fic: Quick Hands [Sherlock]
Title: Quick Hands
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Homes, John Watson, minor Mike Stamford
Ratings/Warnings: I’m not deaf, nor do I know anybody who is, so apologies if my characterization or depiction of deafness is off. I tried my best, and if I made any mistakes I don’t mean to offend.
Author Notes: written for the comment-fic prompt "Sherlock (BBC), John's leg wasn't psychosomatically crippled, his hearing was. What use could this lunatic have for a deaf man?"
John walks into the laboratory at Barts, mentally cataloguing all the changes since he’s been in the room - oh, so very long ago. “Bit different from my day,” he comments. It’s still disorienting to feel his mouth move and his lungs expel air and his vocal chords vibrate but not hear any sound. In fact, he doesn’t much like the sensation at all, but it would take too long to write on his pad of paper. Mike smiles slightly and rolls his eyes for emphasis, which John guesses to mean something along the lines of you have no idea.
The man - Sherlock Holmes, Mike had written when they were sitting on the bench - glances up from the microscope and says something to Mike, who responds. John tries to lip-read, but he’s still only got the very basics down. Normal-speed conversations by two almost-strangers when he has no context clues about the subject are far beyond his skill to decode, as much as he hates the inability to understand what’s going on around him.
Mike seems to catch the fleeting expression of frustration. He brings his hand up to the side of his face, thumb and pinky finger extended. Wants a phone, he mouths. Then he taps a hand to his chest, shrugs, and jerks his thumb behind him. He says something as he does it. John identifies the beginning - left mine - but it’s enough to get by with. Sherlock is looking between him and Mike with eyes narrowed inquisitively. Yet despite his curiosity Sherlock doesn’t say anything, something for which John is extremely thankful for. He’s already grown tired of seeing people’s eyebrows raise as they look and ask, deaf? He hates that lip-shape. In return for Sherlock’s silence, John digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Here,” he says, ignoring that strange dissonance of not hearing once more. “Use mine.”
Sherlock glances at Mike again before looking directly at John as he gets up and approaches. He maintains direct eye contact that John breaks to glance down at his lips when he speaks.Thank you, he says. It’s one of the phrases John’s become good at identifying. When John looks back at Sherlock’s eyes, the other man appears satisfied before he slides open the phone and begins texting. John looks at Mike uncomfortably, who holds up a hand: wait. Wait for what? Mike has been irritatingly mysterious about John’s potential flatmate.
Sherlock finishes the text, returns the phone, and picks up a notepad. He scrawls down something and holds it out to John. He didn’t… John takes the paper and reads the narrow angled writing. Afghanistan or Iraq? It’s not what he’s expecting. “Sorry?” he says. He catches Mike smiling out of the corner of his eye. In front of him Sherlock raises and eyebrow and gestures to the notepad again as he speaks. Given that John already has an idea of what he’s saying, it’s easy to follow the syllables as they form. Afghanistan or Iraq?
John doesn’t like talking about the war, but this question is so non sequitor and Sherlock is standing there looking so assured of himself that John’s answering before he realizes. “Afghanistan.” Then, because he has to know, “How did you-“ Sherlock’s eyes dart to somewhere behind John’s head and his mouth moves again. John stops talking and quickly looks over his shoulder to see whoever he’s addressing. This is one thing he hates, not knowing what’s behind him from audio clues, and he doesn’t bloody care what his therapist thinks about that.
It’s a girl, dressed in a doctor’s overcoat and carrying coffee, if the smell is anything to judge by. She hands it to Sherlock, mouth moving. Sherlock takes it and responds, but he’s moving away so even if John wanted to try and figure out what he was saying he couldn’t. It’s probably not something nice, given the way the girl’s smile fixes to her face and how she abruptly turns to leave with another brief movement of the lips John translates as, okay.
Sherlock walks over to the computer and puts his coffee cup before looking up at John. Then his hands start flashing about. How do you feel about the violin? He sketches out. John feels that bubble of pleased surprise he always does when someone he’s met uses sign language and he can speak to them directly without the forced wait as one of them scribbles on a piece of paper. It certainly would be easier, John thinks, if his flatmate already knew sign language. By the counter, Mike sits back with a satisfied grin. He probably known, the blighter.
