Fic: Once More, With Feeling (4/7)
Title: Once More, With Feeling (4/7)
Author: red_carrigan
Pairing: Sherlock/John, a little bit of John/Mary
Length: 2,473
Genre: romance, fluff, humor
Warnings: One bad word
Rating: PG-13
Summary: To put off his meddlesome, matchmaking mother, John convinces Sherlock to play the role of his significant other. Unparalleled awkwardness ensues.
Notes: Written for this prompt.
Previous Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
John sat staring at the television, not watching, his mind trying to process what had happened but moments before.
Sherlock kissed him.
Sherlock kissed him.
Sherlock.
Kissed.
Him.
John pressed his fingers to his lips and they were warm. He licked his lips, memories flashing to a soft mouth against his own, before he rubbed at his neck. He could still feel the ghostly impression of Sherlock's fingers in his hair. He shivered and swallowed.
What. The Bloody. Fuck.
John slowly came back to reality, his mind filtering back to him in slow intervals and his heart…Christ, it had been racing but it returned to a normal speed as he started to finally tune into his mother's voice. She had been talking for several minutes, "…been watching a lot of 'QI' and I bet Sherlock likes that. I don't know if you boys watch much telly, but I could see him watching that. Or 'Doctor Who', I know you always liked that. And 'Come Dine with Me'! Do you still watch that? There was this one episode where-"
"Back." Mr. Watson announced and John's head reared back. His father had left? He turned and saw both his father and Sherlock emerge from the kitchen. John's eyes widened. Sherlock had been off with his father? When did that happen? How long had they been gone for?
Mrs. Watson, more up to date, merely smiled, "Did you get everything settled outside?"
"No, we never made it outside. The rain is like a waterfall out there. But we had a nice chat. Real mind to mind."
"You mean heart to heart, dear."
"That too." Mr. Watson smiled and patted Sherlock's shoulder roughly before turning to John, "You both will have to stay here tonight, John. The rain is bad, but the lightning, thunder, wind," he shook his head, "They're much, much worse."
Having finally returned to himself, John heard this news and immediately grew close to panicked, "No, no, it can't be that bad!"
He charged to his feet and went to the door. He opened it to look outside to see that, yes, it was that bad. The rain (if you could call it that) came down in thick, heavy sheets and as if to drive the point home, thunder crackled and boomed, the wind howling and John closed the door, resting his forehead against the wood. Lord. He was trapped here. With his parents.
And Sherlock.
And Sherlock had kissed him.
John's fingers went to his mouth again, mind flashing back to that moment, to soft lips against his own, and…
He closed his eyes, drew in a loud breath through his nose, then turned and looked at his parents and Sherlock, "It's…just a bit rubbish out there."
"More than rubbish! John, you and Sherlock can't go! It's far too dangerous! Sherlock, tell him!" Mrs. Watson pleaded.
"I did tell your mother your safety is my highest priority." Sherlock supplied and John glared at him before looking at his mother, "Even if we…stayed…my room has only one bed!"
"John," Mrs. Watson scoffed, "I'm not some priggish old woman! I am well aware that you both share a bed at home and that's how I want you to feel here, at home. Besides, one would hope that you will use the bed for sleeping. I trust you two can keep your hands off each other for one night! But then, I do know how passionate some couples can be. For example, your father and I-"
John cried out to stop her, face scrunched up in disgust, hands going to his ears, "I don't want to hear that!"
Mrs. Watson merely shrugged but she did wink at her husband, who looked absurdly pleased as he walked over to his wife, "Come on, then. How about you and I retire for the evening? Let the boys have some privacy?"
Mrs. Watson nodded and followed her husband upstairs, but not before shouting down to John, "You should find some old jimjams in your closet! Think there should be something in there for each of you! Your clothes for tomorrow are in there as well!"
"Thanks, Mum."
"Oh, oh!" she shouted down again, "And there are some fresh toiletries in the loo next to your bedroom! Top shelf of the cabinet nearest to the-"
"Yes, yes, thanks, Mum!" John returned and then looked at Sherlock.
Alone at last.
