Sherlock Fanfic: Breakfast, Post Dominatrix
When addressing a delicate topic, most people would try to find an appropriate time, one that proves acceptable to all parties involved. Sherlock Holmes does so over breakfast.
“She’s alive, you know.”
John looks up from buttering his toast, responding without thinking, “Who?”
“Irene,” says Sherlock, rising from the table to pour himself another mug of coffee. John stares, lips parted pensively as Sherlock sits back down across him. Pale blue eyes flicker, meeting his gaze, and John feels as though the air has been stripped from his lungs. He regains his composure momentarily, remembering the lie he and Mycroft had crafted. Had Sherlock actually believed it?
“Did she ever text you again, after…all that?”
“Once, a few months ago.”
“What’d she say?”
“Goodbye Mr. Holmes.”
John had certainly thought, after that conversation a few days ago, that Sherlock had seen through his ruse. He’d always thought of himself as an accomplished liar, but Sherlock was better. Sherlock knew every trick in the book, Sherlock could see through John, could tear apart his lies. And Irene had told him herself.
“Oh come on, John,” snaps Sherlock, shattering John’s thoughts. “You didn’t actually think your little tag-team with my brother would fool me. I know he told you she’s dead and I know he wasn’t lying when he told you that-at least not as far as he knows. The point is; Mycroft was wrong. She’s alive.”
Alive, John repeats in his own head. Irene Adler is alive. He is at a loss as to how he should be feeling right now. Worried, he supposes, but no, that’s not right. She probably wouldn’t be able to return to London at any rate, not with Mycroft’s surveillance spanning the entire city. Relieved? That’s closer, but still, no. He would only be relieved for Sherlock’s sake, so Sherlock could take pleasure in knowing that somewhere in the world there was an equal brain, a puzzle he could find thousands of ways to tackle but never solve. Concern? Now that’s the closest of all. Sherlock never wasted time on the dead, unless of course he was harvesting body parts, yet he brooded after Irene’s death. John can’t imagine how much thought Sherlock would invest in her were she still living.
He won’t ask how Sherlock knows this. Sherlock wouldn’t tell him, anyway.
John instinctively reaches for his phone, waiting for the telltale throb indicating a text message from Mycroft. What seemed like a thousand years ago, before Irene Adler had come into their lives and turned them upside-down, this was common practice. If Sherlock did something upsetting, which was frequently, Mycroft would send John a text explaining how to deal with the situation, knowing Sherlock would never respond to his brother directly. John had never quite figured out where Mycroft had placed the cameras, although he had some suspicions. His eyes dart around the room, looking for a reassuring red light, blinking in the dim morning light of the flat, just so he could know he had an ally somewhere who would help him out of this.
“Don’t bother,” Sherlock interrupts John’s thoughts again. “Mycroft removed all the cameras and bugs ages ago. Just after Irene died the first time.” John nearly winces when Sherlock says ‘died’. “I suppose he couldn’t stand seeing me sulk.”
This is the first time Sherlock has admitted to sulking over Irene’s (albeit fake) death, John recognizes with a start. He slides his phone back into his pocket. He takes a bit of toast, now cold from abandon, and looks at Sherlock. Sherlock glares back, quirking an eyebrow but somehow managing to not seem amused, even with the gesture.
“What?” Sherlock grunts, practically spitting the word.
“Why-” and John realizes he’d been holding his breath and has to stop for a moment. “Why tell me? Why now?”
Sherlock answers without hesitation. “Because you’ve been looking at me like that all weekend!” John feels compassion flooding his face, which causes Sherlock to contort his in anger. “Yes, that face! I already tolerate more emotion from you than anyone else, but I won’t have your pity.” Sherlock snarls the last word, looks disgusted as it exits his mouth, like it left a bad taste on his tongue.
Sherlock crosses his arms in a huff and glares in the opposite direction. John raises a finger to his lips in contemplation. Pity. That was an emotion he never thought he’d apply towards Sherlock Holmes. True, he often felt Sherlock at a disadvantage simply because his comprehensive intelligence was lacking in the area of human emotion, but pity? For Sherlock, thinking Irene was dead must have been like accepting the loss of, well, not a friend, but a comrade at least. Perhaps pity was the correct term.
“Nothing has changed, John,” says Sherlock, much softer than before, still not looking at his flat-mate. “I won’t see her again. She probably won’t ever return to London. I’m satisfied with knowing that she’s out there, living with idiots and sharing my pain.”
John smiles, despite himself. That was possibly the least elegant way Sherlock could have put it. Even so, John understands. Sherlock shared a certain fellowship with this woman, and John felt it oddly endearing of him to remain so attached. Sure, there were others of Sherlock’s intelligence. Moriarty is one of them, John reminds himself. But Moriarty thrives in the masses. He loves posing as the common man and using his fellows for his own gain. Sherlock and Irene-they aren’t like that. They thrive on being different. They mock the stupidity of man and wait for someone to come along and prove them wrong.
