Fic: There There
Title: There There
Genre: Char Study. Very slight angst.
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Words: 803
Warnings: Slight Bondage
Summary: Its not easy loving a sociopath. John and Sherlock have great sex but John wonders if there's anything more to it.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money earned.
AN: Written to the song There There by Radiohead, but does not require the song for understanding. As requested by chickloveslotr . Part of my Radiohead songfic project. Details after fic. BTW these fics are all one-shots/drabbles and you can read any of them in any order.
Songs done: 15 Step, Black Star, All I Need, Fitter Happier, Karma Police, The Amazing Sounds of Orgy, No Surprises, Subterranean Homesick Alien, Faust Arp
Songs queued: Exit Music, You and Whose Army, True Love Waits/Jigsaw Falling into Place
There was an old Greek myth about an island on the high seas, inhabited by bird women singing beautiful songs, luring, ensnaring the unsuspecting sailors in their deathtrap. The men would fall asleep to their sweet lullaby, and they would climb aboard and tear them to pieces. No sane man could resist their perfect form and their hypnotic voice.
Now it was the year 2010 and the island's been replaced by 221 Baker Street, and the Siren's song by deductions reasoned out in a smooth baritone. And damn it if John Watson wasn't powerless to resist the Siren's every beck and call.
The first few months was all fun and games. John got his spirits back, and Sherlock got an audience for his genius. Then John fell in love, and Sherlock fell in lust. Then he woke up one morning, blind-folded and gagged. His hands were tied to the head of the bed and feet bound to the corners so his body made a giant 'A'. He wondered if Sherlock had finally crossed the line this time, that he'll be Sherlock's perfect crime, desiccated carefully and never found. Then he felt a shiver, and realized he was naked.
They developed a safe word. They'll stop when one of them says it, but it was always John, and Sherlock never paid much heed to it. And how was he to say it anyway when he was gagged half the time, with or without his consent?
So their involvement began. They certainly had a colorful sex life, but pretty soon John wondered if this was it. Sherlock was a self-diagnosed sociopath, but John never believed it for a second. Still, he wondered if the man was actually capable of emotions other than curiosity, or boredom, or pride. John recalled his abnormal psychology course in med-school. Sociopaths were promiscuous, manipulative, have shallow or nonexistent feelings. In short, he wondered if Sherlock really had a heart. He'd fallen off the ship and been dragged under the sea, but did the sea monster keep him just because he was a nice shag?
He sipped his coffee and watched the man in the silk pajamas, languid and cat like on the sofa, fingers steepled in thought. He would give up a lot to get a glimpse inside that head, that maddening, sociopathic head, get the answers to his question. Just one, did he or didn't he?
Cold eyes gave him a once over, and he can imagine the monologue going on in that head. Quickened breath, accelerated heartbeat, dilated pupils, and of course, that tell-tale slight bulge in his slacks. John turned away, but he could feel the eyes x-raying him still.
“Not really a convenient time, I'm afraid.”
John feigned calm. “Convenient time for what?”
“Sex, of course.”
John couldn't decide between feeling annoyed or abashed.
“We can do it later if you like. I'm in the middle of working out an assassination in Beirut. I should be done in about five hours. Why don't you work on your blog in the mean time?”
John decided on feeling annoyed. He grabbed his coat and escaped outside. For all the detective's observational superpowers, he neglected the question in John's frown and the uncertainty in John's worry lines.
For their first Valentine John bought a bouquet of roses. He felt foolish and nearly threw them away, but in the end stuffed them in a vase with some water. When Sherlock came home he made a noncommittal 'Hm' when he saw it, and that was that.
When the water dried up no one bothered to refill it.
Sally warned him, Lestrade warned him, Mycroft warned him. Still he fell into the trap. He waited every day for Sherlock to bare his sharp talons, to buck him off his spiny back and tell him he's been tricked, he's a fool. But night after night, Sherlock would call from his bedroom, his voice viscous and heavy, a honey coated bait, “John, you coming?” And John went, and John came.
The flowers were droopy and brown, sad reminders of the blossoms they were a few weeks ago.
John began ripping the petals.
He loved Sherlock, but did he love him back?
Even, odd, even, odd.
Did he or didn't he?
He plucked the last wilted petal off and tossed the stems. He'd lost count long ago.
The myth of the Sirens, what they left out of the story, what John wanted to know, was whatever did the Sirens want with the sailors? Were they just lonely, stripped of their feathers and marooned on an island? Were they really nymphos, hungering for hot men flesh? Were they simply cursed by a malicious God, doomed to make others fall in love but never love back? Were they sociopaths too?
--
AN:So this is part of the Radiohead songfic request project/thing I'm doing, because I just love them so much. If anyone feels like having a fic done to any Radiohead song, drop me a line in the comments. The queue is a bit long right now, so you'll have to wait a while for it to be up, but if you fancy a song of theirs, don't be shy! You can choose pairing/non pairing, premise/plot and genre. I also do Doctor Who fandom (Doctor/Master preferred) and House/Wilson.
AN2: Gosh I had the biggest writer's block. There There is just so ambiguous, and I'm sure I ended up with a very literal and superficial interpretation anyway. And for once, RL is so busy I couldn't procrastinate on LJ. Not an excuse and I'm sorry for the long wait!
