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FIC: Like a Clock with a Single Hand
Title: Like a Clock with a Single Hand
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Ship: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,229
Warnings: None
Summary: What they have may not be normal, but they're probably in love and that's at least a little bit perfect.
Notes: Set in the Days and Hours 'verse, though it doesn't directly follow either of the other two fics and can be read as a standalone.
Sherlock watches John, stares at him as he sleeps in endless pre-dawn hours when the world is dark and the minutes tick by like days and Sherlock comes closer than ever to finding a quiet place inside his head. He learns him, adding files to his mental folder that's sometimes titled John, and sometimes more honestly titled Mine, and forever never seems so attainable as it does when he happens to discover something new.
He wants to make demands of John: that he will never love anyone else, that Sherlock will never have to share his attention, that he will never, ever leave. Not even if he's dying because that is one of the only things Sherlock knows he could never bear. It would kill him. But he suspects that normal people don't say things like that, or at least not the way he wants to and would, and, despite not being afraid of normal (boring) things, he is afraid of the possibility that one day he'll do or say something so awful that John will be driven away.
That would kill him, too, and no matter how much and how often he contemplates death, he's not finished with life yet. There's still so much for him to do, and all of it somehow involves John, even if it's only John being there to see him be dazzling.
"I know when you're watching me, you know," John says suddenly, surprising him, and John's knack for that sort of thing is among Sherlock's favourite things in the world. Sometimes it's even his most favourite, beating out serial killers and crime scenes and exciting new experiments that manage to fill the gaps between.
"You don't mind," he replies, and it's not a question, not really at all. He knows John's mind, delights in knowing it, and no matter how many methods John manages to find to surprise him, there will always be some facts for Sherlock to wield as gospel. John's almost obsessive devotion to him is one of them.
"No, you're right." John sounds like he's smiling, though he's still got his back to Sherlock, so Sherlock can't confirm it. "I really don't, do I?"
"Why would you?" He cuddles in closer, pressing his nose into John's tousled hair and breathing in deeply. He hasn't been able to comprehensively define John's smell, but one day he's confident that he'll have gathered sufficient data for the task. He considers it one of his life goals, no less important than any other, which perhaps is also not quite normal. "It's no mean feat, getting my attention. Anyone would be flattered."
They wouldn't, really, because Sherlock's attention can be a frightening, intense thing, but sometimes a bit of hyperbole is called for in context. He's joking, anyway, self-aware enough to recognise his own shortcomings (he has, in fact, catalogued them and maintains a neat folder in his head where they are organised in descending order based on how often they prove problematic) to exploit them in conversation. Only for John, though. No one else is worth it.
"And, look at that, I am." John rolls over and cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair, smiling drowsily. He's lazy and warm and pliant in Sherlock's arms, content despite having been woken up by the weight of his best friend-boyfriend-partner's stare. "It's too early. Go back to sleep."
Sherlock shakes his head. "Sleep is boring. Waste of time."
John's lips quirk into a different smile, one that manages to be amused and sleepy and exasperated and loving all at once. Sherlock files it away carefully, because who knows when he might need to remember that expression? "Watching me sleep isn't?"
"Of course not."
That gets a little head shake before John leans in to kiss him, just a soft, mostly chaste sort of kiss. The kind that doesn't lead to sex. The kind that people who are in love give each other, and Sherlock's never put it in those words before, but he and John are probably in love, too. In their own way, which probably isn't quite the same as the way other people do it. Maybe those other people would think it's worse, but Sherlock, who does admittedly lack the relevant experience for comparison (he knows better than most that sex and love don't equate, and though he's had plenty of the former, he never cared about the latter before he met John), thinks it's better. Has to be, when he can lay awake for hours watching John without getting bored and John can know it without getting frustrated or irritated or concerned.
He's never been perfect for anyone, or anything other than being a genius, truth be told, but maybe, if he's been very, very lucky in a way he has done nothing to deserve, he's just a little bit perfect for John.
It's a strange, frightening thought and for a moment he's almost sorry because John's wonderful and probably deserves better than a not-quite-sociopath who keeps body parts with the bread. But he's Sherlock's now and he clearly doesn't mind, or the staring and the body parts and the sleepless nights would surely have already been a deal breaker.
"What's going on in your head when you look at me like that?" John asks, casual in that way that means he won't be upset if Sherlock doesn't answer.
Sherlock considers it, really considers it properly, then shakes his head. "I can't explain it. There's too much for words to explain. But don't worry, I'm not plotting your murder."
John chuckles lowly. "Didn't think you were. I'm not Anderson."
That makes Sherlock make a face, because the last thing he wants to think of in bed (or any other time, if he can avoid it) is Anderson. "Don't say such hideous things. Consider it a rule, effective immediately."
"Duly noted." John nods solemnly, ruining the effect when he smiles and kisses him again. "Go to sleep, Sherlock. I'll still be here in the morning for you to stare at."
And that's the most amazing thing of all, because no matter how brilliant Sherlock is, how bright and how captivating, he's never had anyone in his life who could be relied upon to be there in the morning. No one ever stayed before John. And, having had John, Sherlock can now say confidently that he's better for it. The others, who he may or may not have at the time liked enough to want to keep them around for a bit, were inferior and would only have held him back and slowed him down. For all the things John will do (make him eat, insist on cleaning out the fridge once a month or so, tell him to go to sleep when John's tired and there's no case on) he will never do that. He couldn't because he needs it as much as Sherlock does, as much as breathing, even if breathing continues to be dull.
He doesn't say any of those things. Words aren't good enough, they'd only ruin everything, and things are so perfect right then that he's mostly content with letting it be.
Instead, he pulls out his best put upon, world weary expression, sighs, and says, "Oh, if you insist."
