Baby Please Don't Go - Part 4b
anonymous
March 30 2011, 10:39:01 UTC
Sherlock,
I’m sorry about last night. I was tired and angry. You know I didn’t mean what I said, right? The bit about you being an idiot. You’re pretty obviously not an idiot. Well, except about this. And before you accuse me of being cryptic and obtuse, don’t worry, I’m going to spell it out for you this time.
It has somehow failed to come to your attention (and you have a lot of attention, Sherlock, you see everything. How did you miss this?) that I have, for quite some time now, been rather incurably in love with you. No doubt this will shock and quite possibly horrify you, but there it is. I’m in love with you.
Did you honestly never see it? With the benefit of hindsight, can you see it now? There were times when we’d get home, panting and laughing and high on our own (alright, mostly your) fucking brilliance and it was all I could do not to push you up against the wall and kiss you until you couldn’t breathe. Did you ever notice? I thought sometimes you did, that you must. That you could sense the tension between us as much as I could. That you knew what I felt almost every time you touched me, however innocently or inconsequentially. For fuck’s sake, even Lestrade saw it. Mycroft, too. And so I waited, for a long time, for you do to or say something that showed you felt the same way.
I’m honestly not blaming you for anything. It’s not your fault that I’m in love with you (well, it kind of is, but there’s nothing you can really do to change that, is there? I certainly don't want you to stop being you.) You’re still my best mate, I’d still kill (and die) for you. But right now, I need some time and space, otherwise I am never going to get over you, and that’s not good for me. You can see that, can’t you, Sherlock?
I didn’t think I’d be able to say this to your face, not without also saying something stupid and hurtful and bitter. I didn’t want our last proper conversation for who knows how long to be like that. Please just forget about last night. Delete it. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for being a coward. People are like that sometimes, y'know? A bit broken and a bit scared.
It’s not like this is forever. I’ll be back, and you can come visit me, just give me a little time, yeah? We’ll email and text. I’ll let you know when I get there and I expect to hear back from you, you mad wanker. Don’t do anything too stupidly dangerous while I’m gone. I really will miss you.
John
Sherlock sat down. He stared at the note. He read it again.
At least twelve different thoughts were clamouring for his attention. He could feel them buzzing around in his head, and it was so loud, but he couldn’t concentrate; for the first time in his life, he couldn’t get his massive intellect to focus. He was dimly aware of the painful, throbbing beat of his heart that accompanied the buzzing, pounding in his ears.
For a full minute, he sat there, the thoughts swirling and colliding, slowly percolating down to one, central truth.
John was in love with him.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he started to read the letter again, assessing, this time, weighing and judging, extracting every ounce of meaning from every word John had written.
As he read, his mind called up memories and half-remembered thoughts. John laughing as he collapsed against the stairs, another criminal caught, another life saved, looking at Sherlock with wide, shining eyes. John pulling him, dripping and shivering, out of the Thames, demanding harshly that he “never do anything that mind-bogglingly idiotic again,” the fear evident in his voice. John insisting he at least have a cup of tea and a biscuit before he collapsed, practically forcing him to sit down and not letting him up until he was done. John’s smile. His eyes. The odd sensation in his stomach Sherlock experienced every time John traced his fingers softly over Sherlock’s skin, searching for injuries...
He dropped the letter.
It was, he felt, rather unfair for a person to experience two epiphanies in the space of five minutes.
Baby Please Don't Go - Part 4c
anonymous
March 30 2011, 10:40:21 UTC
However, he was also Sherlock Holmes, and he was not comfortable with epiphanies unless they were the result of a series of observations and logical deuctions.
Very carefully, he picked up the letter and went into the living room. He place it on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled underneath his chin. He was going to think about this.
That John was in love with him, he accepted. It appeared to be consistent with Sherlock’s observations, albeit only retrospectively, and it gave a satisfactory explanation for all the things that had been puzzling Sherlock for weeks now. It did seem rather strange to him that John, who was brave and kind and good would be in love with someone like him, but he was forced to acknowledge that the conclusion fit all the facts. The next question was not quite so straightforward.
Was he really in love with John?
Sherlock was not prone to fits of self-examination, but these were exceptional circumstances.
Certainly he liked John. He liked him very much. John was, as many people had pointed out, his only real friend. There was something about John that was so very comfortable; he’d slotted right into Sherlock’s life, as if there was a place in it carved out just for him, from the very beginning. He thought Sherlock was brilliant. He also thought Sherlock was mad and irritating and, somewhere deep down, essentially good. And that was it, really. John was the only person he’d ever met who believed, despite so much evidence to the contrary, that Sherlock Holmes was a good man.
It was almost enough, some days, to make Sherlock want to be a good man.