John scratched at the back of his head. Sherlock merely looked at him. John's eyes skittered back over to the television, "Do you want to-um?"
Sherlock inclined his head towards the sofa and John resumed his seat. Sherlock, however, did not immediately join him. Instead he walked over to the bookshelf and took one of John's father's chemistry books. He sat next to John and read silently while John watched television. And it was nice. Sort of. Not all that much different than what normally took place back at the flat, save for the fact that John felt…awkward.
He had a million questions running through his head. Why did you act the way you did tonight? Why did you say the things that you said? And why, oh why, did you kiss me?
The last one in particular rested uncomfortably on the tip of his tongue and for the life of him he could not bring himself to ask it. Every answer he imagined so far was too…weighty. And after everything that had taken place this evening, he didn't think he was up for it.
It hadn't just been Sherlock and his actions - his mother had certainly had her fair hand in everything. Almost every other word out of her mouth had been mortifyingly embarrassing. And then his father and his pointed comments and he loved his parents, he truly did, but an evening in their company reaffirmed why he had not chosen to move back in with them after returning home from the war.
Not to mention his love of London. He couldn't imagine living anywhere else. Not really. And staying there had certainly had its benefits…
His mind latched back on to what he had said about Sherlock and, oh, but that was just as profound as everything else that had taken place tonight. He still couldn't really believe everything he had said, but he knew one thing for sure. Everything he had said had been true. He really did feel that way…what did that say about him? About Sherlock? About-?
John yawned. Long, loud, and low and the wave of exhaustion that suddenly fell over him was almost unbearable. It was, however, understandable. It had been one bloody hell of an evening. He rose to his feet, "Think it's 'bout time I went to bed."
Sherlock did not respond and John went off towards his old room. He entered and nostalgia wracked him. His room looked exactly as he had left it when last he was in residence. A bit tidier, perhaps, but overall it hadn't changed a smidge.
He went to the closet and dug out a set of pyjamas for himself and found a pair for Sherlock as well - in his exact size - and John was yet again reminded that his mother was a terrible meddler. She had probably taken the measurements of Sherlock's suit and bought these. It was as if she had planned it all. John could even believe she had somehow manipulated the weather - that was how meddlesome she could be.
He became aware of the fact that he was not alone and turned to see that Sherlock had followed him. John suddenly felt breathless as his eyes immediately shot over to his bed. His small, small bed. They could both fit, sure, but it would be a tight fit…they'd be squeezed together…squeezed together on John's small, small bed and John wasn't sure if it was the mere exhaustion from earlier but he was now feeling close to faint.
Sherlock, for his part, seemed not at all disturbed. He was more focused on examining everything in the room and John somehow felt horribly exposed. Sherlock had certainly picked John apart before, but this somehow seemed more…intimate. This was the room he had grown up in, lived in, for a majority of his life and to have Sherlock in here, observing everything…
As Sherlock passed this or that John heard himself mumbling explanations for each item his gaze graced over, "That's my old rugby equipment…played a bit when I was, ah…and that's my clarinet…don't know why it's out, maybe Mum put it there I don't…that's a picture of Harry and I in Sussex when we were kids, family trip and…and…"
Sherlock was close to John now, practically on top of him, looking at the doorframe of the closet behind John and John turned his head slightly to see scribbles and notches in the wood behind him, "O-Oh, this, this was a height chart…used to mark it on my birthdays but I stopped after…"
John's words died off as Sherlock took gentle hold of John's arms and pushed him back against the doorframe. John stopped breathing. Sherlock reached into his coat and drew out a pen, "Stand up straight."
"I…" John shook his head and did as he asked and Sherlock marked a spot right above John's head on the wood. John struggled for something to say, "Between the wine bottle and the pen, your coat is proving to be a veritable Mary Poppins bag tonight."
"Mary Poppins is one of Mycroft's favourite films." Sherlock murmured, "He admires her efficiency."
John did not doubt this. Sherlock's hands suddenly went into the closet and when they drew back John saw that they held a familiar brown box. It took John a few moments to place it and when he did, he felt his cheeks heat slightly, "Ah, that…that's-that's my button collection."
