fic: Pacing Floors and Opening Doors
Title: Pacing Rooms and Opening Doors
Rating: PG-13/T
Word Count: 2,375
Pairing: Sherlock/John, allusions to John/Sarah
Summary: There is something small but significant floating about the flat, electricity that hums continuously through the air and leaves John restless. Random snippets of life at Baker Street, all leading to one end.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and the BBC do.
AN: Alright. I'm usually only ever a lurker here, but I wrote this today and i'm proud of it, so I thought i'd share. This is my first time posting to any community, so i'd like to say I'm sorry for any errors that I may have made. Also, I'm very much American, and I have mixed Americanized spelling in with British terms for this fic, I'm sorry if that offends anybody. Title comes from Crazy For You by Adele, as do the lyrics below.
And everytime I’m meant to be acting sensible,
You drift into my head and turn me into
A crumbling fool.
Tell me to run and I’ll race,
if you want me to stop I’ll freeze.
And if you want me gone I’ll leave,
Just hold me closer baby.
There is something small but significant floating about the flat, electricity that hums continuously through the air and leaves John restless. He paces between the kitchen and his armchair. He runs his hand distractedly through his hair, pulls at it until he feels the slight sting at the base of his neck. He counts each sock-padded step he takes and inhales through his nose, exhales through his teeth.
Sherlock has purposefully flung himself onto the sofa, his limbs in disarray against the soft fabric of his jacket. He has his left hand slung above his head and is tinkering on a phone with his right (John can’t tell whose phone it is, but then again he’s too busy being fidgety to care). His long legs are crossed at the ankles and he still has his shoes on.
As John decides to finally cease his pacing in the kitchen, Sherlock finishes whatever he’s doing on the phone and stares at the place in the wallpaper that’s peeling. He says something under his breath, apparently, because John is suddenly looking at him.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, and then demands that John fix him tea also. He hates the way it tastes, doesn’t appreciate the subtle flavors in whatever John brews. They’re too strong, too full of the colors and tastes and smells that he already has hovering in his head. He has never experienced sensory overload, but he associates it with drinking tea. Even after all of this, he sees the way his flat mate’s eyes get a little less dull when he partakes in everyday activates and he does appreciates that. He can’t remember the last time anyone besides his immediate family cared that much about his health, and doesn’t exactly understand it, but the knowledge makes him feel a little less alone.
John brings colors and tastes and smells into his life too, but they don’t override everything else. They’re patient and understanding and simple. They bring contrast to the flat while making everything tie together. They’re cohesive. Sherlock had to make himself stop thinking about things laterally the second day John moved in with him, because John brought imagination into the flat, and light, and other emotionally charged metaphors, and Sherlock kept getting distracted by the way the air around him grew warmer whenever John was at his side.
Now, John is moving across the room again. He still seems full of energy, like a chemical reaction, producing heat and changing right before Sherlock’s eyes.
“Stop moving,” Sherlock snaps, his eyes half closed. To John they look almost black in the sparse light coming through the closed curtains. “It’s exhausting.”
John lets out a harsh breath, and Sherlock thinks ‘Oh, please’, and then there is a warm cup of tea in his hands and the smell of soap and mint washes over him. It’s a blanket, something warm and safe, and he almost opens his mouth to say something that would make John stay close to him. He’s not very good at keeping people close to him, though, so he just lifts the cup to his lips and drinks.
~
Sherlock is running through the streets of London without his coat on. It’s exhilarating, and cold, and he loves the feeling of energy rushing through his veins. His body is mechanical, all electric pulses and signals to his brain, and it has been so long since he’s last given himself some kind of fuel. The wind bites at the planes of his face and forearms, raising goose bumps and freezing the sweat that has almost settled against his skin.
He has nowhere to be, no criminal to chase, no set goal in mind. There is also no John Watson to chase after him, and running eases the heavy weight that has settled against his ribs ever since Sarah showed up at their flat with red lipstick on.
~
John doesn’t know when it happened, but somewhere between last week and today he has started to concern himself with time again.
