Undeleted
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC 2010)
Rating: Gen
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, DI Lestrade
Warning: None, that I'm aware of
A/N: Because we all know that strops need an audience...
Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa with a sigh that was calculated exactly to annoy and inform about his current disposition. He kicked a pillow onto the floor, yanked his dressing gown around him and then sat bolt upright, glaring at the empty chair with the Union Jack pillow still in it, as if he’d only gotten up to get a mug of tea or to make sure his gun was still locked away. To the casual onlooker, of whom there were none, it would look as if the chair had done Sherlock an unspeakable offence. The offence wasn’t on the part of the chair, though, honestly. It was on the part of the former occupant of the chair, a certain John Watson, MD.
Sherlock had never thought himself capable of loneliness. More precisely, he’d thought of it as something that he had deleted after his youth. Loneliness was boring, and had no place using up storage that was better utilized with blood spatter patterns and the most common poisons used by mothers to kill their children. Apparently, though, he had not thoroughly formatted away that emotion. Now, he felt, it was coming back from years long past to betray him again. “Speaking of betrayal,” he muttered, and threw a cushion at the chair, as if this act would cause its normal occupant would appear, berate him for being a stubborn child, and then allow life to resume its normal pace.
Sherlock was still in this position a few hours later when Lestrade came to break-and-enter to check on him, or as he ridiculously insisted on calling it, to “perform a routine drugs bust.” He continued to glare at the chair even as Anderson riffled through his kitchen cabinets and made comments he thought were disparaging but just sounded a bit dim. Sally glared at him glaring at the chair and in a distant part of his mind he observed the irony of that situation, though the largest part of him was devoted to sulking obviously and silently informing Lestrade that the sooner John was back, the better it would be for the general populace of the city. Lestrade, unfortunately not being a mind-reader of any kind, resorted to empty threats mingled with an awkward kindness of a kind that, had Sherlock had a normal childhood, he would have recognized as fatherly. When none of these worked and Sherlock had failed to even rise to the worst of Anderson’s barbs, Lestrade threw his hands up and called in his back-up.
When Mycroft let himself into the now chaotic flat, Sherlock made sure to repeat his couch-flop with precision, to impress his audience. Sadly, his audience was too busy using his umbrella to clear a path through the papers that mysteriously spread themselves over the carpet to bother to pretend to ignore the melodramatic tendencies of his younger brother. When Mycroft went to sit in the comfortable, low, chair, the glare emanating from the sofa was so intense that Mycroft imagined that he could feel holes burning in his expensive jacket. Sherlock continued glaring at him until he adjusted to sit in the square chair.
“What are you going to do, Sherlock.” The words were even, with just a slight tinge of either sarcasm or patronization lying under their surface. Sherlock watched him twitch the umbrella (an affectation he’d picked up at uni) in between his palms, using that to tell him exactly when his elder brother was about to snap. He waited until the tempo of the umbrella-rolls had reached somewhere around 65 BPM and then spoke.
“Do? What am I planning to do? Mycroft, let me remind you that it has never been and it continues to not be your business.” Sherlock hoped that he could anger Mycroft in record time so he would be left to stare at the stupid, empty chair in peace.
“You haven’t left the flat in 10 days, you haven’t eaten appreciably in 4, and if your continued absence from annoying the good people of the Yard hadn’t caused Lestrade to worry you were…using again, you might as well have died of starvation.” Sherlock stared over Mycroft’s shoulder, and gave no indication that he had actually heard anything that his brother said. Outside, the sun slipped farther down its track.
“Not eating, not sleeping, not doing your self-appointed job is not going to bring John back, Sherlock.” At this Sherlock stood abruptly. He swayed a bit, looking like a tree on the edge of falling down, but then stomped to the door. Mycroft stood more elegantly.
“If this is you telling me to get out, then I will leave, Sherlock. Don’t expect me to stay away, though.” Sherlock ignored him completely, and only showed his ire with the slamming of the door. Finally in silence and peace, he returned to glaring at the chair. The silence wrapped around the flat like a smothering blanket, only broken by the occasional rumble of a car driving by in the night. He sat huddled on the couch watching the light play over the chair, imagining that…
When he woke up, he was still on the couch. Mrs Hudson (probably told to by Mycroft) had obviously been by, for there was a still steaming pot of tea and a sandwich sitting on the table. He rolled himself over and considered the consequences of the sandwich. If he ate the sandwich, he might get off the couch. If he got off the couch he might as well go to the Yard, and if he went to the Yard, people would stop invading the flat, and maybe he could re-learn to delete loneliness. Sherlock spared one last glance for the emptily mocking chair, and closed the door.
When the shadow stole through the same door an hour later to leave a gallon of milk and a tin of beans, only the empty flat noticed.
