Sherlock Fanfiction - John's Meta: Your Life and Mine
Title: John's Meta: Your Life and Mine
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mary/John, Sherlock/John/Mary, Sherlock/Molly, Sherlock/Janine, Sherlock/Irene
Rating: R
Genre: Slash
Word Count: ~1K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: John reflects.
A/N: My amorphous musings about Series Three coalesced into this. Inspired by the many wonderful metas I've been reading, particularly Aderyn's His Not-Last Vow.
John's Meta may be read alone or in conjuction with Mycroft's Meta: Time to Choose A Side.
Excerpt: It’s like a story, your life and mine.
Of course, John, you’d say. A whole host of stories. You’ve been writing them since we met.
Also, on AO3.
An accompanying gif/photo set may be viewed on tumblr.
John's Meta: Your Life and Mine
It’s like a story, your life and mine.
Of course, John, you’d say. A whole host of stories. You’ve been writing them since we met. My Boswell. Well, you said “my blogger”, but I fancied myself more than that even then. Much more.
Just didn’t admit it to myself straight out for a while, wrote around it. Wrote about you. And me. And our adventures. Didn’t write about you and me. Didn’t write about that adventure. Didn’t even think about it for a long time.
But now, well…
I can’t stand it when they touch you.
Not Irene, with her blood-tipped fingers. The memory makes me want to reach for my gun. I left her alone with you. I shouldn’t have done that.
Not Molly, with her ring-free hand. Not even Molly, who helped save you. I used to scold you about being so unkind to her. You were right, you weren’t being unkind. Rude, yes, but not unkind. She forgave you and saved you and kept your secret. The one you wouldn’t share with me. But she wasn’t a target. Moriarty misunderstood your rudeness, never wrapped her in explosives. He thought you were unkind, too. Probably saved Molly’s life, that. Saved it, so she could save you. For me.
Still, she shouldn’t have slapped you. Only I get to hurt you because I’m hurt. She loves, but only my love has that prerogative because you nurture my love. Even with your I’m-flattered-but-I’m-not-available-because-I’m-married-to-my-work routine. “Come live with me and be my love and we will all the pleasures prove” was the subtext there. And you can’t make fun of that poetry, by the way, and you can’t deny that’s what you did. In your own manner, of course, with a few murders thrown in.
NOT Jeanine, with her soft curves and cuddles, her kissing and teasing. You let her in the bathroom while you were naked, knowing I would hear the splashing and the giggling. Did you enjoy painting that wet, nude picture for me? Exhibitionists the both of you.
Where was she going to find someone as pretty as you, I’d like to know? And she thought she knew you. Showed her, didn’t you? Showed us all.
And most certainly not Mary, with her silent bullets.
She said she liked you the night of miracles. She said it twice. There was a purr in her voice. Reminded me a bit of Irene.
And at the wedding, she reached out for you and I said we couldn’t all three dance. Well, we had all three made our vows that day, we could have danced. I don’t think anyone would have been surprised after your speech and the way I responded to it, but I didn’t want to share you physically with Mary. Perhaps you thought I didn’t want to share Mary with you. Might have been some hesitation about that. You probably would have criticised my technique. It’s damn good. Not at all like my dancing. I’ve left many ladies purring, I’ll have you know. But I left. Sometimes they left, once you were in the picture, but before, it was always me who drifted away.
I would have stopped storming out of doors if I could have left you purring, warm and damp between rumpled sheets or on the table that Irene defiled with her lewd suggestions. I wrote about you on that table. We ate together on that table. If anyone was going to have you on that bloody table, it was going to be me. And you wouldn’t have needed to beg for mercy, because I would have been merciful. Would have given you everything you needed. Twice.
But I hadn’t understood that then. Felt it, but didn’t understand what I was feeling. Was closer to understanding at the wedding as I led Mary off with reminiscences of our turns about the floor at Baker Street on my tongue. But she beat me to it. She penetrated you. Left you on your back bleeding. Unconscious. And the first word on your lips when you awoke was her name.
It should have been mine. Breathy and dazed, you should have been speaking my name. In my breathless relief, I confronted her with it. How stupid could I be? How jealous? It is a stupid, useless emotion.
She had been ready to comfort me for your loss a second time. Very ready. She had done it so well the first time. Yeah, I know. I see and I don’t observe…enough.
But what are we to do now? I’ll not be satisfied with a hug again. But there is Mary. Enigmatic, murderous Mary and her unborn child. It may be mine. We've had scans, but we haven’t had a screening. I’m not ready to know. But if the little one is mine, then it really isn’t the sign of three, Sherlock. It’s the sign of four.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Further thoughts of John's may be read here.