He remembers the coppery smell of blood and the gruesome sight of gunshot wounds, and how time there didn’t seem like something set in a pattern. He remembers thinking to himself on that first day in the heat how one more minute, just sixty more seconds, could have given him enough time to save them. But over there, time is like death, it eludes and slithers and shakes. And John, even with his steady, scarred hands, could never grab onto it long enough. By the time he gets shot, it didn’t matter if there was an extra three minutes thrown in the mixture of shrieks and backfires.
When Sherlock has been gone for five hours without a check-in text, John finds himself counting down the nanoseconds until he returns.
~
They’re in a restaurant when it happens. It’s not a very upscale restaurant, and if John is being completely honest the water tastes like lemons and the food is overcooked, but they aren’t there for critiques.
A man, James Whittaker, is the top suspect in Sherlock’s new case. John doesn’t know any of the specifics because he has been at Sarah’s place four out of the six days since Lestrade walked through their door, but he goes along with Sherlock anyway because he needs him. James is currently sitting diagonal to their booth, at a table made of a dark wood. He’s cutting into a steak with as much fervor as a man of his stature can cut into large amounts of food. John never thought he’d see someone who was slimmer than Sherlock, but tonight he has been proved wrong.
Sherlock is staring over his shoulder at the windows behind him, and John takes the opportunity to look at him. He looks tired, and sickly, and John wonders when it became natural for Sherlock to be indifferent once he’s caught a scent. He thinks that maybe Sherlock is acting this way because he’s worried that he might have been tailing the wrong guy, until he sees the lift at the corner of his mouth.
James is walking towards their table, his steps echoing off of the linoleum floor. John tenses, but Sherlock’s bright eyes are suddenly boring into his own, and he tries his hardest to unravel himself. For thirteen seconds all John does is stare at the bones of Sherlock’s face, all angular beauty and velveteen skin, and then James has his palms pressed into the shine of their table.
“Hello,” Sherlock says, running his pointer finger along the spokes of his fork. His voice is low, lower than usual, and it has a slight edge to it that makes John’s breath stutter in his throat.
“Can I do anything for you?” Is what James replies. His accent is thick and rough, dodgy, and John straightens his back and leans against the cushioned bench.
Sherlock turns his gaze away from John and smirks at the man looming over them. He shakes his head and his dark curls sway back and forth against his forehead. John mentally tells him to protect himself, to not be an arrogant twat just this once, but Sherlock is too busy being proud to deduce it.
“Not particularly, no. That watch interests me, though.” He nods his head towards the gold band on the man’s wrist. John watches as his hand travels slowly, subtly, down the handle of the fork. He feels something building in his stomach, something that makes sweat prickle and crawl down his spine. He identifies it as panic.
“This one?” James asks, his face a perfect mask of ignorance. Sherlock feels like laughing, like yelling out harsh things, but all he does is narrow his eyes and shift his foot so that his left calf is resting solidly against John’s leg.
“Oh, yes, that one. The one that you stole from Ms. Jones right after you bashed her head in with your steel toed work boot. Clever, really. Criminally fascinating.” Sherlock is openly clutching the fork in his hand now, his left hand resting stiffly against the table.
And then James Whittaker knocks him out.
When they get home that night, John is swaying on his feet. He doesn’t know exactly how long it has been since he’s experienced tiredness such as this, but it has been a long time. He thanks Lestrade in his head for allowing them to go home early, because otherwise he would have been passed out on his feet. He is holding bandages and alcohol and medical tape in his arms, their weight pushing at his jumper, when he comes downstairs to check up on Sherlock.
He’s lying on the floor, his face towards the ceiling. His shirt is riding up, showing off the pale skin of his abdomen, his sides. John stops for a moment to appreciate the view and then starts when he hears the laughter bursting from Sherlock’s mouth.