Rating: Gen
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, DI Lestrade
Warning: None, that I'm aware of
A/N: Because we all know that strops need an audience...
Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa with a sigh that was calculated exactly to annoy and inform about his current disposition. He kicked a pillow onto the floor, yanked his dressing gown around him and then sat bolt upright, glaring at the empty chair with the Union Jack pillow still in it, as if he’d only gotten up to get a mug of tea or to make sure his gun was still locked away. To the casual onlooker, of whom there were none, it would look as if the chair had done Sherlock an unspeakable offence. The offence wasn’t on the part of the chair, though, honestly. It was on the part of the former occupant of the chair, a certain John Watson, MD.
Sherlock had never thought himself capable of loneliness. More precisely, he’d thought of it as something that he had deleted after his youth. Loneliness was boring, and had no place using up storage that was better utilized with blood spatter patterns and the most common poisons used by mothers to kill their children. Apparently, though, he had not thoroughly formatted away that emotion. Now, he felt, it was coming back from years long past to betray him again. “Speaking of betrayal,” he muttered, and threw a cushion at the chair, as if this act would cause its normal occupant would appear, berate him for being a stubborn child, and then allow life to resume its normal pace.
Sherlock was still in this position a few hours later when Lestrade came to break-and-enter to check on him, or as he ridiculously insisted on calling it, to “perform a routine drugs bust.” He continued to glare at the chair even as Anderson riffled through his kitchen cabinets and made comments he thought were disparaging but just sounded a bit dim. Sally glared at him glaring at the chair and in a distant part of his mind he observed the irony of that situation, though the largest part of him was devoted to sulking obviously and silently informing Lestrade that the sooner John was back, the better it would be for the general populace of the city. Lestrade, unfortunately not being a mind-reader of any kind, resorted to empty threats mingled with an awkward kindness of a kind that, had Sherlock had a normal childhood, he would have recognized as fatherly. When none of these worked and Sherlock had failed to even rise to the worst of Anderson’s barbs, Lestrade threw his hands up and called in his back-up.
When Mycroft let himself into the now chaotic flat, Sherlock made sure to repeat his couch-flop with precision, to impress his audience. Sadly, his audience was too busy using his umbrella to clear a path through the papers that mysteriously spread themselves over the carpet to bother to pretend to ignore the melodramatic tendencies of his younger brother. When Mycroft went to sit in the comfortable, low, chair, the glare emanating from the sofa was so intense that Mycroft imagined that he could feel holes burning in his expensive jacket. Sherlock continued glaring at him until he adjusted to sit in the square chair.
“What are you going to do, Sherlock.” The words were even, with just a slight tinge of either sarcasm or patronization lying under their surface. Sherlock watched him twitch the umbrella (an affectation he’d picked up at uni) in between his palms, using that to tell him exactly when his elder brother was about to snap. He waited until the tempo of the umbrella-rolls had reached somewhere around 65 BPM and then spoke.
“Do? What am I planning to do? Mycroft, let me remind you that it has never been and it continues to not be your business.” Sherlock hoped that he could anger Mycroft in record time so he would be left to stare at the stupid, empty chair in peace.
“You haven’t left the flat in 10 days, you haven’t eaten appreciably in 4, and if your continued absence from annoying the good people of the Yard hadn’t caused Lestrade to worry you were…using again, you might as well have died of starvation.” Sherlock stared over Mycroft’s shoulder, and gave no indication that he had actually heard anything that his brother said. Outside, the sun slipped farther down its track.
“Not eating, not sleeping, not doing your self-appointed job is not going to bring John back, Sherlock.” At this Sherlock stood abruptly. He swayed a bit, looking like a tree on the edge of falling down, but then stomped to the door. Mycroft stood more elegantly.
“If this is you telling me to get out, then I will leave, Sherlock. Don’t expect me to stay away, though.” Sherlock ignored him completely, and only showed his ire with the slamming of the door. Finally in silence and peace, he returned to glaring at the chair. The silence wrapped around the flat like a smothering blanket, only broken by the occasional rumble of a car driving by in the night. He sat huddled on the couch watching the light play over the chair, imagining that…
When he woke up, he was still on the couch. Mrs Hudson (probably told to by Mycroft) had obviously been by, for there was a still steaming pot of tea and a sandwich sitting on the table. He rolled himself over and considered the consequences of the sandwich. If he ate the sandwich, he might get off the couch. If he got off the couch he might as well go to the Yard, and if he went to the Yard, people would stop invading the flat, and maybe he could re-learn to delete loneliness. Sherlock spared one last glance for the emptily mocking chair, and closed the door.
When the shadow stole through the same door an hour later to leave a gallon of milk and a tin of beans, only the empty flat noticed.