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mary/John, Sherlock/John/Mary, Sherlock/Molly, Sherlock/Janine, Sherlock/Irene
Rating: R
Genre: Slash
Word Count: ~1K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: John reflects.
A/N: My amorphous musings about Series Three coalesced into this. Inspired by the many wonderful metas I've been reading, particularly Aderyn's His Not-Last Vow.
John's Meta may be read alone or in conjuction with Mycroft's Meta: Time to Choose A Side.
Excerpt: It’s like a story, your life and mine.
Of course, John, you’d say. A whole host of stories. You’ve been writing them since we met.
Also, on AO3.
An accompanying gif/photo set may be viewed on tumblr.
John's Meta: Your Life and Mine
It’s like a story, your life and mine.
Of course, John, you’d say. A whole host of stories. You’ve been writing them since we met. My Boswell. Well, you said “my blogger”, but I fancied myself more than that even then. Much more.
Just didn’t admit it to myself straight out for a while, wrote around it. Wrote about you. And me. And our adventures. Didn’t write about you and me. Didn’t write about that adventure. Didn’t even think about it for a long time.
But now, well…
I can’t stand it when they touch you.
Not Irene, with her blood-tipped fingers. The memory makes me want to reach for my gun. I left her alone with you. I shouldn’t have done that.
Not Molly, with her ring-free hand. Not even Molly, who helped save you. I used to scold you about being so unkind to her. You were right, you weren’t being unkind. Rude, yes, but not unkind. She forgave you and saved you and kept your secret. The one you wouldn’t share with me. But she wasn’t a target. Moriarty misunderstood your rudeness, never wrapped her in explosives. He thought you were unkind, too. Probably saved Molly’s life, that. Saved it, so she could save you. For me.
Still, she shouldn’t have slapped you. Only I get to hurt you because I’m hurt. She loves, but only my love has that prerogative because you nurture my love. Even with your I’m-flattered-but-I’m-not-available-because-I’m-married-to-my-work routine. “Come live with me and be my love and we will all the pleasures prove” was the subtext there. And you can’t make fun of that poetry, by the way, and you can’t deny that’s what you did. In your own manner, of course, with a few murders thrown in.
NOT Jeanine, with her soft curves and cuddles, her kissing and teasing. You let her in the bathroom while you were naked, knowing I would hear the splashing and the giggling. Did you enjoy painting that wet, nude picture for me? Exhibitionists the both of you.
Where was she going to find someone as pretty as you, I’d like to know? And she thought she knew you. Showed her, didn’t you? Showed us all.
And most certainly not Mary, with her silent bullets.
She said she liked you the night of miracles. She said it twice. There was a purr in her voice. Reminded me a bit of Irene.
And at the wedding, she reached out for you and I said we couldn’t all three dance. Well, we had all three made our vows that day, we could have danced. I don’t think anyone would have been surprised after your speech and the way I responded to it, but I didn’t want to share you physically with Mary. Perhaps you thought I didn’t want to share Mary with you. Might have been some hesitation about that. You probably would have criticised my technique. It’s damn good. Not at all like my dancing. I’ve left many ladies purring, I’ll have you know. But I left. Sometimes they left, once you were in the picture, but before, it was always me who drifted away.
I would have stopped storming out of doors if I could have left you purring, warm and damp between rumpled sheets or on the table that Irene defiled with her lewd suggestions. I wrote about you on that table. We ate together on that table. If anyone was going to have you on that bloody table, it was going to be me. And you wouldn’t have needed to beg for mercy, because I would have been merciful. Would have given you everything you needed. Twice.
But I hadn’t understood that then. Felt it, but didn’t understand what I was feeling. Was closer to understanding at the wedding as I led Mary off with reminiscences of our turns about the floor at Baker Street on my tongue. But she beat me to it. She penetrated you. Left you on your back bleeding. Unconscious. And the first word on your lips when you awoke was her name.
It should have been mine. Breathy and dazed, you should have been speaking my name. In my breathless relief, I confronted her with it. How stupid could I be? How jealous? It is a stupid, useless emotion.
She had been ready to comfort me for your loss a second time. Very ready. She had done it so well the first time. Yeah, I know. I see and I don’t observe…enough.
But what are we to do now? I’ll not be satisfied with a hug again. But there is Mary. Enigmatic, murderous Mary and her unborn child. It may be mine. We've had scans, but we haven’t had a screening. I’m not ready to know. But if the little one is mine, then it really isn’t the sign of three, Sherlock. It’s the sign of four.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Further thoughts of John's may be read here.