Fic: Pause (1/2)
Title: Pause (1/2)
Author: she_burns1
Word Count: 2,835
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, vague sexy times, light references to gore
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: John can't sleep. Sherlock helps.
Disclaimers: I own nothing.
Author's Note: Prompt on Sherlock BBC Kink Meme: John has problems with insomnia. At first, Sherlock doesn't see the problem, not sleeping much himself, but he comes to see that John's health and ability to concentrate is failing him. He takes it upon himself to find a remedy for John.
This is also something of a mashup with the film 'Cashback' as the main character in that film also suffers from insomnia and begins to imagine, or he might actually be able to, stop time so that he can walk around in a world that is "frozen".
Lastly, to give credit to where credit is due, the described murder/solution is lifted from the comic 'Ruse' by Mark Waid, who is far more clever than I at constructing a mystery. If you read comics, I highly recommend that one as the main character, Simon Archard, is pretty much Sherlock Holmes.
Sarah broke up with John four days ago.
It’s not as if he hadn’t seen it coming. It’s not as if he didn’t even deserve it, in fact, he knows he deserved it. He was a rubbish boyfriend. If one could ever even really have considered him her boyfriend.
She had said that herself.
He could still recall her face.
The movements of her lips, the downcast of her eyes, fingers brushing stray strands of hair out of her face, arms crossed, body language closed. Sometimes he wished she had broken up with him over the phone. Or through text. E-mail. Some form of communication where he wouldn’t have had to physically see her. Because now it is all burned into his brain, branded on to the back of his eyelids, keeping him awake.
Sarah broke up with John four days ago and four days ago was the last time John slept.
Or, at least, he thinks it is.
It’s tough to say nowadays. Everything feels as if its’ made of cardboard - stark and rough. At night he lays in the dark in bed and stares up at the ceiling, cataloguing the sounds around him. Cars passing on the street, Sherlock’s sure footsteps as he paces downstairs, the neighbors next door trying to quietly fuck (but never quietly enough - oh no, every ragged breath, ever sweet moan, every creak of their bed digs at him, puts him on edge, makes him grit his teeth, fingers knotting in his sheets and he tries oh so very hard tonot think about how he’s hard).
He starts reading books - all the books he’s always wanted to read (War and Peace, Jane Eyre, Frankenstein), then his favorite books again (To Kill a Mockingbird, Catcher in the Rye, The Hobbit), even some of Sherlock’s books (Essential Logic: Basic Reasoning Skills for the Twenty First Century, Elements of Murder: A History of Poison, Time of Death, Decomposition and Identification: An Atlas). He works on his blog. He calls old friends. He exercises. He takes sleeping pills.
But nothing works - nothing.
He’s awake.
He’s so very awake.
He starts spending even more time with Sherlock because Sherlock appears to be just as awake as he is and, at first, Sherlock says nothing. But as time passes on not even he can keep from commenting on it. John’s added presence hasn’t been a hindrance to him; on the contrary, having his flatmate around consistently has actually been something of a boon.
The time he lost when John went to bed has now been spared - no more having to get up and get his own beakers, books, or laptop. Sherlock can now simply direct these tasks to John, who, surprisingly, fulfills them without complaint.
As a matter of fact, John seems more than happy to complete them. As if being ordered about by Sherlock at all hours of the day and night has now given him purpose. And this is what begins to stick in the back of Sherlock’s mind, clawing its’ way to the forefront of his thoughts, distracting him from much more important work.
Really, he should care less. He wants to care less. But…well, he doesn’t.
And that realization just makes him cross.
He finds John in the kitchen. Apparently he has poured himself a cup of tea but spilled some of it on the counter. He stares at the spill, peering into it deeply as if it is the most fascinating thing he has ever laid his eyes on.
Sherlock has no idea how long John has been gazing at this puddle but he clears his throat, “Well? Don’t just stare at it.”
John blinks rapidly and nods, fishing a dishtowel from one of the drawers, swiping it up before he turns to look at Sherlock, “Need something?”
“Sarah dumped you.” This is said with no preamble. Sherlock expects John to react. He doesn’t. Sherlock tries again, “Perhaps you care to tell me why?”
