What We Are Seeking
Title: What We Are Seeking
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,005
Summary: Sometimes, when the moon's full and the stars are in alignment, John thinks that he's found his own little corner of heaven. Most of the time he thinks that he's mad, absolutely barking, to stay in this flat with this nutter of a flatmate who is more likely to store arsenic in the sugar bowl than use the thing for its god-given purpose, whose whole life revolves around his work, who is constantly inspired to do, to follow that need, to know to the very end, damn the consequences. But sometimes, sometimes it’s not about the fingers in the fridge or the thrill of the chase. Sometimes it’s Sherlock sitting in the living room and John mucking about in the kitchen and soft music drifting through the air.
A.N.: Look, sometimes you just need fluff, okay? A million thanks to cymbalism219, queenitsy and nefariousginger for hand holding and encouragement and generally being the best fandom friends/betas a girl could ask for. <3
Sherlock is in his chair, his bow in hand, his violin resting on his thigh, when he hears John’s familiar step on the outside stairs. He smiles to himself as he lifts the instrument, settling the shoulder rest in place as the door bangs open then quickly slams shut. Sherlock closes his eyes and puts bow to string, muffling the rustling of plastic take away bags against John’s coat and his slow, steady tread as he climbs the final set of stairs.
“That’s lovely, that is,” John says when he enters the room, his face slightly red from the climb, his coat dripping a bit on the floorboards. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow and lifts his bow, but John shakes his head. “Oh, not on my account.” He sets the Tesco bags on the ground and shrugs out of his coat. “I’ll sort this out then make us a cup of tea,” he says as he picks the bags back up and moves towards the kitchen.
Sherlock watches him putter about: opening cabinets, arranging things on shelves, and muttering fondly about how the proper place for harmful toxins is not the spice rack, all the while keeping up a steady stream of commentary on the trivialities of his day. The words wash over Sherlock, warm and comforting, mixing with the music to become white noise.
The water runs, the stove clicks to life and Sherlock segues into one of John’s favorite pieces. John hums along, softly and, as always, slightly off key, and the sound brings a smile to Sherlock’s face.
They are the perfect picture of domestic bliss, Sherlock thinks. Oh, not that dull, bland version of connubial felicity the masses latch onto. No, nothing so hatefully ordinary as that. Yet, still, they are a perfect picture of what a true union of minds can produce.
John, with his steady presence and peace of mind, strong, reassuring, and with that core of steel that reveals itself only when needed. John is all things good and honest and normal, which is what makes him the perfect foil for Sherlock’s sharp, biting eccentricities. They are so very well suited that Sherlock can finally relate to that bit of romantic drivel, that absurd notion that one could be created specifically for the other.
Of course they aren't, but the idea does resonate with him. Makes him want to up the tempo, segue into something full of joy, a small celebration of life via music. But John's still humming along to the tune he's already playing, and Sherlock finds that he doesn't want to lose that moment of connection just yet. So instead of letting the music dance off to mirror his mood, he continues on, embracing the aspect he most admires in John, that ability to do for others instead of for one's self.
He wouldn't go so far as to say this is selfless, god no, but instead that he is willing to curb his wants to mirror John's own. And that is a form of bliss he never thought he would deem worth indulging in.
*
Sometimes, when the moon's full and the stars are in alignment, John thinks that he's found his own little corner of heaven. Most of the time he thinks that he's mad, absolutely barking, to stay in this flat with this nutter of a flatmate who is more likely to store arsenic in the sugar bowl than use the thing for its god-given purpose, whose whole life revolves around his work, who is constantly inspired to do, to follow that need, to know to the very end, damn the consequences. But sometimes, sometimes it’s not about the fingers in the fridge or the thrill of the chase. Sometimes it’s Sherlock sitting in the living room and John mucking about in the kitchen and soft music drifting through the air. Which is just brilliant. Beyond brilliant. Bloody fantastic, really, seeing as how the fireplace is actually being put to its proper use for once and there's an unopened box of quality biscuits to go with his tea and Sherlock, lunatic Sherlock, is playing something sweet and low on that violin of his. And, honestly, at moments like these John thinks he's hit the jackpot.
