Fic challenge BBC Sherlock
This is a challenge fic for Letswritesherlock on tumblr. You can find all the entries here. I thought it pretty fun and seeing as I want to come out of my comfort zone concerning writing I wrote something. It's not much, but it's mine :)
After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…
As soon as they walked in the door, John rounded on Sherlock, grabbed his coat lapels and threw him against it. The door slammed shut with a bang.
'What the fuck were you thinking?!'
Sherlock watched with wide eyes as his normally so calm friend completely lost his temper.
'I know you think you are invincible. I know you think you can just go off, confront the bad guy and come home after proving again, how brilliant and awesome you are. But you really need to pay attention to what I have to say in a minute, because I'm only going to say it once, and then it's done. Do you hear me?'
Sherlock nodded, still almost mesmerized by the blazing blue in front of him.
'Good.'
The hands on the detective's coat lapels tightened further, becoming almost white in their anger.
'The next time you feel the urge to leave me behind, I will stay behind.'
The hands left the coat. Seconds later John turned his back on Sherlock and stomped his way up the stairs, leaving the detective standing still leaning against the door with his mouth open as if to gasp for air.
John shut his door forcefully. How dare he do this to him time and time again? He curled his hands into fists and brought them to his forehead, clenching his eyes shut against the tears. For a while only the ragged breathing of a man on edge was heard. Lips were bitten bloody to muffle the sounds trying to escape. Finally, John took a last deep breath and looked up, watching the dust motes dance around his room. The sun was setting, draping the right half of his room in shadows. John closed his eyes again. Nightmare images played across his lids. He almost lost him today. Too fucking close. Too much.
Sherlock listened to the door slamming shut. Well. That had been unexpected. Not John's reaction, no. But his words. A light tremor ran through the detective. Sherlock looked down at his hands. Still gripping the door behind him, trying to hold on to something solid. Well. He cleared his throat, stepped away from the door and made his way up the stairs to their flat. Time for some tea. He slipped out of his coat. The kettle was filled, put on the stove, tea bags were searched for, found and put into two cups. The fridge door clicked shut after Sherlock retrieved the milk. The silence around him was only broken by the whistle of the boiling kettle. Sherlock turned off the heat and poured two cups. A dash of milk in one cup. A generous amount and two sugars in the other. He removed the tea bags and threw them in the bin on his way out of the kitchen. His steps echoed in the stairwell. The detective hesitated a second before knocking on John's door. Long moments nothing happened. Then a body hit the wooden border with a soft thump.
'What do you want.'
Flat. Slightly stuffy. Not good.
'I brought tea.'
Indecision on the other side. Sherlock ignored the urge to fidget. A shifting body had the detective looking up from his contemplation of the steam rising in front of his face. The door opened. Red eyes peered around the barrier between them.
Sherlock frowned. Really not good. He held out the cup with the little bit of milk. John watched the peace offering come closer. His hesitation made something twist in Sherlock's stomach, something ugly and dark, trying to crawl his way into his throat. Just as he wanted to take the cup back, John opened the door in full and signaled him to enter. Sherlock closed his eyes for a second.
Seemed as if there was such a thing as second chances.
He followed his friend and, softly, closed the door behind them.
John had his back to him, staring out the window, hands balled into fists. His shoulders formed a rigid battle ground. Gently now. Sherlock stepped into John's field of vision, offering the cup again. John finally took it. The slowly rising steam obscured his features for a moment. Sherlock stared. He had never seen his friend looking so defeated. This was definitely Not Good.
'I'm sorry.'
John swallowed a mouthful of tea and didn't look away from the window.
'I shouldn't have gone that way without telling you first. Although, it was fairly obvious from the scuff marks on the floor where we were headed.'
'You should really stop before you dig yourself in any deeper, Sherlock.'
John's voice was dark and cutting.
Sherlock started to fidget, his fingernails tried to bury themselves into his palms. Emotions weren't his strong suite. What more could John want? He apologized, he made tea, he came up here after coming to the conclusion that he had to apologize for his blunder. What was left? Sherlock walked through his mental map of behavioral concepts, ticking off check marks along the way.
Ah. Forgiveness.
That depended entirely on John. So. How to make him forgive this? He couldn't promise to never do this mistake again, because he probably will go off alone in the future, he will leave John behind at some point. He knows himself too thoroughly for that to not come true. Maybe...
'I will never again forget to tell you where I'm going.'
Will this suffice?
John looked up (finally) and watched him closely, his gaze crawling across his features looking for deceit, for falsehood. Sherlock held still. After sheer endless seconds, John sighed and closed his eyes against the truth.
'Fine.'
They both had to live with this lie. He wouldn't change this man, didn't want to even. John could only hope, that he always arrived on time. They stood for a moment longer, sipping tea gone cold. Sherlock memorized the room, the dust rising in the still air.