He glanced at the letter again.
Almost unbidden, the image arose of John doing exactly what he’d said, pushing him up against the wall in the hallway, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s. John taking him, claiming him, making Sherlock entirely his own. Those strong doctor’s hands that Sherlock had always admired on his skin, everywhere, gentle and warm and perfect. Kissing down Sherlock’s neck, mouthing at his collar bones, fingers sliding into his hair and -
Sherlock’s eyes flew open (when had they fallen shut?) Oh. Oh. How on earth had he missed this? How could he, the second smartest man in London, have failed to recognise what the heat curling in his belly and the images still flashing behind his eyes meant? That he wanted John, wanted him in his life and in his bed, right this minute and quite possibly forever?
Torn between the exhilaration that always came with revelation and the utter shame of having to have it literally spelt out for him, Sherlock leapt off the sofa. This was brilliant. He simply had to find John and... tell... him...
“Fuck!”
Sherlock dashed into the kitchen, sweeping up the folder containing John’s flight information. The urgency he’d experienced before was a mere shadow of what he felt now. It was absolutely imperative that he get to John before he got on that plane.
He scanned the sheet of paper rapidly, searching for the departure time. 11:55. Sherlock glanced at his watch. 10:56.
Baby Please Don't Go - Part 4d
anonymous
March 30 2011, 10:41:14 UTC
Sherlock raced out of the kitchen and dove for the sofa, searching desperately for his phone. It’d be okay, he assured himself. He’d just call John and tell him not to get on the plane, that it was an emergency. John always understood when something was important. And then he’d go and find John and tell him that -
His hand closed around something hard and cool. He yanked it out from under the cushion.
“Fuck!”
Sherlock stared at his phone in horror as it declared “Battery empty” and winked off. Surely not, oh God, please no. It would need at least ten minutes charging to be usable.
He stood in the centre of the room, racked with indecision. He could stay, charge his phone, and try and call John before he boarded his flight. But what if his phone was off already? What if it was engaged? He imagined sitting here, listening to John’s phone ring out again and again. It would drive him mad.
Or he could try and get to the airport in time to catch John. It would take at least thirty five minutes to get to Heathrow from Baker street. He looked at his watch again. 10:58. Fuck fuck fuck. John would be likely be boarding in thirty minutes or so. Fuck. But action, even frantic, panicked action, was better than nothing.
Decision made, Sherlock grabbed his wallet and ran for the door.
Re: Baby Please Don't Go - OP HERE!!
anonymous
March 31 2011, 02:05:19 UTC
AHHHHHHHHH! Go Sherlock goooooooooo!!!! This is a mountain of awesome! The letter was great! And all of the "Fuck!"s cracked me up! *squeals*!!!!!!!!!! I'm spazzing!
I’m sorry about last night. I was tired and angry. You know I didn’t mean what I said, right? The bit about you being an idiot. You’re pretty obviously not an idiot. Well, except about this. And before you accuse me of being cryptic and obtuse, don’t worry, I’m going to spell it out for you this time.
It has somehow failed to come to your attention (and you have a lot of attention, Sherlock, you see everything. How did you miss this?) that I have, for quite some time now, been rather incurably in love with you. No doubt this will shock and quite possibly horrify you, but there it is. I’m in love with you.
Did you honestly never see it? With the benefit of hindsight, can you see it now? There were times when we’d get home, panting and laughing and high on our own (alright, mostly your) fucking brilliance and it was all I could do not to push you up against the wall and kiss you until you couldn’t breathe. Did you ever notice? I thought sometimes you did, that you must. That you could sense the tension between us as much as I could. That you knew what I felt almost every time you touched me, however innocently or inconsequentially. For fuck’s sake, even Lestrade saw it. Mycroft, too. And so I waited, for a long time, for you do to or say something that showed you felt the same way.
I’m honestly not blaming you for anything. It’s not your fault that I’m in love with you (well, it kind of is, but there’s nothing you can really do to change that, is there? I certainly don't want you to stop being you.) You’re still my best mate, I’d still kill (and die) for you. But right now, I need some time and space, otherwise I am never going to get over you, and that’s not good for me. You can see that, can’t you, Sherlock?
I didn’t think I’d be able to say this to your face, not without also saying something stupid and hurtful and bitter. I didn’t want our last proper conversation for who knows how long to be like that. Please just forget about last night. Delete it. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for being a coward. People are like that sometimes, y'know? A bit broken and a bit scared.
It’s not like this is forever. I’ll be back, and you can come visit me, just give me a little time, yeah? We’ll email and text. I’ll let you know when I get there and I expect to hear back from you, you mad wanker. Don’t do anything too stupidly dangerous while I’m gone. I really will miss you.