Because he's sitting at his kitchen table surrounded by lord knows what, a cup of tea warming his hands and the faint taste of chocolate on his tongue, and god. It feels like home. Like everything home's meant to be. Comforting, relaxing, but quirky enough to really and truly belong to him.
He reaches for another biscuit and lets out a contented sigh.
This is the life. The sort of life one dreams of having when one is a child, not that John's dreams ever involved an arrogant mad man, a right genius with a nose for trouble and a mouth that doesn't get hit near as often as it should. No, John's childish dreams could never have come up with something as wonderfully fascinating as Sherlock Holmes. But still, there's this, that feeling. That wonderfully content feeling of being right where you are supposed to be with the one person you are meant to be with. That sort of vaguely peaceful, happy feeling that colours all childhood dreams of the future.
I quite like this, John thinks as the piece comes to an end and Sherlock shifts into something lively and fleeting. He bites into his biscuit, licks the crumbs from his lips and smiles. In fact, I think I'll go right on keeping this, whatever it is, for as long as I possibly can. He nods to himself, sips at his tea, and smiles. Oh lord, how he smiles, thinking, as always, that he's lucked out in ways in which his family and friends and co-workers will never understand.
*
There are so many things that Sherlock could say. Words, empty meaningless words. Words that would surprise and delight and, yes, even mortify John. Words that sit on the tip of his tongue, dreaming of the escape Sherlock will never get them. Oh, the things he could say, if he were so inclined. But Sherlock does not speak, does not give life to those thoughts, those infernal, useless words.
Instead he smiles slightly, always ever so slightly, when John does or says or is something that is so wonderfully, intrinsically him. John Hamish Watson. Doctor, soldier, man. And, since words mean less than nothing, Sherlock acts in a manner that ought to make his meaning perfectly clear.
His hand touches John's shoulder, resting lightly as he moves past. His eyes find John in any crowd, instantly and without any input from his brain at all. His mouth always curves up for John, his head instinctively angles in the other man's direction, no matter who may be speaking or where Sherlock's attention ought to rest.
He seeks out John's opinion, actively listens when it is given. Considers John's words over and over, letting his thoughts spark off them like light refracting through prisms.
And, because words are not useless to John, he offers them up from time to time. Deep, heartfelt words, words that for John have meaning and weight and a undue sense of importance. Words like intelligent, companion, capable, affection and love -- though rarely the last as it smarts something terrible, makes Sherlock cringe at his own mawkish behavior. But for John, for John alone, Sherlock would let the words slip free.
Love. Such a banal, weak way to express the feelings, the sensations, of being with John. Love. Puny, pathetic thing. Pointless, meaningless, hateful in the extreme. But there is none better and so Sherlock must make do.
Still, John is intelligent and observant too, much more than most. John understands. John bares witness to both words and actions and John, brilliant, endlessly fascinating John, always manages to reflect them back ten fold.
*
There is the familiar chime of a text coming in, soft but insistent, followed by a faint huff of excitement and John’s pulse speeds up. He looks towards Sherlock at the same moment that Sherlock glances at him and their eyes meet. Sherlock’s lips hint at a smile and John finds himself setting aside his tea and readying himself to stand before Sherlock even speaks.
Sherlock’s voice brims with excitement as he hurriedly explains the details of the case, sending shivers down John’s spine with nothing more than a few quick deductions and the promise of more yet to come. And just like that they are out the door, down the street and heading into who knows what, though John had promised himself a nice, quite night.
Some time later they are standing in a darkened doorway, backs pressed tight against the rough brick wall, waiting for what, John doesn’t know. But Sherlock does, and that’s all that matters. There’s a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock, and John’s eyes dart to him in question.
