FILL: Left UnsaidthesardineApril 23 2011, 22:14:18 UTC
Sherlock returned late and John was sleeping on the sofa, his head tossed back and crooked at a stiffening angle. John didn't like to sleep sitting up, but found he often did. Sherlock had been gone three days.
John scrubbed an arm across his eyes. He tried to move his head but his neck was being uncooperative on account of the abuse it had taken. Sherlock shed his coat and sat beside him, sinking into the sofa like a boneless, empty thing. He breathed evenly through his mouth.
"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock began to lean. He leaned until his shoulder hit John's, then he turned and planted his face in John's lap. John wasn't sure what to do. He pulled his arm free and then settled it over the back of the sofa. The flat was dark and kind of orange from the lights on Baker street.
"Are you hurt?"
"Mng," said Sherlock, who scrubbed his face against against John's leg and slowly curled onto his side. There was a tickling tension beneath John's skin where Sherlock's head pressed into his thighs. It shot straight up and spread from the base of his testicles. It was rather inappropriate and awkward.
"Where've you been?" John whispered. Sherlock exhaled tightly, shakily, and John decided to leave off for now. When Sherlock disappeared for days for a case he usually didn't eat or sleep, but curbed each desire with chemical assistance, which got the job done but left him frail and unsteady at the close. Once when John had pressed him for details at such a time, Sherlock had thrown an exquisite tantrum, upsetting the living room table and all its chairs before sinking into the corner with his knees drawn to his chin. He couldn't be moved and had slept there forty hours. John touched a tentative hand to Sherlock's shoulder and felt the thin but consistent tremor coursing through it.
John tried to rest his head again, but his neck was having none of it. He would have liked to go to bed. He would have liked to know where Sherlock had been. He would have liked to have been with him. There were a lot of things John Watson would have liked, but he always settled with what he got, sometimes far too easily, he thought. He shifted slightly downward to give his head a better angle and Sherlock grabbed his knee. It was likely he wouldn't remember this in the morning, although it was impossible to tell what Sherlock remembered, what he didn't, and what he simply lied about or didn't mention. John hadn't slept a great deal in the last three days either.
Sherlock was whispering something and John gently touched his hair. "What's that?"
"The green apple on the twirling," Sherlock said. "Use the other, John." He convulsed and twisted in John's lap. "Don't let them see you." He curled inward again, his thumb digging painfully into the joint of John's knee. John winced and grit his teeth. Sherlock gasped weakly and suddenly relaxed. "The rabbit has it," he said. John stroked his hair.
The next morning, John gingerly extricated himself and went to work. When he returned Sherlock hadn't moved, but one arm had drooped off the sofa and his knuckles grazed the floor. The next day Sherlock had drooped off the sofa so his whole body was on the floor. He was a weird person, John surmised.
He hadn't disappeared, but Sherlock hadn't slept this week. The game was afoot, he'd said. John suspected he was doing drugs but couldn't confirm this because he wouldn't take them when John was looking. John wasn't able to stop Sherlock taking drugs when he set his mind to it, but he was able to start a row. This was sufficiently distracting from the all-important case, so Sherlock avoided it, which meant he did his drugs in private.
"Do you want them to die?" was his general defense. "Then I need to be awake."
John scrubbed an arm across his eyes. He tried to move his head but his neck was being uncooperative on account of the abuse it had taken. Sherlock shed his coat and sat beside him, sinking into the sofa like a boneless, empty thing. He breathed evenly through his mouth.
"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock began to lean. He leaned until his shoulder hit John's, then he turned and planted his face in John's lap. John wasn't sure what to do. He pulled his arm free and then settled it over the back of the sofa. The flat was dark and kind of orange from the lights on Baker street.
"Are you hurt?"
"Mng," said Sherlock, who scrubbed his face against against John's leg and slowly curled onto his side. There was a tickling tension beneath John's skin where Sherlock's head pressed into his thighs. It shot straight up and spread from the base of his testicles. It was rather inappropriate and awkward.
"Where've you been?" John whispered. Sherlock exhaled tightly, shakily, and John decided to leave off for now. When Sherlock disappeared for days for a case he usually didn't eat or sleep, but curbed each desire with chemical assistance, which got the job done but left him frail and unsteady at the close. Once when John had pressed him for details at such a time, Sherlock had thrown an exquisite tantrum, upsetting the living room table and all its chairs before sinking into the corner with his knees drawn to his chin. He couldn't be moved and had slept there forty hours. John touched a tentative hand to Sherlock's shoulder and felt the thin but consistent tremor coursing through it.
John tried to rest his head again, but his neck was having none of it. He would have liked to go to bed. He would have liked to know where Sherlock had been. He would have liked to have been with him. There were a lot of things John Watson would have liked, but he always settled with what he got, sometimes far too easily, he thought. He shifted slightly downward to give his head a better angle and Sherlock grabbed his knee. It was likely he wouldn't remember this in the morning, although it was impossible to tell what Sherlock remembered, what he didn't, and what he simply lied about or didn't mention. John hadn't slept a great deal in the last three days either.
Sherlock was whispering something and John gently touched his hair. "What's that?"
"The green apple on the twirling," Sherlock said. "Use the other, John." He convulsed and twisted in John's lap. "Don't let them see you." He curled inward again, his thumb digging painfully into the joint of John's knee. John winced and grit his teeth. Sherlock gasped weakly and suddenly relaxed. "The rabbit has it," he said. John stroked his hair.
The next morning, John gingerly extricated himself and went to work. When he returned Sherlock hadn't moved, but one arm had drooped off the sofa and his knuckles grazed the floor. The next day Sherlock had drooped off the sofa so his whole body was on the floor. He was a weird person, John surmised.
He hadn't disappeared, but Sherlock hadn't slept this week. The game was afoot, he'd said. John suspected he was doing drugs but couldn't confirm this because he wouldn't take them when John was looking. John wasn't able to stop Sherlock taking drugs when he set his mind to it, but he was able to start a row. This was sufficiently distracting from the all-important case, so Sherlock avoided it, which meant he did his drugs in private.
"Do you want them to die?" was his general defense. "Then I need to be awake."
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