John looks confused and Sherlock sighs painfully as he elaborates, “Societal norms would dictate that, as your friend, it is my duty to engage you in this type of discussion. Moreover, it is to my benefit. You have not been sleeping. Your health and sanity will soon be at risk.”
“And yours are not? You don’t sleep either.”
“I do sleep. If very little. You have not slept at all. As a doctor I am sure you are aware of the risks associated with long term insomnia.”
“I am.” John says.
Sherlock waits (patiently, of all things) for him to continue.
John does not. He sips his tea. He breathes in deeply. He looks at Sherlock. Sherlock looks back. They could probably go on like this for hours. Finally Sherlock glowers fiercely at him, “John.”
“Sherlock.”
“We can discuss it if you like. Or I could simply pacify you with that old adage, the one about the vast majority of available sea life.”
John chuckles into his drink, “’There are plenty of fish in the sea’, is the phrase you’re looking for. Nice try though. Deleted, I take it?”
“I am not much one for proverbs.”
“Oh? Strange. Somehow thought you’d be a fan of pithy expressions.”
The face Sherlock makes at this causes him to chuckle again and Sherlock continues undeterred, “John, the point remains, your relationship with Sarah may have expired but I highly doubt it is neither the first nor the last one you shall be entangled in. As such it is ridiculous of you to lose sleep over the matter.”
“It’s not that,” John says with a shrug, “Or at least it’s not just that. I honestly don’t know why I’m not sleeping. I have tried everything I can think of to induce it and-pff! Nothing! If anything I’m more awake when I try to sleep. So, I gave up. End of story.”
Sherlock opens his mouth, ready to say that that is obviously not the end, but he doesn’t get the chance. There’s a brisk knock at the door and Lestrade is there, that reluctant yet eager air about him, a new case clearly in the offing.
The issue is dropped.
For now.
*
They are escorted into a splendid (and expensive) library.
The victim, Matthew Bishop, was unquestionably wealthy and his family is putting up a small fortune to have his murder quickly and quietly solved. He lies in the middle of the room, his head lobbed off entirely and resting far from his body, a large amount of his blood splattered about, the apparent weapon (a meat cleaver) also sitting close by.
Anderson and Sally are to one side in the room, Lestrade to the other. Sherlock is walking around, inspecting everything, and John…John feels time slow. Slow, slow, slow - stop. Pause. He does a double take because he’s positive that he’s the only one moving now.
Everyone is completely still. Rigid. Frozen. He shuffles from foot to foot. He rubs at his eyes. Everything stays the same. Immobile. He swallows and laughs and concludes that he has finally lost his mind. Lack of sleep taking his sanity as much as Sherlock had warned it would.
But, if all ready deep in the mouth of madness, why struggle?
He moves about the room, inspecting everything in the very same manner Sherlock would have, were he still in motion. John avoids the dead body and the blood and instead chooses to look at the people. He investigates several yard members up close, invading their personal space to investigate their faces, their postures.
Going to Sally, he can smell her shampoo, see the clench of her fingers, the tightness of her jaw - completely up close as if she were a statue. Then he moves to Anderson, noticing how his body is pointed in Sally’s direction, eyes doing the same and there is softness in them - a warmth.
He leaves them, goes to Lestrade, and there’s a sort of droop to Lestrade’s shoulders, a sort of weary give and John reaches out, curious and, yes! He can touch someone and time is still locked. Lestrade doesn’t react - doesn’t move or speak - and it is as if he is a mannequin. Or better yet, an action figure, his features too strongly cut to be associated with fashion - he is much too much the dashing hero type.
John tugs at Lestrade’s shoulders gently, adjusts them, straightening him, smoothing out his clothing until he is standing upright. Tall. Confidant. That’s how Lestrade should be. He may have to ask Sherlock for help, but he is a strong man, a smart man in his own right. He should never think otherwise.
Then John licks his lips and walks over to Sherlock. Sherlock has a hand raised, lips slightly parted, and John thinks he was probably about to say something clever before this. Before time just…stopped. And yet John is not stopped in this time. He is free to move about - free to get close - closer to Sherlock than he has ever dared.
