A World Upended (2/?)
Author: Sfumatosoup
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Genre: Angst/Romance/Adventure/Humour
Words: 32,000/?
Disclaimer: I do not own. All Gatiss and Moffat and Doyle. No plan to profit.
Rating: Mature. Nothing too explicit (yet). Lot’s of UST. I do promise eventual porn. For real. It will happen.
Warning: LONG!fic, Spoilers for all BBC eps as well as for canon FINA, SIGN and EMPT (eventually). All main characters and even one or two OC’s. Not brit-picked and self-beta’d so if you see errors or things that need to be changed please let me know.
Status: WIP (10/15/11- ?)
Summary: Merciless teasing, misunderstandings (understatement.), jealousy, (sexual?)tension, etc. It's complicated. (P.S.: Abuse against watercoolers.)
'...John wanted to just fall back into his grave and hope that the sod would simply be kind enough to follow suit and bury him...'
…
Over the course of the next few days Sherlock acted warily aware of John’s exacerbation. And was really quite unhappy of it or so it appeared.
Surprising. (When did Sherlock ever give a damn about anything other than himself?)
At any rate, he seemed to go out of his way over the next couple days to wheedle his way back into John’s good graces. Hadn’t said a damned thing to annoy him. In fact, was even rather polite.
Alarmingly, he made John tea one evening. Even the proper way he liked. Implying he actually paid attention to John. A bit unnerving, that.
He left him notes if he was going off somewhere, and not to worry, he’d be back later, at this specific time.
He even caught him once or twice, almost… (smiling at him?) That was off and a bit scary.
And then, to John's astonishment, he complimented his blog on their latest case together. Left a comment:
‘A surprisingly concise scientific documentation, John.’ Which was funny, since it varied little from any of the other’s he’d written.
At any rate, this refreshing change in demeanor, though unsettling, was not wholly unwelcome.
(Well it was a bit.) It was almost, for a moment, as if he was living with a stranger.
A very considerate, kind stranger.
John wasn’t altogether sure if he liked this. His psychiatrist had said (back in the days he still made regular visits) he had a small bit of a trust issue. Which was true, really. But he couldn’t help thinking it was all rather suspect. In any case, he concluded, perhaps Sherlock had given up on the needling taunts. Or at least making a pest of himself at John’s expense.
(Wrong.)
…
Days, later, John opened the refrigerator to toss out a few of the more precarious unlabeled containers, and noticed they were once again out of milk; a staple in Sherlock’s rather sparing diet. So, John donned his coat to set out for Tesco’s.
For once, his flat mate tagged along. Of course, he wasn’t there to help with the groceries, rather, he didn’t trust that John would actually pick up the other things he’d jotted down on the list at the last moment.
“Acetone… ammonia, hydrogen peroxide, aluminum foil, kerosene, pseudephadrine…Sherlock! I can’t get these- they’ll think I’m some kind of meth-head terrorist!”
Sherlock had darted off down the pharmaceutical aisle and abandoned John in produce.
“Oh, John! Hi!”
John looked up whipping his head around in an attempt to spot the subject of the voiced greeting.
Amal grinned broadly, waving as he neared him from around the cantaloupes, pushing his cart.
“Fancy meeting you here!” He laughed. John’s heart sank practically falling through the linoleum tiles, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t come strolling around in the next minute or so.
But as usual, hoping never came to any fruition when it involved Sherlock.
John cursed his luck as he spotted him. The unmistakable mop of black curls popping up from around a high, four-way soap display, and he nearly leapt from around it, with far too gleeful an expression. (The kind he got when an experiment proved successful, the ‘Aha!’ of fascinated interest.)
John groaned inwardly.
“Oh, this must be the Intern!” Sherlock exclaimed, as he approached, ducking behind John and circling his long, spindly arms around him possessively. (What?)
He dropped a quick peck on his cheek and John indignantly yanked himself away.
“Sherlock! What-“
“-It’s great to meet you,” Sherlock interjected, feigning an affected air, draping an arm around John’s shoulders, “John here, talks about you all the time, I’m almost jealous.” His grin was blinding, and John gaped in confusion, awkwardly shrugging off the offending arm, attempting to distance himself.
