fic: Walk Away, Catch Up (1/2)
Title: Walk Away, Catch Up
Rating: R
Word Count: 4, 300 altogether
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: “This wasn’t a mistake, right?” He asks. A slow breeze has started to blow through the windows, sending the curtains into a waltz, and it cools the sweat still beading on his skin.
“No.” Sherlock answers. It’s final. It’s a very final thing to John, that one word. Like the ending of a case or the beginning of a diagnosis.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and the BBC do.
The night of Sherlock’s first big mistake in John's presence is dreary in a fitting, dependent kind of way.
Rain dribbles against windowpanes and lightning momentarily illuminates the rooms. Outside, water pools in the cracks in the sidewalks and spills over onto the streets. There's probably wind somewhere, but it's dark except for the quick whiteness of the lightning so it's hard to tell.
John, who acted like the adult of the two and called it an early night as soon as his feet were through the door to their flat, comes slowly out of his dreams to the patter of rain. It's pleasant and lulling, and for a minute he just lies there and allows himself to be pulled back into that area where dream meets reality, where the slippery slide of consciousness sways on the edge of the fray that is his mind.
But then his thoughts turn back to that evening and he shifts under the covers and sighs out of his nose; pulls a short, impatient breath through his mouth. He wonders for a moment if Sherlock is still awake, but then shakes his head clear of that thought. He's not supposed to be concerned about Sherlock, he reminds himself, the peace he found from sleep turning bitter and twisted in his gut.
He stands up and brings himself to make his way to the kitchen anyway. The floor is cool on the heels and arches of his feet, the air in the house buzzing and heavy with a sort of electric charge that clings to the fabric of his clothing and cards through his hair.
Sherlock is still sitting exactly where he left him four hours before; at the kitchen table, an adornment of utensils and flasks and papers scattered among the tabletop. But his head is in his hands, his fingers curling in his hair absentmindedly. John pauses in the doorway when he sees the sight. He's good at using his intuition, is always sure of just when to push forward and just when to back away, and something about the way Sherlock is sitting is making an alarm go off in his head. The dull thumping of his heart picks up its pace when he hears the short burst of air being breathed into Sherlock's hands.
"I'm making tea," He remarks offhandedly, a feeling of something close to dread coiling in his gut. Sherlock picks his head up at that and nods slightly, looking everywhere but at John. Even in the dull light John can see that his eyes are hooded in sleepy concentration and that below them are stark, dark rings.
"Sherlock, you need to sleep." He says. He regrets it almost instantly, but he's ready for the snort in reply.
"I thought I told you that I--" Sherlock starts, his mouth turned down at the corners, but John cuts him off with an angry noise. He steps forward and reaches his hand out to cup Sherlock's chin, and the other man doesn't pull away as he forces him to look him in the eyes.
"Yes, okay, I know you've told me." He's annoyed and tired and his fingers are thrumming against the warm skin of Sherlock's jaw, but he feels like he needs to be the middle ground between Sherlock and his mistake.
"People make mistakes and accidents all the time." He tries for less ‘annoyed’ and more ‘soothing’, but Sherlock shakes his head slightly and pulls himself from John's grip. He pushes against the side of the table and gets himself onto his feet, and then he's pacing around the kitchen.
"People, yes. People make mistakes. I don't." He scrubs at his face, looking more and more agitated as the seconds between his response and John’s tick away.
"Everyone makes mistakes. Every living thing makes a mistake at one point or another, and you're a living thing, aren't you?" John asks; it's rhetorical and they both know it. He thinks Sherlock will make some kind of respond anyway but the man only stops pacing and turns towards him.
"You certainly aren't a machine, Sherlock. And-- even machines make mistakes!" John points at him, a sort of 'tell-me-I'm-wrong' gesture and it seems to placate the other man. His mouth quirks into a tiny smile and he takes his first real look at John of the entire night.
"Like the one you had a row with?” He asks, tentatively, and John suddenly realizes that Sherlock thinks he's disappointed in him.
"Yes, exactly like the one I had a row with," He says, lightly, brings his hands to rest on the curve of the detective's shoulder, the dip where his neck meets his jaw. He rubs his thumbs in tight circles where they meet fabric and feels Sherlock relaxing.
