FILL: The Heart, And Other Fleshy Organs (4/7)
anonymous
January 14 2011, 15:45:10 UTC
This, at least, is something with which Sherlock has experience.
During his time at university he had an ongoing investigation of human sexuality and sexual practices. It was highly revealing in terms of psychology and at times pleasurable from a physical perspective, but the experiment had tapered off as he got older and people seemed to expect more than he could give.
Logically, Sherlock knew that romantic and sexual relationships were not mutually exclusive; rather, most literature on the subject seemed to imply that one was the precursor to the other. And clearly Sherlock and John's relationship was past the point where it could be ever be sexual only. They were colleagues. Flat mates. Friends, he had heard mentioned, but having no experience in that matter was able to neither confirm nor deny.
John had given Sherlock his heart, indicating he wished to pursue a romantic relationship with Sherlock, but had also stated that he did not expect one to occur. And Sherlock respected John, he enjoyed John's company and was rather pleased that Moriarty had not managed to incinerate him. All in all, his flat share with John was going well.
So he would share his body with John. It seemed the least he could do.
And as it turns out, John seemed rather keen on the idea as well.
Sherlock had been rather worried for a bit there, when he had first pressed John's shoulders against the door of their flat as he pressed his lips against John's. John had gone still, so still, before he exhaled a slow, even breath from his nose and melted into Sherlock. Underneath his palms tension just seemed to seep out of John's shoulders, and all at once Sherlock was reminded of a gun and a pool and John collapsing as tension left him only to snap back into place a moment later. His ribs started to clamp shut around his chest cavity yet again, so Sherlock squeezed his eyelids closed against the memories and kissed John harder as John responded in kind.
Eventually they stumble to the upstairs bedroom, where Sherlock found himself enjoying the experience far more than his memories on the subject indicated he would. His hands are delighted to touch John, to card through his hair and touch his lips, to smooth over his chest and thighs. His tongue is perfectly content to discover the taste of John's skin while his nose categorizes John’s scent and his ears take inventory of every gasp and moan. And as his eyes track the flush that is traveling down John's neck, Sherlock realizes that his brain was thoroughly engaged in the entire proceedings.
It is an unexpected, but not unappreciated, consequence. Sherlock is most definitely not bored, and it is wonderful.
Of course, they eventually arrive at the predictable conclusion, and Sherlock could not recall having enjoyed the journey there more. This was the topic he was mentally examining as he and John lay panting side by side, but all mental processes ground to a halt when John drapes an arm over his chest. It’s unfortunate that he needs to remind John that is not what this is, but he manages to do so without censure, without any emotion really, as he rolls out of the bed to gather his clothing.
John does not reply.
Sherlock is walking through the doorway when he takes note of an odd sensation located in the pit of his stomach; it’s uncomfortable, dense, and seems to writhe about like something alive. John, being a doctor, should be able to recommend a course of action to eradicate this newly formed growth, but when Sherlock turns his head over his shoulder to put forth an inquiry, the words die in his throat.
Not that he can see much of John, as he had flung a forearm across his eyes and Sherlock is unable to determine his mental state accurately from his facial expression. But something about the pinched corners of his mouth, the fists his hands have formed, the tightness of his shoulders, makes whatever seems to have lodged itself in Sherlock’s digestive tract double in size. Clearly John is not fit to provide a solution.
FILL: The Heart, And Other Fleshy Organs (5/7)
anonymous
January 14 2011, 15:45:52 UTC
Even after a shower and fresh set of clothes, the wiggling mass persists, and Sherlock finds his brain muddled and tumbling bits of irrelevant data from the past few hours over and around his skull. It’s more than a little disconcerting, and Sherlock finds himself reaching for his violin in an attempt to quiet his restless mind and body.
He has one hand wrapped around the neck; he has lifted the smooth polished wood partially out of the case when it occurs to him that perhaps John’s heart might have some knowledge to yield on the subject. It is entirely possible that John’s recent actions were driven by emotion, although Sherlock cannot perceive how- the lack of emotion on his part had been stated from the onset- and while John’s heart has had little information to lend thus far, Sherlock’s fingernails pry up the false bottom located where the neck usually rests and seeks it out anyway.