Sherlock stuck out his hand, and Amal tentatively took it.
“And you must be…”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Ah yes, his roommate.”
“Flat mate!” John corrected, seeing red.
“He didn’t tell me the two of you were-“
“Oh, yes, John and I have been partners for the past year, we get on quite well,” Sherlock declared with a smirking glance in John’s direction.
John paled, horrified. “Colleagues!” he sputtered, “He means we’re colleagues. I told you about it. I sometimes assist him on his cases.”
“Yes, John knows just how to assist me,” Sherlock leered.
Catching the implication, Amal started, “Oh, I-“
“-Sherlock!” John bit out in humiliation, “No, Amal. He means- Sherlock stop it!” The taller man, yet again, draped an arm back around his neck and affectionately nuzzled John’s short, blonde locks, breath blowing pleasantly warm against his scalp, and John shuddered before forcefully pulling himself away for the third time.
“Yes, well,” Sherlock drawled, unbothered by John’s scowl in his direction, “It was an absolute pleasure to meet you at last, John here, just speaks the world of you.”
Amal flushed looking pleased and a small bit baffled, and Sherlock grinned, “But I must be off, and don’t worry John, I’ll grab the lube.”
Sherlock dashed off, leaving John flushed, utterly mortified. “He means from automotive!” He explained, his ears feeling hot.
“Right,” Amal responded, smiling not unkindly at the other man’s discomfort.
“Seriously Amal, don’t get the wrong idea, Sherlock is-” He exhaled with exasperation, “-we’re not an item. Not even close. I’m not with him.”
“Alright. No worries, John,” Amal nodded, holding his hands up in capitulation, “You’re single, I know. You complain about it often enough, I believe you.”
John huffed out a breath in irritation, feeling the red ebb from his complexion, “Er. Good. That’s good.”
“Right John, I’ll see you at the Clinic tomorrow, then,” he smiled, “Got to fly. You know, hop the Tube before my shows are on. New episode of the Doctor. Absolutely must see.”
“Oh! Yes. Sure. Tomorrow then,” John nodded.
Damn.
John could still feel the kiss burning on his cheek like a brand.
Damn.
…
“Sherlock! What was that!”
“Hmm.”
John glared at the man accusingly, “Back at Tesco’s. You made us look like we were some kind of… thing or something. You deliberately implied we were having it off together.”
“Hardly. He still believes you’re single.”
“And now he thinks I’m…gay and single. Thanks.”
“Your protestations to the contrary didn’t aide your case.”
“Sherlock. What were you playing at.”
“Thought I’d help. Make it look like you were off the market.”
“It didn’t work.”
Sherlock shrugged, “Evidently.”
“So thanks for making it worse!” John groaned, slapping a palm to his face, “Real good job, there. You might’ve warned me you were going to do that.”
“I was attempting to do you a favour,” Sherlock defended casually, “Thought you might appreciate a bit of assistance.”
“Yeah, real good. Remind me to warn you off of those in the future,” John grimaced, “Your brand of ‘favours’ are lethal.”
“Exaggeration.”
“What?”
“You don’t look very post-mortem.”
“I feel a bit,” John snapped, shaking his head in disbelief.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Another exaggeration.”
“Well I may as well be. Look, now he thinks I’m… that way. And it’s going to get around the office, and it’s not what I want people to think,” John sighed, “Enough people already think you and I are involved, and you go off and flauntingly confirm all suspicions. In public, nonetheless.”
“We are involved,” Sherlock countered.
“No. Sherlock. We are not involved.”
“I see no difference.”
“God! You are so impossible!” John groaned, pinching his eyes shut.
“This idea… that we’re involved bothers you,” Sherlock droned. “You know it’s not the truth, and I know it’s not the truth, why should it bother you what other people think,” he yawned, stretching over and snagging his violin case.
John gaped incredulously, “Women are hardly going to be inclined to accept a date with a bloke they think is off buggering his roommate.”
“Flat mate,” Sherlock corrected, calmly plucking at the Strad, “And besides, what makes you think you’d be the one doing the buggering?”