Hesitantly, as if afraid, he raises his right hand and rests it on Sherlock’s face, fingers brushing near his chin. Sherlock doesn’t move. John relaxes marginally and lets his fingers dance along the man’s jawline, then up, thumb brushing his earlobe before his other hand rises and soon both hands are ruffling through his dark hair, fingers catching on curls.
John’s lips twitch, a smile fighting about his face, and he stares into Sherlock’s eyes. The acuity, the sheer, raw power somehow captured inside their unbelievable color. As a doctor, as a solider, as a man - John has seen and meet hundreds of people and he can never recall seeing anyone else with eyes like these.
And lips…
John’s hands pull back; only the right rising again, fingertips running along Sherlock’s bottom lip before tracing the top one, learning the shape of it, the curves and Christ, the man is attractive. John would be lying if he ever said otherwise.
John didn’t think so at first, when they had first met one another.
At first glance Sherlock’s features were too abstract, too bizarre, too odd to be considered attractive. To be considered handsome. When John had first met him he had only noted the ghastly white skin, which he had thought reminiscent of candle wax and the overall sort of…alien vibe about him. A vibe that was most certainly not put to rest once he had started talking.
But then John had gotten to know him, to live with him, to see him and talk to him every day and he had grown to be attractive. Albeit still infuriatingly alien. Though now merely more so in attitude than in looks.
John finding Sherlock physically appealing does not distress him. He has always secretly, internally, been comfortable with the fact that he can acknowledge either gender as appealing. This is not something he has ever shared with others. Outside of Harry of all people.
One evening, early in their youth, their sibling rivalry had given way, taking a back seat to an unprecedented moment of bonding. Most likely, in part, due to the fact that they had managed to smuggle away some of their grandfather’s liquor. In reflection, this very well might have been the evening that set Harry down on her future (unfortunate) path, but, regardless, one could instead argue that the biggest precursor of the night was the revelation from John himself that he was attracted to both sexes.
Harry had deemed it hilarious that their parents had produced not one, but two, children with unique sexual proclivities. John had sworn her to silence and, for what it was worth, she had always kept his secret.
And now here John was, in this stolen moment, caressing Sherlock’s face and thinking about how beautiful he looks.
John’s head tilts back and he raises himself up slightly. It’s not that he’s short. He’s a perfectly average height. It’s just that Sherlock is unreasonably tall. He’s like a bloody giraffe. Yet overall, the entire package of Sherlock Holmes seems more than appropriate - that such a brilliant, keen mind is wrapped up in this tall, thin, uniquely faced individual makes more sense to John than most things in the world. A dynamic form for a dynamic person.
John wonders what his own body, his own face, say about himself but he doesn’t feel like self-examination. Instead one part of him is thinking about how he should try to find a way to unsnap this moment while the other is thinking about what it would be like to kiss someone taller than himself. And, more specifically, what it would be like to kiss Sherlock.
This isn’t the first time this thought has crossed his mind, but this is the first time that there’s been a true temptation behind it. A deep seated fire kindling to life in the pit of his stomach. What would it be like, he wonders, to feel those magnificently shaped lips against his own?
He will probably never know.
He cannot see any scenario in which he kisses Sherlock or in which Sherlock kisses him. God’s truth, Sherlock would probably think such an act crass or vulgar. Boring. Maybe even rude, though John can’t pinpoint exactly why he would think that but, the point remains. They will never kiss, so it is futile for John to even speculate about it further.
He draws away from Sherlock, looks at the body at last, eyes narrowing in thought momentarily as he resumes his initial position before this strange phenomenon began. He tries to think of how to jumpstart this moment, return time to its' normal flow and, for some inexplicable reason, decides snapping his fingers should do it.
Why not? Works well enough in films.
He snaps his fingers.
And just like that, everything is as it should be. A flood of sound, movement, life. No one seems cognizant of the pause and John shrugs, deciding to just go with it, losing himself to the flow of everything around him, as if nothing extraordinary took place at all.
Freed from the freeze, Sherlock finally speaks his clever thought, “Suicide.”