"My dear John," Sherlock says, voice trailing off in that way of his, with that all too familiar twinkle in his eye and that half-mad look on his face -- the one that tells John that in five minutes he'll be covered in mud and running down an alley, heart pounding with a smile tugging at his lips and a laugh stealing what’s left of his breath -- and John knows. Knows deep in his marrow, in the very atoms that make up his being, that these things between them, this relationship, is more precious to Sherlock than anything else in the world.
Not that they are in a “relationship,” as such. God, nothing so trite, not with Sherlock being involved. Lord, all you have to do is mention the word and his lips curls into a sneer. No, they are some indefinable other. Indefinable to John, at least. No doubt Sherlock has everything between them sorted out, labeled and categorized, pinned in place as neatly as a beetle under glass.
John smiles to himself and Sherlock's eyes go wide then a bit soft. And that's it right there, isn't it? No explanation needed. Just that soft look in those world weary eyes and that faint hint of a smile, coyly hovering about his lips. Will it or won't it appear? John laughs and shakes his head and feels his overly sentimental heart kick up a beat or two faster.
"Let's get this in hand," he says, a tad bit breathless, though all he's done is watch Sherlock be, well, Sherlock. He leaves the rest unsaid, the bit about getting home to other, more important, things.
"Yes, John, let's," Sherlock agrees, his voice a shade deeper and rougher than it normally would be.
And then they are off, dashing wildly into the night. John laughs again, pushing himself that much faster to match his pace to that of the long-legged git beside him.
*
Sherlock has an extremely detailed mental map of John's body. Each line and wrinkle is accounted for, each dip and bump and curve has been charted, explored, recorded for prosperity. This knowledge is not at all what one could deem as "useful." It does nothing for Sherlock but clutter up his hard drive. Still, he can't find it in himself to delete it. Worse yet, he finds the need to reexamine the evidence, so to speak, on a near daily basis.
John lets out a gasping moan, his hands coming up to clutch at Sherlock’s shoulders and Sherlock can’t help but grin because yes. A flick of the tongue right there, the spot three centimeters below his ear, and there’s John’s back, arching up off the bed. The response is the same as it was yesterday, same as it will indubitably be tomorrow. Perfectly predictable, really. Perfectly John. And that’s what Sherlock likes best: the knowing. That blissful feeling that comes with knowing John down to his molecules. And yet, not knowing John. Because there is always something new. Like the sound he makes, something between a sigh and a groan, as Sherlock moves down his body.
“Jesus.” John’s hips jerk up. “Your mouth.”
Sherlock smirks, or tries to, anyway. The expression is marred by the fact that his mouth just happens to be stretched around John in a way that will end with an ache in his jaw. But John must recognize the look anyway, because his face softens even as his voice goes harsh.
“Proud of yourself, aren’t you?” he says, his hand cupping the side of Sherlock’s face. “Well, you have every right to be. You’re gorgeous, you are.” His thumb rubs against Sherlock’s bottom lip and his eyes go dark. “You mad bastard.”
Sherlock answers the only way he knows how, hands tightening on John’s hips and his jaw goes slack and John moans and god. Sherlock’s focus shrinks to this. Only this. A moment in time that last forever and is over in a blink of an eye.
*
Sherlock is a daft bugger, no doubt about it, but his sort of crazy suits John to a tee. It's no bother at all for John to hand over nail clipping and hair samples, follicle still intact. He doesn't mind the ridiculous way Sherlock pokes and prods at his body, more intrusive than a skin cancer screening, because he knows it comes from a place of affection. Sure, it was a bit awkward the first time, when Sherlock had stripped him naked and then examined his body for hours while John twitched and squirmed and tried to think of bloody England instead of the gorgeous mad man crawling over him, trying desperately not to embarrass himself by coming without any attention having been given to the more conventionally interesting bits of his anatomy. But it's been years now and, to be perfectly frank about it, John's quite chuffed to know that he still merits that level of attention, that Sherlock hasn't grown tired of tracing the lines life has etched on John's body.