“I really hate you,” John growled.
“Unlikely assertion,” Sherlock quipped.
…
Alright, 'hate' was a bit of a strong word.
Yes, Sherlock had a strange inclination toward startlingly off kilter humour. This was a fact which John had grown accustomed.He’d admittedly tolerated, accepted and otherwise grown rather fond of many of the man’s more peculiar quirks of character, many of which, were quite understandably less appreciated by the vast majority of others, or society as a whole.
It was only that, it was extremely frustrating when he turned it all on John.
The constant haranguing. The implications. Just another way to amuse himself at John’s expense?
And now this. Fuck, if this wasn’t absurd beyond all reckoning.Yet his justifications had almost seemed… generous?
No. Completely out of character. Either way. Regardless of the motive, he’d just made an utter mess of it.
It wasn’t as if John hadn’t enough to deal with, what with everyone within their mutual acquaintance (and a few of his blog followers) already assuming things between him and Sherlock, and now he had Amal to deal with at work as well.
The worst part of all of it, was that Sherlock never bothered to deny the jibes in their direction. It was as if he didn’t even notice the pointed looks. The talk. Which always continued in spite of John’s tireless defense to the contrary. Sherlock deemed himself too elevated to be arsed about trivialities of social convention. Really, everything was secondary to the work.
Like the time John had received that citation (wrongfully) for property vandalism. Goddamn Banksy. If he was Banksy that is. No one could be quite sure on that. Though, he suspected if anyone knew the rogue artist’s identity it had to be Sherlock. Not that he would say, of course.
For all of his bloody single-mindedness, his isolating focus, maybe Sally Donovan had been correct in her original assessment; her warning to John when the two had first met.
John flipped over onto his stomach smothering his face down into his pillow.
High-functioning Sociopath.
Unhealthy to care about one.
Particularly since it was more than just being alright with being the man being a social pariah and not giving a penny for anyone other than himself. He was ridiculously cavalier about his own life. His own wellbeing. It was no wonder that Mycroft worried about him constantly. He was a literal, immeasurable risk to himself.
The man simply jumped at the word, ‘Danger’.
Not that John was any different. He urgently leapt right after him.
Gladly. Without a second thought.
He idly mused if everyone could see his utter hopeless slipping into insanity. He did keep a blog of it, so to speak, it wasn’t as if it was any secret. Not the insanity literally, just factually disclosing in so many words that he followed the mad bloke about after criminals, which was, in essence, a clear admittance of said insanity.
The pillow was a bit suffocating just then, and John tossed over to his side, tucking up his knees as he had as a young child. Hadn’t been able to in ages since Afghanistan.
The psychosomatic pain rendering him with a limp was all but a memory past, except when he was particularly emotionally done in. And as if evoked by simply thinking of it, the pain suddenly flared.
He was emotionally done in.
John stretched his leg wearily, shaking out the phantom cramping.
(Damn it.)
He heard the man through the floor beneath him, downstairs manically pacing about.
(Damn him.)
John drifted off to sleep that night lulled by the strains of Sarasate’s Rondo Capriccioso.
His dreams were unaccounted for when he awoke, in the middle of the night: 4:00 a.m. the clock blared in red lettering. All was silent downstairs so he imagined the man had worn himself out, finally.
Throat dry, he padded down the steps and into the loo to fill up a glass of water.
Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he looked awreck. John tried to refrain from conjuring the image of Sherlock behind him, holding him, breathing into his short blonde locks which now, after several hours of fitful sleep, were standing on end in disarray on one side of his head and plastered to the other.
Splashing water into his face, he stared at himself. Threadbare cotton undershirt hanging loosely from his too thin, too ragged frame. The tired lines beneath his eyes, the creases in his forehead.
He looked older than he ought and felt that way too. Stress. Like Atlas; weighed down by the world.
He wiped up the remaining water dripping from his chin and frowned wearily.
Somewhere out there, there was a grave that was digging itself, a tombstone with his name on it.
He hated feeling so stupidly melodramatic. He’d face this as he had anything else. Nothing to be done for it.
