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!
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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