“Sherlock, do you…” John stops, Sherlock’s gaze slowly turning to him. What is he going to say next? Love her? Wish you could see her again? Think about her every minute of every day? “Miss her?” he ends up saying.
John knows Sherlock doesn’t differentiate between people and their actions. He knows what Irene’s cleverness means for Sherlock. He knows what the answer will be.
For this reason, John is taken aback when Sherlock answers with a resounding, “No.” John stares briefly, almost saddened at the detective’s denial of so basic a sign of humanity. Sherlock scoffs and clarifies, “Why would I miss her if she’s still leaving her mark all over the place?”
He offers John the paper, an article on the front page highlighted. An American newspaper, a robbery in New Jersey, no suspects or leads. Sherlock’s mouth twists into a slight smirk.
“You jealous?”
“We’re not a couple.”
“Yes you are.”
Irene hadn’t been wrong, John supposes as Sherlock cuts into an egg, a rare sign of good will considering his normal eating patterns. They were a couple, but not in the conventional sense. They needed each other; Sherlock needed John to keep him grounded, to laugh at his morbid humor, to remind him of the perks of being human. John needed Sherlock like-breathing, sleeping, eating? John needed Sherlock like he needed the war, the rush of danger, the surge of pain and adrenaline, woven together and musical, like Sherlock’s favorite violin sonata. John needed Sherlock.
“For the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.”
“Well I am. Look at us both.”
She’d been right again, of course. Sherlock was an exception. Sherlock was always an exception. For both of them.
“I’m…” John starts. Jealous. Sorry I can’t captivate you like she could. Pathetically, irrationally, stupidly in love with you. “Going to have a bath.”
John clears the table and places the dishes in the sink next to the tongues. He doesn’t waver; his last surprise with Sherlock was realizing that nothing surprises him anymore.
Weeks pass. Life returns to normal. Sherlock doesn’t forget about Irene, John is certain, not for a minute. He still scours the American newspaper, looking for clues that she’s surviving, flourishing, still in every way his equal.
But life goes on. Sherlock and John go out on cases. They laugh at things they shouldn’t laugh at, where laughing is unconventional. They seek pleasure in places where others only find sorrow. In between cases, Sherlock plays the violin, sometimes painfully, desperately slowly, other times hot and quick and lively. John listens and loves it all.
Irene will always remain the woman to Sherlock, John recognizes. But if she was the woman, then surely John is the man. The man who will tolerate him and patch him up after a fight and follow him to the end of the world and back.
Will he always remain by Sherlock’s side? he asks himself sometimes, but the answer, he realizes, is the same as his answer to any of Sherlock’s questions.
Oh, god, yes.
“She’s alive, you know.”
John looks up from buttering his toast, responding without thinking, “Who?”
“Irene,” says Sherlock, rising from the table to pour himself another mug of coffee. John stares, lips parted pensively as Sherlock sits back down across him. Pale blue eyes flicker, meeting his gaze, and John feels as though the air has been stripped from his lungs. He regains his composure momentarily, remembering the lie he and Mycroft had crafted. Had Sherlock actually believed it?
“Did she ever text you again, after…all that?”
“Once, a few months ago.”
“What’d she say?”
“Goodbye Mr. Holmes.”
John had certainly thought, after that conversation a few days ago, that Sherlock had seen through his ruse. He’d always thought of himself as an accomplished liar, but Sherlock was better. Sherlock knew every trick in the book, Sherlock could see through John, could tear apart his lies. And Irene had told him herself.
“Oh come on, John,” snaps Sherlock, shattering John’s thoughts. “You didn’t actually think your little tag-team with my brother would fool me. I know he told you she’s dead and I know he wasn’t lying when he told you that-at least not as far as he knows. The point is; Mycroft was wrong. She’s alive.”
Alive, John repeats in his own head. Irene Adler is alive. He is at a loss as to how he should be feeling right now. Worried, he supposes, but no, that’s not right. She probably wouldn’t be able to return to London at any rate, not with Mycroft’s surveillance spanning the entire city. Relieved? That’s closer, but still, no. He would only be relieved for Sherlock’s sake, so Sherlock could take pleasure in knowing that somewhere in the world there was an equal brain, a puzzle he could find thousands of ways to tackle but never solve. Concern? Now that’s the closest of all. Sherlock never wasted time on the dead, unless of course he was harvesting body parts, yet he brooded after Irene’s death. John can’t imagine how much thought Sherlock would invest in her were she still living.
He won’t ask how Sherlock knows this. Sherlock wouldn’t tell him, anyway.
John instinctively reaches for his phone, waiting for the telltale throb indicating a text message from Mycroft. What seemed like a thousand years ago, before Irene Adler had come into their lives and turned them upside-down, this was common practice. If Sherlock did something upsetting, which was frequently, Mycroft would send John a text explaining how to deal with the situation, knowing Sherlock would never respond to his brother directly. John had never quite figured out where Mycroft had placed the cameras, although he had some suspicions. His eyes dart around the room, looking for a reassuring red light, blinking in the dim morning light of the flat, just so he could know he had an ally somewhere who would help him out of this.
