Baby Please Don't Go - Part 1
anonymous
March 27 2011, 07:36:31 UTC
The day that changed Sherlock Holmes’ life forever began with three words.
*
“Sherlock, I’m leaving.”
Sherlock looked up from his pipette, frustrated. John always managed to interrupt him at the most delicate part of his experiments. Honestly, did the man have no sense of how important Sherlock’s experiments were? He frowned at John, who stood opposite him, leaning against the fridge, a tight expression on his face.
“Mm, okay, makes sure you get milk,” Sherlock said, returning to his attention to his equipment, delicately measuring out 15 millilitres of sodium hydroxide. John sighed.
“No, I don’t mean I’m going out now,” he said. “I mean that...”
John’s voice trailed off. Sherlock looked up quickly, hearing the tension in John’s voice. He fixed his eyes on John, his mind racing ahead, trying to deduce John’s next words before he spoke them.
Arms crossed: defensive; jaw tensed: worried. Forehead creased, as it always is when he’s about to give bad news. Something personal. Eyes steady, though, so he’s sure of whatever it is; hesitancy stems from uncertainty of his reception, not uncertainty in himself...
“I’m moving out.”
Sherlock stared. And, for the first time in his life, asked a completely obvious and unnecessary question. ‘ “Moving out of where?”
The second the words were out, he winced. Stupid. He wasn’t used to things slipping out involuntarily, and he didn’t know why it had happened now. John laughed. He rubbed his eyes, then ran his fingers through his hair, leaving strands sticking up at odd angles. His hand rested on the back of his neck.
“Christ, Sherlock, where else? I’m moving out of Baker Street. I’ve been offered a job in Colorado. I’ll be training medics for the armed forces. I’ve always wanted to travel and, well...”
What John was saying made sense, and Sherlock nodded wisely along as John explained that it was a great opportunity for him, exactly the kind of job he’d love, how he’d feel like he was doing something purposeful. Sherlock could follow his logic perfectly.
“It sounds like an excellent prospect for you, John,” he said, when John had finished and was watching him, a look of apprehension on his face. “I’m pleased for you.”
John was staring at him now, his mouth slightly open.
“You’re happy for me?” he said finally, and his voice had gone quiet and soft, like it did when Sherlock had let him down in some spectacular and unprecedented way. Which made no sense whatsoever.
“Yes, John,” he said, a touch impatiently. Why did John think Sherlock wouldn’t be happy for him? “I will miss our partnership, naturally, but your talents are certainly well suited to this position, and I’m sure it will be a fulfilling experience for you.”
“Right, sorry, of course,” said John. The tension had left his body now, and he looked smaller, slumped against the fridge. Sherlock watched him for a moment, uncertain if their conversation was over. He was never sure of exactly what he was supposed to say in situations like this. He had offered John his congratulations; was he meant to do so again? To ask John more questions? Probably.
“When do you leave?” he asked. John’s head snapped up, Sherlock’s voice clearly taking him by surprise.
“Three weeks.”
“Ah.”
Sherlock wasn’t sure what else to say, so after a brief silence, he returned to his experiment, and was quickly oblivious to everything else.. He didn’t even hear it when John sighed, pushed himself off the fridge, and left.
Baby Please Don't Go - Part 1b
anonymous
March 27 2011, 08:17:53 UTC
*****
Sherlock sighed and flung off his blanket in frustration. He got out of bed, slipped on his dressing gown, and made his way out to the kitchen.
He couldn’t sleep.
There was a strange sort of irony to it, he would have acknowledged, were he in the kind of mood to appreciate it. Countless times he’d forced his body to keep going, pushing aside its need for sleep and food. And now it was exacting some kind of cruel revenge, because no matter how many times he closed his eyes and rearrange his pillow and his body, he simply couldn’t fall asleep. It was wretched.
Sherlock stared at the kettle. He hadn’t made tea in four years. John had always done it. Sherlock would never admit it, but he was unsure about how best to go about it. But now, given that John would be leaving in three weeks, he supposed he had better start learning.
He filled it with water and flicked it on. As he waited for it to boil, he flicked idly through the newspaper lying on the kitchen table. Petty political skirmishes and horribly dull killings. Boring.
The kettle clicked off and the flat was filled with silence. Sherlock shivered. He couldn’t remember ever being so aware of the absence of noise. Usually the roaring in his head was enough to distract him from any silence outside it. But now there was nothing except this odd, uncomfortable silence.
Shaking his head at this unusually maudlin thought, Sherlock proceeded to make his tea.
He failed spectacularly.
After the third attempt (too weak and not enough sugar), Sherlock gave up. Embarassing as it was, he didn’t even know how much sugar he liked. John always made it perfectly.
He crept back into his bed, feeling worse than when he’d got out of it. Punching his pillow in frustration, he turned onto his stomach and stared out the window.
The sky was just turning pink when he finally drifted off.