“You’ve gone mad, have you?” Is what he gets out before collapsing cross-legged next to him. The air is thick in the small room, hot and sticky like summer. He doesn’t think about the gash over Sherlock’s eye or the dried blood on his cheek because it makes his head spin. He positions the materials he brought down with him in the space between them and then waits Sherlock’s outburst out.
He wakes up with his cheek against the cold floor. Sherlock has his eyes half closed again and he’s staring at him. His eyes are lighter in the near-dark, almost-but-not-quite blue, specks of gray running throughout them. He has a bandage untidily placed over his cut and he’s still lying on his back. His chest rises and falls with his breath and John is transfixed.
“You are one daft man, Sherlock Holmes.” He mumbles, his voice rough with sleep, and Sherlock smiles at him. John’s chest explodes from the warmth of it.
“How was I to know that he was bold enough to hit me in the middle of a public establishment?” he asks, his voice high with false questioning. John laughs and closes his eyes again. The cool floor and his nap has cleared his head and left him feeling refreshed, light. He feels like he has been filled with air, but at the same time his limbs are heavy, lethargic.
“Would you play something for me?” he asks the air suddenly, tentatively, and then opens his eyes. The shock on Sherlock’s face makes him want to laugh and cry at the same time. His heart is beating wonderfully against his ribcage and tenderness spreads itself to his toes and the tips of his fingers. He settles for a small smile.
Sherlock breathes out of his nose and bites at his lip.
“Of course.” He says, simply, like it’s obvious that he would do anything John commanded at any moment in time, why doesn’t he understand that? “Does Sarah-“
“Don’t, Sherlock.” John rubs at his forehead and sits up. Sherlock’s shirt is still up, and John openly looks at him now. He’s feeling bold, and confused, and right. But most of all he’s just feeling lonely. He wonders how Sherlock does it all the time; be alone. He wonders how many scars have graced his skin. He wonders what it feels like, what it is like, being Sherlock’s skin.
And then he touches the whiteness of his side and relishes Sherlock’s gasp.
He doesn’t look at his face, but not out of fear. He’s imagining now, thinking about ways to put into words how warm Sherlock is, how unbelievably beautiful he is. He doesn’t know what to do now that he has passed that unspoken pinnacle, but Sherlock’s skin is buzzing beneath his fingertips, the staccato beating of his heart passing into his fingerprints and making its way sluggishly through his veins and into his own heart.
“John,” Sherlock grounds out. It’s breathy and wanting and John almost whimpers before he moves so that his thighs are pressed in close against Sherlock’s sides. There is so little space between them, but it feels natural, almost like chasing cabs and conspiring with Lestrade and biting his tongue against the insults that he would throw at Sally if he felt the need. He leans in close and breathes the air that Sherlock exhales, and then their lips are together, pressing, biting, and John feels lightheaded and faint.
Sherlock pushes his nose against his face and pulls away, and then comes back again, nipping at John’s neck and pressing messy kisses at his jaw. There is electricity humming through the flat again, but it’s louder this time, and it’s inside John’s head, and he presses his body down against Sherlock’s and then it’s like the humming is a tidal wave of sound, of lust.
Sherlock’s head falls back to the floor and he moans as John runs his shaking hands up towards his chest, palms passing lightly over his nipples, and then the electricity is passed into their searching mouths and strained voices and it’s like running through London all over again, except the weight against Sherlock’s ribs is no longer harmful.
~
It has been two weeks since the night Sherlock got punched, and everything is almost normal.
John still makes tea and has nightmares and gets annoyed when he sees fingernails in the butter dish.
Sherlock still gets a rush from curiosity and he still makes offhanded deductions about John and he still paces and plays the violin at ungodly hours in the morning.
But now John smiles when he smells the faint traces of chemicals in Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock smiles when John makes tea for the both of them, and they both wake up next to each other in bed, limbs curled tightly together and both smelling of sweat and cotton and sex.
And whenever Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade come into the flat, they notice things arranged next to each other that weren’t like that before, and everything is in its place and coexisting perfectly.
And if Mycroft just so happens to check up on Sherlock every once in a while to see the effect that loving John Watson has on him, well, Sherlock can’t really find room in his body to complain.