…
Part 3: http://sfumatosoup.livejournal.com/9211.html
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Genre: Angst/Romance/Adventure/Humour
Words: 32,000/?
Disclaimer: I do not own. All Gatiss and Moffat and Doyle. No plan to profit.
Rating: Mature. Nothing too explicit (yet). Lot’s of UST. I do promise eventual porn. For real. It will happen.
Warning: LONG!fic, Spoilers for all BBC eps as well as for canon FINA, SIGN and EMPT (eventually). All main characters and even one or two OC’s. Not brit-picked and self-beta’d so if you see errors or things that need to be changed please let me know.
Status: WIP (10/15/11- ?)
Summary: Merciless teasing, misunderstandings (understatement.), jealousy, (sexual?)tension, etc. It's complicated. (P.S.: Abuse against watercoolers.)
'...John wanted to just fall back into his grave and hope that the sod would simply be kind enough to follow suit and bury him...'
…
Over the course of the next few days Sherlock acted warily aware of John’s exacerbation. And was really quite unhappy of it or so it appeared.
Surprising. (When did Sherlock ever give a damn about anything other than himself?)
At any rate, he seemed to go out of his way over the next couple days to wheedle his way back into John’s good graces. Hadn’t said a damned thing to annoy him. In fact, was even rather polite.
Alarmingly, he made John tea one evening. Even the proper way he liked. Implying he actually paid attention to John. A bit unnerving, that.
He left him notes if he was going off somewhere, and not to worry, he’d be back later, at this specific time.
He even caught him once or twice, almost… (smiling at him?) That was off and a bit scary.
And then, to John's astonishment, he complimented his blog on their latest case together. Left a comment:
‘A surprisingly concise scientific documentation, John.’ Which was funny, since it varied little from any of the other’s he’d written.
At any rate, this refreshing change in demeanor, though unsettling, was not wholly unwelcome.
(Well it was a bit.) It was almost, for a moment, as if he was living with a stranger.
A very considerate, kind stranger.
John wasn’t altogether sure if he liked this. His psychiatrist had said (back in the days he still made regular visits) he had a small bit of a trust issue. Which was true, really. But he couldn’t help thinking it was all rather suspect. In any case, he concluded, perhaps Sherlock had given up on the needling taunts. Or at least making a pest of himself at John’s expense.
(Wrong.)
…
Days, later, John opened the refrigerator to toss out a few of the more precarious unlabeled containers, and noticed they were once again out of milk; a staple in Sherlock’s rather sparing diet. So, John donned his coat to set out for Tesco’s.
For once, his flat mate tagged along. Of course, he wasn’t there to help with the groceries, rather, he didn’t trust that John would actually pick up the other things he’d jotted down on the list at the last moment.
“Acetone… ammonia, hydrogen peroxide, aluminum foil, kerosene, pseudephadrine…Sherlock! I can’t get these- they’ll think I’m some kind of meth-head terrorist!”
Sherlock had darted off down the pharmaceutical aisle and abandoned John in produce.
“Oh, John! Hi!”
John looked up whipping his head around in an attempt to spot the subject of the voiced greeting.
Amal grinned broadly, waving as he neared him from around the cantaloupes, pushing his cart.
“Fancy meeting you here!” He laughed. John’s heart sank practically falling through the linoleum tiles, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t come strolling around in the next minute or so.
But as usual, hoping never came to any fruition when it involved Sherlock.
John cursed his luck as he spotted him. The unmistakable mop of black curls popping up from around a high, four-way soap display, and he nearly leapt from around it, with far too gleeful an expression. (The kind he got when an experiment proved successful, the ‘Aha!’ of fascinated interest.)
John groaned inwardly.
“Oh, this must be the Intern!” Sherlock exclaimed, as he approached, ducking behind John and circling his long, spindly arms around him possessively. (What?)
He dropped a quick peck on his cheek and John indignantly yanked himself away.
“Sherlock! What-“
“-It’s great to meet you,” Sherlock interjected, feigning an affected air, draping an arm around John’s shoulders, “John here, talks about you all the time, I’m almost jealous.” His grin was blinding, and John gaped in confusion, awkwardly shrugging off the offending arm, attempting to distance himself.
