Extremely British
Another kinkmeme fill, because I like the angsty ones and it's particularly interesting trying to make them work for repressed British male characters.
I note that I have not actually written any kinky Sherlock porn yet. This situation will not long continue, I promise the world. Nevertheless...
Title: Extremely British
Author: pennypaperbrain
Rating: PG
Warnings: nothing significant; some unspecified ghosts from the past
Characters: Sherlock, John (friendship, tiny hints of pre-slash)
Wordcount: 1,050
Spoilers: General Sherlock-John friendship dynamic, no plot details
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters. I couldn’t be trusted with them. There’d be kinky slash everywhere (except in this fic, apparently).
Summary: Sometimes John finds Sherlock crying. He doesn't know why, nor whether/how he should go about finding out. Written for a kinkmeme prompt: 'When Sherlock cries, they're always silent tears'.
It’s not done to notice that another man is crying.
John sort of knows that, and sort of doesn’t. He’s a good British soldier, but he learnt to be adaptable in Afghanistan - what with the blood and the death, you got a feeling for when jokes and a stiff upper lip are actually helpful, and when they’re an insult to suffering.
His experiences haven’t prepared him for Sherlock’s tears though, because they don’t make any sense. Sherlock will be poring over documents or meditating on some unseen pattern, and suddenly it will start. Slow, smooth tracks down either cheek. If his eyes get too bleary to focus, he’ll dash the moisture away with an impatient gesture.
‘I’m trying to bloody think,’ he snarled, the first time John asked him if he was all right. John hasn’t tried that since.
This morning, Sherlock is doing it again. The teardrops are rolling down his face as he stares at his laptop, and the bastard is still typing at about a hundred words a minute. It’s not natural. It’s certainly not healthy. And frankly it weirds John out.
‘Sherlock?’
No response.
‘Sherlock!’ John uses his parade ground voice.
His flatmate’s head whips around. John is treated to a stinker of a glare.
‘John…?’
‘Sherlock…’ he responds, and hesitates. But clearly there’s no way back now. ‘Sherlock, you’re crying. A lot. And I don’t like to see - well, you know.’
Damn, that came out wrong. But what was he supposed to say, Tell me all about it? Like that would get a good response. Are they in for a shouting match now?
But Sherlock remains calm.
‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘Your observation skills now surpass those of a dead pigeon. Anything else you would like to say?’
‘Yes,’ says John, surprising himself. Fuck it, he’s helped men through their death agonies, so he can do this. ‘You’re in pain. Whatever’s eating you might be beyond me, or it might not.’
Now Sherlock is the one who’s surprised, John can see it in his face. He snaps his laptop closed, picks it up and carries it off to his bedroom.
From the moment John started speaking, though, the tears stopped. He doesn’t know, and has no means of finding out, whether that was good, bad or simple distraction.
*
It’s Monday evening when it happens next. Sherlock is staring abstractedly at the wall, which is covered with photographs, maps and scribbles related to a current case. A ‘wretched, measly’ absconding wife case that uses ‘half a per cent of my brain’, but a case nonetheless, and apparently that’s enough to keep him away from drugs and firearms.
John looks up occasionally from his paper, mostly when Sherlock’s pacing threatens to send him sprawling over John’s feet. And suddenly there are the tears on Sherlock’s cheeks, overlying an apparently unrelated expression of mild concentration as he mutters abduction-related speculations under his breath.
‘Bloody hell,’ says John, folding his paper, before he can think twice. It’s nothing short of creepy, this stealth mourning or whatever it is, and he’s calling time. ‘Sherlock, come on. I don’t -’
He stops because Sherlock has turned on him. Now there’s an icy warning expression underneath the tears.
‘If I stopped working every time, doctor, exactly how much do you think I’d get done?’
Every time what?
John swallows the question, says instead: ‘I’m not asking you to cave in. It’s just, there’s something that needs space here. Take it from me - trying to ignore PTSD made it worse.’
There. John’s just shot the Code of British Blokehood to hell, and it’s up to Sherlock to decide what to do about it.