There is an expulsion of noise from almost everyone present - sheer disbelief running rampant, people talking over one another, Lestrade cursing, Sally sputtering, Anderson sharply asking if Holmes has finally lost his mind. Sherlock is a sea of calm, not reacting whatsoever to everyone’s alarm, instead waving a hand at the body, his entire air jaded, “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Yes,” John returns and the clamor dies entirely as he speaks with a touch of exhaustion to his tone, “No defensive wounds. His skin is pink, the blood cherry red, that indicates cyanide poisoning. No point in poisoning someone then removing his head and even then, why leave it?”
John, completely oblivious to the fact that everyone is outright staring at him, continues, “Someone wanted him to be identified, wanted this to be pegged as a murder, though frankly, the poisoning would have been revealed in the autopsy anyway, so that means the person responsible removed the head to try and mislead us to buy some time. Perhaps so they can link the poison to someone else and try to cover the fact that it was self-inflicted - probably someone in the family, seeing as the Bishops are the ones making such a fuss.”
John finally comes to the realization that no one is speaking, that the whole room is deathly quiet, and he looks around, wondering if time has stopped again. It hasn’t. Everyone is merely stunned. John looks at Sherlock and Sherlock looks…
John is taken aback, because he is positive he must be misreading the look on his face. The look of utter…arousal. And arousal feels like the wrong word but it also feels like the only word that fits. John licks his lips and shrugs, “That’s all I’ve got. Sure Sherlock can unravel the rest.”
He decides to leave the room and promptly walks into the wall nearest the door. Not hard, but certainly with the sort of clumsy, comical force that can only come from someone who needs sleep. He mutters an apology, to the wall of all things, and, once he exits, Lestrade walks over to Sherlock, voice star struck, “Did you-?”
“Yes.”
“How-?”
“His attention to detail must be heightened due to sleep loss.”
“He just walked into the wall!”
The consulting detective offers another theory, “He’s been reading several of my books.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade breathes the name, tries to continue talking and stops. Failing entirely, still too stunned by John’s outburst. Finally, “Walk us through this quickly then get John home and get him to bed. We already have one Holmes, we don’t need another.”
“I do have a brother.”
“Is he like you?”
“A bit.”
“God help us.”
Sherlock smirks and finishes explaining everything. The case wraps with the kind of swiftness that induces whiplash. This is fine by Sherlock as a much more intriguing mystery has been unveiled.
Author: she_burns1
Word Count: 2,835
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, vague sexy times, light references to gore
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: John can't sleep. Sherlock helps.
Disclaimers: I own nothing.
Author's Note: Prompt on Sherlock BBC Kink Meme: John has problems with insomnia. At first, Sherlock doesn't see the problem, not sleeping much himself, but he comes to see that John's health and ability to concentrate is failing him. He takes it upon himself to find a remedy for John.
This is also something of a mashup with the film 'Cashback' as the main character in that film also suffers from insomnia and begins to imagine, or he might actually be able to, stop time so that he can walk around in a world that is "frozen".
Lastly, to give credit to where credit is due, the described murder/solution is lifted from the comic 'Ruse' by Mark Waid, who is far more clever than I at constructing a mystery. If you read comics, I highly recommend that one as the main character, Simon Archard, is pretty much Sherlock Holmes.
Sarah broke up with John four days ago.
It’s not as if he hadn’t seen it coming. It’s not as if he didn’t even deserve it, in fact, he knows he deserved it. He was a rubbish boyfriend. If one could ever even really have considered him her boyfriend.
She had said that herself.
He could still recall her face.
The movements of her lips, the downcast of her eyes, fingers brushing stray strands of hair out of her face, arms crossed, body language closed. Sometimes he wished she had broken up with him over the phone. Or through text. E-mail. Some form of communication where he wouldn’t have had to physically see her. Because now it is all burned into his brain, branded on to the back of his eyelids, keeping him awake.
Sarah broke up with John four days ago and four days ago was the last time John slept.
Or, at least, he thinks it is.
It’s tough to say nowadays. Everything feels as if its’ made of cardboard - stark and rough. At night he lays in the dark in bed and stares up at the ceiling, cataloguing the sounds around him. Cars passing on the street, Sherlock’s sure footsteps as he paces downstairs, the neighbors next door trying to quietly fuck (but never quietly enough - oh no, every ragged breath, ever sweet moan, every creak of their bed digs at him, puts him on edge, makes him grit his teeth, fingers knotting in his sheets and he tries oh so very hard tonot think about how he’s hard).