'Will you come downstairs?'
John curled his lips.
'In a bit.'
Sherlock nodded and left John behind.
After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…
As soon as they walked in the door, John rounded on Sherlock, grabbed his coat lapels and threw him against it. The door slammed shut with a bang.
'What the fuck were you thinking?!'
Sherlock watched with wide eyes as his normally so calm friend completely lost his temper.
'I know you think you are invincible. I know you think you can just go off, confront the bad guy and come home after proving again, how brilliant and awesome you are. But you really need to pay attention to what I have to say in a minute, because I'm only going to say it once, and then it's done. Do you hear me?'
Sherlock nodded, still almost mesmerized by the blazing blue in front of him.
'Good.'
The hands on the detective's coat lapels tightened further, becoming almost white in their anger.
'The next time you feel the urge to leave me behind, I will stay behind.'
The hands left the coat. Seconds later John turned his back on Sherlock and stomped his way up the stairs, leaving the detective standing still leaning against the door with his mouth open as if to gasp for air.
John shut his door forcefully. How dare he do this to him time and time again? He curled his hands into fists and brought them to his forehead, clenching his eyes shut against the tears. For a while only the ragged breathing of a man on edge was heard. Lips were bitten bloody to muffle the sounds trying to escape. Finally, John took a last deep breath and looked up, watching the dust motes dance around his room. The sun was setting, draping the right half of his room in shadows. John closed his eyes again. Nightmare images played across his lids. He almost lost him today. Too fucking close. Too much.
Sherlock listened to the door slamming shut. Well. That had been unexpected. Not John's reaction, no. But his words. A light tremor ran through the detective. Sherlock looked down at his hands. Still gripping the door behind him, trying to hold on to something solid. Well. He cleared his throat, stepped away from the door and made his way up the stairs to their flat. Time for some tea. He slipped out of his coat. The kettle was filled, put on the stove, tea bags were searched for, found and put into two cups. The fridge door clicked shut after Sherlock retrieved the milk. The silence around him was only broken by the whistle of the boiling kettle. Sherlock turned off the heat and poured two cups. A dash of milk in one cup. A generous amount and two sugars in the other. He removed the tea bags and threw them in the bin on his way out of the kitchen. His steps echoed in the stairwell. The detective hesitated a second before knocking on John's door. Long moments nothing happened. Then a body hit the wooden border with a soft thump.
'What do you want.'
Flat. Slightly stuffy. Not good.
'I brought tea.'
Indecision on the other side. Sherlock ignored the urge to fidget. A shifting body had the detective looking up from his contemplation of the steam rising in front of his face. The door opened. Red eyes peered around the barrier between them.
Sherlock frowned. Really not good. He held out the cup with the little bit of milk. John watched the peace offering come closer. His hesitation made something twist in Sherlock's stomach, something ugly and dark, trying to crawl his way into his throat. Just as he wanted to take the cup back, John opened the door in full and signaled him to enter. Sherlock closed his eyes for a second.
Seemed as if there was such a thing as second chances.
He followed his friend and, softly, closed the door behind them.
John had his back to him, staring out the window, hands balled into fists. His shoulders formed a rigid battle ground. Gently now. Sherlock stepped into John's field of vision, offering the cup again. John finally took it. The slowly rising steam obscured his features for a moment. Sherlock stared. He had never seen his friend looking so defeated. This was definitely Not Good.
'I'm sorry.'
John swallowed a mouthful of tea and didn't look away from the window.
'I shouldn't have gone that way without telling you first. Although, it was fairly obvious from the scuff marks on the floor where we were headed.'
'You should really stop before you dig yourself in any deeper, Sherlock.'
John's voice was dark and cutting.
Sherlock started to fidget, his fingernails tried to bury themselves into his palms. Emotions weren't his strong suite. What more could John want? He apologized, he made tea, he came up here after coming to the conclusion that he had to apologize for his blunder. What was left? Sherlock walked through his mental map of behavioral concepts, ticking off check marks along the way.
Ah. Forgiveness.
That depended entirely on John. So. How to make him forgive this? He couldn't promise to never do this mistake again, because he probably will go off alone in the future, he will leave John behind at some point. He knows himself too thoroughly for that to not come true. Maybe...
'I will never again forget to tell you where I'm going.'
Will this suffice?
John looked up (finally) and watched him closely, his gaze crawling across his features looking for deceit, for falsehood. Sherlock held still. After sheer endless seconds, John sighed and closed his eyes against the truth.
'Fine.'
They both had to live with this lie. He wouldn't change this man, didn't want to even. John could only hope, that he always arrived on time. They stood for a moment longer, sipping tea gone cold. Sherlock memorized the room, the dust rising in the still air.
'Will you come downstairs?'
John curled his lips.
'In a bit.'
Sherlock nodded and left John behind.