Stumbling Toward Something - Sherlock
Title: Stumbling Toward Something
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC yo) AU with Dr. Joan Watson
Rating: T for Romantic Overtones, nothing explicit
Summary: Joan Watson helps Sherlock with a case at a party. Sherlock has some issues. Hello awkwardlypossessive!Sherlock.
Author's Note:
Comments are love. Written for a prompt based on these pictures.
It wasn't that Joan wasn't attractive; anyone could see that she was attractive. Adorable, delectable. But she was always hiding under jumpers and strict military hair buns that looked disciplined enough to withstand hurricane winds on general principle. No, Joan had always been attractive but everything about her had always said, not like that and only friends and think of me as useful and reliable.
Now, dressed in borrowed clothes, done up in softness and quiet self-reliant beauty Sherlock felt slightly alarmed. It was a distant nagging feeling. Something like fascination. Her hair was something sandy golden, like sunlight and deserts and strength all curled and tumbling around her neck. She smiled nervously at him, not comfortable in silks and diamonds. When they arrive he put off the urge to lean forward, caging her body against the seat without even touching her and lean close to her ear so she has to hear him whisper, "Your jewelry was my mother's." As if that would make a claim on her. He doesn't whisper to her, "You've killed for me and I could tell. I could tell on you." Because that wouldn't make Joan belong to him, blackmail has no power over people like Joan, not like he wants.
"Too bad about your hair," she says as they're waiting to be let out.
"It was for the case," he says quickly and escapes the car before the doorman can blink.
Joan does like she's supposed to, she's very good at flirting, her head tilts gently, the soft lighting catching her golden curls, her skin pale from being covered by camo. Hemingway is amused and pleased at her attentions. Every so often her fingers drift to her shoulder, to make sure the dress is still covering every delicate starpoints of her scar. Her scar will stay hidden, the dress shows a great deal of the swoop of her spine, but it shouldn't reveal anything too... private, because the scar is private. The front of the dress is cut quite wide.
Hemingway laughs and Sherlock takes one step forward without meaning to do so. Imagines swiping her drink out of her hand with one fierce move of his wrist. Bunching up the sleeve of her dress, back to Hemingway, ignoring him on purpose. A snotty show of dominance. Revealing the scar to everyone a public, a shocking crossing over that invisible line. Claiming her right to privacy to be his. Look at what's mine boys and girls. Sinking his teeth into her shoulder, into her scar. She's strong, he bets she could pull out chunks of his hair while she screams, loud enough for everyone to hear.
So quiet it’s only for him.
He only gets one step forward and then his mask is in place again. He smiles and chats with Barker's sister. She's probably the one that's been masterminding the thefts, but she's incredibly vain, easy to play.
This new Joan is distressing because before she was closed to everyone, and him. It was equal between him and everyone. But now she is open to other people, her hair is out of its knot, her arm is strong and smooth, the tilt of her hip is welcoming. She's never tilted her hips at him except when he's done something that also garners that thin lipped look. That's an annoyance tilt, not an I'm possibly interested in you in a way that could lead to a sexual relationship tilt. Every bit of Hemingway's personal preferences and bits of his personality and his interest flares over his eyes in hideous pale letters.
It makes his skin feel too tight and his stomach sick, so he turns his back so he doesn't lunge forward and put Hemingway's head through the floor.
Later Hemingway is sprawled at Joan's feet, nearly unconscious. Lestrade and the rest of that useless lot run around trying to wrangle house guests and testy women who wanted their jewelry back. Idiots. Joan is sprawled on a dark glass table, hair around her like a halo. It is an insanely clichéd idea, he takes some comfort in the fact that it more because she looks like an avenging angel than some pretentious idea of innocence. There is blood on her lip (her own) and blood on her knuckles and on the big diamond ring his mother used to wear to parties and has been sitting in the family vault, waiting to come back in style for years (that blood is Hemingway's). One of what she affectionately called her 'insanely expensive pumps Harry would kill me for' has fallen off her foot. Her toenails are a dark pink.