Sherlock stuck out his hand, and Amal tentatively took it.
“And you must be…”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Ah yes, his roommate.”
“Flat mate!” John corrected, seeing red.
“He didn’t tell me the two of you were-“
“Oh, yes, John and I have been partners for the past year, we get on quite well,” Sherlock declared with a smirking glance in John’s direction.
John paled, horrified. “Colleagues!” he sputtered, “He means we’re colleagues. I told you about it. I sometimes assist him on his cases.”
“Yes, John knows just how to assist me,” Sherlock leered.
Catching the implication, Amal started, “Oh, I-“
“-Sherlock!” John bit out in humiliation, “No, Amal. He means- Sherlock stop it!” The taller man, yet again, draped an arm back around his neck and affectionately nuzzled John’s short, blonde locks, breath blowing pleasantly warm against his scalp, and John shuddered before forcefully pulling himself away for the third time.
“Yes, well,” Sherlock drawled, unbothered by John’s scowl in his direction, “It was an absolute pleasure to meet you at last, John here, just speaks the world of you.”
Amal flushed looking pleased and a small bit baffled, and Sherlock grinned, “But I must be off, and don’t worry John, I’ll grab the lube.”
Sherlock dashed off, leaving John flushed, utterly mortified. “He means from automotive!” He explained, his ears feeling hot.
“Right,” Amal responded, smiling not unkindly at the other man’s discomfort.
“Seriously Amal, don’t get the wrong idea, Sherlock is-” He exhaled with exasperation, “-we’re not an item. Not even close. I’m not with him.”
“Alright. No worries, John,” Amal nodded, holding his hands up in capitulation, “You’re single, I know. You complain about it often enough, I believe you.”
John huffed out a breath in irritation, feeling the red ebb from his complexion, “Er. Good. That’s good.”
“Right John, I’ll see you at the Clinic tomorrow, then,” he smiled, “Got to fly. You know, hop the Tube before my shows are on. New episode of the Doctor. Absolutely must see.”
“Oh! Yes. Sure. Tomorrow then,” John nodded.
Damn.
John could still feel the kiss burning on his cheek like a brand.
Damn.
…
“Sherlock! What was that!”
“Hmm.”
John glared at the man accusingly, “Back at Tesco’s. You made us look like we were some kind of… thing or something. You deliberately implied we were having it off together.”
“Hardly. He still believes you’re single.”
“And now he thinks I’m…gay and single. Thanks.”
“Your protestations to the contrary didn’t aide your case.”
“Sherlock. What were you playing at.”
“Thought I’d help. Make it look like you were off the market.”
“It didn’t work.”
Sherlock shrugged, “Evidently.”
“So thanks for making it worse!” John groaned, slapping a palm to his face, “Real good job, there. You might’ve warned me you were going to do that.”
“I was attempting to do you a favour,” Sherlock defended casually, “Thought you might appreciate a bit of assistance.”
“Yeah, real good. Remind me to warn you off of those in the future,” John grimaced, “Your brand of ‘favours’ are lethal.”
“Exaggeration.”
“What?”
“You don’t look very post-mortem.”
“I feel a bit,” John snapped, shaking his head in disbelief.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Another exaggeration.”
“Well I may as well be. Look, now he thinks I’m… that way. And it’s going to get around the office, and it’s not what I want people to think,” John sighed, “Enough people already think you and I are involved, and you go off and flauntingly confirm all suspicions. In public, nonetheless.”
“We are involved,” Sherlock countered.
“No. Sherlock. We are not involved.”
“I see no difference.”
“God! You are so impossible!” John groaned, pinching his eyes shut.
“This idea… that we’re involved bothers you,” Sherlock droned. “You know it’s not the truth, and I know it’s not the truth, why should it bother you what other people think,” he yawned, stretching over and snagging his violin case.
John gaped incredulously, “Women are hardly going to be inclined to accept a date with a bloke they think is off buggering his roommate.”
“Flat mate,” Sherlock corrected, calmly plucking at the Strad, “And besides, what makes you think you’d be the one doing the buggering?”
