(no subject)
Fanfic
None of this is going anywhere,
Pretty soon we’ll all be old,
And no one left alive will really care
About our glory days, when we sold our souls.
But if you’re all about the destination, then take a fucking flight.
We’re going nowhere slowly, but we’re seeing all the sights.
John Watson was a risk taker; always had been, probably always would be. He walked the twilight line between right and wrong, crossing over and returning with blood on his hands, both literal and metaphorical. And he was ok with that. Someone had to make those choices; someone had to walk that line, why shouldn’t it be him? He had gone to war certain of who he was; sure he had the power to make the right choices. Then he had been shot and sent back to Blighty and suddenly he wasn’t sure anymore. In the hateful safety and security of an anonymous London bedsit he felt lost, like a spare part in a massive machine, or an appendix. He forced himself to go outside, to walk through the park with a parody of a purposeful stride. He thought about how ridiculously easy it would be to take his gun and just…but that was the one choice he wouldn’t (couldn’t) make. So he continued existing as his world faded into monotones and age crept up on him, cornering him in the dead end that his life had become. A risk taker trapped in a world ruled by health and safety regulations, he never stood a chance.
John ran through the corridors of the college, searching for the man he had known for a day and had sought for a lifetime. He felt the cool press of the gun against his spine as he ran through the cold, dark rooms, so different from the war he had known. And yet the adrenaline that ran through his veins was the same, the familiar calm had descended on his mind. He twisted through the maze of rooms, following his instincts, making his choices, until he found himself facing Sherlock, separated only by air and two windows. It was an impassable divide and time was running out; John could feel the seconds melting past him. Sherlock raised the pill to his lips, and all John’s options coalesced into one. He raised his gun, took a breath and pulled the trigger. If the price he had to pay for Sherlock’s life was to make himself a murderer then he was willing to pay it. His choice was made, for better or worse, for now and always, if he had to chose whose life to save he would always chose Sherlock.
John couldn’t believe they were doing this. He had come home from work hoping for a quiet evening, only to be met by Sherlock as he left the flat and literally dragged along beside him. He hadn’t bothered to ask where they were going so when they turned up outside St Paul’s Cathedral he half hoped that this wasn’t their destination. Those hopes were quickly and brutally dashed when Sherlock led him to a small side door, ordering him to keep watch while he picked the lock.
“We can’t break into the cathedral, Sherlock,” John hissed. Sherlock paused and looked up at him,
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a church!”
“I had no idea you were a religious man John,” Sherlock said, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips.
“I’m not I just…it’s just not right, Sherlock.”
“Right is boring,” Sherlock huffed. “Anyway I’m not breaking in, I’m picking the lock. It will still be perfectly serviceable when I’m done with it.” And with that he turned back to the door, clearly indicating he had no more desire for conversation. John sighed and, as he always knew he would, obeyed Sherlock’s instructions and kept a look out. A few moments later he heard the click of the lock.
“Come on, John. Take a risk,” Sherlock opened the door and slipped inside.
“Oh we are so going to hell for this,” John sighed, but he followed him.
“Of course,” Sherlock replied, making John jump; he hadn’t thought he could hear him, “but just think of all the stories we’ll have.”
John felt the adrenaline running through his veins, remnants of their most recent chase through the dusky streets of London. He stumbled into 221B following in Sherlock’s wake (as usual), giggling as they removed their jackets and clattered up the stairs, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s irritated shouts. Still giggling like naughty schoolboys they crashed through the door to their flat. Sherlock stumbled over to the stairs and sat down to catch his breath; John stood at the bottom of the stairs watching him, pleased that he was so relaxed and happy at the successful conclusion of the case. He looked at Sherlock and, for the first time, he really saw him. He saw past the gargantuan intellect, the sociopath label, and saw the one man he would die for (the one man he would kill for). And suddenly he saw what he had been missing, the final observation that would solve the mystery of his relationship with Sherlock Holmes. High on adrenaline and courage he surged forwards, pulled Sherlock’s head towards him and kissed him fiercely. He swallowed Sherlock’s shocked noise and the moan which followed close on its heels. Sherlock’s mouth opened in surrender beneath his as John angled his head to deepen the kiss, deepen the intimacy to a level that neither of them had ever experienced before. Eventually the need to breath forced them apart but John stayed close to Sherlock, forehead to forehead, breathing the same air.
“So you finally worked it out.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled through John’s consciousness, gently mocking him.
“Shut up, idiot,” John smiled. “Shut up and kiss me.”
John Watson had always taken risks, always walked the fine line between right and wrong, salvation and damnation. He had kissed Sherlock believing he was straight but Sherlock had very quickly shown him that labels are unimportant. All that matters is love; if there is love in the hearts then everything else is transport. There were those who mocked them, who told them their love was an abomination, a sacrilege of the natural order. But Sherlock had never believed in heaven, and John had lost his faith somewhere in the Afghani sands and they both agreed that all they knew for certain was that they were happy now. And if the price for that happiness was eternal damnation, then both John and Sherlock would pay it without a second thought.
And we’re definitely going to hell,
But we’ll have all the best stories to tell.
Yes I’m definitely going to hell,
But I’ll have all the best stories to tell.