He looms over her, looking at her like he would a body in the throes of autopsy. She does not look pale or weak. She looks like she could take on six more Hemingways with very little effort on her part. she's not in distress, she's only resting. Like a lioness after a hunt. If he took her neck in his teeth he's curious what her reaction would be. He has her Browning in his right hand, he wants to give her the gun, whisper against her wrist, "I know he touched you, if you let me watch, I promise I won't tell if you shoot him. Please let me watch."
But she wouldn't shoot him, not worth the bullet.
He wants to trace her face with his fingertips.
He's feeling so many different things that he doesn't know how to deal with, his face is blank as he studies her.
"I always wanted to be James Bond, Harry said I couldn't because I was a girl. I didn't want to be a Bond girl though. It seemed sort of useless to just sit back and hope your boyfriend would come back safe. Didn't fancy that much."
"You would be terrifying as James Bond," Sherlock answered honestly. He wonders if there is any subtext in what she just said. She would be terrifying. The villains would either run in fear or give up their evil ways to be Bond boys. Or men. Or whatever. He resisted the urge to cup her head in his hands only because she sat up and went fishing for her lost pump.
"At least we know that Hemingway won't bloody well be having any more children," she grinned wickedly at him. On further observation it appeared that Hemingway's fetal position was only accentuated by what his hands were weakly cupping in his weakened state.
The grin he gave her was pure evil satisfaction.
The worst is Lestrade. Lestrade is Sherlock's... something. Something that should imply a level of trust. A trust he's betraying with his clumsy flirtation of a woman who is obviously out of his league. Joan is giggling at him, her fingers at her elbows. Lestrade sees her now, which isn't fair because Sherlock's always seen her, he was just never allowed to touch.
And Joan is looking back at him, smiling her adorable grin, shaking her head in delicious disbelief and Lestrade making a fool of himself. Sherlock snarled. Everyone got her except him. It was too much. He only has Joan, she's his only friend, but everyone is friends with Joan, everyone wants her time, her energy, her interest. Like petulant little children demanding all her time. Don't they see she's necessary for the work. That she's part of the work? That he needs her.
Lestrade notices that she is cold, hugging her elbows awkwardly and reaches up to take off his coat.
No.
No.
That is not permitted.
"Piss off," he snarls in Lestrade's face.
"Oi," he jerks away from Sherlock, eyebrows coming together. "What is your problem?"
"Piss. Off."
He thinks for a moment there's going to be a fight and he hopes there is. He really, really hopes there is.
"Sherlock," says Joan firmly and two angry faces snap toward her. "I'm cold."
Staring at her a moment, he blinks, startled out of his anger, "Oh." He takes off his coat, helping her slide it on, tucking the collar around her neck. He draws the line at rolling up the too long sleeves for her. No need to be ridiculous.
Lestrade is giving him the oddest look. "I'll just," he motioned toward the house. "I'll just be looking around. One last time."
"Sherlock," said Joan's voice, softer than before. "All you had to do was say."
"Say what?" he asked narrowly. It was too much, he wasn’t sure what to do with it.
She moved closer to him, his mother's diamonds on her hand, on her wrist. "You're brilliant, you know, I've always thought so."
"Have you?"
Her fingers almost look delicate peeking out from the sleeves of his coat. He wonders if she could break a man’s neck. She’s such a dichotomy. "Your sense of humor is downright wicked. Who laughs at crime scenes?" She's smiling such a dear smile. He wants to eat it up.
"I'm married to my work," he whispered weakly. He needs the work. He'll neglect her. He won't be able to bribe her into loving him. He wouldn't be able to trick her. But he needs the work. He's trembling, his hands in her hair.
She bites her bottom lip, thinking. "I could be your bit on the side?"
No, that's not quite right. Not quite what they are.
"I always follow you anyway."
"Then be my work," he growls against her lips. "And never, never leave me."
Their third kiss is in the MET the following morning, in quasi-privacy in one of the stark little conference rooms knowing Lestrade would some looking for him. He locks eyes, making it clear silently who was allowed to put a coat on whom. Lestrade raises his hands and backs away slowly.
Good.