"I don't know why you insist on doing everything alone, Sherlock," He breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, and he moves so that he has Sherlock pressed against the tabletop, "But you do understand that I'm here to help you if you ever need it, right?"
Sherlock nods and dips his head, and their foreheads connect with a solid bump. John closes his eyes and tries to calm his breathing, if not because this is a very rare thing he's receiving right now, being able to touch Sherlock, than because he doesn't want the other man to know that he's tense.
"It was so obvious," Sherlock tells him, his tone filled with self-depreciation, and John can't help the small laugh that escapes from his mouth. Sherlock cracks open an eye and glares at him, and John knows that the worst is probably over.
"Nobody could have known that she had been planning on ordering that ticket, Sherlock," He says in answer to his actions, and then he quickly adds, "No, not even you."
"Right," Sherlock says. He nods and John is brought through the motion of it where their skin connects.
"Right. Now will you get some sleep?" John pulls his head back reluctantly and looks at the harsh lines around the other man's eyes and mouth.
Sherlock doesn't say anything for a while, but he does bring his hand up to wipe his thumb along the underside of John's cheekbone.
"Are you still going to make tea?" He asks, lets his hand drop to his side. John can't cover the wideness of his eyes or the slight surprised sound that Sherlock's action tore out of him, but he figures Sherlock would have known anyway.
"Of course," He smiles, clearing his throat, and one side of Sherlock's mouth turns upwards in response.
He goes about heating the water and pulling the mugs from the cupboard, and when he turns around to see if Sherlock is still in the kitchen, he finds that the man is sitting in the same chair he was in when John first saw him, his arms crossed along the tabletop and his head resting against the wood.
John smiles slowly and puts the second of the mugs back.
He enjoys his tea in the silence of Sherlock's sleep and the lightening of the storm blowing through London around them.
*
Sherlock’s second big mistake comes with the beginning of spring; the rain still pouring out of the sky.
John is running after him, down an alley and then into a street, when the burning in his lungs and the pain in his side finally forces him to stop, doubled over with the intensity of them. He was sick only two days before and the after-effects of it have still not worn off. The pounding in his head is long and aching, steadier than the rain soaking through his jacket and jeans, and he makes his way over to a wall and leans his weight on it. He has lost Sherlock and he doesn’t particularly feel up to finding him anytime soon.
So he sits and he waits.
When he finally feels the vibration and hears the ding coming from his pocket, he’s right on the verge of sleeping. He’s still out of breath and in pain, but it’s duller now that he’s had time to recuperate.
He pulls out his cell phone, cupping his hand above the screen to protect it from the water dripping down his nose and out of his hair and from his chin, and texts Sherlock his location in reply.
Sherlock shows up within ten minutes. His hair is plastered to his head and his coat looks about three times heavier than what it should be, but otherwise it’s as if he hasn’t been running great distances in the rain at all.
John hears the squeak of his shoes as he comes to sit down beside him, and he can’t help but let out a small puff of laughter at the sound. Sherlock frowns at him and crosses his legs, placing his hands in his lap.
“I miscalculated the time it would take for you to recover.” He says simply. John can hear in his tone that he’s apologizing. He’s looking down at his hands and breathing steadily, and John knows that he’s fighting some kind of internal battle.
John isn’t the kind of person who’s hopeful without cause, but if he were he’d say that two of the largest emotions that Sherlock is currently feeling are excitement at catching the criminal after days of chasing after him (mentally and physically)
and actual concern about the state of John’s health.
This surprisingly worries John a little bit.
But he doesn’t have the vigor in him to mull it over at the moment, so he just closes his eyes and musters enough strength to push himself up and off of the ground. His legs feel wobbly and spots dance before his eyes, but overall he thinks he’s holding up pretty well.
And then, as he’s pushing himself away from the wall and towards the street to try and get a cab, he feels Sherlock’s cold, thin fingers wrap around his wrist and he turns back.
The Touching Thing, as John calls it in his head, started the night of Sherlock’s first big mistake. Over the past few months, it has grown to need capital letters and perhaps if he writes it down some day, multiple underlines.
