Fic: Yellow Isn't Your Color
Title: Yellow Isn't Your Color
Character: John, Sherlock
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: PG-ish
Warnings: Fashion Disaster, admit it
A/N: Written in like.. an hour. Forgive me and the mistakes. Speed written for THIS post. Requested by deicidalriddle and (somewhat requested by) madrona_8.
While John didn’t have very many possession, the ones that he did have he was very possessive and protective of. If a military man such as John made the point of keeping something, then it was surely a very important item (or highly sentimental).
What little John had moved into the upstairs bedroom, Sherlock had never seen much of outside of the man’s room. His teacups made their way into the cupboards and his medical journals and laptop onto their mutual desk. But other than those few item, most of John’s life stayed packed away in his room.
Sherlock, in his observant and inquiring way, sough to find out as much as possible about his flatmate. The task was tedious, if not time consuming. John was rarely out of the house while Sherlock was in it and it was difficult to find an opportunity to accompany John to his bedroom. Sherlock also discovered that his flatmate had quite the knack for make a room impenetrable.
Several weeks after John had moved in, Sherlock found such an opportunity.
Whether John was simply unmindful of his mistake, or he had grown comfortable (and trusting) with Sherlock, he wasn’t sure, but John did not lock his door.
“I’m off the hospital - staff meeting,” John informed him as he tugged on his coat and made his way out.
Sherlock rose from the sofa and watched from their window as John hailed a taxi and sped off into the city. Before the taxi had even turned off Baker Street, he was up the stairs and turning the handle to John’s room.
Like a child in a candy store, Sherlock’s eyes roamed over the man’s room, his brain filing away bits and pieces of information. John's bed had been meticulously made. Sherlock noticed that the pillow was perfectly shaped and un-warped (despite how long he had been living there), suggesting that John did not use his pillow. There were water stains on his bedside table, the wood scarred with dozens of small circles - frequent rehydration during the night. Sherlock managed a smile when he saw the man’s cane sitting forgotten against the side of his bureau. Psychosomatic indeed!
Sherlock eventually stopped and took in the whole room and realized how tidy and sparse it was. No photographs. No clothing strewn about. No personal effects of any kind.
Sherlock was suspicious. John was a caring, self-sacrificing, kind man. He didn’t seem the type to be so insensitive about having personal belongings.
After a quick rummage through the bureau and the closet, Sherlock dropped to the floor and looked underneath the low-sitting bed, reaching his long arm as far as it would go. His fingers met cool metal and Sherlock grinned with success.
The metal box had a surprisingly simple lock on it and Sherlock was disappointed at how easy it was to pick. His dismay was quickly erased as he flipped the lid open.
What treasure! Photos upon photos, small pieces of jewelry and papers from the RAMC.
Sherlock looked greedily at the photos of John from his childhood. The small boy was radiant and all smiles, a bit thin but healthy. John had grown into a fine man. Sherlock pushed around the contents and that was when he saw it - the photo.
John looked to be in his late teens, early twenties, young, lively, and sporting the oddest clothes Sherlock had ever seen on the man: a yellow mesh tank-top and blue-jean overalls. His flatmate’s familiar eyes peeked out beneath a bright yellow hat, gold decorating his fingers and neck.
Sherlock studied the picture, noting how much thinner and leaner John appeared. The overalls hung off of one of his shoulders, exposing the yellow mesh and his skin below it. The smooth cut of his shoulders caught Sherlock’s eye, especially since he’d never seen John’s upper torso unclothed. This was before his service in the military, before he was scarred and uncaring of how the world saw him. This was a carefree John Watson - a side of John that Sherlock would probably never get to see.
Sherlock’s mind began to wander, as it so often did when was focused upon something so feverishly. The photo began to animate itself in his head - the wind catching and blowing off young John’s cap. John’s hair sweeping into his eyes as he bent to retrieve it, a golden necklace swaying against the soft skin of his chest. The strap of his overalls slipping off the sharp curve of his shoulder, falling limply against his biceps. John’s throat flexing as he stood back up, cap in one hand and the other tugging up the strap of his clothes.
Sherlock’s mouth was growing dry and he wished that John had kept the water out on his bed-stand.
Sherlock wondered if John’s shoulders were still that sharp, if the hollow of his throat was still that soft and pale; wondered if he would mind showing Sherlock his body - if only to make a comparison of how much he’d really changed since the photo was taken.
Sherlock’s mind was reeling in the possibilities and failed to hear John’s footsteps on the stairs, failed to hear the click of the door below or the ascent of his flatmate to his room.
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock was struck from his reverie.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
Sherlock looked over John’s body with fresh eyes, more aware of the differences he was looking for. Now, to get him out of those clothes...
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock met his flatmate's eyes and grinned, holding up the photo for John to see. John blushed a dark red and gripped the door handle so hard his knuckles turned white.
Sherlock placed the photo back in the box. “Yellow really isn’t your color.”