John closes his eyes, ignoring the sticky mess between his legs in favor of snuggling close to Sherlock. I love you, he thinks as Sherlock’s arms wrap around him. God, I love you so much I might burst. Sherlock makes a pleased, huffing sound, burrowing his face into John’s shoulder and John can’t resist dropping a kiss into Sherlock’s damp curls.
“Oxytocin,” Sherlock says sleepily, “vasopressin, norepinephrine, serotonin, and nitric oxide, John.”
“Don’t forget prolactin,” John replies, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice as he watches Sherlock yawn.
“Never.” Sherlock sounds almost scandalized. “But it’s the oxytocin that matters most. In conjunction with vasopressin.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” John soothes, dropping another kiss on Sherlock’s upturned cheek. “I love you too. Now go to sleep, you overly-analytical git.”
And he does love him. He really, really does. Loves him in a way that makes his bones ache. Loves him in a way that renders words useless, actions pointless, and time the greatest enemy of all. Because time races too fast, taking them all too swiftly into the future. Time is something they will never have a surplus of, no matter how many years this indefinable something lasts.
I could spend three lifetimes with you, John thinks, Christ, I could spend three hundred and it wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough. You’re my everything, you infuriating, self-satisfied, overly-entitled, posh bastard. Oxytocin indeed.
“This,” Sherlock murmurs his hand coming up to rest on John’s chest, slightly left of center, directly above his heart. “Nothing but this.”
“This,” John repeats, his hand mirroring Sherlock’s, pressed firm against the warmth of Sherlock’s skin.
*
Rain falls lightly against the windowpane, just loud enough to mask the sound of John’s breathing. Sherlock closes his eyes, concentrating on isolating the soft huff of air, in and out. Fourteen breaths a minute, same as it’s always been. John at rest, Sherlock thinks with a smile.
He curls onto his side, eyes flicking down John’s body, then back up again. He watches as John’s lids twitch and move, tries to deduce what John’s dreaming of, same as he’s done every night they’ve spent together. His accuracy rate hovers at sixty-five percent, though he suspects it would be a great deal higher if John had better recall.
“You’re dreaming of me,” he whispers, though he could shout, the way John sleeps. “You’re dreaming of me, because you are smiling the way you only ever smile when I do something particularly clever. I wonder what it is I’m doing, probably deducing you, same as I am now. I’ll ask you in the morning, but you won’t remember. You never do. Not when it’s a good dream, anyway. But the nightmares, you remember every second of those. Fear does that. Crystallizes in your memory the way pleasant things never can.”
Sherlock reaches out and traces John’s cheekbone and John sighs contentedly in response. “Definitely dreaming of me,” Sherlock says around a yawn, pleasure blooming in his chest. His eyes feel heavy, his brain sluggish with exhaustion, but Sherlock refuses to give into sleep. Just a few moments more, he tells himself. Just a little longer, to make sure I don’t miss anything.
It’s nearly three, Sherlock is determined to hold out till then. John won’t get up till after nine, and won’t expect Sherlock to be up before ten. Seven hours is more than enough. And when he wakes, John will have had completed his morning rituals, read through the papers -- setting aside the interesting bits -- and sorted out breakfast.
There will be strong tea and jam and they will bicker over something neither of them cares about. Then Sherlock will scan his emails while John tinkers with his blog and the day will proceed from there. It will be good and familiar and perfect, Sherlock thinks, though the words can’t possibly convey the emotion behind them. He blinks rapidly to keep from sleep, fingers light over John’s carotid artery, absently measuring his steady pulse. Absolutely perfect.
Because John will be there to share it with him.
End Notes: This work was a direct result of having read the following poem, though I can't say why that is so, as they have completely different tones.
