Fic: Moments of Remembrance
Title: Moments of Remembrance
Author: Livia_Carica
Rating: PG
Pairing J/S
Word count: 750 -- ish
Summary: The last of the retirement trilogy. Other parts: Moments of Clarity and Moments of Loss. Like those, this is a bit sad.
John never remembers the little things anymore, but in retrospect that doesn't matter, not really.
After all, Sherlock has managed to live his whole life not knowing if they need bread, or indeed how much bread they use on average or even what a loaf cost nowadays. And if John leaves the tap running or the freezer open, Sherlock is there to turn it off or close the door. It doesn't matter, he keeps telling himself, because these are only little things, wraith-like wisps of information slipping from John's grasp.
Even now, as Sherlock is reading one evening, he hears John shuffling about in the kitchen and automatically listens for anything he might have to get up and check once the doctor is finished. All around them, the house is sighing, settling in for the night; when John reenters the living room, he throws another log on the fire, and turns and smiles sadly.
"I didn't turn anything on, don't worry." He lifts a small crystal glass filled with an amber liquid. "I just got myself one of these."
Whisky. The good stuff, from the peaty smell that wafts with John's body heat as he eases himself onto the sofa next to Sherlock. He sighs, and wriggles to close the gap between them, and although Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off his book, he does bring an arm across the back of the couch and pulls John's solid warmth closer to him.
"It's getting chilly," John muses, taking a sip of his drink, absently reading the lines at the top of Sherlock's page. Sherlock grunts an agreement, pushes his glasses back up his nose with his free hand. They sit silently for a while, and though he can never seem to tell John, Sherlock cherishes these moments. Over the years there have been many, just the two of them together quietly, breathing synchronised, limbs falling into prearranged positions. For that moment, it could have been thirty years ago when they vibrated with life and energy and the ring of a mobile phone had them rushing out of the door towards they knew not what. Sherlock forces himself to relax, to trust John.
"Did you remember...?" had always been a loaded phrase between them, a verbal cocked trigger. At Baker Street, it was John aiming at Sherlock: Did you remember to pay the phone bill? Did you remember to take whatever particular nasty was lurking out of the fridge? Did you remember....? And Sherlock rarely did, because he was distracted and the vagueries of every day life were the biggest distractions of all and for God's sake, John!
Now they are words Sherlock dreads for a different reason; to ask them of John seems to be a twist of a knife rather than a shot. John's brow furrows with frustration both at being asked and with the effort of remembering. So it comes to be that Sherlock no longer asks; he just observes John's movements and anticipates where he needs to be to make things easier.
John is now dozing quietly in and out of a tipsy sleep, his glass emptied, his breath warm against Sherlock's collar bone, and he turns that question on its head. "Do you remember...?" And Sherlock stops reading and kisses John's forehead and he pulls him closer because John has never asked that before.
"Remember what?" he asks gently, wondering if John is talking in his sleep.
"The old days," John's soft voice cracks, slurs. His arm snakes around Sherlock's middle, and they cling to each other. The fire is dying. "The adrenaline, and the danger and the excitement? How we would run and run and thought nothing could touch us? Like the time when Lestrade had to come get us because we were trapped up the communications tower by that Russian mobster's guard dogs. Or when you ended up in hospital because you hit yourself on the head trying to break into that bakery." John giggles, that high pitched little boy giggle that had set Sherlock down the path of adoration for this man tucked up against his side, warm and content. "Or when you pretended to be Mycroft, umbrella and everything, and you had to...." he trails off, sleep snatching the words from his lips.
Sherlock swallows a large lump in his throat.
"You remember." It isn't even a question, just a plain statement that becomes a fraying rope to which Sherlock clings. He thinks John is asleep. He's not expecting a reply.
"Sherlock," John whispers back. "I spend all of my time trying not to forget."
Author: Livia_Carica
Rating: PG
Pairing J/S
Word count: 750 -- ish
Summary: The last of the retirement trilogy. Other parts: Moments of Clarity and Moments of Loss. Like those, this is a bit sad.
John never remembers the little things anymore, but in retrospect that doesn't matter, not really.
After all, Sherlock has managed to live his whole life not knowing if they need bread, or indeed how much bread they use on average or even what a loaf cost nowadays. And if John leaves the tap running or the freezer open, Sherlock is there to turn it off or close the door. It doesn't matter, he keeps telling himself, because these are only little things, wraith-like wisps of information slipping from John's grasp.
Even now, as Sherlock is reading one evening, he hears John shuffling about in the kitchen and automatically listens for anything he might have to get up and check once the doctor is finished. All around them, the house is sighing, settling in for the night; when John reenters the living room, he throws another log on the fire, and turns and smiles sadly.
"I didn't turn anything on, don't worry." He lifts a small crystal glass filled with an amber liquid. "I just got myself one of these."
Whisky. The good stuff, from the peaty smell that wafts with John's body heat as he eases himself onto the sofa next to Sherlock. He sighs, and wriggles to close the gap between them, and although Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off his book, he does bring an arm across the back of the couch and pulls John's solid warmth closer to him.
"It's getting chilly," John muses, taking a sip of his drink, absently reading the lines at the top of Sherlock's page. Sherlock grunts an agreement, pushes his glasses back up his nose with his free hand. They sit silently for a while, and though he can never seem to tell John, Sherlock cherishes these moments. Over the years there have been many, just the two of them together quietly, breathing synchronised, limbs falling into prearranged positions. For that moment, it could have been thirty years ago when they vibrated with life and energy and the ring of a mobile phone had them rushing out of the door towards they knew not what. Sherlock forces himself to relax, to trust John.
"Did you remember...?" had always been a loaded phrase between them, a verbal cocked trigger. At Baker Street, it was John aiming at Sherlock: Did you remember to pay the phone bill? Did you remember to take whatever particular nasty was lurking out of the fridge? Did you remember....? And Sherlock rarely did, because he was distracted and the vagueries of every day life were the biggest distractions of all and for God's sake, John!
Now they are words Sherlock dreads for a different reason; to ask them of John seems to be a twist of a knife rather than a shot. John's brow furrows with frustration both at being asked and with the effort of remembering. So it comes to be that Sherlock no longer asks; he just observes John's movements and anticipates where he needs to be to make things easier.
John is now dozing quietly in and out of a tipsy sleep, his glass emptied, his breath warm against Sherlock's collar bone, and he turns that question on its head. "Do you remember...?" And Sherlock stops reading and kisses John's forehead and he pulls him closer because John has never asked that before.
"Remember what?" he asks gently, wondering if John is talking in his sleep.
"The old days," John's soft voice cracks, slurs. His arm snakes around Sherlock's middle, and they cling to each other. The fire is dying. "The adrenaline, and the danger and the excitement? How we would run and run and thought nothing could touch us? Like the time when Lestrade had to come get us because we were trapped up the communications tower by that Russian mobster's guard dogs. Or when you ended up in hospital because you hit yourself on the head trying to break into that bakery." John giggles, that high pitched little boy giggle that had set Sherlock down the path of adoration for this man tucked up against his side, warm and content. "Or when you pretended to be Mycroft, umbrella and everything, and you had to...." he trails off, sleep snatching the words from his lips.
Sherlock swallows a large lump in his throat.
"You remember." It isn't even a question, just a plain statement that becomes a fraying rope to which Sherlock clings. He thinks John is asleep. He's not expecting a reply.
"Sherlock," John whispers back. "I spend all of my time trying not to forget."