He’s peeling back the soft brown wool wrapped around the pulsating mass when he notices the iron scent of blood on his tongue, and he honestly can’t place it’s origin until he looks, really looks at John’s heart.
It’s cracked.
Not significantly, and no where near as badly as Sherlock’s the day he lobbed his into the great unknown, but from the top of the right atrium to the bottom tip of the left ventricle there is a long red seam. It’s hardly even bleeding, really, the blood is welling up so slowly as to barely produce a drop every other beat.
It is not right, so very not right, that he is holding John’s heart in his hand and it is broken. The ghost of a memory of blood filling his palm as his own heart lay cracked makes Sherlock bite his lip and shake his head, because if anyone in the world should be spared that sort of pain it would so obviously be John. John, of course John, because John is good and nice and patient and understanding, and even when he is angry and irritated and disappointed, he is always kind, so very kind.
But then John went and handed his heart to Sherlock Holmes, of all people, and Sherlock knew John could never achieve the same mental standard as himself, but clearly he’s a bit more of an idiot than Sherlock had ever suspected because any brain dead plebian would be able to tell that John certainly deserved better.
And all at once, Sherlock can feel the emptiness in his chest. He is aware that he is missing something, something important, as his lungs shudder on either side of that void.
Very, very carefully Sherlock folds the brown wool back over John’s heart, and very, very gently, he places it back in his violin case. His violin he places inside as well, and with great deliberation he closes and the lid and latches it shut. He allows himself a long, deep breath as considers the possible courses of action.
Option 1: Their sexual relationship continues. Sherlock will hold on to John’s heart, John’s heart remains broken, with the high probability of cracking further.
Unacceptable.
Option 2: Their sexual relationship ends. They continue as friends only, Sherlock will still hold John’s heart, and John’s heart will most likely remained cracked as it is, or crack further.
Also unacceptable.
Option 3: Sherlock returns John’s heart. John is free to locate someone deserving of his attentions, who will possibly be able to fix what Sherlock has broken.
Logical, yes, but thinking about it makes Sherlock’s fists clench and his breath shorten. Unacceptable, then, but for reasons that are unclear.
FILL: The Heart, And Other Fleshy Organs (6/7)
anonymous
January 14 2011, 15:46:47 UTC
Sherlock hails a cab with one hand while the other looks up train schedules on his mobile. If he recalls correctly (which he does, obviously) then his destination is a small estate near Chichester that has been bequeathed to Mycroft. He is narrowing down the fastest possible method of travel when an unmarked black car pulls up along side the cab. Sherlock huffs in annoyance; he is only half way to the train station, and even if he makes a break for it, he will still get there after Mycroft has muddled the timetables hopelessly. It makes him restless and impatient, illogically so, as an hour wasted in Mycroft’s presence will have little to no effect on the outcome of his actions.
That doesn’t mean he has to go quietly, though. He makes the assistant pay the cabbie, and after 10 minutes of sharing a backseat with Sherlock, Mycroft’s usually unflappable right hand woman looks strained. Strained enough to slam the door behind him as he enters Mycroft’s office, at least, which would normally leave him smug, if nothing else, but all he can manage as he flops gracelessly into the chair in front of the desk his irritation.
Mycroft very deliberately ignores him for the page he is currently writing on, which he finishes with a flourish before calmly placing his fountain pen exactly parallel to the right edge of the paper; he then laces his fingers on the desk top while leaning back in his chair. His eyes are appraising when they finally meet Sherlock’s, and there is at least two full minutes of silent eye contact before Mycroft gives the tiniest quirk of an eyebrow.
“Chichester, Sherlock? Feeling a bit nostalgic, were we?”
In lieu of giving a verbal answer, Sherlock opted to glare and huff.
