Fic: His John
Title: His John
Author: Livia_Carica
Rating: PG
Pairing J/S
Word count: 1000-- ish
Summary: Sherlock muses on Solider John and his John. Loosely written for this kinkmeme prompt, except it got thinky.
There is a photo on the bookcase in what was John’s but is now their bedroom. It is a shiny metallic frame containing an incongruously battered photograph of a lean, tanned John with his arm thrown around the shoulders of two equally whipcord solider cohorts.
Dressed in camouflage trousers and a desert hued vest, he is squinting into the Afghan sun, his bright smile even whiter against his tanned skin. His friends are grinning too. It is for all intents and purposes a happy photograph of a bunch of Army mates posing in a quiet time. John loves that photo because it is a good memory that floats on a sea of bad memories like a message in a bottle.
Sherlock hates it.
Sherlock doesn’t have those memories, that context. Every time Sherlock picks it up to look at it, which admittedly isn’t often, all he sees beyond the huge grin and camaraderie is the fatigue of horror in John’s eyes, the tension in the toned shoulders, the desperation and longing in the too prominent jaw. A poor Army diet gives this John a spare appearance and when Sherlock is in the mood, he fancies he could have traced the outlines of John’s skull with one finger.
It isn’t his John, which is why he hates it. That was Soldier John, surviving day to day on his wits and unable to take anything at all for granted from a decent meal to a shower to whether he’d be alive the next day. That John wasn’t happy and while snatches of the soldier still show himself, like city lights at night from the window of a cab, Sherlock feels an unfamiliar tug in his gut as he stands and rubs his thumb over the grinning face.
Downstairs the front door slams, the knocker tapping twice as almost an afterthought. John calls out and Sherlock replaces the photo and pulls on his dressing gown. He doesn’t reply; John knows he hasn’t gone anywhere all day. Sherlock descends to the living room and John ascends from the hallway, the rustle of a plastic bag means John has picked up dinner on his way home. He brings with him the smell of autumn from outside, a crisp ozone smell that is literally a breath fresh air in the stale atmosphere of the flat, and spices and meat from the bag in his hand, which Sherlock takes and puts on the kitchen table. While John throws open the curtains to air the place out, Sherlock finds plates, knives, forks, listens to the gentle admonishments and babble about John’s day and can’t help but smile. This is his John, right here, bustling around like Mrs. Hudson’s star pupil.
Sherlock dishes up the food, pulls apart the naan bread, mixes the raita in with the rice like John likes, opens a couple of beers. He interrupts John’s diatribe about a local chemist with a quiet “It’s ready” and when they sit facing each other, feet touching under the table, John says that he’s starving and that tug in Sherlock’s stomach returns. He makes sure that John’s plate doesn’t empty until all the food is gone, and opens a second, third, fourth beer for him. Sherlock loves that John eats like every meal is his last, a leftover habit from a time in his life when that might have been. He loves that he talks the whole time, punctuating clauses with his fork, using his naan bread for emphatics. That he grins and laughs and frowns and his face, softer now, is animated and so much more alive than that awful frozen photo.
Sherlock wants a photo of this, the pair of them, opposing, entangled.
After they’ve finished, John groans, burps, undoes his top button on his jeans. Sherlock watches, finishes his solitary beer and feels warm and indulgent. The tug has become a glow so powerful that he feels it’s going to crack his ribcage one day. He stands and offers John his hand, ready for his favourite part of the day. John groans again, heaves himself out of his chair and makes his way to the couch. Sherlock grabs him another beer from the fridge and after handing it over, he curls up under John’s waiting arm and lets the cacophony from the TV wash over him.
He is sleepy now, his earlier restlessness is gone, eased away by the calm waves of John’s breathing. He nuzzles gently at John’s neck giving small nips and licks to the salty, stubbly skin. John smells of beer and spice and when Sherlock slides his hand across John’s softened belly, he secretly takes comfort in the flesh that has accumulated there since John has been home, hiding Soldier John under a layer of comfort and safety. John grumbles a bit, part discomfort, part embarrassment but Sherlock persists, dipping underneath the waistband of that awful beige jumper to touch actual skin, rubbing gently in small circles until the grumbles turn into sighs of relief. John sips his beer and laughs at something on the telly Sherlock closes his eyes and silently revels in his John, smiling as he feels the giggles as much as he hears them.
“John?” He finally asks, his eyes still closed, hand still moving lazily over yielding skin.
“Hmm?” John sounds positively lethargic, his voice low. The hand holding the now empty beer bottle is loosening its grip and Sherlock takes it before he drops it and sits up to put it on the table.
When he turns back, John lets out a quiet snore, his head tipped back against the sofa cushion. Sherlock studies him, tries hard to see Soldier John in the softer jaw, the relaxed features, the pale skin and try as he might, he can’t see him. Reassured, he reaches out a finger to trace the outline of John’s face, to commit it to his memory.
His John.