He starts reading books - all the books he’s always wanted to read (War and Peace, Jane Eyre, Frankenstein), then his favorite books again (To Kill a Mockingbird, Catcher in the Rye, The Hobbit), even some of Sherlock’s books (Essential Logic: Basic Reasoning Skills for the Twenty First Century, Elements of Murder: A History of Poison, Time of Death, Decomposition and Identification: An Atlas). He works on his blog. He calls old friends. He exercises. He takes sleeping pills.
But nothing works - nothing.
He’s awake.
He’s so very awake.
He starts spending even more time with Sherlock because Sherlock appears to be just as awake as he is and, at first, Sherlock says nothing. But as time passes on not even he can keep from commenting on it. John’s added presence hasn’t been a hindrance to him; on the contrary, having his flatmate around consistently has actually been something of a boon.
The time he lost when John went to bed has now been spared - no more having to get up and get his own beakers, books, or laptop. Sherlock can now simply direct these tasks to John, who, surprisingly, fulfills them without complaint.
As a matter of fact, John seems more than happy to complete them. As if being ordered about by Sherlock at all hours of the day and night has now given him purpose. And this is what begins to stick in the back of Sherlock’s mind, clawing its’ way to the forefront of his thoughts, distracting him from much more important work.
Really, he should care less. He wants to care less. But…well, he doesn’t.
And that realization just makes him cross.
He finds John in the kitchen. Apparently he has poured himself a cup of tea but spilled some of it on the counter. He stares at the spill, peering into it deeply as if it is the most fascinating thing he has ever laid his eyes on.
Sherlock has no idea how long John has been gazing at this puddle but he clears his throat, “Well? Don’t just stare at it.”
John blinks rapidly and nods, fishing a dishtowel from one of the drawers, swiping it up before he turns to look at Sherlock, “Need something?”
“Sarah dumped you.” This is said with no preamble. Sherlock expects John to react. He doesn’t. Sherlock tries again, “Perhaps you care to tell me why?”
John looks confused and Sherlock sighs painfully as he elaborates, “Societal norms would dictate that, as your friend, it is my duty to engage you in this type of discussion. Moreover, it is to my benefit. You have not been sleeping. Your health and sanity will soon be at risk.”
“And yours are not? You don’t sleep either.”
“I do sleep. If very little. You have not slept at all. As a doctor I am sure you are aware of the risks associated with long term insomnia.”
“I am.” John says.
Sherlock waits (patiently, of all things) for him to continue.
John does not. He sips his tea. He breathes in deeply. He looks at Sherlock. Sherlock looks back. They could probably go on like this for hours. Finally Sherlock glowers fiercely at him, “John.”
“Sherlock.”
“We can discuss it if you like. Or I could simply pacify you with that old adage, the one about the vast majority of available sea life.”
John chuckles into his drink, “’There are plenty of fish in the sea’, is the phrase you’re looking for. Nice try though. Deleted, I take it?”
“I am not much one for proverbs.”
“Oh? Strange. Somehow thought you’d be a fan of pithy expressions.”
The face Sherlock makes at this causes him to chuckle again and Sherlock continues undeterred, “John, the point remains, your relationship with Sarah may have expired but I highly doubt it is neither the first nor the last one you shall be entangled in. As such it is ridiculous of you to lose sleep over the matter.”
“It’s not that,” John says with a shrug, “Or at least it’s not just that. I honestly don’t know why I’m not sleeping. I have tried everything I can think of to induce it and-pff! Nothing! If anything I’m more awake when I try to sleep. So, I gave up. End of story.”
Sherlock opens his mouth, ready to say that that is obviously not the end, but he doesn’t get the chance. There’s a brisk knock at the door and Lestrade is there, that reluctant yet eager air about him, a new case clearly in the offing.
The issue is dropped.
For now.
*
They are escorted into a splendid (and expensive) library.
The victim, Matthew Bishop, was unquestionably wealthy and his family is putting up a small fortune to have his murder quickly and quietly solved. He lies in the middle of the room, his head lobbed off entirely and resting far from his body, a large amount of his blood splattered about, the apparent weapon (a meat cleaver) also sitting close by.