Re: Baby Please Don't Go - Part 1b
anonymous
March 27 2011, 14:55:24 UTC
This is amazing! I felt so bad for poor John when Sherlock congratulated him! And Sherlock! He doesn't know it, but he'll never survive without his John. Brilliant start!
*
“Sherlock, I’m leaving.”
Sherlock looked up from his pipette, frustrated. John always managed to interrupt him at the most delicate part of his experiments. Honestly, did the man have no sense of how important Sherlock’s experiments were? He frowned at John, who stood opposite him, leaning against the fridge, a tight expression on his face.
“Mm, okay, makes sure you get milk,” Sherlock said, returning to his attention to his equipment, delicately measuring out 15 millilitres of sodium hydroxide. John sighed.
“No, I don’t mean I’m going out now,” he said. “I mean that...”
John’s voice trailed off. Sherlock looked up quickly, hearing the tension in John’s voice. He fixed his eyes on John, his mind racing ahead, trying to deduce John’s next words before he spoke them.
Arms crossed: defensive; jaw tensed: worried. Forehead creased, as it always is when he’s about to give bad news. Something personal. Eyes steady, though, so he’s sure of whatever it is; hesitancy stems from uncertainty of his reception, not uncertainty in himself...
“I’m moving out.”
Sherlock stared. And, for the first time in his life, asked a completely obvious and unnecessary question.
‘
“Moving out of where?”
The second the words were out, he winced. Stupid. He wasn’t used to things slipping out involuntarily, and he didn’t know why it had happened now. John laughed. He rubbed his eyes, then ran his fingers through his hair, leaving strands sticking up at odd angles. His hand rested on the back of his neck.
“Christ, Sherlock, where else? I’m moving out of Baker Street. I’ve been offered a job in Colorado. I’ll be training medics for the armed forces. I’ve always wanted to travel and, well...”
What John was saying made sense, and Sherlock nodded wisely along as John explained that it was a great opportunity for him, exactly the kind of job he’d love, how he’d feel like he was doing something purposeful. Sherlock could follow his logic perfectly.
“It sounds like an excellent prospect for you, John,” he said, when John had finished and was watching him, a look of apprehension on his face. “I’m pleased for you.”
John was staring at him now, his mouth slightly open.
“You’re happy for me?” he said finally, and his voice had gone quiet and soft, like it did when Sherlock had let him down in some spectacular and unprecedented way. Which made no sense whatsoever.
“Yes, John,” he said, a touch impatiently. Why did John think Sherlock wouldn’t be happy for him? “I will miss our partnership, naturally, but your talents are certainly well suited to this position, and I’m sure it will be a fulfilling experience for you.”
“Right, sorry, of course,” said John. The tension had left his body now, and he looked smaller, slumped against the fridge. Sherlock watched him for a moment, uncertain if their conversation was over. He was never sure of exactly what he was supposed to say in situations like this. He had offered John his congratulations; was he meant to do so again? To ask John more questions? Probably.
“When do you leave?” he asked. John’s head snapped up, Sherlock’s voice clearly taking him by surprise.
“Three weeks.”
“Ah.”
Sherlock wasn’t sure what else to say, so after a brief silence, he returned to his experiment, and was quickly oblivious to everything else.. He didn’t even hear it when John sighed, pushed himself off the fridge, and left.
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Sherlock sighed and flung off his blanket in frustration. He got out of bed, slipped on his dressing gown, and made his way out to the kitchen.
He couldn’t sleep.
There was a strange sort of irony to it, he would have acknowledged, were he in the kind of mood to appreciate it. Countless times he’d forced his body to keep going, pushing aside its need for sleep and food. And now it was exacting some kind of cruel revenge, because no matter how many times he closed his eyes and rearrange his pillow and his body, he simply couldn’t fall asleep. It was wretched.
Sherlock stared at the kettle. He hadn’t made tea in four years. John had always done it. Sherlock would never admit it, but he was unsure about how best to go about it. But now, given that John would be leaving in three weeks, he supposed he had better start learning.
He filled it with water and flicked it on. As he waited for it to boil, he flicked idly through the newspaper lying on the kitchen table. Petty political skirmishes and horribly dull killings. Boring.
The kettle clicked off and the flat was filled with silence. Sherlock shivered. He couldn’t remember ever being so aware of the absence of noise. Usually the roaring in his head was enough to distract him from any silence outside it. But now there was nothing except this odd, uncomfortable silence.
Shaking his head at this unusually maudlin thought, Sherlock proceeded to make his tea.
He failed spectacularly.
After the third attempt (too weak and not enough sugar), Sherlock gave up. Embarassing as it was, he didn’t even know how much sugar he liked. John always made it perfectly.
He crept back into his bed, feeling worse than when he’d got out of it. Punching his pillow in frustration, he turned onto his stomach and stared out the window.
The sky was just turning pink when he finally drifted off.
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Great start. Poor Sherlock, he has no idea what's going on, and his subconscious is going to beat him up till he does.
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