Mycroft only smiled, dropping his chin slightly toward his chest as he always did when he knew something Sherlock did not.
“Do you really think you are going to find it, Sherlock,” Mycroft breathed out, “it has been, after all, three decades since you abandoned your heart to the tender mercies of nature.”
“I know that,” Sherlock ground out. He was very aware of it, actually, and had been very consciously not thinking about that fact. And that the calculated probably of finding the thing was slim to non-existent.
Another condescending smile from Mycroft. “Well. As long as you are aware.”
At this Mycroft gracefully slid his chair out and stood, padding noiselessly across the plush carpet to the wall- to a painting, a rather dreary landscape of London- which he then swung out to reveal a safe.
Sherlock did not resist the urge to roll his eyes. Mycroft could be so unbearable dramatic.
The code is entered, the door opened, and from his position in front of the desk, Sherlock is unable to see what the safe contained. Reaching inside, Mycroft carefully removes an object of clear glass, and with his fingertips gripping the top only, Mycroft walks over to Sherlock’s chair and offers him the unopened canning jar.
It is the most pathetic thing Sherlock had ever seen.
The jar is barely big enough, his heart having grown as he did, but even then Sherlock knew it should be larger, healthier, more vibrant. It looked nothing like John’s heart, colored a glorious shade of red with a strong steady beat. His is darker, almost grey in color, wasted and pitiful, weakly throbbing at the bottom of the jar.
Sherlock reaches a hand out, and lets the jar rest in his palm. The lid hadn’t been closed tight enough, trace flakes of silt and clay lined the bottom, with the occasional rusted red powder of old blood. The jar itself is dusty, almost filmy, and clearly has never been cleaned or opened.
Mycroft rests a hand on his shoulder and Sherlock started at the contact, “It’s not as bad as it looks.” He said softly, “It only needs a bit of exercise.”
“Speak for yourself.” Sherlock mumbles in an all too late effort to save face. Something is different, though, in Mycroft’s tone. His words repeated in Sherlock’s head as he slipped the jar into his coat pocket. Mycroft, underneath the condescension and disdain, had sounded almost… concerned. Worried.
As he turned to leave, Sherlock wondered if that had always been there, layered and hidden. If he is only now able to hear it.
FILL: The Heart, And Other Fleshy Organs (7/7)
anonymous
January 14 2011, 15:47:28 UTC
Mycroft’s assistant looks relieved at Sherlock’s silence during the trip back to Baker Street; Sherlock spares her no notice beyond that initial glance. He is entirely preoccupied.
The entire ride, Sherlock’s mind is in a whirlwind; it is impossible to pin down a single thought. Clearly this is what he wanted, to find his heart and give it to John so John’s heart wouldn’t fall to pieces. That had been his ultimate goal in leaving the flat today.
But it all was so very, very illogical. How is this, Sherlock’s pathetic, wasted heart and all the pitiful emotions that came with it, how is this conducive to him? Sherlock hadn’t had one clear thought since Mycroft handed the jar over. It obviously is not beneficial to him in any way, it is apparent that this was a rash decision made with incomplete data, and Sherlock is just about to announce that to the driver and demand he turn around when the car pulls up to Baker Street.
Apparently Mycroft’s assistant had not forgiven his earlier transgressions; Sherlock is unceremoniously shoved out the door.
He would have to return the thing to Mycroft tomorrow, then. The repercussions of destroying it would not be worth facing, best to let it gather dust in Mycroft’s melodramatic wall vault, safe and gathering dust far away from Sherlock.
Emboldened by this decision, Sherlock found the strength to ascend the stairs.
That would be the best course of action, he thought as he pushed the door open. It would be of no benefit to him to keep the damn thing.
But then there was John, folded up on the far end of the green couch with his laptop, attempting to ignore him as he poked at the keyboard. John, who inexplicably loved him. John, who had handed Sherlock his heart.
And Sherlock understood. He would never benefit from this complicated emotional business of having his own heart. John, however, would. And Sherlock realizes he is willing to do anything that would make John happy. That would keep his heart from cracking, keep Sherlock from causing him pain, ever again.