Anderson and Sally are to one side in the room, Lestrade to the other. Sherlock is walking around, inspecting everything, and John…John feels time slow. Slow, slow, slow - stop. Pause. He does a double take because he’s positive that he’s the only one moving now.
Everyone is completely still. Rigid. Frozen. He shuffles from foot to foot. He rubs at his eyes. Everything stays the same. Immobile. He swallows and laughs and concludes that he has finally lost his mind. Lack of sleep taking his sanity as much as Sherlock had warned it would.
But, if all ready deep in the mouth of madness, why struggle?
He moves about the room, inspecting everything in the very same manner Sherlock would have, were he still in motion. John avoids the dead body and the blood and instead chooses to look at the people. He investigates several yard members up close, invading their personal space to investigate their faces, their postures.
Going to Sally, he can smell her shampoo, see the clench of her fingers, the tightness of her jaw - completely up close as if she were a statue. Then he moves to Anderson, noticing how his body is pointed in Sally’s direction, eyes doing the same and there is softness in them - a warmth.
He leaves them, goes to Lestrade, and there’s a sort of droop to Lestrade’s shoulders, a sort of weary give and John reaches out, curious and, yes! He can touch someone and time is still locked. Lestrade doesn’t react - doesn’t move or speak - and it is as if he is a mannequin. Or better yet, an action figure, his features too strongly cut to be associated with fashion - he is much too much the dashing hero type.
John tugs at Lestrade’s shoulders gently, adjusts them, straightening him, smoothing out his clothing until he is standing upright. Tall. Confidant. That’s how Lestrade should be. He may have to ask Sherlock for help, but he is a strong man, a smart man in his own right. He should never think otherwise.
Then John licks his lips and walks over to Sherlock. Sherlock has a hand raised, lips slightly parted, and John thinks he was probably about to say something clever before this. Before time just…stopped. And yet John is not stopped in this time. He is free to move about - free to get close - closer to Sherlock than he has ever dared.
Hesitantly, as if afraid, he raises his right hand and rests it on Sherlock’s face, fingers brushing near his chin. Sherlock doesn’t move. John relaxes marginally and lets his fingers dance along the man’s jawline, then up, thumb brushing his earlobe before his other hand rises and soon both hands are ruffling through his dark hair, fingers catching on curls.
John’s lips twitch, a smile fighting about his face, and he stares into Sherlock’s eyes. The acuity, the sheer, raw power somehow captured inside their unbelievable color. As a doctor, as a solider, as a man - John has seen and meet hundreds of people and he can never recall seeing anyone else with eyes like these.
And lips…
John’s hands pull back; only the right rising again, fingertips running along Sherlock’s bottom lip before tracing the top one, learning the shape of it, the curves and Christ, the man is attractive. John would be lying if he ever said otherwise.
John didn’t think so at first, when they had first met one another.
At first glance Sherlock’s features were too abstract, too bizarre, too odd to be considered attractive. To be considered handsome. When John had first met him he had only noted the ghastly white skin, which he had thought reminiscent of candle wax and the overall sort of…alien vibe about him. A vibe that was most certainly not put to rest once he had started talking.
But then John had gotten to know him, to live with him, to see him and talk to him every day and he had grown to be attractive. Albeit still infuriatingly alien. Though now merely more so in attitude than in looks.
John finding Sherlock physically appealing does not distress him. He has always secretly, internally, been comfortable with the fact that he can acknowledge either gender as appealing. This is not something he has ever shared with others. Outside of Harry of all people.
One evening, early in their youth, their sibling rivalry had given way, taking a back seat to an unprecedented moment of bonding. Most likely, in part, due to the fact that they had managed to smuggle away some of their grandfather’s liquor. In reflection, this very well might have been the evening that set Harry down on her future (unfortunate) path, but, regardless, one could instead argue that the biggest precursor of the night was the revelation from John himself that he was attracted to both sexes.
Harry had deemed it hilarious that their parents had produced not one, but two, children with unique sexual proclivities. John had sworn her to silence and, for what it was worth, she had always kept his secret.
And now here John was, in this stolen moment, caressing Sherlock’s face and thinking about how beautiful he looks.
