Re: FILL: Left UnsaidthesardineApril 23 2011, 22:19:08 UTC
There wasn't a case. Sherlock crept in around three AM, though it was impossible to tell exactly because John didn't notice until he woke up with freezing feet, huddled towards the center of the bed where Sherlock had collected the blankets in pile around himself. John was cold. He was too tired. He squirmed until he lay flush alongside his flatmate, then pressed his icy feet between Sherlock's ankles. Sherlock awoke with a jolt, then muzzily wrapped an arm around John, sought his lips and kissed him twice, a gentle pull. He tucked John's head under his chin and went back to sleep.
John was now awake. His nose was pressed to Sherlock's collarbone, and he was no longer cold at all. In fact, he was rather the opposite of cold. He replayed the incident in his head, and each time brought the same tingling to his lips, the same flush of warmth to his groin, the groin that was now nestled firmly against Sherlock's. Sherlock Holmes. His flatmate, that would be. This was supposedly very awkward. John went back to sleep.
Sometimes in Afghanistan John would sit with his back to the wall, his collar stiff with old sweat, his sleeves and jacket stiff with old blood, and he would stare bewildered into the middle distance, so tired that reality no longer made sense.
They had just returned from Scotland Yard. Sherlock was in the living room, sallow-faced and making erratic leaps of logic about the contents of the flat.
"John," he said suddenly. He said it firmly but there was a hint of desperation in his voice. John finished washing his hands, and dried them on a towel. Let's just make it upstairs, he told himself. It seemed impossible.
"John!" Sherlock was standing stiffly in the center of the room. "John, all these books - "
John took him by the elbow and directed him towards the stairs. Sherlock wrenched his arm away and John grabbed it again. He couldn't do this right now. They made it as far as the hall when Sherlock jerked away again, backing against the wall, hissing, "The bread, you idiot." John felt like he was made of cotton. Wet cotton. He was heavy and porous and couldn't move. He turned towards Sherlock and took a shuffling step. He dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder. He was heavier by the second. Right here. This was a good place to sleep. Blessedly, Sherlock shut up. He wrapped his arms around John and smelled behind his ear. They sank to the floor.
When John awoke, his hip was numb from sitting, his mouth felt tacky, and they both smelled terrible. Sherlock had a day, a day and a half's worth of beard grown in. John had become adept at judging. Sherlock's head was tilted against the wall, and John had been sleeping against him. When he tried to pull away, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. His arms tightened around John, pulling him in, and he kissed John once, but slowly. His lips tugged gently at John's, and though this wasn't supposed to happen, John's mouth opened, he turned his head and pressed up into the kiss. Sherlock broke it off and said, "Ow." He took a deep breath and blinked blearily at the hall, at John. He shifted, wincing. "Ow."
John levered himself against the wall and stood. He was going to sleep in his bed, properly. He started up the steps. Sherlock followed with a lurching movement, using his hands to crawl upstairs.
"It's too far," he said. "John. Wait." He was halfway up the steps and looked as though he would stay there. John looked back at him.
"What are you doing?" he said, more tersely than he'd intended. Sherlock heaved himself up and grabbed onto the banister. He staggered up to the landing, passed John, then continued up to John's room. Irritably, John followed. Sherlock was standing just inside the door, toeing off his shoes and unbuttoning his blazer. John stood aside and watched him. Sherlock collapsed onto the bed and crawled under the covers. John didn't know what to say.
After awhile, Sherlock turned over onto his back, his knees still canted away from John. "You're angry," he observed. John was silent. Sherlock brought his knees to follow the rest of him, and rolled till he could look at John, the blanket obscuring part of his face. John was still standing by the door.
John was now awake. His nose was pressed to Sherlock's collarbone, and he was no longer cold at all. In fact, he was rather the opposite of cold. He replayed the incident in his head, and each time brought the same tingling to his lips, the same flush of warmth to his groin, the groin that was now nestled firmly against Sherlock's. Sherlock Holmes. His flatmate, that would be. This was supposedly very awkward. John went back to sleep.
Sometimes in Afghanistan John would sit with his back to the wall, his collar stiff with old sweat, his sleeves and jacket stiff with old blood, and he would stare bewildered into the middle distance, so tired that reality no longer made sense.
They had just returned from Scotland Yard. Sherlock was in the living room, sallow-faced and making erratic leaps of logic about the contents of the flat.
"John," he said suddenly. He said it firmly but there was a hint of desperation in his voice. John finished washing his hands, and dried them on a towel. Let's just make it upstairs, he told himself. It seemed impossible.
"John!" Sherlock was standing stiffly in the center of the room. "John, all these books - "
John took him by the elbow and directed him towards the stairs. Sherlock wrenched his arm away and John grabbed it again. He couldn't do this right now. They made it as far as the hall when Sherlock jerked away again, backing against the wall, hissing, "The bread, you idiot." John felt like he was made of cotton. Wet cotton. He was heavy and porous and couldn't move. He turned towards Sherlock and took a shuffling step. He dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder. He was heavier by the second. Right here. This was a good place to sleep. Blessedly, Sherlock shut up. He wrapped his arms around John and smelled behind his ear. They sank to the floor.
When John awoke, his hip was numb from sitting, his mouth felt tacky, and they both smelled terrible. Sherlock had a day, a day and a half's worth of beard grown in. John had become adept at judging. Sherlock's head was tilted against the wall, and John had been sleeping against him. When he tried to pull away, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. His arms tightened around John, pulling him in, and he kissed John once, but slowly. His lips tugged gently at John's, and though this wasn't supposed to happen, John's mouth opened, he turned his head and pressed up into the kiss. Sherlock broke it off and said, "Ow." He took a deep breath and blinked blearily at the hall, at John. He shifted, wincing. "Ow."
John levered himself against the wall and stood. He was going to sleep in his bed, properly. He started up the steps. Sherlock followed with a lurching movement, using his hands to crawl upstairs.
"It's too far," he said. "John. Wait." He was halfway up the steps and looked as though he would stay there. John looked back at him.
"What are you doing?" he said, more tersely than he'd intended. Sherlock heaved himself up and grabbed onto the banister. He staggered up to the landing, passed John, then continued up to John's room. Irritably, John followed. Sherlock was standing just inside the door, toeing off his shoes and unbuttoning his blazer. John stood aside and watched him. Sherlock collapsed onto the bed and crawled under the covers. John didn't know what to say.
After awhile, Sherlock turned over onto his back, his knees still canted away from John. "You're angry," he observed. John was silent. Sherlock brought his knees to follow the rest of him, and rolled till he could look at John, the blanket obscuring part of his face. John was still standing by the door.
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