had witnessed in weeks, so all in all, this had apparently been a rather successful endeavor.
By the time they got into the cab, Sherlock was unsteady at best, and clearly exhausted. But that was so much better, than all the other nights of the week, when he would sit up for hours, too awake to rest, but too pained or weakened to really satisfy himself.
They had take-away for dinner, and Sherlock fell asleep on the couch, head resting in John’s lap, feet bare, shoes kicked across the room. His elongate thumb and forefinger lightly gripped the seam of John’s trousers, as he slept.
There were so many days, so many nights, when John wondered if it was all worth it, if they would ever get through this, and if there would ever be a reward for this hell.
Today was a reminder that it would, eventually, all be okay.
Pairing: Sherlock+John strong friendship, mention of Lestrade friendship
Author: alanwolfmoon
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: Not much.
Summary: After a bad injury, John takes a recovering Sherlock to a museum.
Disclaimer: MINE! ALL MINE!....uh, no. Not mine.
Feedback: Reviews and flames are welcome. (They make it look like I'm writing fast)
Notes: I'm at college, and missing being a metro ride away from the Smithsonian. There's going to be at least one more fic in this 'verse.
Sherlock cooped up was the most intolerable thing in the entire universe. Miserable, bored, and too fragile health-wise to engage in any of his rather less than wholesome activities. Lestrade had been indispensable, John had been informed that this wasn’t the first time Sherlock had been too badly injured to work cases, thought it was certainly the worst injury he’d sustained.
Deciding to try something different, he called to arrange transportation early in the morning, and went to wake his friend. Sherlock was all the way to one side of the bed, hair all sticking up everywhere, blankets tossed off onto the floor to the side Sherlock was further from, cream-colored sheet tangled around the young man’s lanky body, pulled taught in certain areas, showing the contours of Sherlock’s hip, and knee.
John sat down where Sherlock’s body bent at the hip, creating a small triangle of space on the mattress, laid his hand down, gently caressing his friend’s back through the cotton sheet. Sherlock stirred, a bit, and opened his eyes, raising one pale, long-fingered, delicate hand to rub at his eyes with the ball his palm. Blinking sleepily, he looked up at John, “have I overslept?”
“No, I just thought I’d wake you. How interested would you be in going to a museum?”
Sherlock looked slightly suspicious, but at John’s earnest, honest face, he softened, “which?”
“Natural history, I had thought. And you can complain about idiots all you want, if you like.”
A yawn, and Sherlock pushed himself to a sitting position, “doesn’t sound intolerable.”
John smiled, and got to his feet, “I’ll make us breakfast, then.”
Sherlock nodded, yawning again, widely. John grinned, and headed into the kitchen. Fetching a pan, and oil, he started the burner, and went about cracking eggs, mixing half of them with butter and cinnamon and brown sugar, slicing bread and letting it soak in the mixture. The smell of the hot oil started to permeate the flat, and then the sizzling eggs. Finishing his and Sherlock’s fried eggs, he slid them onto plates, and went about cooking the french toast.
By the time that was done, Sherlock was up and ready to eat, and John was more than pleased by his appetite-he wound up making seconds on eggs for both of them.
Predictably, Sherlock spent more time at the museum complaining about how stupid the people making the exhibits must have been, than actually looking at the exhibits. However, as it wasn’t John he was complaining about, it was a nice change of pace, and John wandered along being, “mmm”ing at appropriate intervals. Personally, he was rather enjoying the exhibits.
Sherlock wasn’t nearly well enough to walk through the museum, they had rented a wheelchair at the front desk, and while John had helped push on an upwards-sloping ramp to save Sherlock the exertion, Sherlock seemed to be getting on quite fine on his own, which was a welcome relief, probably for both of them.
Sherlock seemed to regard most of the actual exhibits with little enthusiasm, until they got to the mummies. Sherlock sat, and stared, examining every centimeter of each in turn. John read all the plaques around the room, listened to the audio tour stations, and settled himself to lean against the doorway of the room, observing his friend’s fascination. He’d been here before, rather recently, and while the mummies were certainly interesting, personally, he didn’t exactly see what Sherlock felt the need to scrutinize so closely. On the other hand, he didn’t understand a lot of what Sherlock was and wasn’t interested by, so he was rather used to being content that Sherlock was entertained.
Eventually, Sherlock seemed satisfied, and they continued on to the food court for lunch. Sherlock did seem a bit tired, but his spirits appeared to be higher than John had witnessed in weeks, so all in all, this had apparently been a rather successful endeavor.
By the time they got into the cab, Sherlock was unsteady at best, and clearly exhausted. But that was so much better, than all the other nights of the week, when he would sit up for hours, too awake to rest, but too pained or weakened to really satisfy himself.
They had take-away for dinner, and Sherlock fell asleep on the couch, head resting in John’s lap, feet bare, shoes kicked across the room. His elongate thumb and forefinger lightly gripped the seam of John’s trousers, as he slept.
There were so many days, so many nights, when John wondered if it was all worth it, if they would ever get through this, and if there would ever be a reward for this hell.
Today was a reminder that it would, eventually, all be okay.