John’s head tilts back and he raises himself up slightly. It’s not that he’s short. He’s a perfectly average height. It’s just that Sherlock is unreasonably tall. He’s like a bloody giraffe. Yet overall, the entire package of Sherlock Holmes seems more than appropriate - that such a brilliant, keen mind is wrapped up in this tall, thin, uniquely faced individual makes more sense to John than most things in the world. A dynamic form for a dynamic person.
John wonders what his own body, his own face, say about himself but he doesn’t feel like self-examination. Instead one part of him is thinking about how he should try to find a way to unsnap this moment while the other is thinking about what it would be like to kiss someone taller than himself. And, more specifically, what it would be like to kiss Sherlock.
This isn’t the first time this thought has crossed his mind, but this is the first time that there’s been a true temptation behind it. A deep seated fire kindling to life in the pit of his stomach. What would it be like, he wonders, to feel those magnificently shaped lips against his own?
He will probably never know.
He cannot see any scenario in which he kisses Sherlock or in which Sherlock kisses him. God’s truth, Sherlock would probably think such an act crass or vulgar. Boring. Maybe even rude, though John can’t pinpoint exactly why he would think that but, the point remains. They will never kiss, so it is futile for John to even speculate about it further.
He draws away from Sherlock, looks at the body at last, eyes narrowing in thought momentarily as he resumes his initial position before this strange phenomenon began. He tries to think of how to jumpstart this moment, return time to its' normal flow and, for some inexplicable reason, decides snapping his fingers should do it.
Why not? Works well enough in films.
He snaps his fingers.
And just like that, everything is as it should be. A flood of sound, movement, life. No one seems cognizant of the pause and John shrugs, deciding to just go with it, losing himself to the flow of everything around him, as if nothing extraordinary took place at all.
Freed from the freeze, Sherlock finally speaks his clever thought, “Suicide.”
There is an expulsion of noise from almost everyone present - sheer disbelief running rampant, people talking over one another, Lestrade cursing, Sally sputtering, Anderson sharply asking if Holmes has finally lost his mind. Sherlock is a sea of calm, not reacting whatsoever to everyone’s alarm, instead waving a hand at the body, his entire air jaded, “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Yes,” John returns and the clamor dies entirely as he speaks with a touch of exhaustion to his tone, “No defensive wounds. His skin is pink, the blood cherry red, that indicates cyanide poisoning. No point in poisoning someone then removing his head and even then, why leave it?”
John, completely oblivious to the fact that everyone is outright staring at him, continues, “Someone wanted him to be identified, wanted this to be pegged as a murder, though frankly, the poisoning would have been revealed in the autopsy anyway, so that means the person responsible removed the head to try and mislead us to buy some time. Perhaps so they can link the poison to someone else and try to cover the fact that it was self-inflicted - probably someone in the family, seeing as the Bishops are the ones making such a fuss.”
John finally comes to the realization that no one is speaking, that the whole room is deathly quiet, and he looks around, wondering if time has stopped again. It hasn’t. Everyone is merely stunned. John looks at Sherlock and Sherlock looks…
John is taken aback, because he is positive he must be misreading the look on his face. The look of utter…arousal. And arousal feels like the wrong word but it also feels like the only word that fits. John licks his lips and shrugs, “That’s all I’ve got. Sure Sherlock can unravel the rest.”
He decides to leave the room and promptly walks into the wall nearest the door. Not hard, but certainly with the sort of clumsy, comical force that can only come from someone who needs sleep. He mutters an apology, to the wall of all things, and, once he exits, Lestrade walks over to Sherlock, voice star struck, “Did you-?”
“Yes.”
“How-?”
“His attention to detail must be heightened due to sleep loss.”
“He just walked into the wall!”
The consulting detective offers another theory, “He’s been reading several of my books.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade breathes the name, tries to continue talking and stops. Failing entirely, still too stunned by John’s outburst. Finally, “Walk us through this quickly then get John home and get him to bed. We already have one Holmes, we don’t need another.”
“I do have a brother.”
“Is he like you?”
“A bit.”
“God help us.”
Sherlock smirks and finishes explaining everything. The case wraps with the kind of swiftness that induces whiplash. This is fine by Sherlock as a much more intriguing mystery has been unveiled.