Rating: PG-13/T
Word Count: 2,375
Pairing: Sherlock/John, allusions to John/Sarah
Summary: There is something small but significant floating about the flat, electricity that hums continuously through the air and leaves John restless. Random snippets of life at Baker Street, all leading to one end.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and the BBC do.
AN: Alright. I'm usually only ever a lurker here, but I wrote this today and i'm proud of it, so I thought i'd share. This is my first time posting to any community, so i'd like to say I'm sorry for any errors that I may have made. Also, I'm very much American, and I have mixed Americanized spelling in with British terms for this fic, I'm sorry if that offends anybody. Title comes from Crazy For You by Adele, as do the lyrics below.
And everytime I’m meant to be acting sensible,
You drift into my head and turn me into
A crumbling fool.
Tell me to run and I’ll race,
if you want me to stop I’ll freeze.
And if you want me gone I’ll leave,
Just hold me closer baby.
There is something small but significant floating about the flat, electricity that hums continuously through the air and leaves John restless. He paces between the kitchen and his armchair. He runs his hand distractedly through his hair, pulls at it until he feels the slight sting at the base of his neck. He counts each sock-padded step he takes and inhales through his nose, exhales through his teeth.
Sherlock has purposefully flung himself onto the sofa, his limbs in disarray against the soft fabric of his jacket. He has his left hand slung above his head and is tinkering on a phone with his right (John can’t tell whose phone it is, but then again he’s too busy being fidgety to care). His long legs are crossed at the ankles and he still has his shoes on.
As John decides to finally cease his pacing in the kitchen, Sherlock finishes whatever he’s doing on the phone and stares at the place in the wallpaper that’s peeling. He says something under his breath, apparently, because John is suddenly looking at him.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, and then demands that John fix him tea also. He hates the way it tastes, doesn’t appreciate the subtle flavors in whatever John brews. They’re too strong, too full of the colors and tastes and smells that he already has hovering in his head. He has never experienced sensory overload, but he associates it with drinking tea. Even after all of this, he sees the way his flat mate’s eyes get a little less dull when he partakes in everyday activates and he does appreciates that. He can’t remember the last time anyone besides his immediate family cared that much about his health, and doesn’t exactly understand it, but the knowledge makes him feel a little less alone.
John brings colors and tastes and smells into his life too, but they don’t override everything else. They’re patient and understanding and simple. They bring contrast to the flat while making everything tie together. They’re cohesive. Sherlock had to make himself stop thinking about things laterally the second day John moved in with him, because John brought imagination into the flat, and light, and other emotionally charged metaphors, and Sherlock kept getting distracted by the way the air around him grew warmer whenever John was at his side.
Now, John is moving across the room again. He still seems full of energy, like a chemical reaction, producing heat and changing right before Sherlock’s eyes.
“Stop moving,” Sherlock snaps, his eyes half closed. To John they look almost black in the sparse light coming through the closed curtains. “It’s exhausting.”
John lets out a harsh breath, and Sherlock thinks ‘Oh, please’, and then there is a warm cup of tea in his hands and the smell of soap and mint washes over him. It’s a blanket, something warm and safe, and he almost opens his mouth to say something that would make John stay close to him. He’s not very good at keeping people close to him, though, so he just lifts the cup to his lips and drinks.
~
Sherlock is running through the streets of London without his coat on. It’s exhilarating, and cold, and he loves the feeling of energy rushing through his veins. His body is mechanical, all electric pulses and signals to his brain, and it has been so long since he’s last given himself some kind of fuel. The wind bites at the planes of his face and forearms, raising goose bumps and freezing the sweat that has almost settled against his skin.
He has nowhere to be, no criminal to chase, no set goal in mind. There is also no John Watson to chase after him, and running eases the heavy weight that has settled against his ribs ever since Sarah showed up at their flat with red lipstick on.
~
John doesn’t know when it happened, but somewhere between last week and today he has started to concern himself with time again.