Sherlock seats himself at the other end of the couch as he pulls the jar from his pocket. His heart, against all odds, is still pulsating weakly. It is so much less than John Watson deserves, but for some god forsaken reason, it seems to be all that he wants.
Sherlock places the jar at John’s left hand, before drawing his knees up to rest his chin on them. He could see his heart beating faster in the jar, out of nervousness and fear. John could so easily change his mind and decide that Sherlock wasn’t worth the effort. Sherlock feels sick at the thought, so he watches John’s face instead.
He watches John notice the jar, wrapping a hand around it as he shoots Sherlock a look of confusion. He watches John bring the jar up and turn it over so he could see the contents.
Watches John’s look of complete surprise. Watches John swing his head up to meet eyes with Sherlock.
Watches John smile.
Sherlock feels his heart flutter.
THE END.
Just wanted to apologize to anyone following (is anyone following?) for the long hiatus this fic suffered. Wish I had a reasonable excuse, aside from lack of inspiration- so, I’m sorry. And a huge, massive thank you to everyone who commented. I really do appreciate it.
Re: FILL: The Heart, And Other Fleshy Organs (7/7)
anonymous
January 15 2011, 14:53:43 UTC
I had forgotten this one, so I had to go back and re-read the other parts. It's a beautiful story, and I'm so glad you finished it! For some reason, I'm particularly fond of the little detail that when Sherlock has his heart back, he can tell that Mycroft really is concerned about him.
Re: FILL: The Heart, And Other Fleshy Organs (7/7)shiverelectricJanuary 17 2011, 22:27:53 UTC
This is so wonderful, I love the way you treated the heart as a physical and metaphysical item, and the end, god, the end killed me. Aww, Sherlock and his poor heart, but I do love a happy ending!
Re: FILL: The Heart, And Other Fleshy Organs (7/7)ginbitchJanuary 30 2011, 22:49:58 UTC
GAH!!!
This is one of the most original and amazing pieces of writing that I have seen on lj. Or off it for that matter! _So_ much love for this!!! It is absolutely perfect.
Re: FILL: The Heart, And Other Fleshy Organs (7/7)
anonymous
February 4 2011, 21:49:01 UTC
Odd. Last week in one of our literature classes we read an essay about a book, A Nail Merchant at Nightfall by Mika Waltari. Apparently the novel starts when a former nail merchant finds his heart in a linen closet where his wife had stored it, and gets all excited and runs off to have some adventures. The thought was so baffling and intriguing that I'm insanely happy to discover fanfics with this kind of setup.
This, at least, is something with which Sherlock has experience.
During his time at university he had an ongoing investigation of human sexuality and sexual practices. It was highly revealing in terms of psychology and at times pleasurable from a physical perspective, but the experiment had tapered off as he got older and people seemed to expect more than he could give.
Logically, Sherlock knew that romantic and sexual relationships were not mutually exclusive; rather, most literature on the subject seemed to imply that one was the precursor to the other. And clearly Sherlock and John's relationship was past the point where it could be ever be sexual only. They were colleagues. Flat mates. Friends, he had heard mentioned, but having no experience in that matter was able to neither confirm nor deny.
John had given Sherlock his heart, indicating he wished to pursue a romantic relationship with Sherlock, but had also stated that he did not expect one to occur. And Sherlock respected John, he enjoyed John's company and was rather pleased that Moriarty had not managed to incinerate him. All in all, his flat share with John was going well.
So he would share his body with John. It seemed the least he could do.
And as it turns out, John seemed rather keen on the idea as well.
Sherlock had been rather worried for a bit there, when he had first pressed John's shoulders against the door of their flat as he pressed his lips against John's. John had gone still, so still, before he exhaled a slow, even breath from his nose and melted into Sherlock. Underneath his palms tension just seemed to seep out of John's shoulders, and all at once Sherlock was reminded of a gun and a pool and John collapsing as tension left him only to snap back into place a moment later. His ribs started to clamp shut around his chest cavity yet again, so Sherlock squeezed his eyelids closed against the memories and kissed John harder as John responded in kind.