I Shall Forget You Presently, My Dear
I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year,
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by
I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And oaths were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far,-
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: R
Word Count: 3,005
Summary: Sometimes, when the moon's full and the stars are in alignment, John thinks that he's found his own little corner of heaven. Most of the time he thinks that he's mad, absolutely barking, to stay in this flat with this nutter of a flatmate who is more likely to store arsenic in the sugar bowl than use the thing for its god-given purpose, whose whole life revolves around his work, who is constantly inspired to do, to follow that need, to know to the very end, damn the consequences. But sometimes, sometimes it’s not about the fingers in the fridge or the thrill of the chase. Sometimes it’s Sherlock sitting in the living room and John mucking about in the kitchen and soft music drifting through the air.
A.N.: Look, sometimes you just need fluff, okay? A million thanks to cymbalism219, queenitsy and nefariousginger for hand holding and encouragement and generally being the best fandom friends/betas a girl could ask for. <3
Sherlock is in his chair, his bow in hand, his violin resting on his thigh, when he hears John’s familiar step on the outside stairs. He smiles to himself as he lifts the instrument, settling the shoulder rest in place as the door bangs open then quickly slams shut. Sherlock closes his eyes and puts bow to string, muffling the rustling of plastic take away bags against John’s coat and his slow, steady tread as he climbs the final set of stairs.
“That’s lovely, that is,” John says when he enters the room, his face slightly red from the climb, his coat dripping a bit on the floorboards. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow and lifts his bow, but John shakes his head. “Oh, not on my account.” He sets the Tesco bags on the ground and shrugs out of his coat. “I’ll sort this out then make us a cup of tea,” he says as he picks the bags back up and moves towards the kitchen.
Sherlock watches him putter about: opening cabinets, arranging things on shelves, and muttering fondly about how the proper place for harmful toxins is not the spice rack, all the while keeping up a steady stream of commentary on the trivialities of his day. The words wash over Sherlock, warm and comforting, mixing with the music to become white noise.
The water runs, the stove clicks to life and Sherlock segues into one of John’s favorite pieces. John hums along, softly and, as always, slightly off key, and the sound brings a smile to Sherlock’s face.
They are the perfect picture of domestic bliss, Sherlock thinks. Oh, not that dull, bland version of connubial felicity the masses latch onto. No, nothing so hatefully ordinary as that. Yet, still, they are a perfect picture of what a true union of minds can produce.
John, with his steady presence and peace of mind, strong, reassuring, and with that core of steel that reveals itself only when needed. John is all things good and honest and normal, which is what makes him the perfect foil for Sherlock’s sharp, biting eccentricities. They are so very well suited that Sherlock can finally relate to that bit of romantic drivel, that absurd notion that one could be created specifically for the other.
Of course they aren't, but the idea does resonate with him. Makes him want to up the tempo, segue into something full of joy, a small celebration of life via music. But John's still humming along to the tune he's already playing, and Sherlock finds that he doesn't want to lose that moment of connection just yet. So instead of letting the music dance off to mirror his mood, he continues on, embracing the aspect he most admires in John, that ability to do for others instead of for one's self.
He wouldn't go so far as to say this is selfless, god no, but instead that he is willing to curb his wants to mirror John's own. And that is a form of bliss he never thought he would deem worth indulging in.
*
Sometimes, when the moon's full and the stars are in alignment, John thinks that he's found his own little corner of heaven. Most of the time he thinks that he's mad, absolutely barking, to stay in this flat with this nutter of a flatmate who is more likely to store arsenic in the sugar bowl than use the thing for its god-given purpose, whose whole life revolves around his work, who is constantly inspired to do, to follow that need, to know to the very end, damn the consequences. But sometimes, sometimes it’s not about the fingers in the fridge or the thrill of the chase. Sometimes it’s Sherlock sitting in the living room and John mucking about in the kitchen and soft music drifting through the air. Which is just brilliant. Beyond brilliant. Bloody fantastic, really, seeing as how the fireplace is actually being put to its proper use for once and there's an unopened box of quality biscuits to go with his tea and Sherlock, lunatic Sherlock, is playing something sweet and low on that violin of his. And, honestly, at moments like these John thinks he's hit the jackpot.