Sherlock stares at him as if deciding whether to go for the jugular or the bollocks. Then abruptly he throws himself onto the sofa and tips back his head. His eyes are closed now but the tears keep flowing. They slide down his cheekbones and into his hair. It occurs to John that he could stroke the said hair - but that’s a very peculiar thought, and definitely a code violation too far. Sherlock’s tension is obviously getting to him.
‘This is an utter, time-wasting fucking nuisance,’ Sherlock growls. And that’s it for a couple of minutes. He doesn’t say anything else. He just cries, and vaguely clenches and unclenches a hand on the denim of his jeans.
John sits opposite, watching him. There’s not a lot else he can do. He’s used to distressed patients, but they don’t usually turn up in his living room, and he doesn’t want to think of his friend that way in any case. But what’s the alternative? A hug? He’s not going there. Tea? He’d have to turn his back on Sherlock to make it.
‘Still in there?’ he says eventually. The tears have slowed.
‘No. Clearly I’ve gone to South America,’ replies Sherlock. ‘This is ridiculous.’ A pause. The subtlest relaxation of his posture. ‘It went on for years, John.’
What did?
But before John can decide whether to ask aloud, Sherlock is up and moving again.
‘The woman went off with her cousin,’ he announces, stabbing a finger into one of the map fragments on the wall. ‘Excellent! Fancy a trip to sunny Enfield?’
John groans to himself. Of course he’ll go along, no matter how grotty the destination; that’s what he does when Sherlock yanks his rope. But first, one other thing. Even if it gets him barred from the Blokes’ Union for life.
‘Sherlock,’ he says. ‘If you’re ever… not all right beyond a certain point, you have to tell me. OK?’
John is more or less expecting to be ignored. And at first that does seem to happen. Then, as he starts to shrug into his coat, he feels a light touch on his back.
‘Thank you,’ Sherlock quietly says.
John turns around, but he’s too late to see his friend’s expression.
So was that a brush-off or a promise? As he jogs down the stairs, John can’t tell, and he suspects Sherlock can’t either. On the other hand, if they ever do find themselves in different waters, then today will have made it easier for him to do… whatever.
That’ll have to be enough, for now.
How extremely British.
I note that I have not actually written any kinky Sherlock porn yet. This situation will not long continue, I promise the world. Nevertheless...
Title: Extremely British
Author: pennypaperbrain
Rating: PG
Warnings: nothing significant; some unspecified ghosts from the past
Characters: Sherlock, John (friendship, tiny hints of pre-slash)
Wordcount: 1,050
Spoilers: General Sherlock-John friendship dynamic, no plot details
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters. I couldn’t be trusted with them. There’d be kinky slash everywhere (except in this fic, apparently).
Summary: Sometimes John finds Sherlock crying. He doesn't know why, nor whether/how he should go about finding out. Written for a kinkmeme prompt: 'When Sherlock cries, they're always silent tears'.
It’s not done to notice that another man is crying.
John sort of knows that, and sort of doesn’t. He’s a good British soldier, but he learnt to be adaptable in Afghanistan - what with the blood and the death, you got a feeling for when jokes and a stiff upper lip are actually helpful, and when they’re an insult to suffering.
His experiences haven’t prepared him for Sherlock’s tears though, because they don’t make any sense. Sherlock will be poring over documents or meditating on some unseen pattern, and suddenly it will start. Slow, smooth tracks down either cheek. If his eyes get too bleary to focus, he’ll dash the moisture away with an impatient gesture.
‘I’m trying to bloody think,’ he snarled, the first time John asked him if he was all right. John hasn’t tried that since.
This morning, Sherlock is doing it again. The teardrops are rolling down his face as he stares at his laptop, and the bastard is still typing at about a hundred words a minute. It’s not natural. It’s certainly not healthy. And frankly it weirds John out.
‘Sherlock?’
No response.
‘Sherlock!’ John uses his parade ground voice.
His flatmate’s head whips around. John is treated to a stinker of a glare.
‘John…?’
‘Sherlock…’ he responds, and hesitates. But clearly there’s no way back now. ‘Sherlock, you’re crying. A lot. And I don’t like to see - well, you know.’
