death, be not proud 1b/1
anonymous
March 22 2011, 17:09:48 UTC
The very good swordmaker that Sherlock refers to turns out to live in Japan, and the very next day they are on a plane, first class to Narita. Sherlock, in a rare display of quiescence, lets down his seat back until he's almost horizontal, stretches out his legs, and closes his eyes, hands folded on his chest.
John, meanwhile, is still letting the pieces slide and lock into place. A great many things make more sense, now.
"I never needed to shoot that cabbie, did I?" he asks, quietly. The thought makes him feel a little betrayed.
"Probably not," Sherlock concedes. "But I appreciate the sentiment. Still do," he adds.
John runs over what he knows of Sherlock in his mind. "Is Mycroft--"
"Yes," Sherlock replies. "What, did you actually think that was an umbrella?"
-----
"Oh God," says Donovan. "The freak's catching. Now you're even starting to dress alike."
John smiles sheepishly. The sword is an unfamiliar weight at his side.
God knows what he'll do in the summer.
-----
John has just entered the pub when it hits him: not pain, but a prickling behind the eyes that washes out all his other senses. His gaze sweeps the room, and he soon meets the eyes of a young man at the bar, who's wearing a similarly stunned expression. The stranger's mouth tightens, and he gaves John a tight nod, before slipping from his stool and disappearing out the back door.
"Let's not do this here," he says, when John steps into the alley. "Too many people."
"All right," says John. He wasn't expecting this to be so civilised.
They walk to a nearby park and hop the fence. John has the old and familiar thought, I'm getting too old for this and has to repress the urge to laugh.
At last, the young man stops and draws his sword. "This good?"
"Fine," says John. He draws his own sword and raises it, feels his muscles slide and lock into place.
After that, the last eight months of endless drilling and sparring take over. John is dripping with sweat and fairly steaming in the night air, but his blood sings in his veins and his breath fills his lungs, and this is better, so much better, than burgling blackmailers' houses and tracking demon hounds across the moor and speedboat chases on the Thames. This is something simpler and more immediate, the ancient and universal struggle for survival, man against man. Their swords meet in a screeching clash of metal on metal, and John can't keep the furious grin from his face.
The man takes a step back into a mud puddle and slips, just a little. Just enough. John doesn't even think, just knocks his opponent's sword away and brings his own blade down on the man's neck. He barely even feels it; Sherlock's swordmaker is very good.
-----
Sherlock knows, of course, as soon as John enters the room. He's on his feet within seconds, and John crushes him against the wall, pushes their faces roughly together.
"You didn't tell me it'd be like this," he pants.
Sherlock's mouth quirks up on one side. "It's only like that at first, and only for some people."
John bites Sherlock's lower lip. "Do you want this?"
"God, yes," Sherlock says, and his deft fingers start their work on John's belt buckle.
They end up fucking rough and fast on the couch, Sherlock's pyjamas puddled on the floor and his dressing gown rucked up around his waist. John doesn't even get his trousers all the way off, only pushes them down to his knees. He turns Sherlock onto his front and enters him roughly, not enough prep, but Sherlock doesn't seem to care. He claws at the couch arm and bites his his lower lip and gives a sharp little cry with each thrust, until it runs together into a wail. John finishes first, and is so dazed that he can only watch as Sherlock finishes himself off.
"Sorry about that," he says. He's still breathing fast.
"Don't be," says Sherlock, without looking up from where he's mopping himself with a corner of his dressing gown. "We have all night."
death, be not proud 1c/1
anonymous
March 22 2011, 17:10:27 UTC
Afterwards, they lie in Sherlock's bed, the sweat still cooling on their bodies.
"How was that, then?" asks Sherlock. "Your first Quickening."
John draws in a deep breath. "Amazing. Brilliant."
Sherlock smiles without opening his eyes. "That's what people usually say."
"Piss off," John says, affectionately. "Have you done this for a lot of other people, then? Coaching them through, through immortality?"
"Never," Sherlock replies, clipped. His brow furrows slightly, and he somehow manages to look insulted despite lying on his stomach in bed with his eyes closed.
"Oh." John stares at the ceiling in amazement. "Why, then? Why me? Why go to all this trouble?"
Sherlock cracks open one eye and glares balefully at John. "Because you're mine."
John thinks he should find the statement comforting, but his guts continue to twist as he rolls onto his side to look at Sherlock. "We're going to have to kill each other eventually, aren't we?"
"So the Game decrees," Sherlock agrees.
John ponders this. "If we're the only two left," he decides, "then you can kill me. There's no one else I'd rather have do it," he adds, and is surprised to find that this is true.
Sherlock has both eyes open now, and is staring at John as if he's a five-day-old corpse dumped in front of Buckingham Palace just before the Changing of the Guard. "Don't talk rubbish," he snarls, and stretches out one long arm to reel John in. He tucks his head under John's chin and winds his arms and legs around him. "And live on for an eternity alone? The thought fills me with dread. The boredom." He shudders.
Re: death, be not proud 1c/1akasha_lilianMarch 24 2011, 19:09:45 UTC
Soooo brilliant! Loved the way you built in the real Sherlock story as to how he died and also explained his reappearance with that. Ingenious! But also lovely ending, although I still don't see Sherlock as a bottom (new to the fandom, but have read this fairly often by now) somehow... Lovely story though!