Eventually they stumble to the upstairs bedroom, where Sherlock found himself enjoying the experience far more than his memories on the subject indicated he would. His hands are delighted to touch John, to card through his hair and touch his lips, to smooth over his chest and thighs. His tongue is perfectly content to discover the taste of John's skin while his nose categorizes John’s scent and his ears take inventory of every gasp and moan. And as his eyes track the flush that is traveling down John's neck, Sherlock realizes that his brain was thoroughly engaged in the entire proceedings.
It is an unexpected, but not unappreciated, consequence. Sherlock is most definitely not bored, and it is wonderful.
Of course, they eventually arrive at the predictable conclusion, and Sherlock could not recall having enjoyed the journey there more. This was the topic he was mentally examining as he and John lay panting side by side, but all mental processes ground to a halt when John drapes an arm over his chest. It’s unfortunate that he needs to remind John that is not what this is, but he manages to do so without censure, without any emotion really, as he rolls out of the bed to gather his clothing.
John does not reply.
Sherlock is walking through the doorway when he takes note of an odd sensation located in the pit of his stomach; it’s uncomfortable, dense, and seems to writhe about like something alive. John, being a doctor, should be able to recommend a course of action to eradicate this newly formed growth, but when Sherlock turns his head over his shoulder to put forth an inquiry, the words die in his throat.
Not that he can see much of John, as he had flung a forearm across his eyes and Sherlock is unable to determine his mental state accurately from his facial expression. But something about the pinched corners of his mouth, the fists his hands have formed, the tightness of his shoulders, makes whatever seems to have lodged itself in Sherlock’s digestive tract double in size. Clearly John is not fit to provide a solution.
So Sherlock leaves without saying anything.
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Even after a shower and fresh set of clothes, the wiggling mass persists, and Sherlock finds his brain muddled and tumbling bits of irrelevant data from the past few hours over and around his skull. It’s more than a little disconcerting, and Sherlock finds himself reaching for his violin in an attempt to quiet his restless mind and body.
He has one hand wrapped around the neck; he has lifted the smooth polished wood partially out of the case when it occurs to him that perhaps John’s heart might have some knowledge to yield on the subject. It is entirely possible that John’s recent actions were driven by emotion, although Sherlock cannot perceive how- the lack of emotion on his part had been stated from the onset- and while John’s heart has had little information to lend thus far, Sherlock’s fingernails pry up the false bottom located where the neck usually rests and seeks it out anyway.
He’s peeling back the soft brown wool wrapped around the pulsating mass when he notices the iron scent of blood on his tongue, and he honestly can’t place it’s origin until he looks, really looks at John’s heart.
It’s cracked.
Not significantly, and no where near as badly as Sherlock’s the day he lobbed his into the great unknown, but from the top of the right atrium to the bottom tip of the left ventricle there is a long red seam. It’s hardly even bleeding, really, the blood is welling up so slowly as to barely produce a drop every other beat.
It is not right, so very not right, that he is holding John’s heart in his hand and it is broken. The ghost of a memory of blood filling his palm as his own heart lay cracked makes Sherlock bite his lip and shake his head, because if anyone in the world should be spared that sort of pain it would so obviously be John. John, of course John, because John is good and nice and patient and understanding, and even when he is angry and irritated and disappointed, he is always kind, so very kind.
But then John went and handed his heart to Sherlock Holmes, of all people, and Sherlock knew John could never achieve the same mental standard as himself, but clearly he’s a bit more of an idiot than Sherlock had ever suspected because any brain dead plebian would be able to tell that John certainly deserved better.
And all at once, Sherlock can feel the emptiness in his chest. He is aware that he is missing something, something important, as his lungs shudder on either side of that void.