It's worth the little bit of extra effort when John smiles.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Ship: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,229
Warnings: None
Summary: What they have may not be normal, but they're probably in love and that's at least a little bit perfect.
Notes: Set in the Days and Hours 'verse, though it doesn't directly follow either of the other two fics and can be read as a standalone.
Sherlock watches John, stares at him as he sleeps in endless pre-dawn hours when the world is dark and the minutes tick by like days and Sherlock comes closer than ever to finding a quiet place inside his head. He learns him, adding files to his mental folder that's sometimes titled John, and sometimes more honestly titled Mine, and forever never seems so attainable as it does when he happens to discover something new.
He wants to make demands of John: that he will never love anyone else, that Sherlock will never have to share his attention, that he will never, ever leave. Not even if he's dying because that is one of the only things Sherlock knows he could never bear. It would kill him. But he suspects that normal people don't say things like that, or at least not the way he wants to and would, and, despite not being afraid of normal (boring) things, he is afraid of the possibility that one day he'll do or say something so awful that John will be driven away.
That would kill him, too, and no matter how much and how often he contemplates death, he's not finished with life yet. There's still so much for him to do, and all of it somehow involves John, even if it's only John being there to see him be dazzling.
"I know when you're watching me, you know," John says suddenly, surprising him, and John's knack for that sort of thing is among Sherlock's favourite things in the world. Sometimes it's even his most favourite, beating out serial killers and crime scenes and exciting new experiments that manage to fill the gaps between.
"You don't mind," he replies, and it's not a question, not really at all. He knows John's mind, delights in knowing it, and no matter how many methods John manages to find to surprise him, there will always be some facts for Sherlock to wield as gospel. John's almost obsessive devotion to him is one of them.
"No, you're right." John sounds like he's smiling, though he's still got his back to Sherlock, so Sherlock can't confirm it. "I really don't, do I?"
"Why would you?" He cuddles in closer, pressing his nose into John's tousled hair and breathing in deeply. He hasn't been able to comprehensively define John's smell, but one day he's confident that he'll have gathered sufficient data for the task. He considers it one of his life goals, no less important than any other, which perhaps is also not quite normal. "It's no mean feat, getting my attention. Anyone would be flattered."
They wouldn't, really, because Sherlock's attention can be a frightening, intense thing, but sometimes a bit of hyperbole is called for in context. He's joking, anyway, self-aware enough to recognise his own shortcomings (he has, in fact, catalogued them and maintains a neat folder in his head where they are organised in descending order based on how often they prove problematic) to exploit them in conversation. Only for John, though. No one else is worth it.
"And, look at that, I am." John rolls over and cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair, smiling drowsily. He's lazy and warm and pliant in Sherlock's arms, content despite having been woken up by the weight of his best friend-boyfriend-partner's stare. "It's too early. Go back to sleep."
Sherlock shakes his head. "Sleep is boring. Waste of time."
John's lips quirk into a different smile, one that manages to be amused and sleepy and exasperated and loving all at once. Sherlock files it away carefully, because who knows when he might need to remember that expression? "Watching me sleep isn't?"
"Of course not."
That gets a little head shake before John leans in to kiss him, just a soft, mostly chaste sort of kiss. The kind that doesn't lead to sex. The kind that people who are in love give each other, and Sherlock's never put it in those words before, but he and John are probably in love, too. In their own way, which probably isn't quite the same as the way other people do it. Maybe those other people would think it's worse, but Sherlock, who does admittedly lack the relevant experience for comparison (he knows better than most that sex and love don't equate, and though he's had plenty of the former, he never cared about the latter before he met John), thinks it's better. Has to be, when he can lay awake for hours watching John without getting bored and John can know it without getting frustrated or irritated or concerned.
He's never been perfect for anyone, or anything other than being a genius, truth be told, but maybe, if he's been very, very lucky in a way he has done nothing to deserve, he's just a little bit perfect for John.
It's a strange, frightening thought and for a moment he's almost sorry because John's wonderful and probably deserves better than a not-quite-sociopath who keeps body parts with the bread. But he's Sherlock's now and he clearly doesn't mind, or the staring and the body parts and the sleepless nights would surely have already been a deal breaker.
"What's going on in your head when you look at me like that?" John asks, casual in that way that means he won't be upset if Sherlock doesn't answer.
Sherlock considers it, really considers it properly, then shakes his head. "I can't explain it. There's too much for words to explain. But don't worry, I'm not plotting your murder."
John chuckles lowly. "Didn't think you were. I'm not Anderson."
That makes Sherlock make a face, because the last thing he wants to think of in bed (or any other time, if he can avoid it) is Anderson. "Don't say such hideous things. Consider it a rule, effective immediately."
"Duly noted." John nods solemnly, ruining the effect when he smiles and kisses him again. "Go to sleep, Sherlock. I'll still be here in the morning for you to stare at."
And that's the most amazing thing of all, because no matter how brilliant Sherlock is, how bright and how captivating, he's never had anyone in his life who could be relied upon to be there in the morning. No one ever stayed before John. And, having had John, Sherlock can now say confidently that he's better for it. The others, who he may or may not have at the time liked enough to want to keep them around for a bit, were inferior and would only have held him back and slowed him down. For all the things John will do (make him eat, insist on cleaning out the fridge once a month or so, tell him to go to sleep when John's tired and there's no case on) he will never do that. He couldn't because he needs it as much as Sherlock does, as much as breathing, even if breathing continues to be dull.
He doesn't say any of those things. Words aren't good enough, they'd only ruin everything, and things are so perfect right then that he's mostly content with letting it be.
Instead, he pulls out his best put upon, world weary expression, sighs, and says, "Oh, if you insist."
It's worth the little bit of extra effort when John smiles.