He remembers the coppery smell of blood and the gruesome sight of gunshot wounds, and how time there didn’t seem like something set in a pattern. He remembers thinking to himself on that first day in the heat how one more minute, just sixty more seconds, could have given him enough time to save them. But over there, time is like death, it eludes and slithers and shakes. And John, even with his steady, scarred hands, could never grab onto it long enough. By the time he gets shot, it didn’t matter if there was an extra three minutes thrown in the mixture of shrieks and backfires.
When Sherlock has been gone for five hours without a check-in text, John finds himself counting down the nanoseconds until he returns.
~
They’re in a restaurant when it happens. It’s not a very upscale restaurant, and if John is being completely honest the water tastes like lemons and the food is overcooked, but they aren’t there for critiques.
A man, James Whittaker, is the top suspect in Sherlock’s new case. John doesn’t know any of the specifics because he has been at Sarah’s place four out of the six days since Lestrade walked through their door, but he goes along with Sherlock anyway because he needs him. James is currently sitting diagonal to their booth, at a table made of a dark wood. He’s cutting into a steak with as much fervor as a man of his stature can cut into large amounts of food. John never thought he’d see someone who was slimmer than Sherlock, but tonight he has been proved wrong.
Sherlock is staring over his shoulder at the windows behind him, and John takes the opportunity to look at him. He looks tired, and sickly, and John wonders when it became natural for Sherlock to be indifferent once he’s caught a scent. He thinks that maybe Sherlock is acting this way because he’s worried that he might have been tailing the wrong guy, until he sees the lift at the corner of his mouth.
James is walking towards their table, his steps echoing off of the linoleum floor. John tenses, but Sherlock’s bright eyes are suddenly boring into his own, and he tries his hardest to unravel himself. For thirteen seconds all John does is stare at the bones of Sherlock’s face, all angular beauty and velveteen skin, and then James has his palms pressed into the shine of their table.
“Hello,” Sherlock says, running his pointer finger along the spokes of his fork. His voice is low, lower than usual, and it has a slight edge to it that makes John’s breath stutter in his throat.
“Can I do anything for you?” Is what James replies. His accent is thick and rough, dodgy, and John straightens his back and leans against the cushioned bench.
Sherlock turns his gaze away from John and smirks at the man looming over them. He shakes his head and his dark curls sway back and forth against his forehead. John mentally tells him to protect himself, to not be an arrogant twat just this once, but Sherlock is too busy being proud to deduce it.
“Not particularly, no. That watch interests me, though.” He nods his head towards the gold band on the man’s wrist. John watches as his hand travels slowly, subtly, down the handle of the fork. He feels something building in his stomach, something that makes sweat prickle and crawl down his spine. He identifies it as panic.
“This one?” James asks, his face a perfect mask of ignorance. Sherlock feels like laughing, like yelling out harsh things, but all he does is narrow his eyes and shift his foot so that his left calf is resting solidly against John’s leg.
“Oh, yes, that one. The one that you stole from Ms. Jones right after you bashed her head in with your steel toed work boot. Clever, really. Criminally fascinating.” Sherlock is openly clutching the fork in his hand now, his left hand resting stiffly against the table.
And then James Whittaker knocks him out.
When they get home that night, John is swaying on his feet. He doesn’t know exactly how long it has been since he’s experienced tiredness such as this, but it has been a long time. He thanks Lestrade in his head for allowing them to go home early, because otherwise he would have been passed out on his feet. He is holding bandages and alcohol and medical tape in his arms, their weight pushing at his jumper, when he comes downstairs to check up on Sherlock.
He’s lying on the floor, his face towards the ceiling. His shirt is riding up, showing off the pale skin of his abdomen, his sides. John stops for a moment to appreciate the view and then starts when he hears the laughter bursting from Sherlock’s mouth.
“You’ve gone mad, have you?” Is what he gets out before collapsing cross-legged next to him. The air is thick in the small room, hot and sticky like summer. He doesn’t think about the gash over Sherlock’s eye or the dried blood on his cheek because it makes his head spin. He positions the materials he brought down with him in the space between them and then waits Sherlock’s outburst out.
