Sherlock - Banking in the Dark [1/?]
Hello, this is my first Holmes/Watson fic, indeed my first fic written for the Sherlock fandom, so I hope you enjoy. :) Any tips or concrit are very welcome to help me improve on my characterisation. The title is vaguely inspired by 'The Blind Banker' and relates to Watson's feelings over his relationship with Holmes. It may just be a one-shot or there may be more, you decide!
Title: Banking in the Dark
Rating: PG-13 for now
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, John/Sarah, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft
Setting: 221b Baker Street, London, 2010 - a month or so after the Moriarty incident
Disclaimer: The latest incarnation of Sherlock Holmes belongs to the BBC, and specifically writers Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. And it is of course, originally, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's creation. Not mine.
Summary: John Watson can't decide whether Sherlock has or will ever have the capacity for commitment. Should he stay or should he go?
The shadows cast around the shared living room of 221b Baker Street vary in eeriness. On the wall opposite the mantelpiece is the darkened outline of a human skull; its material counterpart presiding over the fireplace, an object of both comfort and omen. It provides no comfort to John of course. Dr. John Watson, army doctor returned from Afghanistan. He has seen too many skulls in too many places for another to ever bring him anything but more despair. But the one the skull belongs to...well that's a different story.
Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. The only consulting detective in the world. An invented position of course, but a fact which makes it no less enthralling. Sherlock talks to this skull, cherishes it, caresses it even. To John it just speaks of death, and so he never speaks back. Puts up with it though; he puts up with all of Sherlock's infuriating idiosyncracies. Doesn't quite know why.
On the other side of the room, where the curtains have been hastily drawn shut, lies another, far less eerie shadow. It is the shadow of Sherlock Holmes' curly dark hair, peeking out over the top of the armchair he is sleeping in. It is a rare occasion that John gets to watch him sleep. His long legs flop over the armrest, Union Jack cushion squeezed tightly between his folded arms, the blue sheen of his dressing gown glowing brightly in the ever darkening room. The sunlight through the curtains has almost faded completely. John listens to Sherlock's rythmic breathing, sees his chest rising and falling gently. Oh what peace there is in the world, his world, when this man sleeps.
He gets up from his sitting at the table, medical books stacked in an orderly fashion. Picking up his now empty mug of tea from the desk, he makes his way to the kitchen, ensuring his movements are as quiet as possible. He rinses the mug and pours himself a glass of water, getting ready to retire to bed himself. He downs the glass, places it on the worktop and closes the kitchen blind. His eyes cast around restlessly for his phone; he is eager to see if Sarah has sent him any late night texts.
"It's in here."
John turns, startled. He was sleeping just a minute ago. He was! Annoyed, he stalks into the living room to find Sherlock with his eyes still closed, slight grin on his face.
"She hasn't sent you anything naughty tonight. I do hope you're not too disappointed?"
John sighs. He should be more than used to this by now, it's been three months. An impossible three months.
"Where is it?"
"Pocket." Sherlock shifts slightly in the chair, eyes firmly shut.
John sighs again, louder this time, before bending over Sherlock and rooting around in both of his dressing gown pockets. Fingers finding his phone, he snatches it from the material, almost tearing it.
"Watch it! This was expensive, you know. A gift from dear brother."
A small smile creeps across John's face. He succeeded in making Sherlock open his eyes. He doesn't allow himself to think about why he is always so keen to see the blue-grey orbs. They may have produced a small smile outwardly, but inside he's dancing.
"I didn't have you down as one for wearing Mycroft's castoffs."
Sherlock glares at him. John realises he is still bent slightly over him, looking down at him expectantly. He clears his throat uncomfortably and stands upright. The tiniest flicker of something undefinable appears in Sherlock's eyes and disappears again almost simultaneously.
"This is not a castoff. Only the best is good enough for Mycroft. How boring you are, John."
John purses his lips, mildly irritated.
"I'm off to bed. Goodnight."
"Goodnight. Oh, and John?"
John turns in the doorway, braced to receive yet another condescending comment.
"Please stop watching me sleep. It's becoming most tiresome."