Because ever since John had reached out to touch Sherlock, Sherlock has reached around every obstacle known to man to touch John. For instance, there always seem to be little brushes and touches on his shoulder now. Little bumps that John knows Sherlock has the grace not to do. And one time he even went so far as to rest his knee against the side of John’s leg when they met with a client, when John knew that Sherlock had enough room on his side of the couch to spread out.
And John isn’t sure why, but he doesn’t exactly mind it. Yes, it’s strange. But when has Sherlock’s behavior not been strange, even when he’s doing something normal?
Plus, he knows firsthand that there’s nothing wrong with a few touches here and there. In fact, he has used touch to calm down and soothe so many people that it doesn’t even feel weird to come into contact with others every now and then.
Except that with Sherlock it definitely does, even if it’s a nice weird.
“I made a mistake,” Sherlock tells him slowly, his mouth forming every consonant perfectly, his voice smoothing over the vowels.
John blinks once. Twice.
“No you didn’t, Sherlock.” He answers, just as slowly. His head is starting to pound again and all he wants is a long, hot shower.
Sherlock pushes himself up, too, and his hand never leaves John’s wrist.
“Yes, I did.”
And John doesn’t really feel like arguing with him. If Sherlock wants to admit to his nonexistent mistake, who is he to try and stop him?
“Yeah, okay.” He nods, finalizing it, and Sherlock drops his hand to his side.
They’re in the cab when he feels it again, Sherlock’s cold fingers, but this time they’re resting along his forearm, and John’s mind is just hazy enough to let it slide that Sherlock’s not wearing his gloves.
His mouth, however, apparently wasn’t, because then Sherlock’s voice is filling the space around them, saying, “I don’t like the way it feels, when they get wet.”
And John just smiles slowly and yawns, taking the information and storing it because he takes all that he can get when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.
~
When they get home, John does take his long, hot shower. And it definitely makes him feel better.
And if, while he’s getting a glass of water from the kitchen and calls out to Sherlock that he’s been forgiven for whatever mistake he thinks he has made, Sherlock walks over and reaches into the cabinet to grab a glass of his own and his body plasters itself against John’s side, then oh well.
There are stranger things that have happened.
Part Two
Rating: R
Word Count: 4, 300 altogether
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: “This wasn’t a mistake, right?” He asks. A slow breeze has started to blow through the windows, sending the curtains into a waltz, and it cools the sweat still beading on his skin.
“No.” Sherlock answers. It’s final. It’s a very final thing to John, that one word. Like the ending of a case or the beginning of a diagnosis.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and the BBC do.
The night of Sherlock’s first big mistake in John's presence is dreary in a fitting, dependent kind of way.
Rain dribbles against windowpanes and lightning momentarily illuminates the rooms. Outside, water pools in the cracks in the sidewalks and spills over onto the streets. There's probably wind somewhere, but it's dark except for the quick whiteness of the lightning so it's hard to tell.
John, who acted like the adult of the two and called it an early night as soon as his feet were through the door to their flat, comes slowly out of his dreams to the patter of rain. It's pleasant and lulling, and for a minute he just lies there and allows himself to be pulled back into that area where dream meets reality, where the slippery slide of consciousness sways on the edge of the fray that is his mind.
But then his thoughts turn back to that evening and he shifts under the covers and sighs out of his nose; pulls a short, impatient breath through his mouth. He wonders for a moment if Sherlock is still awake, but then shakes his head clear of that thought. He's not supposed to be concerned about Sherlock, he reminds himself, the peace he found from sleep turning bitter and twisted in his gut.
He stands up and brings himself to make his way to the kitchen anyway. The floor is cool on the heels and arches of his feet, the air in the house buzzing and heavy with a sort of electric charge that clings to the fabric of his clothing and cards through his hair.
Sherlock is still sitting exactly where he left him four hours before; at the kitchen table, an adornment of utensils and flasks and papers scattered among the tabletop. But his head is in his hands, his fingers curling in his hair absentmindedly. John pauses in the doorway when he sees the sight. He's good at using his intuition, is always sure of just when to push forward and just when to back away, and something about the way Sherlock is sitting is making an alarm go off in his head. The dull thumping of his heart picks up its pace when he hears the short burst of air being breathed into Sherlock's hands.