They both looked inside to see that the box was almost filled to the brim with a variety of buttons, different colors, sizes, shapes, and John grew more and more hesitant, "Started when I was about five…easy hobby…inexpensive. Silly, really, but it was…can't remember how many are in there or when I stopped, but it was, um, sort of fun. If-if not a little…"
Sherlock put the box back and turned his attention to the pyjamas in John's hands. He then took a seat on the bed and while John found it was more than a little difficult to think when Sherlock was on his bed, he managed, "You…sure are quiet this evening."
"You said the less I spoke the better."
"You listened to me?" John asked doubtfully.
Sherlock shifted about the bed as he started to take his coat off, "It is rare, but I must admit, I was surprised to find that your parents are actually interesting. Your father, in particular."
John suddenly remembered that Sherlock and his father had disappeared for an undisclosed amount of time and he frowned, "What did you two talk about?"
Sherlock draped his coat over a nearby chair and continued to remove more clothing, John grew impatient, "I asked you a question."
"Yes and I chose not to answer it." Sherlock's fingers were working through the last buttons of his shirt before John became cognizant of the fact that the man before him was undressing, "What are you doing?"
Sherlock's fingers stopped working as he shot John the look that signaled that he was an imbecile, "I should think that fairly obvious."
"Not to me."
A weary sigh, "I am preparing myself for bed."
"B-b-," John couldn't even say the word, "You can't be serious!"
"John, please, I am rather tired and your idiocy is not helping."
"We can't sleep in the same bed!"
"Why ever not?"
"Why…" John couldn't believe Sherlock was even asking the question and it was now his turn to serve Sherlock the you're-an-imbecile look, "Sherlock, we can't possibly-"
"We're both grown adults, John. There is nothing unseemly about us sharing a bed for one night. I'll grant you it is a small bed but we should both fit and as I said, I am tired."
"What happened to 'sleep, sleep is boring'?"
"Under normal circumstances, yes, I would agree but, and I think you'll understand this, I have just finished spending an entire evening in the company of your parents. As such, even I require rest."
John couldn't argue that. After all, he was suffering under much the same. Yet, he eyed the bed and then the floor. He could sleep on the floor. Get some blankets, some pillows, and the floor could be…
Sherlock stripped off his shirt. John's eyes greedily roamed all over the nude pale skin and he felt his heart slam fitfully against his ribcage as he tossed Sherlock's pyjamas at him before he relatively fled the room.
As he prepared himself for bed in the bathroom he realized that he was being completely ridiculous. There was no sound reason why he and Sherlock couldn't share the bed. He had slept in much worse conditions in Afghanistan. So the bed was small. So what? And so Sherlock would be in bed with him. What did that matter? And yes Sherlock had kissed him. But-?
John groaned. There was no question for that. Sherlock had kissed him and that was what was holding him up. John should just ask him. He exited the room and found Sherlock, wearing his perfectly fitted pyjamas (yes, thanks for that, Mum) waiting patiently outside. John ignored him as they switched places and John went into his room. He climbed determinedly into his bed.
This was not an issue. This was nothing. He was going to go to sleep and that was that.
John fell back on his back, eyes closed tight, breathing normally and after a while he found himself genuinely relaxing. In fact he was hovering near the edge of sleep when Sherlock entered the room. The mattress dipped under his weight and John could feel the long, lean outline next to him. John took in a steadying breath as his thoughts whispered to him: sleep, sleep, sleep, just go to sleep.
And yet he found himself defying his thoughts as he asked quietly, "Sherlock?"
Sherlock answered with a questioning sound.
"Do…do you snore?"
There was a hot pocket of silence.
Just as John started to feel stupid for asking, he heard Sherlock reply, "No."
He didn't sound terribly sure.
John felt his lips twitch at that. Then Sherlock rolled over to one side and mumbled into his pillow, "I'll break up with you in the morning."
John's eyes snapped open and he stared into the darkness.
He had completely forgotten about Mary and the break up.
John opened his mouth to respond but could think of nothing and soon enough his eyes slipped closed as he fell into a deep sleep.