John sputters, cheeks rapidly turning a nasty shade of pink. He says nothing, merely slinks away quietly to his room.
In the armchair next to the fire, Sherlock Holmes is looking rather pleased with himself.
Title: Banking in the Dark
Rating: PG-13 for now
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, John/Sarah, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft
Setting: 221b Baker Street, London, 2010 - a month or so after the Moriarty incident
Disclaimer: The latest incarnation of Sherlock Holmes belongs to the BBC, and specifically writers Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. And it is of course, originally, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's creation. Not mine.
Summary: John Watson can't decide whether Sherlock has or will ever have the capacity for commitment. Should he stay or should he go?
The shadows cast around the shared living room of 221b Baker Street vary in eeriness. On the wall opposite the mantelpiece is the darkened outline of a human skull; its material counterpart presiding over the fireplace, an object of both comfort and omen. It provides no comfort to John of course. Dr. John Watson, army doctor returned from Afghanistan. He has seen too many skulls in too many places for another to ever bring him anything but more despair. But the one the skull belongs to...well that's a different story.
Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. The only consulting detective in the world. An invented position of course, but a fact which makes it no less enthralling. Sherlock talks to this skull, cherishes it, caresses it even. To John it just speaks of death, and so he never speaks back. Puts up with it though; he puts up with all of Sherlock's infuriating idiosyncracies. Doesn't quite know why.
On the other side of the room, where the curtains have been hastily drawn shut, lies another, far less eerie shadow. It is the shadow of Sherlock Holmes' curly dark hair, peeking out over the top of the armchair he is sleeping in. It is a rare occasion that John gets to watch him sleep. His long legs flop over the armrest, Union Jack cushion squeezed tightly between his folded arms, the blue sheen of his dressing gown glowing brightly in the ever darkening room. The sunlight through the curtains has almost faded completely. John listens to Sherlock's rythmic breathing, sees his chest rising and falling gently. Oh what peace there is in the world, his world, when this man sleeps.
He gets up from his sitting at the table, medical books stacked in an orderly fashion. Picking up his now empty mug of tea from the desk, he makes his way to the kitchen, ensuring his movements are as quiet as possible. He rinses the mug and pours himself a glass of water, getting ready to retire to bed himself. He downs the glass, places it on the worktop and closes the kitchen blind. His eyes cast around restlessly for his phone; he is eager to see if Sarah has sent him any late night texts.
"It's in here."
John turns, startled. He was sleeping just a minute ago. He was! Annoyed, he stalks into the living room to find Sherlock with his eyes still closed, slight grin on his face.
"She hasn't sent you anything naughty tonight. I do hope you're not too disappointed?"
John sighs. He should be more than used to this by now, it's been three months. An impossible three months.
"Where is it?"
"Pocket." Sherlock shifts slightly in the chair, eyes firmly shut.
John sighs again, louder this time, before bending over Sherlock and rooting around in both of his dressing gown pockets. Fingers finding his phone, he snatches it from the material, almost tearing it.
"Watch it! This was expensive, you know. A gift from dear brother."
A small smile creeps across John's face. He succeeded in making Sherlock open his eyes. He doesn't allow himself to think about why he is always so keen to see the blue-grey orbs. They may have produced a small smile outwardly, but inside he's dancing.
"I didn't have you down as one for wearing Mycroft's castoffs."
Sherlock glares at him. John realises he is still bent slightly over him, looking down at him expectantly. He clears his throat uncomfortably and stands upright. The tiniest flicker of something undefinable appears in Sherlock's eyes and disappears again almost simultaneously.
"This is not a castoff. Only the best is good enough for Mycroft. How boring you are, John."
John purses his lips, mildly irritated.
"I'm off to bed. Goodnight."
"Goodnight. Oh, and John?"
John turns in the doorway, braced to receive yet another condescending comment.
"Please stop watching me sleep. It's becoming most tiresome."
John sputters, cheeks rapidly turning a nasty shade of pink. He says nothing, merely slinks away quietly to his room.
In the armchair next to the fire, Sherlock Holmes is looking rather pleased with himself.