Sherlock/John Writes Itself
Excerpt from the 
fandom_helps fic, the first draft of which I finished this morning.
John worried about Sherlock going out when he was happy and sated after a case; worried that Sherlock would do something reckless and stupid simply because he was high on his own ego, and felt he could and would escape unharmed. When Sherlock was in a foul mood, John worried he would go out and throw himself in front of a bus, because he was "bored"; or he would go to a drug den and just sit, inhaling the vapors until his mind slowed and he lay comatose. Since the night John shot the cabbie, he'd always braced to find Sherlock dead, or to receive a phone call that his flat-mate had finally gotten himself killed.
"That is irrational," Sherlock had noted once.
"No, it isn't," John had almost retorted. "But trailing after you is. And how bloody protective I feel about you is. You're a fucking grown man, I know. But I'll be damned if you go out there alone. And if you're going to get yourself killed, at least let me be with you."
But he hadn't said any of that. Instead he'd gulped down the words, like barbed wire in his throat and belly, and wondered how many of them Sherlock had read in his face, his demeanor.
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fandom_helps fic, the first draft of which I finished this morning.
John worried about Sherlock going out when he was happy and sated after a case; worried that Sherlock would do something reckless and stupid simply because he was high on his own ego, and felt he could and would escape unharmed. When Sherlock was in a foul mood, John worried he would go out and throw himself in front of a bus, because he was "bored"; or he would go to a drug den and just sit, inhaling the vapors until his mind slowed and he lay comatose. Since the night John shot the cabbie, he'd always braced to find Sherlock dead, or to receive a phone call that his flat-mate had finally gotten himself killed.
"That is irrational," Sherlock had noted once.
"No, it isn't," John had almost retorted. "But trailing after you is. And how bloody protective I feel about you is. You're a fucking grown man, I know. But I'll be damned if you go out there alone. And if you're going to get yourself killed, at least let me be with you."
But he hadn't said any of that. Instead he'd gulped down the words, like barbed wire in his throat and belly, and wondered how many of them Sherlock had read in his face, his demeanor.
comments at dreamwidth. Comment there using dreamwidth or OpenID.