+
Part 5
Author: red_carrigan
Pairing: Sherlock/John, a little bit of John/Mary
Length: 2,473
Genre: romance, fluff, humor
Warnings: One bad word
Rating: PG-13
Summary: To put off his meddlesome, matchmaking mother, John convinces Sherlock to play the role of his significant other. Unparalleled awkwardness ensues.
Notes: Written for this prompt.
Previous Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
John sat staring at the television, not watching, his mind trying to process what had happened but moments before.
Sherlock kissed him.
Sherlock kissed him.
Sherlock.
Kissed.
Him.
John pressed his fingers to his lips and they were warm. He licked his lips, memories flashing to a soft mouth against his own, before he rubbed at his neck. He could still feel the ghostly impression of Sherlock's fingers in his hair. He shivered and swallowed.
What. The Bloody. Fuck.
John slowly came back to reality, his mind filtering back to him in slow intervals and his heart…Christ, it had been racing but it returned to a normal speed as he started to finally tune into his mother's voice. She had been talking for several minutes, "…been watching a lot of 'QI' and I bet Sherlock likes that. I don't know if you boys watch much telly, but I could see him watching that. Or 'Doctor Who', I know you always liked that. And 'Come Dine with Me'! Do you still watch that? There was this one episode where-"
"Back." Mr. Watson announced and John's head reared back. His father had left? He turned and saw both his father and Sherlock emerge from the kitchen. John's eyes widened. Sherlock had been off with his father? When did that happen? How long had they been gone for?
Mrs. Watson, more up to date, merely smiled, "Did you get everything settled outside?"
"No, we never made it outside. The rain is like a waterfall out there. But we had a nice chat. Real mind to mind."
"You mean heart to heart, dear."
"That too." Mr. Watson smiled and patted Sherlock's shoulder roughly before turning to John, "You both will have to stay here tonight, John. The rain is bad, but the lightning, thunder, wind," he shook his head, "They're much, much worse."
Having finally returned to himself, John heard this news and immediately grew close to panicked, "No, no, it can't be that bad!"
He charged to his feet and went to the door. He opened it to look outside to see that, yes, it was that bad. The rain (if you could call it that) came down in thick, heavy sheets and as if to drive the point home, thunder crackled and boomed, the wind howling and John closed the door, resting his forehead against the wood. Lord. He was trapped here. With his parents.
And Sherlock.
And Sherlock had kissed him.
John's fingers went to his mouth again, mind flashing back to that moment, to soft lips against his own, and…
He closed his eyes, drew in a loud breath through his nose, then turned and looked at his parents and Sherlock, "It's…just a bit rubbish out there."
"More than rubbish! John, you and Sherlock can't go! It's far too dangerous! Sherlock, tell him!" Mrs. Watson pleaded.
"I did tell your mother your safety is my highest priority." Sherlock supplied and John glared at him before looking at his mother, "Even if we…stayed…my room has only one bed!"
"John," Mrs. Watson scoffed, "I'm not some priggish old woman! I am well aware that you both share a bed at home and that's how I want you to feel here, at home. Besides, one would hope that you will use the bed for sleeping. I trust you two can keep your hands off each other for one night! But then, I do know how passionate some couples can be. For example, your father and I-"
John cried out to stop her, face scrunched up in disgust, hands going to his ears, "I don't want to hear that!"
Mrs. Watson merely shrugged but she did wink at her husband, who looked absurdly pleased as he walked over to his wife, "Come on, then. How about you and I retire for the evening? Let the boys have some privacy?"
Mrs. Watson nodded and followed her husband upstairs, but not before shouting down to John, "You should find some old jimjams in your closet! Think there should be something in there for each of you! Your clothes for tomorrow are in there as well!"
"Thanks, Mum."
"Oh, oh!" she shouted down again, "And there are some fresh toiletries in the loo next to your bedroom! Top shelf of the cabinet nearest to the-"
"Yes, yes, thanks, Mum!" John returned and then looked at Sherlock.
Alone at last.