John
Sherlock sat down. He stared at the note. He read it again.
At least twelve different thoughts were clamouring for his attention. He could feel them buzzing around in his head, and it was so loud, but he couldn’t concentrate; for the first time in his life, he couldn’t get his massive intellect to focus. He was dimly aware of the painful, throbbing beat of his heart that accompanied the buzzing, pounding in his ears.
For a full minute, he sat there, the thoughts swirling and colliding, slowly percolating down to one, central truth.
John was in love with him.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he started to read the letter again, assessing, this time, weighing and judging, extracting every ounce of meaning from every word John had written.
As he read, his mind called up memories and half-remembered thoughts. John laughing as he collapsed against the stairs, another criminal caught, another life saved, looking at Sherlock with wide, shining eyes. John pulling him, dripping and shivering, out of the Thames, demanding harshly that he “never do anything that mind-bogglingly idiotic again,” the fear evident in his voice. John insisting he at least have a cup of tea and a biscuit before he collapsed, practically forcing him to sit down and not letting him up until he was done. John’s smile. His eyes. The odd sensation in his stomach Sherlock experienced every time John traced his fingers softly over Sherlock’s skin, searching for injuries...
He dropped the letter.
It was, he felt, rather unfair for a person to experience two epiphanies in the space of five minutes.
He was in love with John.
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Very carefully, he picked up the letter and went into the living room. He place it on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled underneath his chin. He was going to think about this.
That John was in love with him, he accepted. It appeared to be consistent with Sherlock’s observations, albeit only retrospectively, and it gave a satisfactory explanation for all the things that had been puzzling Sherlock for weeks now. It did seem rather strange to him that John, who was brave and kind and good would be in love with someone like him, but he was forced to acknowledge that the conclusion fit all the facts. The next question was not quite so straightforward.
Was he really in love with John?
Sherlock was not prone to fits of self-examination, but these were exceptional circumstances.
Certainly he liked John. He liked him very much. John was, as many people had pointed out, his only real friend. There was something about John that was so very comfortable; he’d slotted right into Sherlock’s life, as if there was a place in it carved out just for him, from the very beginning. He thought Sherlock was brilliant. He also thought Sherlock was mad and irritating and, somewhere deep down, essentially good. And that was it, really. John was the only person he’d ever met who believed, despite so much evidence to the contrary, that Sherlock Holmes was a good man.
It was almost enough, some days, to make Sherlock want to be a good man.
He glanced at the letter again.
Almost unbidden, the image arose of John doing exactly what he’d said, pushing him up against the wall in the hallway, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s. John taking him, claiming him, making Sherlock entirely his own. Those strong doctor’s hands that Sherlock had always admired on his skin, everywhere, gentle and warm and perfect. Kissing down Sherlock’s neck, mouthing at his collar bones, fingers sliding into his hair and -
Sherlock’s eyes flew open (when had they fallen shut?) Oh. Oh. How on earth had he missed this? How could he, the second smartest man in London, have failed to recognise what the heat curling in his belly and the images still flashing behind his eyes meant? That he wanted John, wanted him in his life and in his bed, right this minute and quite possibly forever?
Torn between the exhilaration that always came with revelation and the utter shame of having to have it literally spelt out for him, Sherlock leapt off the sofa. This was brilliant. He simply had to find John and... tell... him...
“Fuck!”
Sherlock dashed into the kitchen, sweeping up the folder containing John’s flight information. The urgency he’d experienced before was a mere shadow of what he felt now. It was absolutely imperative that he get to John before he got on that plane.
He scanned the sheet of paper rapidly, searching for the departure time. 11:55. Sherlock glanced at his watch. 10:56.
“Fuck!”
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His hand closed around something hard and cool. He yanked it out from under the cushion.
“Fuck!”
Sherlock stared at his phone in horror as it declared “Battery empty” and winked off. Surely not, oh God, please no. It would need at least ten minutes charging to be usable.
He stood in the centre of the room, racked with indecision. He could stay, charge his phone, and try and call John before he boarded his flight. But what if his phone was off already? What if it was engaged? He imagined sitting here, listening to John’s phone ring out again and again. It would drive him mad.
Or he could try and get to the airport in time to catch John. It would take at least thirty five minutes to get to Heathrow from Baker street. He looked at his watch again. 10:58. Fuck fuck fuck. John would be likely be boarding in thirty minutes or so. Fuck. But action, even frantic, panicked action, was better than nothing.
Decision made, Sherlock grabbed his wallet and ran for the door.
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This remains AMAZING!
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I am loving this!
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Go Sherlock GO!
Oh this is too much! You can't leave us like this! More! More!
Sherlock HAS to get there on time and there HAVE to be reunion kisses and... and....
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!
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