Then John stops thinking about the means of communication and begins wonders where on earth the actual question had come from. John puts away his phone and replies, sorry, what?
Sherlock’s response is rapid. He’s obviously comfortable with the language. I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential - here, a sign he hasn’t learned yet, but from the gesture and the context he guesses it’s close enough to flatmates- should know the worst about each other. Sherlock finishes with a close-mouthed smile.
John looks at Mike and in the corner of his eye catches Sherlock turning to rapidly type something on the computer while John’s attention is elsewhere. He hadn’t thought Mike had said anything when they came in but… “You told him about me?” Mike looks from the vial of blood he’s examining and shakes his head. No, his lips say, not a word. John looks back at Sherlock, who’s finished typing. Who said anything about flatmates? He asks, using the same sign Sherlock had.
I did, Sherlock responds. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in - for the first time, Sherlock’s hands hesitate. The quickest flash of annoyance crosses his face, and then he finger-spells the next word: A-f-g-h-a-n-i-s-t-a-n. John gets the impression it’s a rare occasion when this man doesn’t know an answer. He’s mildly amused, and wonders whether he should share with Sherlock the sign the veterans had come up for it - but Sherlock’s still signing: Wasn’t a difficult leap.
John raises his hands to respond, but Sherlock deliberately turns away from him to throw on his coat. It’s irritating, to have someone he can talk to without needing a pen and paper or experiencing that strange dissonance that always arises from talking only to have them turn away, but Sherlock isn’t going to duck his next question. John slowly lowers his hands and stubbornly opens his mouth. “How did you know about Afghanistan?” he asks as Sherlock ties a scarf around his neck and checks his phone. When he’s done with the mobile, he pockets it and turns so John can see his signing properly.
Unfortunately, the response he completely ignores John’s question. I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock. Sherlock starts walking as he finishes the last bit. Sorry, got to dash I think I left my - something? John doesn’t really think he wants to know what that sign means from the way Sherlock is waving his arm about - in the - again, a word he doesn’t know, and it’s not made easier that Sherlock’s nearly got his back turned to him again.
Obviously the normal sign language he’s learned will not suffice with Sherlock Holmes, but John can figure all of that out later. For now, he has a very important question he must ask before Sherlock walks out of that door. “Is that it?” he calls. Hopefully it’s not too loud; he’s fairly adept at making his voice the appropriate level for the conversation, given there’s no unexpected background noise, but it’s trickier when he needs to shout. He tends to yell a little too soft. It does the trick, though, because Sherlock is turning again to sign, Is that what?
He keeps his eyes on John for the conversation, who happily switches over to signage. He’s not exactly sure he wants Mike to understand what he’s saying; the man had introduced the two, after all. It would be best to keep his doubts to himself and Sherlock. We only just met and we’re going to go look at a flat? Sherlock raises an eyebrow and looks extremely… bored. Problem?
John scoffs. We don’t know a thing about each other, he responds. I don’t know where we’re meeting. God knows why he felt compelled to add that second bit. If he doesn’t know the man why should he bother to ask where he’s planning on living? To cover it up, he adds, I don’t even know your name. Mike had told him - but that wasn’t the same as a proper introduction was it?
Sherlock’s chin dips down as he eyes John like that statement was some sort of challenge, and then he’s off. I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your hearing loss is psychosomatic, quite correctly I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?
Who the bloody hell is this man? John’s fingers twitch and his mouth opens, but his mind is reeling from the deluge of personal information Sherlock had just rattled off. He can’t think of a single thing to sign or say as Sherlock smiles, satisfied he’d bested the challenge John hadn’t even known he’d issued, and turns towards the door. He opens it slightly and wedges a foot between it and the wall to leave his hands free for one last response. He fingerspells his name, adds his personal sign on the end, and finishes with, The address is 221B Baker Street. The he kicks open the door with aplomb and swirls out, coat flaring behind him.
Still at the table, Mike is smiling and bouncing up and down slightly - laughing, John knows. He hands over a message he must have scrawled while Sherlock was conjuring up intimate details of John’s life from God knows where. Yep, it says. He’s always like that.
John doesn’t know what use this lunatic could have for a deaf man, but he does know he’s a hell of a lot more interesting than any other man walking through London’s streets. John’s dying of boredom in the normal world; perhaps some lunacy is just what he needs. 221B Baker Street, he muses. It’s worth a look in any case.
