FF - Sherlock: Tea China, Sock Index
Title: Tea China, Sock Index
Author: dashlit
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: potential Sherlock/John, if you really want to see it I suppose
Rating: PG
Warning: Post-Reichenbach.
Word Count: 1329
Disclaimer: In all honesty, I'm not smart enough to own Sherlock. I'll stick to the fandom while BBC and Sir Arthur handle the rest.
Summary: "Kettle's on." These are the first words, after three years apart, that Detective Sherlock Holmes says to Doctor John Watson. [Started because I wanted to fit Watson's canon faint into my BBC-HeadCanon... And then I got carried away.]
“Kettle’s on.”
These are the first words, after three years apart, that Detective Sherlock Holmes says to Doctor John Watson.
Sherlock is lounging on the sofa with his fingers steepled under his chin, his legs crossed elegantly at the ankles as his toe rattles back and forth to a non-existent beat. His eyes are closed, but he can hear John freeze in the doorway, shopping bags still rustling with the momentum of his entrance.
A rather pregnant moment of silence passes before Sherlock blinks one eye open, then the other. His gaze is calm as it bores into John, takes in his aged but familiar features and registers the mix of emotions on display there.
Surprise. Relief. Panic. Hurt. Shock.
Sherlock bites back his tongue. He waits.
Something like three minutes passes, stretched thin over the silence, before John breathes life back into himself again. Had John been holding his breath? Letting out a slow, steadying exhale, Sherlock realizes he’s been holding his own.
John turns on his heel, military stiffness faltering only in the face of his restored limp. He sets the shopping down on the kitchen table and makes his way over to the kettle. Steam is pouring from the spout, and he lifts it from the burner and reaches for the cabinet where, Sherlock supposes, the tea china is still kept.
The tea china. Sherlock closes his eyes to revel in the familiarity. It’s a sensation he hasn’t experienced in some time. John. Baker Street. The tea china.
There is a clatter, and when Sherlock snaps his eyes open, John is nowhere to be seen. The cupboard is open, the kettle still steaming. Sherlock launches himself from the couch, his wave of contentedness flushed out to make room for rising panic.
John is motionless on the kitchen floor, his face pressed against the linoleum and one of two smashed teacups still resting in his slack grip.
Sherlock’s head whips around the flat, looking for the source of a gunshot that he didn’t hear. His heart is beating wildly in his chest and it takes a full scan of the room for him to realize he is home and it is over. John has not been shot.
He has fainted.
As gracefully as he can (pretty damn gracelessly), Sherlock takes John under the arms and lifts him from the floor. He is squatting awkwardly over his flatmate as he assesses his options:
1. Sofa - awkward manoeuvring through the kitchen and living room to avoid various clutter. Undesirable fuss.
2. John’s room - stairs. No.
3. Sherlock’s room - right in front of him. Only obstacle is the closed door.
He more or less drags John’s dead weight towards the door, stooping to slip one arm across his chest in order to free the other. How John manages to be as heavy as he is when he’s clearly lost weight over the years, Sherlock cannot fathom - but then again, his own lithe frame has seen better days too, he supposes.
Boosting his grip on John, he reaches out and opens the door to his room.
Its dark, but the one sliver of light leaking in from the side of the window shows that the room has been unused for a lengthy period of time - dust unsettles itself from the floor in the wake of the open door. Particles dance in Sherlock’s view as he enters.
He lowers John to the bed, his eyes darting out over the familiarly unmade mess of old sheets as realization begins to dawn.
Slowly, Sherlock pads across the room and slides the curtains to the side of the window.
Dust frees itself from the fabric to float about the room as Sherlock turns to survey his room from three years ago. His exact room from three years ago. Not a thing has changed. Nothing’s been touched or moved, and there’s the dust to prove it. Sherlock stares in wonder.
He is compelled towards his dresser. He slides open a wooden drawer and takes it in.
His sock index is still intact.
Suddenly it’s too much, and Sherlock wrenches himself away and flees the room.
He makes two cups of tea, although the water’s not quite hot enough any more, and even half-heartedly sweeps the shards of broken cups to the side of the floor with his foot. He sits in his chair and stares at the skull, still planted firmly on the mantle.
Just four minutes of sitting go by before Sherlock hears rustling from his room. He sips his tea quietly, but almost spits it out when John lets out a tortured sound before crying out in panic,
“Sherlock!”
Tea abandoned, Sherlock is there in an instant, and John’s eyes are wide and frantic as his flatmate inhabits the doorway.
His dead flatmate.
“Sherlock.”
“I’m here.”
“You’re dead.”
“No.”
As if approaching a frightened animal, Sherlock inches cautiously forward. He reaches out, and John lets out a shaky breath when Sherlock’s hand meets his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sherlock.”