Comments are love.
Character: John, Sherlock
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: PG-ish
Warnings: Fashion Disaster, admit it
A/N: Written in like.. an hour. Forgive me and the mistakes. Speed written for THIS post. Requested by deicidalriddle and (somewhat requested by) madrona_8.
While John didn’t have very many possession, the ones that he did have he was very possessive and protective of. If a military man such as John made the point of keeping something, then it was surely a very important item (or highly sentimental).
What little John had moved into the upstairs bedroom, Sherlock had never seen much of outside of the man’s room. His teacups made their way into the cupboards and his medical journals and laptop onto their mutual desk. But other than those few item, most of John’s life stayed packed away in his room.
Sherlock, in his observant and inquiring way, sough to find out as much as possible about his flatmate. The task was tedious, if not time consuming. John was rarely out of the house while Sherlock was in it and it was difficult to find an opportunity to accompany John to his bedroom. Sherlock also discovered that his flatmate had quite the knack for make a room impenetrable.
Several weeks after John had moved in, Sherlock found such an opportunity.
Whether John was simply unmindful of his mistake, or he had grown comfortable (and trusting) with Sherlock, he wasn’t sure, but John did not lock his door.
“I’m off the hospital - staff meeting,” John informed him as he tugged on his coat and made his way out.
Sherlock rose from the sofa and watched from their window as John hailed a taxi and sped off into the city. Before the taxi had even turned off Baker Street, he was up the stairs and turning the handle to John’s room.
Like a child in a candy store, Sherlock’s eyes roamed over the man’s room, his brain filing away bits and pieces of information. John's bed had been meticulously made. Sherlock noticed that the pillow was perfectly shaped and un-warped (despite how long he had been living there), suggesting that John did not use his pillow. There were water stains on his bedside table, the wood scarred with dozens of small circles - frequent rehydration during the night. Sherlock managed a smile when he saw the man’s cane sitting forgotten against the side of his bureau. Psychosomatic indeed!
Sherlock eventually stopped and took in the whole room and realized how tidy and sparse it was. No photographs. No clothing strewn about. No personal effects of any kind.
Sherlock was suspicious. John was a caring, self-sacrificing, kind man. He didn’t seem the type to be so insensitive about having personal belongings.
After a quick rummage through the bureau and the closet, Sherlock dropped to the floor and looked underneath the low-sitting bed, reaching his long arm as far as it would go. His fingers met cool metal and Sherlock grinned with success.
The metal box had a surprisingly simple lock on it and Sherlock was disappointed at how easy it was to pick. His dismay was quickly erased as he flipped the lid open.
What treasure! Photos upon photos, small pieces of jewelry and papers from the RAMC.
Sherlock looked greedily at the photos of John from his childhood. The small boy was radiant and all smiles, a bit thin but healthy. John had grown into a fine man. Sherlock pushed around the contents and that was when he saw it - the photo.
John looked to be in his late teens, early twenties, young, lively, and sporting the oddest clothes Sherlock had ever seen on the man: a yellow mesh tank-top and blue-jean overalls. His flatmate’s familiar eyes peeked out beneath a bright yellow hat, gold decorating his fingers and neck.
Sherlock studied the picture, noting how much thinner and leaner John appeared. The overalls hung off of one of his shoulders, exposing the yellow mesh and his skin below it. The smooth cut of his shoulders caught Sherlock’s eye, especially since he’d never seen John’s upper torso unclothed. This was before his service in the military, before he was scarred and uncaring of how the world saw him. This was a carefree John Watson - a side of John that Sherlock would probably never get to see.
Sherlock’s mind began to wander, as it so often did when was focused upon something so feverishly. The photo began to animate itself in his head - the wind catching and blowing off young John’s cap. John’s hair sweeping into his eyes as he bent to retrieve it, a golden necklace swaying against the soft skin of his chest. The strap of his overalls slipping off the sharp curve of his shoulder, falling limply against his biceps. John’s throat flexing as he stood back up, cap in one hand and the other tugging up the strap of his clothes.
Sherlock’s mouth was growing dry and he wished that John had kept the water out on his bed-stand.
Sherlock wondered if John’s shoulders were still that sharp, if the hollow of his throat was still that soft and pale; wondered if he would mind showing Sherlock his body - if only to make a comparison of how much he’d really changed since the photo was taken.
Sherlock’s mind was reeling in the possibilities and failed to hear John’s footsteps on the stairs, failed to hear the click of the door below or the ascent of his flatmate to his room.
“Sherlock!”
Sherlock was struck from his reverie.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
Sherlock looked over John’s body with fresh eyes, more aware of the differences he was looking for. Now, to get him out of those clothes...
“Sherlock?”
Sherlock met his flatmate's eyes and grinned, holding up the photo for John to see. John blushed a dark red and gripped the door handle so hard his knuckles turned white.
Sherlock placed the photo back in the box. “Yellow really isn’t your color.”
Comments are love.