Re: FILL - Tick Tock, Tick Tock - 3/3
anonymous
July 3 2011, 20:24:42 UTC
'Did you get into bed with me last night?' John asks.
'You were having a nightmare,' Sherlock replies, his eyes flicking up from the large, brown moth he is inspecting with a thick magnifying glass.
'Yes,' John says shortly, a flush appearing on his cheeks. Sherlock isn't sure why, though from what he can remember, he makes a guess at embarrassment. 'And?'
'You slept better with me there. You’re better rested this morning after a good night’s sleep and as a result you’re more likely to be useful to me should a case come up. Ergo, I’ll continue to do it as it appears to be mutually beneficial, unless you’d rather I didn’t,’ Sherlock says, his cat’s eyes flicking up to John’s face again.
‘No, it’s... I don’t mind,’ John mutters as he takes the kettle off its stand and fills it.
‘There we are, then,’ Sherlock murmurs, squinting at the furry body of one of his pinned victims. ‘Aha!’
***
When James Moriarty tells Sherlock that he is going to burn the heart out of him, Sherlock has to fight not to laugh. If it weren’t for John - useful, necessary John - being strapped to enough semtex to take down the entire building, he would have done. Oh, he’d have laughed. Burning his heart out, what a ridiculous notion. He could try, but he’d fail. The gold and silver and tin and copper creation that keeps Sherlock running, keeps him ticking over would have to encounter something very extraordinary indeed to be affected in the slightest.
***
On the fifteenth time of Sherlock climbing into bed with John, John’s nightmare is awful enough to wake him and wake he does, kicking and thrashing and shouting. Sherlock grabs hold of his wrists and climbs on top of him and pins him into the mattress, staring hard at John because he isn’t sure of what to say. He can hear his heart: a loud tick tock, tick tock.
John draws in several deep, shuddering breaths. His temples are damp with sweat and his eyes are unfocused as he shakes free of Sherlock’s grip and grabs Sherlock by his curls and pulls him down and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.
Sherlock thinks this: Intensity 10, duration 10, certainty/uncertainty 10, propinquity/remoteness 10, fecundity 8, purity 2, extent 2, and fifty-two out of seventy is acceptable despite the inevitable negative repercussions five minutes two weeks seven years down the line when John finds out, so he kisses back, slides his hands into John’s damp hair, pushes his hips down and bites and sucks and takes.
The complex mechanism of his heart whirrs and clicks; springs and gears and cogs and wheels turning and working at a rapid pace. He can hear it: a loud tick tock, tick tock, as well as the steady thump thump thump of John’s heart.
John comes undone underneath Sherlock, his hands holding Sherlock’s shoulders with an iron grip as he trembles and gasps Sherlock’s name. Sherlock reciprocates with a moan as he comes and collapses on top of John, finished.
‘Sherlock,’ John mumbles, rubbing his face against the top of Sherlock’s head, running his hands all over Sherlock’s still-clothed body. ‘Sherlock, that was...’
Sherlock frowns. He can hear his heart: a loud tick tock, tick tock. He can feel it, too: cold and big and hard and in that moment he longs for that fleshy, pink, ugly, god, so ugly mass of ventricles and veins and the vena cava and arteries and auricles and the aorta that sits pickled in a jar on a shelf in the kitchen to be back in his chest so he can feel something other than just finished, so that he can feel something.
He rests a hand on John’s hip and says nothing.
***
One day, he will tell John, or John will figure it out, or John will ask about the heart labelled with Sherlock’s name in the kitchen or Mycroft will deliberately let it slip because nothing that Mycroft does is not deliberate.
Until then, he takes from John all that he can, and he gives all that he wants.
They kiss and fuck and Sherlock tries to pretend that he can understand how John feels about him, he tries to pretend that he feels the same way.
He does try.
It’s only a matter of time until John finds out and Sherlock has the constant reminder of his heart: a loud tick tock, tick tock.