Because he's sitting at his kitchen table surrounded by lord knows what, a cup of tea warming his hands and the faint taste of chocolate on his tongue, and god. It feels like home. Like everything home's meant to be. Comforting, relaxing, but quirky enough to really and truly belong to him.
He reaches for another biscuit and lets out a contented sigh.
This is the life. The sort of life one dreams of having when one is a child, not that John's dreams ever involved an arrogant mad man, a right genius with a nose for trouble and a mouth that doesn't get hit near as often as it should. No, John's childish dreams could never have come up with something as wonderfully fascinating as Sherlock Holmes. But still, there's this, that feeling. That wonderfully content feeling of being right where you are supposed to be with the one person you are meant to be with. That sort of vaguely peaceful, happy feeling that colours all childhood dreams of the future.
I quite like this, John thinks as the piece comes to an end and Sherlock shifts into something lively and fleeting. He bites into his biscuit, licks the crumbs from his lips and smiles. In fact, I think I'll go right on keeping this, whatever it is, for as long as I possibly can. He nods to himself, sips at his tea, and smiles. Oh lord, how he smiles, thinking, as always, that he's lucked out in ways in which his family and friends and co-workers will never understand.
*
There are so many things that Sherlock could say. Words, empty meaningless words. Words that would surprise and delight and, yes, even mortify John. Words that sit on the tip of his tongue, dreaming of the escape Sherlock will never get them. Oh, the things he could say, if he were so inclined. But Sherlock does not speak, does not give life to those thoughts, those infernal, useless words.
Instead he smiles slightly, always ever so slightly, when John does or says or is something that is so wonderfully, intrinsically him. John Hamish Watson. Doctor, soldier, man. And, since words mean less than nothing, Sherlock acts in a manner that ought to make his meaning perfectly clear.
His hand touches John's shoulder, resting lightly as he moves past. His eyes find John in any crowd, instantly and without any input from his brain at all. His mouth always curves up for John, his head instinctively angles in the other man's direction, no matter who may be speaking or where Sherlock's attention ought to rest.
He seeks out John's opinion, actively listens when it is given. Considers John's words over and over, letting his thoughts spark off them like light refracting through prisms.
And, because words are not useless to John, he offers them up from time to time. Deep, heartfelt words, words that for John have meaning and weight and a undue sense of importance. Words like intelligent, companion, capable, affection and love -- though rarely the last as it smarts something terrible, makes Sherlock cringe at his own mawkish behavior. But for John, for John alone, Sherlock would let the words slip free.
Love. Such a banal, weak way to express the feelings, the sensations, of being with John. Love. Puny, pathetic thing. Pointless, meaningless, hateful in the extreme. But there is none better and so Sherlock must make do.
Still, John is intelligent and observant too, much more than most. John understands. John bares witness to both words and actions and John, brilliant, endlessly fascinating John, always manages to reflect them back ten fold.
*
There is the familiar chime of a text coming in, soft but insistent, followed by a faint huff of excitement and John’s pulse speeds up. He looks towards Sherlock at the same moment that Sherlock glances at him and their eyes meet. Sherlock’s lips hint at a smile and John finds himself setting aside his tea and readying himself to stand before Sherlock even speaks.
Sherlock’s voice brims with excitement as he hurriedly explains the details of the case, sending shivers down John’s spine with nothing more than a few quick deductions and the promise of more yet to come. And just like that they are out the door, down the street and heading into who knows what, though John had promised himself a nice, quite night.
Some time later they are standing in a darkened doorway, backs pressed tight against the rough brick wall, waiting for what, John doesn’t know. But Sherlock does, and that’s all that matters. There’s a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock, and John’s eyes dart to him in question.