None of this is going anywhere,
Pretty soon we’ll all be old,
And no one left alive will really care
About our glory days, when we sold our souls.
But if you’re all about the destination, then take a fucking flight.
We’re going nowhere slowly, but we’re seeing all the sights.
John Watson was a risk taker; always had been, probably always would be. He walked the twilight line between right and wrong, crossing over and returning with blood on his hands, both literal and metaphorical. And he was ok with that. Someone had to make those choices; someone had to walk that line, why shouldn’t it be him? He had gone to war certain of who he was; sure he had the power to make the right choices. Then he had been shot and sent back to Blighty and suddenly he wasn’t sure anymore. In the hateful safety and security of an anonymous London bedsit he felt lost, like a spare part in a massive machine, or an appendix. He forced himself to go outside, to walk through the park with a parody of a purposeful stride. He thought about how ridiculously easy it would be to take his gun and just…but that was the one choice he wouldn’t (couldn’t) make. So he continued existing as his world faded into monotones and age crept up on him, cornering him in the dead end that his life had become. A risk taker trapped in a world ruled by health and safety regulations, he never stood a chance.
John ran through the corridors of the college, searching for the man he had known for a day and had sought for a lifetime. He felt the cool press of the gun against his spine as he ran through the cold, dark rooms, so different from the war he had known. And yet the adrenaline that ran through his veins was the same, the familiar calm had descended on his mind. He twisted through the maze of rooms, following his instincts, making his choices, until he found himself facing Sherlock, separated only by air and two windows. It was an impassable divide and time was running out; John could feel the seconds melting past him. Sherlock raised the pill to his lips, and all John’s options coalesced into one. He raised his gun, took a breath and pulled the trigger. If the price he had to pay for Sherlock’s life was to make himself a murderer then he was willing to pay it. His choice was made, for better or worse, for now and always, if he had to chose whose life to save he would always chose Sherlock.
John couldn’t believe they were doing this. He had come home from work hoping for a quiet evening, only to be met by Sherlock as he left the flat and literally dragged along beside him. He hadn’t bothered to ask where they were going so when they turned up outside St Paul’s Cathedral he half hoped that this wasn’t their destination. Those hopes were quickly and brutally dashed when Sherlock led him to a small side door, ordering him to keep watch while he picked the lock.
“We can’t break into the cathedral, Sherlock,” John hissed. Sherlock paused and looked up at him,
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a church!”
“I had no idea you were a religious man John,” Sherlock said, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips.
“I’m not I just…it’s just not right, Sherlock.”
“Right is boring,” Sherlock huffed. “Anyway I’m not breaking in, I’m picking the lock. It will still be perfectly serviceable when I’m done with it.” And with that he turned back to the door, clearly indicating he had no more desire for conversation. John sighed and, as he always knew he would, obeyed Sherlock’s instructions and kept a look out. A few moments later he heard the click of the lock.
“Come on, John. Take a risk,” Sherlock opened the door and slipped inside.
“Oh we are so going to hell for this,” John sighed, but he followed him.
“Of course,” Sherlock replied, making John jump; he hadn’t thought he could hear him, “but just think of all the stories we’ll have.”
John felt the adrenaline running through his veins, remnants of their most recent chase through the dusky streets of London. He stumbled into 221B following in Sherlock’s wake (as usual), giggling as they removed their jackets and clattered up the stairs, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s irritated shouts. Still giggling like naughty schoolboys they crashed through the door to their flat. Sherlock stumbled over to the stairs and sat down to catch his breath; John stood at the bottom of the stairs watching him, pleased that he was so relaxed and happy at the successful conclusion of the case. He looked at Sherlock and, for the first time, he really saw him. He saw past the gargantuan intellect, the sociopath label, and saw the one man he would die for (the one man he would kill for). And suddenly he saw what he had been missing, the final observation that would solve the mystery of his relationship with Sherlock Holmes. High on adrenaline and courage he surged forwards, pulled Sherlock’s head towards him and kissed him fiercely. He swallowed Sherlock’s shocked noise and the moan which followed close on its heels. Sherlock’s mouth opened in surrender beneath his as John angled his head to deepen the kiss, deepen the intimacy to a level that neither of them had ever experienced before. Eventually the need to breath forced them apart but John stayed close to Sherlock, forehead to forehead, breathing the same air.
“So you finally worked it out.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled through John’s consciousness, gently mocking him.
“Shut up, idiot,” John smiled. “Shut up and kiss me.”
John Watson had always taken risks, always walked the fine line between right and wrong, salvation and damnation. He had kissed Sherlock believing he was straight but Sherlock had very quickly shown him that labels are unimportant. All that matters is love; if there is love in the hearts then everything else is transport. There were those who mocked them, who told them their love was an abomination, a sacrilege of the natural order. But Sherlock had never believed in heaven, and John had lost his faith somewhere in the Afghani sands and they both agreed that all they knew for certain was that they were happy now. And if the price for that happiness was eternal damnation, then both John and Sherlock would pay it without a second thought.
And we’re definitely going to hell,
But we’ll have all the best stories to tell.
Yes I’m definitely going to hell,
But I’ll have all the best stories to tell.