He just wished Lestrade hadn’t been smirking.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC yo) AU with Dr. Joan Watson
Rating: T for Romantic Overtones, nothing explicit
Summary: Joan Watson helps Sherlock with a case at a party. Sherlock has some issues. Hello awkwardlypossessive!Sherlock.
Author's Note:
Comments are love. Written for a prompt based on these pictures.
It wasn't that Joan wasn't attractive; anyone could see that she was attractive. Adorable, delectable. But she was always hiding under jumpers and strict military hair buns that looked disciplined enough to withstand hurricane winds on general principle. No, Joan had always been attractive but everything about her had always said, not like that and only friends and think of me as useful and reliable.
Now, dressed in borrowed clothes, done up in softness and quiet self-reliant beauty Sherlock felt slightly alarmed. It was a distant nagging feeling. Something like fascination. Her hair was something sandy golden, like sunlight and deserts and strength all curled and tumbling around her neck. She smiled nervously at him, not comfortable in silks and diamonds. When they arrive he put off the urge to lean forward, caging her body against the seat without even touching her and lean close to her ear so she has to hear him whisper, "Your jewelry was my mother's." As if that would make a claim on her. He doesn't whisper to her, "You've killed for me and I could tell. I could tell on you." Because that wouldn't make Joan belong to him, blackmail has no power over people like Joan, not like he wants.
"Too bad about your hair," she says as they're waiting to be let out.
"It was for the case," he says quickly and escapes the car before the doorman can blink.
Joan does like she's supposed to, she's very good at flirting, her head tilts gently, the soft lighting catching her golden curls, her skin pale from being covered by camo. Hemingway is amused and pleased at her attentions. Every so often her fingers drift to her shoulder, to make sure the dress is still covering every delicate starpoints of her scar. Her scar will stay hidden, the dress shows a great deal of the swoop of her spine, but it shouldn't reveal anything too... private, because the scar is private. The front of the dress is cut quite wide.
Hemingway laughs and Sherlock takes one step forward without meaning to do so. Imagines swiping her drink out of her hand with one fierce move of his wrist. Bunching up the sleeve of her dress, back to Hemingway, ignoring him on purpose. A snotty show of dominance. Revealing the scar to everyone a public, a shocking crossing over that invisible line. Claiming her right to privacy to be his. Look at what's mine boys and girls. Sinking his teeth into her shoulder, into her scar. She's strong, he bets she could pull out chunks of his hair while she screams, loud enough for everyone to hear.
So quiet it’s only for him.
He only gets one step forward and then his mask is in place again. He smiles and chats with Barker's sister. She's probably the one that's been masterminding the thefts, but she's incredibly vain, easy to play.
This new Joan is distressing because before she was closed to everyone, and him. It was equal between him and everyone. But now she is open to other people, her hair is out of its knot, her arm is strong and smooth, the tilt of her hip is welcoming. She's never tilted her hips at him except when he's done something that also garners that thin lipped look. That's an annoyance tilt, not an I'm possibly interested in you in a way that could lead to a sexual relationship tilt. Every bit of Hemingway's personal preferences and bits of his personality and his interest flares over his eyes in hideous pale letters.
It makes his skin feel too tight and his stomach sick, so he turns his back so he doesn't lunge forward and put Hemingway's head through the floor.
Later Hemingway is sprawled at Joan's feet, nearly unconscious. Lestrade and the rest of that useless lot run around trying to wrangle house guests and testy women who wanted their jewelry back. Idiots. Joan is sprawled on a dark glass table, hair around her like a halo. It is an insanely clichéd idea, he takes some comfort in the fact that it more because she looks like an avenging angel than some pretentious idea of innocence. There is blood on her lip (her own) and blood on her knuckles and on the big diamond ring his mother used to wear to parties and has been sitting in the family vault, waiting to come back in style for years (that blood is Hemingway's). One of what she affectionately called her 'insanely expensive pumps Harry would kill me for' has fallen off her foot. Her toenails are a dark pink.