"My dear John," Sherlock says, voice trailing off in that way of his, with that all too familiar twinkle in his eye and that half-mad look on his face -- the one that tells John that in five minutes he'll be covered in mud and running down an alley, heart pounding with a smile tugging at his lips and a laugh stealing what’s left of his breath -- and John knows. Knows deep in his marrow, in the very atoms that make up his being, that these things between them, this relationship, is more precious to Sherlock than anything else in the world.
Not that they are in a “relationship,” as such. God, nothing so trite, not with Sherlock being involved. Lord, all you have to do is mention the word and his lips curls into a sneer. No, they are some indefinable other. Indefinable to John, at least. No doubt Sherlock has everything between them sorted out, labeled and categorized, pinned in place as neatly as a beetle under glass.
John smiles to himself and Sherlock's eyes go wide then a bit soft. And that's it right there, isn't it? No explanation needed. Just that soft look in those world weary eyes and that faint hint of a smile, coyly hovering about his lips. Will it or won't it appear? John laughs and shakes his head and feels his overly sentimental heart kick up a beat or two faster.
"Let's get this in hand," he says, a tad bit breathless, though all he's done is watch Sherlock be, well, Sherlock. He leaves the rest unsaid, the bit about getting home to other, more important, things.
"Yes, John, let's," Sherlock agrees, his voice a shade deeper and rougher than it normally would be.
And then they are off, dashing wildly into the night. John laughs again, pushing himself that much faster to match his pace to that of the long-legged git beside him.
*
Sherlock has an extremely detailed mental map of John's body. Each line and wrinkle is accounted for, each dip and bump and curve has been charted, explored, recorded for prosperity. This knowledge is not at all what one could deem as "useful." It does nothing for Sherlock but clutter up his hard drive. Still, he can't find it in himself to delete it. Worse yet, he finds the need to reexamine the evidence, so to speak, on a near daily basis.
John lets out a gasping moan, his hands coming up to clutch at Sherlock’s shoulders and Sherlock can’t help but grin because yes. A flick of the tongue right there, the spot three centimeters below his ear, and there’s John’s back, arching up off the bed. The response is the same as it was yesterday, same as it will indubitably be tomorrow. Perfectly predictable, really. Perfectly John. And that’s what Sherlock likes best: the knowing. That blissful feeling that comes with knowing John down to his molecules. And yet, not knowing John. Because there is always something new. Like the sound he makes, something between a sigh and a groan, as Sherlock moves down his body.
“Jesus.” John’s hips jerk up. “Your mouth.”
Sherlock smirks, or tries to, anyway. The expression is marred by the fact that his mouth just happens to be stretched around John in a way that will end with an ache in his jaw. But John must recognize the look anyway, because his face softens even as his voice goes harsh.
“Proud of yourself, aren’t you?” he says, his hand cupping the side of Sherlock’s face. “Well, you have every right to be. You’re gorgeous, you are.” His thumb rubs against Sherlock’s bottom lip and his eyes go dark. “You mad bastard.”
Sherlock answers the only way he knows how, hands tightening on John’s hips and his jaw goes slack and John moans and god. Sherlock’s focus shrinks to this. Only this. A moment in time that last forever and is over in a blink of an eye.
*
Sherlock is a daft bugger, no doubt about it, but his sort of crazy suits John to a tee. It's no bother at all for John to hand over nail clipping and hair samples, follicle still intact. He doesn't mind the ridiculous way Sherlock pokes and prods at his body, more intrusive than a skin cancer screening, because he knows it comes from a place of affection. Sure, it was a bit awkward the first time, when Sherlock had stripped him naked and then examined his body for hours while John twitched and squirmed and tried to think of bloody England instead of the gorgeous mad man crawling over him, trying desperately not to embarrass himself by coming without any attention having been given to the more conventionally interesting bits of his anatomy. But it's been years now and, to be perfectly frank about it, John's quite chuffed to know that he still merits that level of attention, that Sherlock hasn't grown tired of tracing the lines life has etched on John's body.