Genre: Char Study. Very slight angst.
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Words: 803
Warnings: Slight Bondage
Summary: Its not easy loving a sociopath. John and Sherlock have great sex but John wonders if there's anything more to it.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money earned.
AN: Written to the song There There by Radiohead, but does not require the song for understanding. As requested by chickloveslotr . Part of my Radiohead songfic project. Details after fic. BTW these fics are all one-shots/drabbles and you can read any of them in any order.
Songs done: 15 Step, Black Star, All I Need, Fitter Happier, Karma Police, The Amazing Sounds of Orgy, No Surprises, Subterranean Homesick Alien, Faust Arp
Songs queued: Exit Music, You and Whose Army, True Love Waits/Jigsaw Falling into Place
There was an old Greek myth about an island on the high seas, inhabited by bird women singing beautiful songs, luring, ensnaring the unsuspecting sailors in their deathtrap. The men would fall asleep to their sweet lullaby, and they would climb aboard and tear them to pieces. No sane man could resist their perfect form and their hypnotic voice.
Now it was the year 2010 and the island's been replaced by 221 Baker Street, and the Siren's song by deductions reasoned out in a smooth baritone. And damn it if John Watson wasn't powerless to resist the Siren's every beck and call.
The first few months was all fun and games. John got his spirits back, and Sherlock got an audience for his genius. Then John fell in love, and Sherlock fell in lust. Then he woke up one morning, blind-folded and gagged. His hands were tied to the head of the bed and feet bound to the corners so his body made a giant 'A'. He wondered if Sherlock had finally crossed the line this time, that he'll be Sherlock's perfect crime, desiccated carefully and never found. Then he felt a shiver, and realized he was naked.
They developed a safe word. They'll stop when one of them says it, but it was always John, and Sherlock never paid much heed to it. And how was he to say it anyway when he was gagged half the time, with or without his consent?
So their involvement began. They certainly had a colorful sex life, but pretty soon John wondered if this was it. Sherlock was a self-diagnosed sociopath, but John never believed it for a second. Still, he wondered if the man was actually capable of emotions other than curiosity, or boredom, or pride. John recalled his abnormal psychology course in med-school. Sociopaths were promiscuous, manipulative, have shallow or nonexistent feelings. In short, he wondered if Sherlock really had a heart. He'd fallen off the ship and been dragged under the sea, but did the sea monster keep him just because he was a nice shag?
He sipped his coffee and watched the man in the silk pajamas, languid and cat like on the sofa, fingers steepled in thought. He would give up a lot to get a glimpse inside that head, that maddening, sociopathic head, get the answers to his question. Just one, did he or didn't he?
Cold eyes gave him a once over, and he can imagine the monologue going on in that head. Quickened breath, accelerated heartbeat, dilated pupils, and of course, that tell-tale slight bulge in his slacks. John turned away, but he could feel the eyes x-raying him still.
“Not really a convenient time, I'm afraid.”
John feigned calm. “Convenient time for what?”
“Sex, of course.”
John couldn't decide between feeling annoyed or abashed.
“We can do it later if you like. I'm in the middle of working out an assassination in Beirut. I should be done in about five hours. Why don't you work on your blog in the mean time?”
John decided on feeling annoyed. He grabbed his coat and escaped outside. For all the detective's observational superpowers, he neglected the question in John's frown and the uncertainty in John's worry lines.
For their first Valentine John bought a bouquet of roses. He felt foolish and nearly threw them away, but in the end stuffed them in a vase with some water. When Sherlock came home he made a noncommittal 'Hm' when he saw it, and that was that.
When the water dried up no one bothered to refill it.
Sally warned him, Lestrade warned him, Mycroft warned him. Still he fell into the trap. He waited every day for Sherlock to bare his sharp talons, to buck him off his spiny back and tell him he's been tricked, he's a fool. But night after night, Sherlock would call from his bedroom, his voice viscous and heavy, a honey coated bait, “John, you coming?” And John went, and John came.
The flowers were droopy and brown, sad reminders of the blossoms they were a few weeks ago.
John began ripping the petals.
He loved Sherlock, but did he love him back?
Even, odd, even, odd.
Did he or didn't he?
He plucked the last wilted petal off and tossed the stems. He'd lost count long ago.
The myth of the Sirens, what they left out of the story, what John wanted to know, was whatever did the Sirens want with the sailors? Were they just lonely, stripped of their feathers and marooned on an island? Were they really nymphos, hungering for hot men flesh? Were they simply cursed by a malicious God, doomed to make others fall in love but never love back? Were they sociopaths too?
--
AN:So this is part of the Radiohead songfic request project/thing I'm doing, because I just love them so much. If anyone feels like having a fic done to any Radiohead song, drop me a line in the comments. The queue is a bit long right now, so you'll have to wait a while for it to be up, but if you fancy a song of theirs, don't be shy! You can choose pairing/non pairing, premise/plot and genre. I also do Doctor Who fandom (Doctor/Master preferred) and House/Wilson.
AN2: Gosh I had the biggest writer's block. There There is just so ambiguous, and I'm sure I ended up with a very literal and superficial interpretation anyway. And for once, RL is so busy I couldn't procrastinate on LJ. Not an excuse and I'm sorry for the long wait!