John scratched at the back of his head. Sherlock merely looked at him. John's eyes skittered back over to the television, "Do you want to-um?"
Sherlock inclined his head towards the sofa and John resumed his seat. Sherlock, however, did not immediately join him. Instead he walked over to the bookshelf and took one of John's father's chemistry books. He sat next to John and read silently while John watched television. And it was nice. Sort of. Not all that much different than what normally took place back at the flat, save for the fact that John felt…awkward.
He had a million questions running through his head. Why did you act the way you did tonight? Why did you say the things that you said? And why, oh why, did you kiss me?
The last one in particular rested uncomfortably on the tip of his tongue and for the life of him he could not bring himself to ask it. Every answer he imagined so far was too…weighty. And after everything that had taken place this evening, he didn't think he was up for it.
It hadn't just been Sherlock and his actions - his mother had certainly had her fair hand in everything. Almost every other word out of her mouth had been mortifyingly embarrassing. And then his father and his pointed comments and he loved his parents, he truly did, but an evening in their company reaffirmed why he had not chosen to move back in with them after returning home from the war.
Not to mention his love of London. He couldn't imagine living anywhere else. Not really. And staying there had certainly had its benefits…
His mind latched back on to what he had said about Sherlock and, oh, but that was just as profound as everything else that had taken place tonight. He still couldn't really believe everything he had said, but he knew one thing for sure. Everything he had said had been true. He really did feel that way…what did that say about him? About Sherlock? About-?
John yawned. Long, loud, and low and the wave of exhaustion that suddenly fell over him was almost unbearable. It was, however, understandable. It had been one bloody hell of an evening. He rose to his feet, "Think it's 'bout time I went to bed."
Sherlock did not respond and John went off towards his old room. He entered and nostalgia wracked him. His room looked exactly as he had left it when last he was in residence. A bit tidier, perhaps, but overall it hadn't changed a smidge.
He went to the closet and dug out a set of pyjamas for himself and found a pair for Sherlock as well - in his exact size - and John was yet again reminded that his mother was a terrible meddler. She had probably taken the measurements of Sherlock's suit and bought these. It was as if she had planned it all. John could even believe she had somehow manipulated the weather - that was how meddlesome she could be.
He became aware of the fact that he was not alone and turned to see that Sherlock had followed him. John suddenly felt breathless as his eyes immediately shot over to his bed. His small, small bed. They could both fit, sure, but it would be a tight fit…they'd be squeezed together…squeezed together on John's small, small bed and John wasn't sure if it was the mere exhaustion from earlier but he was now feeling close to faint.
Sherlock, for his part, seemed not at all disturbed. He was more focused on examining everything in the room and John somehow felt horribly exposed. Sherlock had certainly picked John apart before, but this somehow seemed more…intimate. This was the room he had grown up in, lived in, for a majority of his life and to have Sherlock in here, observing everything…
As Sherlock passed this or that John heard himself mumbling explanations for each item his gaze graced over, "That's my old rugby equipment…played a bit when I was, ah…and that's my clarinet…don't know why it's out, maybe Mum put it there I don't…that's a picture of Harry and I in Sussex when we were kids, family trip and…and…"
Sherlock was close to John now, practically on top of him, looking at the doorframe of the closet behind John and John turned his head slightly to see scribbles and notches in the wood behind him, "O-Oh, this, this was a height chart…used to mark it on my birthdays but I stopped after…"
John's words died off as Sherlock took gentle hold of John's arms and pushed him back against the doorframe. John stopped breathing. Sherlock reached into his coat and drew out a pen, "Stand up straight."
"I…" John shook his head and did as he asked and Sherlock marked a spot right above John's head on the wood. John struggled for something to say, "Between the wine bottle and the pen, your coat is proving to be a veritable Mary Poppins bag tonight."
"Mary Poppins is one of Mycroft's favourite films." Sherlock murmured, "He admires her efficiency."
John did not doubt this. Sherlock's hands suddenly went into the closet and when they drew back John saw that they held a familiar brown box. It took John a few moments to place it and when he did, he felt his cheeks heat slightly, "Ah, that…that's-that's my button collection."