John closes his eyes, ignoring the sticky mess between his legs in favor of snuggling close to Sherlock. I love you, he thinks as Sherlock’s arms wrap around him. God, I love you so much I might burst. Sherlock makes a pleased, huffing sound, burrowing his face into John’s shoulder and John can’t resist dropping a kiss into Sherlock’s damp curls.
“Oxytocin,” Sherlock says sleepily, “vasopressin, norepinephrine, serotonin, and nitric oxide, John.”
“Don’t forget prolactin,” John replies, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice as he watches Sherlock yawn.
“Never.” Sherlock sounds almost scandalized. “But it’s the oxytocin that matters most. In conjunction with vasopressin.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” John soothes, dropping another kiss on Sherlock’s upturned cheek. “I love you too. Now go to sleep, you overly-analytical git.”
And he does love him. He really, really does. Loves him in a way that makes his bones ache. Loves him in a way that renders words useless, actions pointless, and time the greatest enemy of all. Because time races too fast, taking them all too swiftly into the future. Time is something they will never have a surplus of, no matter how many years this indefinable something lasts.
I could spend three lifetimes with you, John thinks, Christ, I could spend three hundred and it wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough. You’re my everything, you infuriating, self-satisfied, overly-entitled, posh bastard. Oxytocin indeed.
“This,” Sherlock murmurs his hand coming up to rest on John’s chest, slightly left of center, directly above his heart. “Nothing but this.”
“This,” John repeats, his hand mirroring Sherlock’s, pressed firm against the warmth of Sherlock’s skin.
*
Rain falls lightly against the windowpane, just loud enough to mask the sound of John’s breathing. Sherlock closes his eyes, concentrating on isolating the soft huff of air, in and out. Fourteen breaths a minute, same as it’s always been. John at rest, Sherlock thinks with a smile.
He curls onto his side, eyes flicking down John’s body, then back up again. He watches as John’s lids twitch and move, tries to deduce what John’s dreaming of, same as he’s done every night they’ve spent together. His accuracy rate hovers at sixty-five percent, though he suspects it would be a great deal higher if John had better recall.
“You’re dreaming of me,” he whispers, though he could shout, the way John sleeps. “You’re dreaming of me, because you are smiling the way you only ever smile when I do something particularly clever. I wonder what it is I’m doing, probably deducing you, same as I am now. I’ll ask you in the morning, but you won’t remember. You never do. Not when it’s a good dream, anyway. But the nightmares, you remember every second of those. Fear does that. Crystallizes in your memory the way pleasant things never can.”
Sherlock reaches out and traces John’s cheekbone and John sighs contentedly in response. “Definitely dreaming of me,” Sherlock says around a yawn, pleasure blooming in his chest. His eyes feel heavy, his brain sluggish with exhaustion, but Sherlock refuses to give into sleep. Just a few moments more, he tells himself. Just a little longer, to make sure I don’t miss anything.
It’s nearly three, Sherlock is determined to hold out till then. John won’t get up till after nine, and won’t expect Sherlock to be up before ten. Seven hours is more than enough. And when he wakes, John will have had completed his morning rituals, read through the papers -- setting aside the interesting bits -- and sorted out breakfast.
There will be strong tea and jam and they will bicker over something neither of them cares about. Then Sherlock will scan his emails while John tinkers with his blog and the day will proceed from there. It will be good and familiar and perfect, Sherlock thinks, though the words can’t possibly convey the emotion behind them. He blinks rapidly to keep from sleep, fingers light over John’s carotid artery, absently measuring his steady pulse. Absolutely perfect.
Because John will be there to share it with him.
End Notes: This work was a direct result of having read the following poem, though I can't say why that is so, as they have completely different tones.
I Shall Forget You Presently, My Dear
I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year,
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by
I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And oaths were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far,-
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking.
Edna St. Vincent Millay