"I'm making tea," He remarks offhandedly, a feeling of something close to dread coiling in his gut. Sherlock picks his head up at that and nods slightly, looking everywhere but at John. Even in the dull light John can see that his eyes are hooded in sleepy concentration and that below them are stark, dark rings.
"Sherlock, you need to sleep." He says. He regrets it almost instantly, but he's ready for the snort in reply.
"I thought I told you that I--" Sherlock starts, his mouth turned down at the corners, but John cuts him off with an angry noise. He steps forward and reaches his hand out to cup Sherlock's chin, and the other man doesn't pull away as he forces him to look him in the eyes.
"Yes, okay, I know you've told me." He's annoyed and tired and his fingers are thrumming against the warm skin of Sherlock's jaw, but he feels like he needs to be the middle ground between Sherlock and his mistake.
"People make mistakes and accidents all the time." He tries for less ‘annoyed’ and more ‘soothing’, but Sherlock shakes his head slightly and pulls himself from John's grip. He pushes against the side of the table and gets himself onto his feet, and then he's pacing around the kitchen.
"People, yes. People make mistakes. I don't." He scrubs at his face, looking more and more agitated as the seconds between his response and John’s tick away.
"Everyone makes mistakes. Every living thing makes a mistake at one point or another, and you're a living thing, aren't you?" John asks; it's rhetorical and they both know it. He thinks Sherlock will make some kind of respond anyway but the man only stops pacing and turns towards him.
"You certainly aren't a machine, Sherlock. And-- even machines make mistakes!" John points at him, a sort of 'tell-me-I'm-wrong' gesture and it seems to placate the other man. His mouth quirks into a tiny smile and he takes his first real look at John of the entire night.
"Like the one you had a row with?” He asks, tentatively, and John suddenly realizes that Sherlock thinks he's disappointed in him.
"Yes, exactly like the one I had a row with," He says, lightly, brings his hands to rest on the curve of the detective's shoulder, the dip where his neck meets his jaw. He rubs his thumbs in tight circles where they meet fabric and feels Sherlock relaxing.
"I don't know why you insist on doing everything alone, Sherlock," He breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, and he moves so that he has Sherlock pressed against the tabletop, "But you do understand that I'm here to help you if you ever need it, right?"
Sherlock nods and dips his head, and their foreheads connect with a solid bump. John closes his eyes and tries to calm his breathing, if not because this is a very rare thing he's receiving right now, being able to touch Sherlock, than because he doesn't want the other man to know that he's tense.
"It was so obvious," Sherlock tells him, his tone filled with self-depreciation, and John can't help the small laugh that escapes from his mouth. Sherlock cracks open an eye and glares at him, and John knows that the worst is probably over.
"Nobody could have known that she had been planning on ordering that ticket, Sherlock," He says in answer to his actions, and then he quickly adds, "No, not even you."
"Right," Sherlock says. He nods and John is brought through the motion of it where their skin connects.
"Right. Now will you get some sleep?" John pulls his head back reluctantly and looks at the harsh lines around the other man's eyes and mouth.
Sherlock doesn't say anything for a while, but he does bring his hand up to wipe his thumb along the underside of John's cheekbone.
"Are you still going to make tea?" He asks, lets his hand drop to his side. John can't cover the wideness of his eyes or the slight surprised sound that Sherlock's action tore out of him, but he figures Sherlock would have known anyway.
"Of course," He smiles, clearing his throat, and one side of Sherlock's mouth turns upwards in response.
He goes about heating the water and pulling the mugs from the cupboard, and when he turns around to see if Sherlock is still in the kitchen, he finds that the man is sitting in the same chair he was in when John first saw him, his arms crossed along the tabletop and his head resting against the wood.
John smiles slowly and puts the second of the mugs back.
He enjoys his tea in the silence of Sherlock's sleep and the lightening of the storm blowing through London around them.
*
Sherlock’s second big mistake comes with the beginning of spring; the rain still pouring out of the sky.