“I really hate you,” John growled.
“Unlikely assertion,” Sherlock quipped.
…
Alright, 'hate' was a bit of a strong word.
Yes, Sherlock had a strange inclination toward startlingly off kilter humour. This was a fact which John had grown accustomed.He’d admittedly tolerated, accepted and otherwise grown rather fond of many of the man’s more peculiar quirks of character, many of which, were quite understandably less appreciated by the vast majority of others, or society as a whole.
It was only that, it was extremely frustrating when he turned it all on John.
The constant haranguing. The implications. Just another way to amuse himself at John’s expense?
And now this. Fuck, if this wasn’t absurd beyond all reckoning.Yet his justifications had almost seemed… generous?
No. Completely out of character. Either way. Regardless of the motive, he’d just made an utter mess of it.
It wasn’t as if John hadn’t enough to deal with, what with everyone within their mutual acquaintance (and a few of his blog followers) already assuming things between him and Sherlock, and now he had Amal to deal with at work as well.
The worst part of all of it, was that Sherlock never bothered to deny the jibes in their direction. It was as if he didn’t even notice the pointed looks. The talk. Which always continued in spite of John’s tireless defense to the contrary. Sherlock deemed himself too elevated to be arsed about trivialities of social convention. Really, everything was secondary to the work.
Like the time John had received that citation (wrongfully) for property vandalism. Goddamn Banksy. If he was Banksy that is. No one could be quite sure on that. Though, he suspected if anyone knew the rogue artist’s identity it had to be Sherlock. Not that he would say, of course.
For all of his bloody single-mindedness, his isolating focus, maybe Sally Donovan had been correct in her original assessment; her warning to John when the two had first met.
John flipped over onto his stomach smothering his face down into his pillow.
High-functioning Sociopath.
Unhealthy to care about one.
Particularly since it was more than just being alright with being the man being a social pariah and not giving a penny for anyone other than himself. He was ridiculously cavalier about his own life. His own wellbeing. It was no wonder that Mycroft worried about him constantly. He was a literal, immeasurable risk to himself.
The man simply jumped at the word, ‘Danger’.
Not that John was any different. He urgently leapt right after him.
Gladly. Without a second thought.
He idly mused if everyone could see his utter hopeless slipping into insanity. He did keep a blog of it, so to speak, it wasn’t as if it was any secret. Not the insanity literally, just factually disclosing in so many words that he followed the mad bloke about after criminals, which was, in essence, a clear admittance of said insanity.
The pillow was a bit suffocating just then, and John tossed over to his side, tucking up his knees as he had as a young child. Hadn’t been able to in ages since Afghanistan.
The psychosomatic pain rendering him with a limp was all but a memory past, except when he was particularly emotionally done in. And as if evoked by simply thinking of it, the pain suddenly flared.
He was emotionally done in.
John stretched his leg wearily, shaking out the phantom cramping.
(Damn it.)
He heard the man through the floor beneath him, downstairs manically pacing about.
(Damn him.)
John drifted off to sleep that night lulled by the strains of Sarasate’s Rondo Capriccioso.
His dreams were unaccounted for when he awoke, in the middle of the night: 4:00 a.m. the clock blared in red lettering. All was silent downstairs so he imagined the man had worn himself out, finally.
Throat dry, he padded down the steps and into the loo to fill up a glass of water.
Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he looked awreck. John tried to refrain from conjuring the image of Sherlock behind him, holding him, breathing into his short blonde locks which now, after several hours of fitful sleep, were standing on end in disarray on one side of his head and plastered to the other.
Splashing water into his face, he stared at himself. Threadbare cotton undershirt hanging loosely from his too thin, too ragged frame. The tired lines beneath his eyes, the creases in his forehead.
He looked older than he ought and felt that way too. Stress. Like Atlas; weighed down by the world.
He wiped up the remaining water dripping from his chin and frowned wearily.
Somewhere out there, there was a grave that was digging itself, a tombstone with his name on it.
He hated feeling so stupidly melodramatic. He’d face this as he had anything else. Nothing to be done for it.
…
Part 3: http://sfumatosoup.livejournal.com/9211.html