Damn, that came out wrong. But what was he supposed to say, Tell me all about it? Like that would get a good response. Are they in for a shouting match now?
But Sherlock remains calm.
‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘Your observation skills now surpass those of a dead pigeon. Anything else you would like to say?’
‘Yes,’ says John, surprising himself. Fuck it, he’s helped men through their death agonies, so he can do this. ‘You’re in pain. Whatever’s eating you might be beyond me, or it might not.’
Now Sherlock is the one who’s surprised, John can see it in his face. He snaps his laptop closed, picks it up and carries it off to his bedroom.
From the moment John started speaking, though, the tears stopped. He doesn’t know, and has no means of finding out, whether that was good, bad or simple distraction.
*
It’s Monday evening when it happens next. Sherlock is staring abstractedly at the wall, which is covered with photographs, maps and scribbles related to a current case. A ‘wretched, measly’ absconding wife case that uses ‘half a per cent of my brain’, but a case nonetheless, and apparently that’s enough to keep him away from drugs and firearms.
John looks up occasionally from his paper, mostly when Sherlock’s pacing threatens to send him sprawling over John’s feet. And suddenly there are the tears on Sherlock’s cheeks, overlying an apparently unrelated expression of mild concentration as he mutters abduction-related speculations under his breath.
‘Bloody hell,’ says John, folding his paper, before he can think twice. It’s nothing short of creepy, this stealth mourning or whatever it is, and he’s calling time. ‘Sherlock, come on. I don’t -’
He stops because Sherlock has turned on him. Now there’s an icy warning expression underneath the tears.
‘If I stopped working every time, doctor, exactly how much do you think I’d get done?’
Every time what?
John swallows the question, says instead: ‘I’m not asking you to cave in. It’s just, there’s something that needs space here. Take it from me - trying to ignore PTSD made it worse.’
There. John’s just shot the Code of British Blokehood to hell, and it’s up to Sherlock to decide what to do about it.
Sherlock stares at him as if deciding whether to go for the jugular or the bollocks. Then abruptly he throws himself onto the sofa and tips back his head. His eyes are closed now but the tears keep flowing. They slide down his cheekbones and into his hair. It occurs to John that he could stroke the said hair - but that’s a very peculiar thought, and definitely a code violation too far. Sherlock’s tension is obviously getting to him.
‘This is an utter, time-wasting fucking nuisance,’ Sherlock growls. And that’s it for a couple of minutes. He doesn’t say anything else. He just cries, and vaguely clenches and unclenches a hand on the denim of his jeans.
John sits opposite, watching him. There’s not a lot else he can do. He’s used to distressed patients, but they don’t usually turn up in his living room, and he doesn’t want to think of his friend that way in any case. But what’s the alternative? A hug? He’s not going there. Tea? He’d have to turn his back on Sherlock to make it.
‘Still in there?’ he says eventually. The tears have slowed.
‘No. Clearly I’ve gone to South America,’ replies Sherlock. ‘This is ridiculous.’ A pause. The subtlest relaxation of his posture. ‘It went on for years, John.’
What did?
But before John can decide whether to ask aloud, Sherlock is up and moving again.
‘The woman went off with her cousin,’ he announces, stabbing a finger into one of the map fragments on the wall. ‘Excellent! Fancy a trip to sunny Enfield?’
John groans to himself. Of course he’ll go along, no matter how grotty the destination; that’s what he does when Sherlock yanks his rope. But first, one other thing. Even if it gets him barred from the Blokes’ Union for life.
‘Sherlock,’ he says. ‘If you’re ever… not all right beyond a certain point, you have to tell me. OK?’
John is more or less expecting to be ignored. And at first that does seem to happen. Then, as he starts to shrug into his coat, he feels a light touch on his back.
‘Thank you,’ Sherlock quietly says.
John turns around, but he’s too late to see his friend’s expression.
So was that a brush-off or a promise? As he jogs down the stairs, John can’t tell, and he suspects Sherlock can’t either. On the other hand, if they ever do find themselves in different waters, then today will have made it easier for him to do… whatever.
That’ll have to be enough, for now.
How extremely British.