Fill: His John Pt. Ilivia_caricaSeptember 20 2011, 03:42:59 UTC
This turned out a bit more... thinky than I originally planned.... Sorry about that.
There is a photo on the bookcase in what was John’s but is now their bedroom. It is a shiny metallic frame containing an incongruously battered photograph of a lean, tanned John with his arm thrown around the shoulders of two equally whipcord solider cohorts. Dressed in camouflage trousers and a desert hued vest, he is squinting into the Afghan sun, his bright smile even whiter against his tanned skin. His friends are grinning too. It is for all intents and purposes a happy photograph of a bunch of Army mates posing in a quiet time. John loves that photo because it is a good memory that floats on a sea of bad memories like a message in a bottle.
Sherlock hates it.
Sherlock doesn’t have those memories, that context. Every time Sherlock picks it up to look at it, which admittedly isn’t often, all he sees beyond the huge grin and camaraderie is the fatigue of horror in John’s eyes, the tension in the toned shoulders, the desperation and longing in the too prominent jaw. A poor Army diet gives this John a spare appearance and when Sherlock is in the mood, he fancies he could have traced the outlines of John’s skull with one finger.
It isn’t his John, which is why he hates it. That was Soldier John, surviving day to day on his wits and unable to take anything at all for granted from a decent meal to a shower to whether he’d be alive the next day. That John wasn’t happy and while snatches of the soldier still show himself, like city lights at night from the window of a cab, Sherlock feels an unfamiliar tug in his gut as he stands and rubs his thumb over the grinning face.
Downstairs the front door slams, the knocker tapping twice as almost an afterthought. John calls out and Sherlock replaces the photo and pulls on his dressing gown. He doesn’t reply; John knows he hasn’t gone anywhere all day. Sherlock descends to the living room and John ascends from the hallway, the rustle of a plastic bag means John has picked up dinner on his way home. He brings with him the smell of autumn from outside, a crisp ozone smell that is literally a breath fresh air in the stale atmosphere of the flat, and spices and meat from the bag in his hand, which Sherlock takes and puts on the kitchen table. While John throws open the curtains to air the place out,
Sherlock finds plates, knives, forks, listens to the gentle admonishments and babble about John’s day and can’t help but smile. This is his John, right here, bustling around like Mrs. Hudson’s star pupil. Sherlock dishes up the food, pulls apart the naan bread, mixes the raita in with the rice like John likes, opens a couple of beers. He interrupts John’s diatribe about a local chemist with a quiet “It’s ready” and when they sit facing each other, feet touching under the table, John says that he’s starving and that tug in Sherlock’s stomach returns. He makes sure that John’s plate doesn’t empty until all the food is gone, and opens a second, third, fourth beer for him. Sherlock loves that John eats like every meal is his last, a leftover habit from a time in his life when that might have been. He loves that he talks the whole time, punctuating clauses with his fork, using his naan bread for emphatics. That he grins and laughs and frowns and his face, softer now, is animated and so much more alive than that awful frozen photo.
Sherlock wants a photo of this, the pair of them, opposing, entangled.
There is a photo on the bookcase in what was John’s but is now their bedroom. It is a shiny metallic frame containing an incongruously battered photograph of a lean, tanned John with his arm thrown around the shoulders of two equally whipcord solider cohorts. Dressed in camouflage trousers and a desert hued vest, he is squinting into the Afghan sun, his bright smile even whiter against his tanned skin. His friends are grinning too. It is for all intents and purposes a happy photograph of a bunch of Army mates posing in a quiet time. John loves that photo because it is a good memory that floats on a sea of bad memories like a message in a bottle.
Sherlock hates it.
Sherlock doesn’t have those memories, that context. Every time Sherlock picks it up to look at it, which admittedly isn’t often, all he sees beyond the huge grin and camaraderie is the fatigue of horror in John’s eyes, the tension in the toned shoulders, the desperation and longing in the too prominent jaw. A poor Army diet gives this John a spare appearance and when Sherlock is in the mood, he fancies he could have traced the outlines of John’s skull with one finger.
It isn’t his John, which is why he hates it. That was Soldier John, surviving day to day on his wits and unable to take anything at all for granted from a decent meal to a shower to whether he’d be alive the next day. That John wasn’t happy and while snatches of the soldier still show himself, like city lights at night from the window of a cab, Sherlock feels an unfamiliar tug in his gut as he stands and rubs his thumb over the grinning face.
Downstairs the front door slams, the knocker tapping twice as almost an afterthought. John calls out and Sherlock replaces the photo and pulls on his dressing gown. He doesn’t reply; John knows he hasn’t gone anywhere all day. Sherlock descends to the living room and John ascends from the hallway, the rustle of a plastic bag means John has picked up dinner on his way home. He brings with him the smell of autumn from outside, a crisp ozone smell that is literally a breath fresh air in the stale atmosphere of the flat, and spices and meat from the bag in his hand, which Sherlock takes and puts on the kitchen table. While John throws open the curtains to air the place out,
Sherlock finds plates, knives, forks, listens to the gentle admonishments and babble about John’s day and can’t help but smile. This is his John, right here, bustling around like Mrs. Hudson’s star pupil.
Sherlock dishes up the food, pulls apart the naan bread, mixes the raita in with the rice like John likes, opens a couple of beers. He interrupts John’s diatribe about a local chemist with a quiet “It’s ready” and when they sit facing each other, feet touching under the table, John says that he’s starving and that tug in Sherlock’s stomach returns. He makes sure that John’s plate doesn’t empty until all the food is gone, and opens a second, third, fourth beer for him. Sherlock loves that John eats like every meal is his last, a leftover habit from a time in his life when that might have been. He loves that he talks the whole time, punctuating clauses with his fork, using his naan bread for emphatics. That he grins and laughs and frowns and his face, softer now, is animated and so much more alive than that awful frozen photo.
Sherlock wants a photo of this, the pair of them, opposing, entangled.
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