“I did what you said.” John looks confused, and Sherlock locks into eye contact with him meaningfully as he quotes, “‘Don’t. Be. Dead.’”
Apparently that was the wrong thing to have said, because in the next second Sherlock is on the floor, dust billowing up in a dramatic cloud, and his right cheek is hot and stinging.
“You knew!” John says, shaking his head.
Both of his hands are balled into fists, though the knuckles on his left are split. Sherlock doesn’t have to deduce that he’s been punched.
“You saw!” he seethes. He sounds incredulous.
“John.”
“How could you?” John’s voice is high, distressed, and his hands unclench only to fly into his hair. His face is red and Sherlock knows him, knows it’s from both anger and embarrassment.
“I’m sorry. I had to.”
John looks at him then, and he really does look lost.
“Why?”
Sherlock can’t explain, not yet. It’s so much, too much. And yet he’s almost certain that anything he says will simply not be enough. He shakes his head and finds himself at a loss for words for once in his life. He chokes.
“Sherlock -“
“Because I didn’t know - I thought -” he pauses, hating his inability to articulate what he doesn’t understand himself. His arms flail around the room as if to explain for him. “I didn’t know you’d still - living here, for years after I - I thought you’d go, I thought you’d move on and forget and - and I never thought you’d keep my sock index, John, Christ -“
He has to stop himself. He puts a fist over his mouth and turns away. He screws his eyes shut and shudders in a breath.
“It hurt.” John says, and Sherlock hates himself for wincing. “It hurt so much.”
“Better than a bullet in your head.” Sherlock spits, wheeling in on John. “That was the alternative. Better than that.”
John holds Sherlock’s gaze steady for a moment before his eyes drop to the floor. His voice is quiet, a confession, when he says,
“I disagree.”
Sherlock has never been an emotionally physical man, but he’s also never had a friend like John before. He launches himself into a tight embrace before he can think better of it.
John reciprocates immediately, only his startled grunt betraying his surprise at the contact. His hands fist into the back of Sherlock’s coat greedily and his eyes slam closed before tears can threaten the fabric.
“You’re back,” John mutters, his voice small and doubly muffled in Sherlock’s shoulder.
“I’m back.” Sherlock confirms as they pull apart, and his face cracks into something glorious that he hasn’t experienced in over three years: a smile.
John returns the expression, full of goofy wonderment as the two of them split into snickers.
“Tea?” John asks, thumping Sherlock on the back when they’ve gained their composure.
“Yes.” Sherlock says, unable to wipe the grin from his face.
Author: dashlit
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: potential Sherlock/John, if you really want to see it I suppose
Rating: PG
Warning: Post-Reichenbach.
Word Count: 1329
Disclaimer: In all honesty, I'm not smart enough to own Sherlock. I'll stick to the fandom while BBC and Sir Arthur handle the rest.
Summary: "Kettle's on." These are the first words, after three years apart, that Detective Sherlock Holmes says to Doctor John Watson. [Started because I wanted to fit Watson's canon faint into my BBC-HeadCanon... And then I got carried away.]
“Kettle’s on.”
These are the first words, after three years apart, that Detective Sherlock Holmes says to Doctor John Watson.
Sherlock is lounging on the sofa with his fingers steepled under his chin, his legs crossed elegantly at the ankles as his toe rattles back and forth to a non-existent beat. His eyes are closed, but he can hear John freeze in the doorway, shopping bags still rustling with the momentum of his entrance.
A rather pregnant moment of silence passes before Sherlock blinks one eye open, then the other. His gaze is calm as it bores into John, takes in his aged but familiar features and registers the mix of emotions on display there.
Surprise. Relief. Panic. Hurt. Shock.
Sherlock bites back his tongue. He waits.
Something like three minutes passes, stretched thin over the silence, before John breathes life back into himself again. Had John been holding his breath? Letting out a slow, steadying exhale, Sherlock realizes he’s been holding his own.
John turns on his heel, military stiffness faltering only in the face of his restored limp. He sets the shopping down on the kitchen table and makes his way over to the kettle. Steam is pouring from the spout, and he lifts it from the burner and reaches for the cabinet where, Sherlock supposes, the tea china is still kept.
The tea china. Sherlock closes his eyes to revel in the familiarity. It’s a sensation he hasn’t experienced in some time. John. Baker Street. The tea china.
There is a clatter, and when Sherlock snaps his eyes open, John is nowhere to be seen. The cupboard is open, the kettle still steaming. Sherlock launches himself from the couch, his wave of contentedness flushed out to make room for rising panic.
John is motionless on the kitchen floor, his face pressed against the linoleum and one of two smashed teacups still resting in his slack grip.
Sherlock’s head whips around the flat, looking for the source of a gunshot that he didn’t hear. His heart is beating wildly in his chest and it takes a full scan of the room for him to realize he is home and it is over. John has not been shot.
He has fainted.