He looms over her, looking at her like he would a body in the throes of autopsy. She does not look pale or weak. She looks like she could take on six more Hemingways with very little effort on her part. she's not in distress, she's only resting. Like a lioness after a hunt. If he took her neck in his teeth he's curious what her reaction would be. He has her Browning in his right hand, he wants to give her the gun, whisper against her wrist, "I know he touched you, if you let me watch, I promise I won't tell if you shoot him. Please let me watch."
But she wouldn't shoot him, not worth the bullet.
He wants to trace her face with his fingertips.
He's feeling so many different things that he doesn't know how to deal with, his face is blank as he studies her.
"I always wanted to be James Bond, Harry said I couldn't because I was a girl. I didn't want to be a Bond girl though. It seemed sort of useless to just sit back and hope your boyfriend would come back safe. Didn't fancy that much."
"You would be terrifying as James Bond," Sherlock answered honestly. He wonders if there is any subtext in what she just said. She would be terrifying. The villains would either run in fear or give up their evil ways to be Bond boys. Or men. Or whatever. He resisted the urge to cup her head in his hands only because she sat up and went fishing for her lost pump.
"At least we know that Hemingway won't bloody well be having any more children," she grinned wickedly at him. On further observation it appeared that Hemingway's fetal position was only accentuated by what his hands were weakly cupping in his weakened state.
The grin he gave her was pure evil satisfaction.
The worst is Lestrade. Lestrade is Sherlock's... something. Something that should imply a level of trust. A trust he's betraying with his clumsy flirtation of a woman who is obviously out of his league. Joan is giggling at him, her fingers at her elbows. Lestrade sees her now, which isn't fair because Sherlock's always seen her, he was just never allowed to touch.
And Joan is looking back at him, smiling her adorable grin, shaking her head in delicious disbelief and Lestrade making a fool of himself. Sherlock snarled. Everyone got her except him. It was too much. He only has Joan, she's his only friend, but everyone is friends with Joan, everyone wants her time, her energy, her interest. Like petulant little children demanding all her time. Don't they see she's necessary for the work. That she's part of the work? That he needs her.
Lestrade notices that she is cold, hugging her elbows awkwardly and reaches up to take off his coat.
No.
No.
That is not permitted.
"Piss off," he snarls in Lestrade's face.
"Oi," he jerks away from Sherlock, eyebrows coming together. "What is your problem?"
"Piss. Off."
He thinks for a moment there's going to be a fight and he hopes there is. He really, really hopes there is.
"Sherlock," says Joan firmly and two angry faces snap toward her. "I'm cold."
Staring at her a moment, he blinks, startled out of his anger, "Oh." He takes off his coat, helping her slide it on, tucking the collar around her neck. He draws the line at rolling up the too long sleeves for her. No need to be ridiculous.
Lestrade is giving him the oddest look. "I'll just," he motioned toward the house. "I'll just be looking around. One last time."
"Sherlock," said Joan's voice, softer than before. "All you had to do was say."
"Say what?" he asked narrowly. It was too much, he wasn’t sure what to do with it.
She moved closer to him, his mother's diamonds on her hand, on her wrist. "You're brilliant, you know, I've always thought so."
"Have you?"
Her fingers almost look delicate peeking out from the sleeves of his coat. He wonders if she could break a man’s neck. She’s such a dichotomy. "Your sense of humor is downright wicked. Who laughs at crime scenes?" She's smiling such a dear smile. He wants to eat it up.
"I'm married to my work," he whispered weakly. He needs the work. He'll neglect her. He won't be able to bribe her into loving him. He wouldn't be able to trick her. But he needs the work. He's trembling, his hands in her hair.
She bites her bottom lip, thinking. "I could be your bit on the side?"
No, that's not quite right. Not quite what they are.
"I always follow you anyway."
"Then be my work," he growls against her lips. "And never, never leave me."
Their third kiss is in the MET the following morning, in quasi-privacy in one of the stark little conference rooms knowing Lestrade would some looking for him. He locks eyes, making it clear silently who was allowed to put a coat on whom. Lestrade raises his hands and backs away slowly.
Good.
He just wished Lestrade hadn’t been smirking.