A wild plotbunny appears!
You used 'Type before it gets away' - it's super effective!
Pretty much just trying to keep my hand in - here's a minifill based on a lovely and not-at-all-creapy-in-my-headcanon piece of art from Reapersun. The original art post, here. (Go look, Reapersun's work is very, very pretty.)
Untitled Fill
Words: 513
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Warnings: Implied attempted rape, implied violence, unbeta'd
Pairing: Sherlock/John, or gen possessive Sherlock
Inspiring Art: by Reapersun, here
Things had calmed, back at the flat. The assault was long over, thwarted in time and repaid as much as currently possible. Sherlock could smell Moriarty’s hand in this, but there was nothing to be done for it at the moment. At the moment.
When Sherlock settled in to think, he had pulled John with him - unwilling to let go after what had nearly happened. It was - as much as it galled him to admit it - merely luck that saved him. A text from Lestrade; Impatience at the right time that drove him to collect John - only gone to the shop - rather than wait for his return before setting off, or setting off alone with a text to meet him. Too many variables that might have gone wrong, gone the other way, and then-
And then, Sherlock would not have been there at just the right time; and that was a truly unpalatable thought. At a glance, Sherlock knew John had held his own for longer than his assailants had expected; just long enough, given circumstances - but the doctor had gone down by the time he’d arrived; held struggling and bruised in a dirty alley. What the men were planning was easy enough to deduce - a show of dominance to the one who’d dared to fight back, hands pushing at clothes, ready to rip what was in their way. They were so focused on their task that two had gone down before they’d even noticed his arrival; then John was back up and fighting like a demon, and the others soon joined their fellows.
Now they were languishing in a cell, but Moriarty was right; no one would ever get to him - not on this.
Hands fisted unconsciously at the thought, but loosened immediately at the soft sound of discomfort, stroked it away. Long fingers rested on a pliant throat, bared easily across his chest; the pulse steady, slowed in sleep- not the jagged, staccato rhythm it had been when they returned earlier.
It was calming; let him focus on the task at hand. He had not let John go when they returned, did not want to be inconvenienced with the need to check on him every so often - he had joked that he would simply fall asleep on Sherlock if he wasn’t allowed to move, but Sherlock was perfectly fine with that. It was more expedient this way.
John had chuckled and shook his head wryly, but an hour later he was stretched boneless across Sherlock’s torso, snoring softly. It was somehow comforting that even after the events of the night, he felt comfortable, safe enough with Sherlock of all people, to lay here exposed and so very vulnerable in sleep.
That casual trust was not something anyone else would think to give; not anyone who knew him. It was not something he was willing to lose.
So he sat, and thought, and stroked that neck every so often to assure himself John was here, alive, with him. His. And he would do everything in his power to make sure he wasn’t taken away.
~
Having some formatting issues, mostly fixed (I think.) Tense may jump; I sometimes do that without noticing - if you see something off, please point it out and I'll happily fix it. ;)
I've got something else in the works (several somethings, really), but who knows if they'll ever see the light of day.
Pretty much just trying to keep my hand in - here's a minifill based on a lovely and not-at-all-creapy-in-my-headcanon piece of art from Reapersun. The original art post, here. (Go look, Reapersun's work is very, very pretty.)
Untitled Fill
Words: 513
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Warnings: Implied attempted rape, implied violence, unbeta'd
Pairing: Sherlock/John, or gen possessive Sherlock
Inspiring Art: by Reapersun, here
Things had calmed, back at the flat. The assault was long over, thwarted in time and repaid as much as currently possible. Sherlock could smell Moriarty’s hand in this, but there was nothing to be done for it at the moment. At the moment.
When Sherlock settled in to think, he had pulled John with him - unwilling to let go after what had nearly happened. It was - as much as it galled him to admit it - merely luck that saved him. A text from Lestrade; Impatience at the right time that drove him to collect John - only gone to the shop - rather than wait for his return before setting off, or setting off alone with a text to meet him. Too many variables that might have gone wrong, gone the other way, and then-
And then, Sherlock would not have been there at just the right time; and that was a truly unpalatable thought. At a glance, Sherlock knew John had held his own for longer than his assailants had expected; just long enough, given circumstances - but the doctor had gone down by the time he’d arrived; held struggling and bruised in a dirty alley. What the men were planning was easy enough to deduce - a show of dominance to the one who’d dared to fight back, hands pushing at clothes, ready to rip what was in their way. They were so focused on their task that two had gone down before they’d even noticed his arrival; then John was back up and fighting like a demon, and the others soon joined their fellows.
Now they were languishing in a cell, but Moriarty was right; no one would ever get to him - not on this.
Hands fisted unconsciously at the thought, but loosened immediately at the soft sound of discomfort, stroked it away. Long fingers rested on a pliant throat, bared easily across his chest; the pulse steady, slowed in sleep- not the jagged, staccato rhythm it had been when they returned earlier.
It was calming; let him focus on the task at hand. He had not let John go when they returned, did not want to be inconvenienced with the need to check on him every so often - he had joked that he would simply fall asleep on Sherlock if he wasn’t allowed to move, but Sherlock was perfectly fine with that. It was more expedient this way.
John had chuckled and shook his head wryly, but an hour later he was stretched boneless across Sherlock’s torso, snoring softly. It was somehow comforting that even after the events of the night, he felt comfortable, safe enough with Sherlock of all people, to lay here exposed and so very vulnerable in sleep.
That casual trust was not something anyone else would think to give; not anyone who knew him. It was not something he was willing to lose.
So he sat, and thought, and stroked that neck every so often to assure himself John was here, alive, with him. His. And he would do everything in his power to make sure he wasn’t taken away.
~
Having some formatting issues, mostly fixed (I think.) Tense may jump; I sometimes do that without noticing - if you see something off, please point it out and I'll happily fix it. ;)
I've got something else in the works (several somethings, really), but who knows if they'll ever see the light of day.