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Homes, John Watson, minor Mike Stamford
Ratings/Warnings: I’m not deaf, nor do I know anybody who is, so apologies if my characterization or depiction of deafness is off. I tried my best, and if I made any mistakes I don’t mean to offend.
Author Notes: written for the comment-fic prompt "Sherlock (BBC), John's leg wasn't psychosomatically crippled, his hearing was. What use could this lunatic have for a deaf man?"
John walks into the laboratory at Barts, mentally cataloguing all the changes since he’s been in the room - oh, so very long ago. “Bit different from my day,” he comments. It’s still disorienting to feel his mouth move and his lungs expel air and his vocal chords vibrate but not hear any sound. In fact, he doesn’t much like the sensation at all, but it would take too long to write on his pad of paper. Mike smiles slightly and rolls his eyes for emphasis, which John guesses to mean something along the lines of you have no idea.
The man - Sherlock Holmes, Mike had written when they were sitting on the bench - glances up from the microscope and says something to Mike, who responds. John tries to lip-read, but he’s still only got the very basics down. Normal-speed conversations by two almost-strangers when he has no context clues about the subject are far beyond his skill to decode, as much as he hates the inability to understand what’s going on around him.
Mike seems to catch the fleeting expression of frustration. He brings his hand up to the side of his face, thumb and pinky finger extended. Wants a phone, he mouths. Then he taps a hand to his chest, shrugs, and jerks his thumb behind him. He says something as he does it. John identifies the beginning - left mine - but it’s enough to get by with. Sherlock is looking between him and Mike with eyes narrowed inquisitively. Yet despite his curiosity Sherlock doesn’t say anything, something for which John is extremely thankful for. He’s already grown tired of seeing people’s eyebrows raise as they look and ask, deaf? He hates that lip-shape. In return for Sherlock’s silence, John digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Here,” he says, ignoring that strange dissonance of not hearing once more. “Use mine.”
Sherlock glances at Mike again before looking directly at John as he gets up and approaches. He maintains direct eye contact that John breaks to glance down at his lips when he speaks.Thank you, he says. It’s one of the phrases John’s become good at identifying. When John looks back at Sherlock’s eyes, the other man appears satisfied before he slides open the phone and begins texting. John looks at Mike uncomfortably, who holds up a hand: wait. Wait for what? Mike has been irritatingly mysterious about John’s potential flatmate.
Sherlock finishes the text, returns the phone, and picks up a notepad. He scrawls down something and holds it out to John. He didn’t… John takes the paper and reads the narrow angled writing. Afghanistan or Iraq? It’s not what he’s expecting. “Sorry?” he says. He catches Mike smiling out of the corner of his eye. In front of him Sherlock raises and eyebrow and gestures to the notepad again as he speaks. Given that John already has an idea of what he’s saying, it’s easy to follow the syllables as they form. Afghanistan or Iraq?
John doesn’t like talking about the war, but this question is so non sequitor and Sherlock is standing there looking so assured of himself that John’s answering before he realizes. “Afghanistan.” Then, because he has to know, “How did you-“ Sherlock’s eyes dart to somewhere behind John’s head and his mouth moves again. John stops talking and quickly looks over his shoulder to see whoever he’s addressing. This is one thing he hates, not knowing what’s behind him from audio clues, and he doesn’t bloody care what his therapist thinks about that.
It’s a girl, dressed in a doctor’s overcoat and carrying coffee, if the smell is anything to judge by. She hands it to Sherlock, mouth moving. Sherlock takes it and responds, but he’s moving away so even if John wanted to try and figure out what he was saying he couldn’t. It’s probably not something nice, given the way the girl’s smile fixes to her face and how she abruptly turns to leave with another brief movement of the lips John translates as, okay.
Sherlock walks over to the computer and puts his coffee cup before looking up at John. Then his hands start flashing about. How do you feel about the violin? He sketches out. John feels that bubble of pleased surprise he always does when someone he’s met uses sign language and he can speak to them directly without the forced wait as one of them scribbles on a piece of paper. It certainly would be easier, John thinks, if his flatmate already knew sign language. By the counter, Mike sits back with a satisfied grin. He probably known, the blighter.
Then John stops thinking about the means of communication and begins wonders where on earth the actual question had come from. John puts away his phone and replies, sorry, what?