Authornon is useless and forgot to mention that the hedonic calculus is belong to Jeremy Bentham and Utilitarianism, and is definitely not of authornon's own devising.
'You were having a nightmare,' Sherlock replies, his eyes flicking up from the large, brown moth he is inspecting with a thick magnifying glass.
'Yes,' John says shortly, a flush appearing on his cheeks. Sherlock isn't sure why, though from what he can remember, he makes a guess at embarrassment. 'And?'
'You slept better with me there. You’re better rested this morning after a good night’s sleep and as a result you’re more likely to be useful to me should a case come up. Ergo, I’ll continue to do it as it appears to be mutually beneficial, unless you’d rather I didn’t,’ Sherlock says, his cat’s eyes flicking up to John’s face again.
‘No, it’s... I don’t mind,’ John mutters as he takes the kettle off its stand and fills it.
‘There we are, then,’ Sherlock murmurs, squinting at the furry body of one of his pinned victims. ‘Aha!’
***
When James Moriarty tells Sherlock that he is going to burn the heart out of him, Sherlock has to fight not to laugh. If it weren’t for John - useful, necessary John - being strapped to enough semtex to take down the entire building, he would have done. Oh, he’d have laughed. Burning his heart out, what a ridiculous notion. He could try, but he’d fail. The gold and silver and tin and copper creation that keeps Sherlock running, keeps him ticking over would have to encounter something very extraordinary indeed to be affected in the slightest.
***
On the fifteenth time of Sherlock climbing into bed with John, John’s nightmare is awful enough to wake him and wake he does, kicking and thrashing and shouting. Sherlock grabs hold of his wrists and climbs on top of him and pins him into the mattress, staring hard at John because he isn’t sure of what to say. He can hear his heart: a loud tick tock, tick tock.
John draws in several deep, shuddering breaths. His temples are damp with sweat and his eyes are unfocused as he shakes free of Sherlock’s grip and grabs Sherlock by his curls and pulls him down and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.
Sherlock thinks this: Intensity 10, duration 10, certainty/uncertainty 10, propinquity/remoteness 10, fecundity 8, purity 2, extent 2, and fifty-two out of seventy is acceptable despite the inevitable negative repercussions five minutes two weeks seven years down the line when John finds out, so he kisses back, slides his hands into John’s damp hair, pushes his hips down and bites and sucks and takes.
The complex mechanism of his heart whirrs and clicks; springs and gears and cogs and wheels turning and working at a rapid pace. He can hear it: a loud tick tock, tick tock, as well as the steady thump thump thump of John’s heart.
John comes undone underneath Sherlock, his hands holding Sherlock’s shoulders with an iron grip as he trembles and gasps Sherlock’s name. Sherlock reciprocates with a moan as he comes and collapses on top of John, finished.
‘Sherlock,’ John mumbles, rubbing his face against the top of Sherlock’s head, running his hands all over Sherlock’s still-clothed body. ‘Sherlock, that was...’
Sherlock frowns. He can hear his heart: a loud tick tock, tick tock. He can feel it, too: cold and big and hard and in that moment he longs for that fleshy, pink, ugly, god, so ugly mass of ventricles and veins and the vena cava and arteries and auricles and the aorta that sits pickled in a jar on a shelf in the kitchen to be back in his chest so he can feel something other than just finished, so that he can feel something.
He rests a hand on John’s hip and says nothing.
***
One day, he will tell John, or John will figure it out, or John will ask about the heart labelled with Sherlock’s name in the kitchen or Mycroft will deliberately let it slip because nothing that Mycroft does is not deliberate.
Until then, he takes from John all that he can, and he gives all that he wants.
They kiss and fuck and Sherlock tries to pretend that he can understand how John feels about him, he tries to pretend that he feels the same way.
He does try.
It’s only a matter of time until John finds out and Sherlock has the constant reminder of his heart: a loud tick tock, tick tock.
Tick tock, tick tock.
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
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I'm going to read it again.
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I love the list of variables and probabilities Sherlock keeps rattling off. This has a great steampunk/magic realism feel.
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