Fanfic. The Source of All Anxiety (Sherlock)
I wish I could write something other than really short bits of fic. Talk about utterly impossible for me. *sigh*
The Source of All Anxiety (Sherlock, PG13, Jen Watson/Lestrade. I don't own any of these characters.) One night, Jen has had enough of Sherlock's mood swings.
It's past midnight and Jen can't sleep.
Behind closed eyes she can see nothing but the battlefield. She can smell gunpowder and sweat and blood and the fear coming from the local villagers. She can hears their cries, drowned out by the sound of gun fire.
It sets her heart racing in her chest and winds her whole body up tight, enough that anything could snap the tension.
So she writes.
Even though she's fired the therapist, she's found that she enjoys the blog now that she has something other than her own life to write about. She's found writing about her observations relieve far more tension than writing about what she ate for breakfast or watched on daytime telly.
That it irritates Sherlock is a welcome by-product.
She can hear him downstairs, pacing and muttering.
He's bored and it's dangerous.
Against her better judgment she makes her way down the stairs and sticks her head into the doorway.
She sees the gun and instantly moves back out on to the landing as she hears the shot, like a crack of thunder in such a confined space.
Not for the first time she has difficulty keeping her voice down. "Have you lost your bloody mind?"
He doesn't stop pacing, nor does he seem concerned that he'd been 2 feet away from shooting her. "Of course not," he waves her off.
Even her calm and mild-mannered sensibilities have their limits. "If the words 'I was bored' come out of your mind -"
"You'll what?" He rounded on her, waving the gun around in the air.
Most of the time she admires his quick mind.
Pity for him she has quicker hands.
Once she's disarmed him (the thought of waving it around in his face crossing her mind before disappearing, because she has little doubt it would have no effect whatsoever), removed the cartridge and cleared the chamber she slaps him.
Hard.
"You're a miserable bastard when you're bored, Sherlock Holmes." She bottles the rant about dangerous firearms in the hands of childish and selfish people and storms out. A dramatic, probably ineffective, and childish display of her own, but it makes her feel better.
His mutterings continue to seep up through the floor as she throws the Browning and a change of clothes into a bag.
* * * * *
Once, she might have cringed at the desperate display of showing up at a man's door in the early hours of the morning, but she's not looking for companionship right now; she's looking for sleep.
Bleary eyed, Lestrade doesn't even blink at finding her on his doorstep.
She's still wound so tight she can't even speak, and she doubted whether he'd understand the true impact of 'He nearly shot me' without trying to lock Sherlock away.
Instead she sinks into his old couch, folding her legs beneath her and staring into space while she tries to bring her blood pressure down.
He watches her intently before asking, "Coffee?"
She shakes her head. "It's the middle of the night," she points out. "Coffee's the last thing I need."
He perches on the edge of the couch. "What'd he do this time?"
"You really don't want to know," she advises, resting her head against his thigh.
She's not sure how this started; not sure if it will last. But they'd found commonality in their mutual respect and frustration of a brilliant man, and it had gone further than anyone could have predicted.
"What can I do?"
She sighs and feels the sudden guilt of burdening him with all of this. "You don't need to do anything," she tells him and means it. Already the quiet and space and his presence has calmed her. "I just need to sleep."
He pulls her up, and she ignores the ache in her leg, following him back to the bedroom.
Curled up against him in the dark she doesn't see anything when she closes her eyes. All she feels is the warm breath on the back of neck.
The last of her tension fades away.
The Source of All Anxiety (Sherlock, PG13, Jen Watson/Lestrade. I don't own any of these characters.) One night, Jen has had enough of Sherlock's mood swings.
It's past midnight and Jen can't sleep.
Behind closed eyes she can see nothing but the battlefield. She can smell gunpowder and sweat and blood and the fear coming from the local villagers. She can hears their cries, drowned out by the sound of gun fire.
It sets her heart racing in her chest and winds her whole body up tight, enough that anything could snap the tension.
So she writes.
Even though she's fired the therapist, she's found that she enjoys the blog now that she has something other than her own life to write about. She's found writing about her observations relieve far more tension than writing about what she ate for breakfast or watched on daytime telly.
That it irritates Sherlock is a welcome by-product.
She can hear him downstairs, pacing and muttering.
He's bored and it's dangerous.
Against her better judgment she makes her way down the stairs and sticks her head into the doorway.
She sees the gun and instantly moves back out on to the landing as she hears the shot, like a crack of thunder in such a confined space.
Not for the first time she has difficulty keeping her voice down. "Have you lost your bloody mind?"
He doesn't stop pacing, nor does he seem concerned that he'd been 2 feet away from shooting her. "Of course not," he waves her off.
Even her calm and mild-mannered sensibilities have their limits. "If the words 'I was bored' come out of your mind -"
"You'll what?" He rounded on her, waving the gun around in the air.
Most of the time she admires his quick mind.
Pity for him she has quicker hands.
Once she's disarmed him (the thought of waving it around in his face crossing her mind before disappearing, because she has little doubt it would have no effect whatsoever), removed the cartridge and cleared the chamber she slaps him.
Hard.
"You're a miserable bastard when you're bored, Sherlock Holmes." She bottles the rant about dangerous firearms in the hands of childish and selfish people and storms out. A dramatic, probably ineffective, and childish display of her own, but it makes her feel better.
His mutterings continue to seep up through the floor as she throws the Browning and a change of clothes into a bag.
* * * * *
Once, she might have cringed at the desperate display of showing up at a man's door in the early hours of the morning, but she's not looking for companionship right now; she's looking for sleep.
Bleary eyed, Lestrade doesn't even blink at finding her on his doorstep.
She's still wound so tight she can't even speak, and she doubted whether he'd understand the true impact of 'He nearly shot me' without trying to lock Sherlock away.
Instead she sinks into his old couch, folding her legs beneath her and staring into space while she tries to bring her blood pressure down.
He watches her intently before asking, "Coffee?"
She shakes her head. "It's the middle of the night," she points out. "Coffee's the last thing I need."
He perches on the edge of the couch. "What'd he do this time?"
"You really don't want to know," she advises, resting her head against his thigh.
She's not sure how this started; not sure if it will last. But they'd found commonality in their mutual respect and frustration of a brilliant man, and it had gone further than anyone could have predicted.
"What can I do?"
She sighs and feels the sudden guilt of burdening him with all of this. "You don't need to do anything," she tells him and means it. Already the quiet and space and his presence has calmed her. "I just need to sleep."
He pulls her up, and she ignores the ache in her leg, following him back to the bedroom.
Curled up against him in the dark she doesn't see anything when she closes her eyes. All she feels is the warm breath on the back of neck.
The last of her tension fades away.