“Don’t bother,” Sherlock interrupts John’s thoughts again. “Mycroft removed all the cameras and bugs ages ago. Just after Irene died the first time.” John nearly winces when Sherlock says ‘died’. “I suppose he couldn’t stand seeing me sulk.”
This is the first time Sherlock has admitted to sulking over Irene’s (albeit fake) death, John recognizes with a start. He slides his phone back into his pocket. He takes a bit of toast, now cold from abandon, and looks at Sherlock. Sherlock glares back, quirking an eyebrow but somehow managing to not seem amused, even with the gesture.
“What?” Sherlock grunts, practically spitting the word.
“Why-” and John realizes he’d been holding his breath and has to stop for a moment. “Why tell me? Why now?”
Sherlock answers without hesitation. “Because you’ve been looking at me like that all weekend!” John feels compassion flooding his face, which causes Sherlock to contort his in anger. “Yes, that face! I already tolerate more emotion from you than anyone else, but I won’t have your pity.” Sherlock snarls the last word, looks disgusted as it exits his mouth, like it left a bad taste on his tongue.
Sherlock crosses his arms in a huff and glares in the opposite direction. John raises a finger to his lips in contemplation. Pity. That was an emotion he never thought he’d apply towards Sherlock Holmes. True, he often felt Sherlock at a disadvantage simply because his comprehensive intelligence was lacking in the area of human emotion, but pity? For Sherlock, thinking Irene was dead must have been like accepting the loss of, well, not a friend, but a comrade at least. Perhaps pity was the correct term.
“Nothing has changed, John,” says Sherlock, much softer than before, still not looking at his flat-mate. “I won’t see her again. She probably won’t ever return to London. I’m satisfied with knowing that she’s out there, living with idiots and sharing my pain.”
John smiles, despite himself. That was possibly the least elegant way Sherlock could have put it. Even so, John understands. Sherlock shared a certain fellowship with this woman, and John felt it oddly endearing of him to remain so attached. Sure, there were others of Sherlock’s intelligence. Moriarty is one of them, John reminds himself. But Moriarty thrives in the masses. He loves posing as the common man and using his fellows for his own gain. Sherlock and Irene-they aren’t like that. They thrive on being different. They mock the stupidity of man and wait for someone to come along and prove them wrong.
“Sherlock, do you…” John stops, Sherlock’s gaze slowly turning to him. What is he going to say next? Love her? Wish you could see her again? Think about her every minute of every day? “Miss her?” he ends up saying.
John knows Sherlock doesn’t differentiate between people and their actions. He knows what Irene’s cleverness means for Sherlock. He knows what the answer will be.
For this reason, John is taken aback when Sherlock answers with a resounding, “No.” John stares briefly, almost saddened at the detective’s denial of so basic a sign of humanity. Sherlock scoffs and clarifies, “Why would I miss her if she’s still leaving her mark all over the place?”
He offers John the paper, an article on the front page highlighted. An American newspaper, a robbery in New Jersey, no suspects or leads. Sherlock’s mouth twists into a slight smirk.
“You jealous?”
“We’re not a couple.”
“Yes you are.”
Irene hadn’t been wrong, John supposes as Sherlock cuts into an egg, a rare sign of good will considering his normal eating patterns. They were a couple, but not in the conventional sense. They needed each other; Sherlock needed John to keep him grounded, to laugh at his morbid humor, to remind him of the perks of being human. John needed Sherlock like-breathing, sleeping, eating? John needed Sherlock like he needed the war, the rush of danger, the surge of pain and adrenaline, woven together and musical, like Sherlock’s favorite violin sonata. John needed Sherlock.
“For the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.”
“Well I am. Look at us both.”
She’d been right again, of course. Sherlock was an exception. Sherlock was always an exception. For both of them.
“I’m…” John starts. Jealous. Sorry I can’t captivate you like she could. Pathetically, irrationally, stupidly in love with you. “Going to have a bath.”
John clears the table and places the dishes in the sink next to the tongues. He doesn’t waver; his last surprise with Sherlock was realizing that nothing surprises him anymore.
Weeks pass. Life returns to normal. Sherlock doesn’t forget about Irene, John is certain, not for a minute. He still scours the American newspaper, looking for clues that she’s surviving, flourishing, still in every way his equal.
But life goes on. Sherlock and John go out on cases. They laugh at things they shouldn’t laugh at, where laughing is unconventional. They seek pleasure in places where others only find sorrow. In between cases, Sherlock plays the violin, sometimes painfully, desperately slowly, other times hot and quick and lively. John listens and loves it all.
Irene will always remain the woman to Sherlock, John recognizes. But if she was the woman, then surely John is the man. The man who will tolerate him and patch him up after a fight and follow him to the end of the world and back.
Will he always remain by Sherlock’s side? he asks himself sometimes, but the answer, he realizes, is the same as his answer to any of Sherlock’s questions.
Oh, god, yes.