As gracefully as he can (pretty damn gracelessly), Sherlock takes John under the arms and lifts him from the floor. He is squatting awkwardly over his flatmate as he assesses his options:
1. Sofa - awkward manoeuvring through the kitchen and living room to avoid various clutter. Undesirable fuss.
2. John’s room - stairs. No.
3. Sherlock’s room - right in front of him. Only obstacle is the closed door.
He more or less drags John’s dead weight towards the door, stooping to slip one arm across his chest in order to free the other. How John manages to be as heavy as he is when he’s clearly lost weight over the years, Sherlock cannot fathom - but then again, his own lithe frame has seen better days too, he supposes.
Boosting his grip on John, he reaches out and opens the door to his room.
Its dark, but the one sliver of light leaking in from the side of the window shows that the room has been unused for a lengthy period of time - dust unsettles itself from the floor in the wake of the open door. Particles dance in Sherlock’s view as he enters.
He lowers John to the bed, his eyes darting out over the familiarly unmade mess of old sheets as realization begins to dawn.
Slowly, Sherlock pads across the room and slides the curtains to the side of the window.
Dust frees itself from the fabric to float about the room as Sherlock turns to survey his room from three years ago. His exact room from three years ago. Not a thing has changed. Nothing’s been touched or moved, and there’s the dust to prove it. Sherlock stares in wonder.
He is compelled towards his dresser. He slides open a wooden drawer and takes it in.
His sock index is still intact.
Suddenly it’s too much, and Sherlock wrenches himself away and flees the room.
He makes two cups of tea, although the water’s not quite hot enough any more, and even half-heartedly sweeps the shards of broken cups to the side of the floor with his foot. He sits in his chair and stares at the skull, still planted firmly on the mantle.
Just four minutes of sitting go by before Sherlock hears rustling from his room. He sips his tea quietly, but almost spits it out when John lets out a tortured sound before crying out in panic,
“Sherlock!”
Tea abandoned, Sherlock is there in an instant, and John’s eyes are wide and frantic as his flatmate inhabits the doorway.
His dead flatmate.
“Sherlock.”
“I’m here.”
“You’re dead.”
“No.”
As if approaching a frightened animal, Sherlock inches cautiously forward. He reaches out, and John lets out a shaky breath when Sherlock’s hand meets his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sherlock.”
“I did what you said.” John looks confused, and Sherlock locks into eye contact with him meaningfully as he quotes, “‘Don’t. Be. Dead.’”
Apparently that was the wrong thing to have said, because in the next second Sherlock is on the floor, dust billowing up in a dramatic cloud, and his right cheek is hot and stinging.
“You knew!” John says, shaking his head.
Both of his hands are balled into fists, though the knuckles on his left are split. Sherlock doesn’t have to deduce that he’s been punched.
“You saw!” he seethes. He sounds incredulous.
“John.”
“How could you?” John’s voice is high, distressed, and his hands unclench only to fly into his hair. His face is red and Sherlock knows him, knows it’s from both anger and embarrassment.
“I’m sorry. I had to.”
John looks at him then, and he really does look lost.
“Why?”
Sherlock can’t explain, not yet. It’s so much, too much. And yet he’s almost certain that anything he says will simply not be enough. He shakes his head and finds himself at a loss for words for once in his life. He chokes.
“Sherlock -“
“Because I didn’t know - I thought -” he pauses, hating his inability to articulate what he doesn’t understand himself. His arms flail around the room as if to explain for him. “I didn’t know you’d still - living here, for years after I - I thought you’d go, I thought you’d move on and forget and - and I never thought you’d keep my sock index, John, Christ -“
He has to stop himself. He puts a fist over his mouth and turns away. He screws his eyes shut and shudders in a breath.
“It hurt.” John says, and Sherlock hates himself for wincing. “It hurt so much.”
“Better than a bullet in your head.” Sherlock spits, wheeling in on John. “That was the alternative. Better than that.”
John holds Sherlock’s gaze steady for a moment before his eyes drop to the floor. His voice is quiet, a confession, when he says,
“I disagree.”
Sherlock has never been an emotionally physical man, but he’s also never had a friend like John before. He launches himself into a tight embrace before he can think better of it.
John reciprocates immediately, only his startled grunt betraying his surprise at the contact. His hands fist into the back of Sherlock’s coat greedily and his eyes slam closed before tears can threaten the fabric.
“You’re back,” John mutters, his voice small and doubly muffled in Sherlock’s shoulder.
“I’m back.” Sherlock confirms as they pull apart, and his face cracks into something glorious that he hasn’t experienced in over three years: a smile.
John returns the expression, full of goofy wonderment as the two of them split into snickers.
“Tea?” John asks, thumping Sherlock on the back when they’ve gained their composure.
“Yes.” Sherlock says, unable to wipe the grin from his face.