They both looked inside to see that the box was almost filled to the brim with a variety of buttons, different colors, sizes, shapes, and John grew more and more hesitant, "Started when I was about five…easy hobby…inexpensive. Silly, really, but it was…can't remember how many are in there or when I stopped, but it was, um, sort of fun. If-if not a little…"
Sherlock put the box back and turned his attention to the pyjamas in John's hands. He then took a seat on the bed and while John found it was more than a little difficult to think when Sherlock was on his bed, he managed, "You…sure are quiet this evening."
"You said the less I spoke the better."
"You listened to me?" John asked doubtfully.
Sherlock shifted about the bed as he started to take his coat off, "It is rare, but I must admit, I was surprised to find that your parents are actually interesting. Your father, in particular."
John suddenly remembered that Sherlock and his father had disappeared for an undisclosed amount of time and he frowned, "What did you two talk about?"
Sherlock draped his coat over a nearby chair and continued to remove more clothing, John grew impatient, "I asked you a question."
"Yes and I chose not to answer it." Sherlock's fingers were working through the last buttons of his shirt before John became cognizant of the fact that the man before him was undressing, "What are you doing?"
Sherlock's fingers stopped working as he shot John the look that signaled that he was an imbecile, "I should think that fairly obvious."
"Not to me."
A weary sigh, "I am preparing myself for bed."
"B-b-," John couldn't even say the word, "You can't be serious!"
"John, please, I am rather tired and your idiocy is not helping."
"We can't sleep in the same bed!"
"Why ever not?"
"Why…" John couldn't believe Sherlock was even asking the question and it was now his turn to serve Sherlock the you're-an-imbecile look, "Sherlock, we can't possibly-"
"We're both grown adults, John. There is nothing unseemly about us sharing a bed for one night. I'll grant you it is a small bed but we should both fit and as I said, I am tired."
"What happened to 'sleep, sleep is boring'?"
"Under normal circumstances, yes, I would agree but, and I think you'll understand this, I have just finished spending an entire evening in the company of your parents. As such, even I require rest."
John couldn't argue that. After all, he was suffering under much the same. Yet, he eyed the bed and then the floor. He could sleep on the floor. Get some blankets, some pillows, and the floor could be…
Sherlock stripped off his shirt. John's eyes greedily roamed all over the nude pale skin and he felt his heart slam fitfully against his ribcage as he tossed Sherlock's pyjamas at him before he relatively fled the room.
As he prepared himself for bed in the bathroom he realized that he was being completely ridiculous. There was no sound reason why he and Sherlock couldn't share the bed. He had slept in much worse conditions in Afghanistan. So the bed was small. So what? And so Sherlock would be in bed with him. What did that matter? And yes Sherlock had kissed him. But-?
John groaned. There was no question for that. Sherlock had kissed him and that was what was holding him up. John should just ask him. He exited the room and found Sherlock, wearing his perfectly fitted pyjamas (yes, thanks for that, Mum) waiting patiently outside. John ignored him as they switched places and John went into his room. He climbed determinedly into his bed.
This was not an issue. This was nothing. He was going to go to sleep and that was that.
John fell back on his back, eyes closed tight, breathing normally and after a while he found himself genuinely relaxing. In fact he was hovering near the edge of sleep when Sherlock entered the room. The mattress dipped under his weight and John could feel the long, lean outline next to him. John took in a steadying breath as his thoughts whispered to him: sleep, sleep, sleep, just go to sleep.
And yet he found himself defying his thoughts as he asked quietly, "Sherlock?"
Sherlock answered with a questioning sound.
"Do…do you snore?"
There was a hot pocket of silence.
Just as John started to feel stupid for asking, he heard Sherlock reply, "No."
He didn't sound terribly sure.
John felt his lips twitch at that. Then Sherlock rolled over to one side and mumbled into his pillow, "I'll break up with you in the morning."
John's eyes snapped open and he stared into the darkness.
He had completely forgotten about Mary and the break up.
John opened his mouth to respond but could think of nothing and soon enough his eyes slipped closed as he fell into a deep sleep.
+
Part 5