John's Midnight Garden (11/many)
anonymous
November 3 2010, 14:47:33 UTC
They freeze like that for a moment, staring at each other in wide eyed shock. John can see that Sherlock’s paler than he has ever been, as white as a sheet in fact. There is a look of utter terror in his eyes that John’s only ever seen once before.
“Are you alright?” He asks. His voice is shaky, but his left hand is steady as a rock. Sherlock nods and John sets him on his feet.
There are footsteps from indoors.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, “hide.”
John doesn’t want to. He’s still not sure that Sherlock’s alright. It’s a very big house and Sherlock’s not the real him, he’s far too breakable like this. But he has no desire to speak to Mycroft either. He doesn’t know why his subconscious created a Mycroft as well, but he doesn’t want to know anything more about it than that. So he darts round the corner of the house and leans his head back against the wall, trying to keep his breathing down and steady his heartbeat.
“What are you doing?” he hears Mycroft ask.
“Using an anemometer, like you suggested,” Sherlock tells him. He doesn’t sound like he just fell out of a third storey window. He’s as cool and calm as ever, with that edge of sarcasm that he hasn’t yet perfected, but will by the time John meets him for real.
John, on the other hand, is still breathing in stuttering patches. His vision is blurred and he knows that it’s the adrenaline that’s pumping through his veins that’s making everything suddenly so much more.
He leans his head back and closes his eyes again.
When he opens them he’s in his own bedroom, the world is dark and though his left hand is still steady, the rest of him is shaking like a leaf.
He swings himself out of bed, drawing deep breaths.
A cup of tea, that’s what he needs.
He makes his way downstairs and into the kitchen and when he opens the door he finds Sherlock there, leaning over something that is no doubt both fascinating and disgusting in equal measure.
He freezes as soon as he catches sight of the back of his flatmate’s head and the line of his shoulders. He hadn’t realised until that moment exactly how much he needed to see that Sherlock was alive.
It’s ridiculous, because the Sherlock in his head is just that, a Sherlock in his head. What happens to that Sherlock doesn’t affect this one in any way, but still, just hearing the faint sound of Sherlock’s breathing makes his heartbeat slow down a little.
“Are you going to stand there staring at me all night?” Sherlock asks, not turning away from his experiment. “Tea bags are on the middle shelf, though I wouldn’t use the Tetley, I think they might have fallen in the bile-” which is Sherlock-speak for ‘they definitely fell in the bile, but maybe if I don’t make it sound definite you won’t shout and disrupt my experiment’. “We might be out of milk. I accidentally swallowed some mercury earlier.”
John sighs, feeling normality settle down on him again like a comforting old blanket. Sherlock is fine and as annoying as ever.
“Perhaps I’ll just have coffee then,” he says.
“Finished it yesterday,” Sherlock replies.
“Well, at least tell me you haven’t poisoned the water supply.” There is a pause and Sherlock turns to him slightly, cocking his head to one side in a disturbingly thoughtful manner.
“No, but Mycroft might have; I can phone and ask him if you’d like to be certain.”
“You just want to wake him up in the middle of the night,” John replies, getting himself a glass and carefully washing it three times before filling it with water. Sherlock shrugs.
John tries not to look at Sherlock too often for the rest of the day, and if Sherlock notices all the times he fails and he has to slip his eyes over to his flatmate just to reassure himself that Sherlock’s still alive, then he doesn’t notice.
“Are you alright?” He asks. His voice is shaky, but his left hand is steady as a rock. Sherlock nods and John sets him on his feet.
There are footsteps from indoors.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, “hide.”
John doesn’t want to. He’s still not sure that Sherlock’s alright. It’s a very big house and Sherlock’s not the real him, he’s far too breakable like this. But he has no desire to speak to Mycroft either. He doesn’t know why his subconscious created a Mycroft as well, but he doesn’t want to know anything more about it than that. So he darts round the corner of the house and leans his head back against the wall, trying to keep his breathing down and steady his heartbeat.
“What are you doing?” he hears Mycroft ask.
“Using an anemometer, like you suggested,” Sherlock tells him. He doesn’t sound like he just fell out of a third storey window. He’s as cool and calm as ever, with that edge of sarcasm that he hasn’t yet perfected, but will by the time John meets him for real.
John, on the other hand, is still breathing in stuttering patches. His vision is blurred and he knows that it’s the adrenaline that’s pumping through his veins that’s making everything suddenly so much more.
He leans his head back and closes his eyes again.
When he opens them he’s in his own bedroom, the world is dark and though his left hand is still steady, the rest of him is shaking like a leaf.
He swings himself out of bed, drawing deep breaths.
A cup of tea, that’s what he needs.
He makes his way downstairs and into the kitchen and when he opens the door he finds Sherlock there, leaning over something that is no doubt both fascinating and disgusting in equal measure.
He freezes as soon as he catches sight of the back of his flatmate’s head and the line of his shoulders. He hadn’t realised until that moment exactly how much he needed to see that Sherlock was alive.
It’s ridiculous, because the Sherlock in his head is just that, a Sherlock in his head. What happens to that Sherlock doesn’t affect this one in any way, but still, just hearing the faint sound of Sherlock’s breathing makes his heartbeat slow down a little.
“Are you going to stand there staring at me all night?” Sherlock asks, not turning away from his experiment. “Tea bags are on the middle shelf, though I wouldn’t use the Tetley, I think they might have fallen in the bile-” which is Sherlock-speak for ‘they definitely fell in the bile, but maybe if I don’t make it sound definite you won’t shout and disrupt my experiment’. “We might be out of milk. I accidentally swallowed some mercury earlier.”
John sighs, feeling normality settle down on him again like a comforting old blanket. Sherlock is fine and as annoying as ever.
“Perhaps I’ll just have coffee then,” he says.
“Finished it yesterday,” Sherlock replies.
“Well, at least tell me you haven’t poisoned the water supply.” There is a pause and Sherlock turns to him slightly, cocking his head to one side in a disturbingly thoughtful manner.
“No, but Mycroft might have; I can phone and ask him if you’d like to be certain.”
“You just want to wake him up in the middle of the night,” John replies, getting himself a glass and carefully washing it three times before filling it with water. Sherlock shrugs.
John tries not to look at Sherlock too often for the rest of the day, and if Sherlock notices all the times he fails and he has to slip his eyes over to his flatmate just to reassure himself that Sherlock’s still alive, then he doesn’t notice.
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