Very, very carefully Sherlock folds the brown wool back over John’s heart, and very, very gently, he places it back in his violin case. His violin he places inside as well, and with great deliberation he closes and the lid and latches it shut. He allows himself a long, deep breath as considers the possible courses of action.
Option 1: Their sexual relationship continues. Sherlock will hold on to John’s heart, John’s heart remains broken, with the high probability of cracking further.
Unacceptable.
Option 2: Their sexual relationship ends. They continue as friends only, Sherlock will still hold John’s heart, and John’s heart will most likely remained cracked as it is, or crack further.
Also unacceptable.
Option 3: Sherlock returns John’s heart. John is free to locate someone deserving of his attentions, who will possibly be able to fix what Sherlock has broken.
Logical, yes, but thinking about it makes Sherlock’s fists clench and his breath shorten. Unacceptable, then, but for reasons that are unclear.
Option 4 it is then.
Sherlock grabs his coat.
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Sherlock hails a cab with one hand while the other looks up train schedules on his mobile. If he recalls correctly (which he does, obviously) then his destination is a small estate near Chichester that has been bequeathed to Mycroft. He is narrowing down the fastest possible method of travel when an unmarked black car pulls up along side the cab. Sherlock huffs in annoyance; he is only half way to the train station, and even if he makes a break for it, he will still get there after Mycroft has muddled the timetables hopelessly. It makes him restless and impatient, illogically so, as an hour wasted in Mycroft’s presence will have little to no effect on the outcome of his actions.
That doesn’t mean he has to go quietly, though. He makes the assistant pay the cabbie, and after 10 minutes of sharing a backseat with Sherlock, Mycroft’s usually unflappable right hand woman looks strained. Strained enough to slam the door behind him as he enters Mycroft’s office, at least, which would normally leave him smug, if nothing else, but all he can manage as he flops gracelessly into the chair in front of the desk his irritation.
Mycroft very deliberately ignores him for the page he is currently writing on, which he finishes with a flourish before calmly placing his fountain pen exactly parallel to the right edge of the paper; he then laces his fingers on the desk top while leaning back in his chair. His eyes are appraising when they finally meet Sherlock’s, and there is at least two full minutes of silent eye contact before Mycroft gives the tiniest quirk of an eyebrow.
“Chichester, Sherlock? Feeling a bit nostalgic, were we?”
In lieu of giving a verbal answer, Sherlock opted to glare and huff.
Mycroft only smiled, dropping his chin slightly toward his chest as he always did when he knew something Sherlock did not.
“Do you really think you are going to find it, Sherlock,” Mycroft breathed out, “it has been, after all, three decades since you abandoned your heart to the tender mercies of nature.”
“I know that,” Sherlock ground out. He was very aware of it, actually, and had been very consciously not thinking about that fact. And that the calculated probably of finding the thing was slim to non-existent.
Another condescending smile from Mycroft. “Well. As long as you are aware.”
At this Mycroft gracefully slid his chair out and stood, padding noiselessly across the plush carpet to the wall- to a painting, a rather dreary landscape of London- which he then swung out to reveal a safe.
Sherlock did not resist the urge to roll his eyes. Mycroft could be so unbearable dramatic.
The code is entered, the door opened, and from his position in front of the desk, Sherlock is unable to see what the safe contained. Reaching inside, Mycroft carefully removes an object of clear glass, and with his fingertips gripping the top only, Mycroft walks over to Sherlock’s chair and offers him the unopened canning jar.
It is the most pathetic thing Sherlock had ever seen.
The jar is barely big enough, his heart having grown as he did, but even then Sherlock knew it should be larger, healthier, more vibrant. It looked nothing like John’s heart, colored a glorious shade of red with a strong steady beat. His is darker, almost grey in color, wasted and pitiful, weakly throbbing at the bottom of the jar.
Sherlock reaches a hand out, and lets the jar rest in his palm. The lid hadn’t been closed tight enough, trace flakes of silt and clay lined the bottom, with the occasional rusted red powder of old blood. The jar itself is dusty, almost filmy, and clearly has never been cleaned or opened.