Sherlock’s response is rapid. He’s obviously comfortable with the language. I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential - here, a sign he hasn’t learned yet, but from the gesture and the context he guesses it’s close enough to flatmates- should know the worst about each other. Sherlock finishes with a close-mouthed smile.
John looks at Mike and in the corner of his eye catches Sherlock turning to rapidly type something on the computer while John’s attention is elsewhere. He hadn’t thought Mike had said anything when they came in but… “You told him about me?” Mike looks from the vial of blood he’s examining and shakes his head. No, his lips say, not a word. John looks back at Sherlock, who’s finished typing. Who said anything about flatmates? He asks, using the same sign Sherlock had.
I did, Sherlock responds. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in - for the first time, Sherlock’s hands hesitate. The quickest flash of annoyance crosses his face, and then he finger-spells the next word: A-f-g-h-a-n-i-s-t-a-n. John gets the impression it’s a rare occasion when this man doesn’t know an answer. He’s mildly amused, and wonders whether he should share with Sherlock the sign the veterans had come up for it - but Sherlock’s still signing: Wasn’t a difficult leap.
John raises his hands to respond, but Sherlock deliberately turns away from him to throw on his coat. It’s irritating, to have someone he can talk to without needing a pen and paper or experiencing that strange dissonance that always arises from talking only to have them turn away, but Sherlock isn’t going to duck his next question. John slowly lowers his hands and stubbornly opens his mouth. “How did you know about Afghanistan?” he asks as Sherlock ties a scarf around his neck and checks his phone. When he’s done with the mobile, he pockets it and turns so John can see his signing properly.
Unfortunately, the response he completely ignores John’s question. I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock. Sherlock starts walking as he finishes the last bit. Sorry, got to dash I think I left my - something? John doesn’t really think he wants to know what that sign means from the way Sherlock is waving his arm about - in the - again, a word he doesn’t know, and it’s not made easier that Sherlock’s nearly got his back turned to him again.
Obviously the normal sign language he’s learned will not suffice with Sherlock Holmes, but John can figure all of that out later. For now, he has a very important question he must ask before Sherlock walks out of that door. “Is that it?” he calls. Hopefully it’s not too loud; he’s fairly adept at making his voice the appropriate level for the conversation, given there’s no unexpected background noise, but it’s trickier when he needs to shout. He tends to yell a little too soft. It does the trick, though, because Sherlock is turning again to sign, Is that what?
He keeps his eyes on John for the conversation, who happily switches over to signage. He’s not exactly sure he wants Mike to understand what he’s saying; the man had introduced the two, after all. It would be best to keep his doubts to himself and Sherlock. We only just met and we’re going to go look at a flat? Sherlock raises an eyebrow and looks extremely… bored. Problem?
John scoffs. We don’t know a thing about each other, he responds. I don’t know where we’re meeting. God knows why he felt compelled to add that second bit. If he doesn’t know the man why should he bother to ask where he’s planning on living? To cover it up, he adds, I don’t even know your name. Mike had told him - but that wasn’t the same as a proper introduction was it?
Sherlock’s chin dips down as he eyes John like that statement was some sort of challenge, and then he’s off. I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your hearing loss is psychosomatic, quite correctly I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?
Who the bloody hell is this man? John’s fingers twitch and his mouth opens, but his mind is reeling from the deluge of personal information Sherlock had just rattled off. He can’t think of a single thing to sign or say as Sherlock smiles, satisfied he’d bested the challenge John hadn’t even known he’d issued, and turns towards the door. He opens it slightly and wedges a foot between it and the wall to leave his hands free for one last response. He fingerspells his name, adds his personal sign on the end, and finishes with, The address is 221B Baker Street. The he kicks open the door with aplomb and swirls out, coat flaring behind him.
Still at the table, Mike is smiling and bouncing up and down slightly - laughing, John knows. He hands over a message he must have scrawled while Sherlock was conjuring up intimate details of John’s life from God knows where. Yep, it says. He’s always like that.
John doesn’t know what use this lunatic could have for a deaf man, but he does know he’s a hell of a lot more interesting than any other man walking through London’s streets. John’s dying of boredom in the normal world; perhaps some lunacy is just what he needs. 221B Baker Street, he muses. It’s worth a look in any case.