John is running after him, down an alley and then into a street, when the burning in his lungs and the pain in his side finally forces him to stop, doubled over with the intensity of them. He was sick only two days before and the after-effects of it have still not worn off. The pounding in his head is long and aching, steadier than the rain soaking through his jacket and jeans, and he makes his way over to a wall and leans his weight on it. He has lost Sherlock and he doesn’t particularly feel up to finding him anytime soon.
So he sits and he waits.
When he finally feels the vibration and hears the ding coming from his pocket, he’s right on the verge of sleeping. He’s still out of breath and in pain, but it’s duller now that he’s had time to recuperate.
He pulls out his cell phone, cupping his hand above the screen to protect it from the water dripping down his nose and out of his hair and from his chin, and texts Sherlock his location in reply.
Sherlock shows up within ten minutes. His hair is plastered to his head and his coat looks about three times heavier than what it should be, but otherwise it’s as if he hasn’t been running great distances in the rain at all.
John hears the squeak of his shoes as he comes to sit down beside him, and he can’t help but let out a small puff of laughter at the sound. Sherlock frowns at him and crosses his legs, placing his hands in his lap.
“I miscalculated the time it would take for you to recover.” He says simply. John can hear in his tone that he’s apologizing. He’s looking down at his hands and breathing steadily, and John knows that he’s fighting some kind of internal battle.
John isn’t the kind of person who’s hopeful without cause, but if he were he’d say that two of the largest emotions that Sherlock is currently feeling are excitement at catching the criminal after days of chasing after him (mentally and physically)
and actual concern about the state of John’s health.
This surprisingly worries John a little bit.
But he doesn’t have the vigor in him to mull it over at the moment, so he just closes his eyes and musters enough strength to push himself up and off of the ground. His legs feel wobbly and spots dance before his eyes, but overall he thinks he’s holding up pretty well.
And then, as he’s pushing himself away from the wall and towards the street to try and get a cab, he feels Sherlock’s cold, thin fingers wrap around his wrist and he turns back.
The Touching Thing, as John calls it in his head, started the night of Sherlock’s first big mistake. Over the past few months, it has grown to need capital letters and perhaps if he writes it down some day, multiple underlines.
Because ever since John had reached out to touch Sherlock, Sherlock has reached around every obstacle known to man to touch John. For instance, there always seem to be little brushes and touches on his shoulder now. Little bumps that John knows Sherlock has the grace not to do. And one time he even went so far as to rest his knee against the side of John’s leg when they met with a client, when John knew that Sherlock had enough room on his side of the couch to spread out.
And John isn’t sure why, but he doesn’t exactly mind it. Yes, it’s strange. But when has Sherlock’s behavior not been strange, even when he’s doing something normal?
Plus, he knows firsthand that there’s nothing wrong with a few touches here and there. In fact, he has used touch to calm down and soothe so many people that it doesn’t even feel weird to come into contact with others every now and then.
Except that with Sherlock it definitely does, even if it’s a nice weird.
“I made a mistake,” Sherlock tells him slowly, his mouth forming every consonant perfectly, his voice smoothing over the vowels.
John blinks once. Twice.
“No you didn’t, Sherlock.” He answers, just as slowly. His head is starting to pound again and all he wants is a long, hot shower.
Sherlock pushes himself up, too, and his hand never leaves John’s wrist.
“Yes, I did.”
And John doesn’t really feel like arguing with him. If Sherlock wants to admit to his nonexistent mistake, who is he to try and stop him?
“Yeah, okay.” He nods, finalizing it, and Sherlock drops his hand to his side.
They’re in the cab when he feels it again, Sherlock’s cold fingers, but this time they’re resting along his forearm, and John’s mind is just hazy enough to let it slide that Sherlock’s not wearing his gloves.
His mouth, however, apparently wasn’t, because then Sherlock’s voice is filling the space around them, saying, “I don’t like the way it feels, when they get wet.”
And John just smiles slowly and yawns, taking the information and storing it because he takes all that he can get when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.
~
When they get home, John does take his long, hot shower. And it definitely makes him feel better.
And if, while he’s getting a glass of water from the kitchen and calls out to Sherlock that he’s been forgiven for whatever mistake he thinks he has made, Sherlock walks over and reaches into the cabinet to grab a glass of his own and his body plasters itself against John’s side, then oh well.
There are stranger things that have happened.
Part Two