He wakes up with his cheek against the cold floor. Sherlock has his eyes half closed again and he’s staring at him. His eyes are lighter in the near-dark, almost-but-not-quite blue, specks of gray running throughout them. He has a bandage untidily placed over his cut and he’s still lying on his back. His chest rises and falls with his breath and John is transfixed.
“You are one daft man, Sherlock Holmes.” He mumbles, his voice rough with sleep, and Sherlock smiles at him. John’s chest explodes from the warmth of it.
“How was I to know that he was bold enough to hit me in the middle of a public establishment?” he asks, his voice high with false questioning. John laughs and closes his eyes again. The cool floor and his nap has cleared his head and left him feeling refreshed, light. He feels like he has been filled with air, but at the same time his limbs are heavy, lethargic.
“Would you play something for me?” he asks the air suddenly, tentatively, and then opens his eyes. The shock on Sherlock’s face makes him want to laugh and cry at the same time. His heart is beating wonderfully against his ribcage and tenderness spreads itself to his toes and the tips of his fingers. He settles for a small smile.
Sherlock breathes out of his nose and bites at his lip.
“Of course.” He says, simply, like it’s obvious that he would do anything John commanded at any moment in time, why doesn’t he understand that? “Does Sarah-“
“Don’t, Sherlock.” John rubs at his forehead and sits up. Sherlock’s shirt is still up, and John openly looks at him now. He’s feeling bold, and confused, and right. But most of all he’s just feeling lonely. He wonders how Sherlock does it all the time; be alone. He wonders how many scars have graced his skin. He wonders what it feels like, what it is like, being Sherlock’s skin.
And then he touches the whiteness of his side and relishes Sherlock’s gasp.
He doesn’t look at his face, but not out of fear. He’s imagining now, thinking about ways to put into words how warm Sherlock is, how unbelievably beautiful he is. He doesn’t know what to do now that he has passed that unspoken pinnacle, but Sherlock’s skin is buzzing beneath his fingertips, the staccato beating of his heart passing into his fingerprints and making its way sluggishly through his veins and into his own heart.
“John,” Sherlock grounds out. It’s breathy and wanting and John almost whimpers before he moves so that his thighs are pressed in close against Sherlock’s sides. There is so little space between them, but it feels natural, almost like chasing cabs and conspiring with Lestrade and biting his tongue against the insults that he would throw at Sally if he felt the need. He leans in close and breathes the air that Sherlock exhales, and then their lips are together, pressing, biting, and John feels lightheaded and faint.
Sherlock pushes his nose against his face and pulls away, and then comes back again, nipping at John’s neck and pressing messy kisses at his jaw. There is electricity humming through the flat again, but it’s louder this time, and it’s inside John’s head, and he presses his body down against Sherlock’s and then it’s like the humming is a tidal wave of sound, of lust.
Sherlock’s head falls back to the floor and he moans as John runs his shaking hands up towards his chest, palms passing lightly over his nipples, and then the electricity is passed into their searching mouths and strained voices and it’s like running through London all over again, except the weight against Sherlock’s ribs is no longer harmful.
~
It has been two weeks since the night Sherlock got punched, and everything is almost normal.
John still makes tea and has nightmares and gets annoyed when he sees fingernails in the butter dish.
Sherlock still gets a rush from curiosity and he still makes offhanded deductions about John and he still paces and plays the violin at ungodly hours in the morning.
But now John smiles when he smells the faint traces of chemicals in Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock smiles when John makes tea for the both of them, and they both wake up next to each other in bed, limbs curled tightly together and both smelling of sweat and cotton and sex.
And whenever Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade come into the flat, they notice things arranged next to each other that weren’t like that before, and everything is in its place and coexisting perfectly.
And if Mycroft just so happens to check up on Sherlock every once in a while to see the effect that loving John Watson has on him, well, Sherlock can’t really find room in his body to complain.