Re: death, be not proud 1c/1
anonymous
March 25 2011, 02:25:13 UTC
you brought Reichenbach in!!!! :D the ending was strangely touching. if you allow me to, I'll just go sit on the corner and cry a bit of happy tears for a while.
John, meanwhile, is still letting the pieces slide and lock into place. A great many things make more sense, now.
"I never needed to shoot that cabbie, did I?" he asks, quietly. The thought makes him feel a little betrayed.
"Probably not," Sherlock concedes. "But I appreciate the sentiment. Still do," he adds.
John runs over what he knows of Sherlock in his mind. "Is Mycroft--"
"Yes," Sherlock replies. "What, did you actually think that was an umbrella?"
-----
"Oh God," says Donovan. "The freak's catching. Now you're even starting to dress alike."
John smiles sheepishly. The sword is an unfamiliar weight at his side.
God knows what he'll do in the summer.
-----
John has just entered the pub when it hits him: not pain, but a prickling behind the eyes that washes out all his other senses. His gaze sweeps the room, and he soon meets the eyes of a young man at the bar, who's wearing a similarly stunned expression. The stranger's mouth tightens, and he gaves John a tight nod, before slipping from his stool and disappearing out the back door.
"Let's not do this here," he says, when John steps into the alley. "Too many people."
"All right," says John. He wasn't expecting this to be so civilised.
They walk to a nearby park and hop the fence. John has the old and familiar thought, I'm getting too old for this and has to repress the urge to laugh.
At last, the young man stops and draws his sword. "This good?"
"Fine," says John. He draws his own sword and raises it, feels his muscles slide and lock into place.
After that, the last eight months of endless drilling and sparring take over. John is dripping with sweat and fairly steaming in the night air, but his blood sings in his veins and his breath fills his lungs, and this is better, so much better, than burgling blackmailers' houses and tracking demon hounds across the moor and speedboat chases on the Thames. This is something simpler and more immediate, the ancient and universal struggle for survival, man against man. Their swords meet in a screeching clash of metal on metal, and John can't keep the furious grin from his face.
The man takes a step back into a mud puddle and slips, just a little. Just enough. John doesn't even think, just knocks his opponent's sword away and brings his own blade down on the man's neck. He barely even feels it; Sherlock's swordmaker is very good.
-----
Sherlock knows, of course, as soon as John enters the room. He's on his feet within seconds, and John crushes him against the wall, pushes their faces roughly together.
"You didn't tell me it'd be like this," he pants.
Sherlock's mouth quirks up on one side. "It's only like that at first, and only for some people."
John bites Sherlock's lower lip. "Do you want this?"
"God, yes," Sherlock says, and his deft fingers start their work on John's belt buckle.
They end up fucking rough and fast on the couch, Sherlock's pyjamas puddled on the floor and his dressing gown rucked up around his waist. John doesn't even get his trousers all the way off, only pushes them down to his knees. He turns Sherlock onto his front and enters him roughly, not enough prep, but Sherlock doesn't seem to care. He claws at the couch arm and bites his his lower lip and gives a sharp little cry with each thrust, until it runs together into a wail. John finishes first, and is so dazed that he can only watch as Sherlock finishes himself off.
"Sorry about that," he says. He's still breathing fast.
"Don't be," says Sherlock, without looking up from where he's mopping himself with a corner of his dressing gown. "We have all night."
-----
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"How was that, then?" asks Sherlock. "Your first Quickening."
John draws in a deep breath. "Amazing. Brilliant."
Sherlock smiles without opening his eyes. "That's what people usually say."
"Piss off," John says, affectionately. "Have you done this for a lot of other people, then? Coaching them through, through immortality?"
"Never," Sherlock replies, clipped. His brow furrows slightly, and he somehow manages to look insulted despite lying on his stomach in bed with his eyes closed.
"Oh." John stares at the ceiling in amazement. "Why, then? Why me? Why go to all this trouble?"
Sherlock cracks open one eye and glares balefully at John. "Because you're mine."
John thinks he should find the statement comforting, but his guts continue to twist as he rolls onto his side to look at Sherlock. "We're going to have to kill each other eventually, aren't we?"
"So the Game decrees," Sherlock agrees.
John ponders this. "If we're the only two left," he decides, "then you can kill me. There's no one else I'd rather have do it," he adds, and is surprised to find that this is true.
Sherlock has both eyes open now, and is staring at John as if he's a five-day-old corpse dumped in front of Buckingham Palace just before the Changing of the Guard. "Don't talk rubbish," he snarls, and stretches out one long arm to reel John in. He tucks his head under John's chin and winds his arms and legs around him. "And live on for an eternity alone? The thought fills me with dread. The boredom." He shudders.
"But," John protests.
"Shut up," Sherlock tells him, and John does.
---END---
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"Allow me to demonstrate." I am going to be grinning like a loon for the rest of the morning.
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But also lovely ending, although I still don't see Sherlock as a bottom (new to the fandom, but have read this fairly often by now) somehow...
Lovely story though!
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the ending was strangely touching. if you allow me to, I'll just go sit on the corner and cry a bit of happy tears for a while.
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What is this EPICNESS???
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
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I love that movie hardcore.
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but now you make me crave immortal mycroft stories :D
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This fic is now de-anoned and cleaned up; you can find the crossroads post here.
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This is everything I never knew I wanted. Hope you continue this after the challenge ends!
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