Mycroft rests a hand on his shoulder and Sherlock started at the contact, “It’s not as bad as it looks.” He said softly, “It only needs a bit of exercise.”
“Speak for yourself.” Sherlock mumbles in an all too late effort to save face. Something is different, though, in Mycroft’s tone. His words repeated in Sherlock’s head as he slipped the jar into his coat pocket. Mycroft, underneath the condescension and disdain, had sounded almost… concerned. Worried.
As he turned to leave, Sherlock wondered if that had always been there, layered and hidden. If he is only now able to hear it.
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Mycroft’s assistant looks relieved at Sherlock’s silence during the trip back to Baker Street; Sherlock spares her no notice beyond that initial glance. He is entirely preoccupied.
The entire ride, Sherlock’s mind is in a whirlwind; it is impossible to pin down a single thought. Clearly this is what he wanted, to find his heart and give it to John so John’s heart wouldn’t fall to pieces. That had been his ultimate goal in leaving the flat today.
But it all was so very, very illogical. How is this, Sherlock’s pathetic, wasted heart and all the pitiful emotions that came with it, how is this conducive to him? Sherlock hadn’t had one clear thought since Mycroft handed the jar over. It obviously is not beneficial to him in any way, it is apparent that this was a rash decision made with incomplete data, and Sherlock is just about to announce that to the driver and demand he turn around when the car pulls up to Baker Street.
Apparently Mycroft’s assistant had not forgiven his earlier transgressions; Sherlock is unceremoniously shoved out the door.
He would have to return the thing to Mycroft tomorrow, then. The repercussions of destroying it would not be worth facing, best to let it gather dust in Mycroft’s melodramatic wall vault, safe and gathering dust far away from Sherlock.
Emboldened by this decision, Sherlock found the strength to ascend the stairs.
That would be the best course of action, he thought as he pushed the door open. It would be of no benefit to him to keep the damn thing.
But then there was John, folded up on the far end of the green couch with his laptop, attempting to ignore him as he poked at the keyboard. John, who inexplicably loved him. John, who had handed Sherlock his heart.
And Sherlock understood. He would never benefit from this complicated emotional business of having his own heart. John, however, would. And Sherlock realizes he is willing to do anything that would make John happy. That would keep his heart from cracking, keep Sherlock from causing him pain, ever again.
Sherlock seats himself at the other end of the couch as he pulls the jar from his pocket. His heart, against all odds, is still pulsating weakly. It is so much less than John Watson deserves, but for some god forsaken reason, it seems to be all that he wants.
Sherlock places the jar at John’s left hand, before drawing his knees up to rest his chin on them. He could see his heart beating faster in the jar, out of nervousness and fear. John could so easily change his mind and decide that Sherlock wasn’t worth the effort. Sherlock feels sick at the thought, so he watches John’s face instead.
He watches John notice the jar, wrapping a hand around it as he shoots Sherlock a look of confusion. He watches John bring the jar up and turn it over so he could see the contents.
Watches John’s look of complete surprise. Watches John swing his head up to meet eyes with Sherlock.
Watches John smile.
Sherlock feels his heart flutter.
THE END.
Just wanted to apologize to anyone following (is anyone following?) for the long hiatus this fic suffered. Wish I had a reasonable excuse, aside from lack of inspiration- so, I’m sorry. And a huge, massive thank you to everyone who commented. I really do appreciate it.
And thanks for reading!
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I gave up on this some time ago, so the update is such pleasant surprise. such amazing story! IMMD!!!
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(Appropriate icon is appropriate!)
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This is fantastic! The idea and your execution is spectacular. LOVE IT! ♥♥♥♥
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This is one of the most original and amazing pieces of writing that I have seen on lj. Or off it for that matter! _So_ much love for this!!! It is absolutely perfect.
<3 <3 <3
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Absolutely lovely.
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Oh, and here's that GW fic on the AO3 if anybody wants it: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2894
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and mycaptcha is textsad political ...mycroft are you watching me?
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