Sherlock looked round to regard John lain face down on the freshly made bed. He dropped the shirt he’d been about to put on.
‘What?’
‘I leave for Afghanistan tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Sherlock stuttered, taking a half step back towards the bed. John didn’t move, face still turned away from Sherlock, a sad smile on his lips. ‘You’ve known for weeks. You just didn’t know how to tell me.’ Sherlock sighed and then clambered onto the bed, lying flush against John so he couldn’t move.
‘I won’t let you go,’ Sherlock whispered into John’s neck.
‘You don’t really have a choice, Sherlock.’
Sherlock considered this for a moment, thumb running over John’s hand. He sighed, lifting his head so he could press a kiss to John’s cheek.
FILL #2: School-Aged FluffstickstockstoneMay 2 2011, 01:55:16 UTC
"It's official," John sighs as he places his book bag gently to the left of Sherlock's bedroom door. "Your mum hates me."
Sherlock follows him in with a series of slams- first, the door into its frame, then his own bag, which thuds into the wall before its contents spill onto the hardwood. The deep frown on his face goes completely unnoticed by John, who has made his way over to Sherlock's bed, only to flop, face first, onto the duvet.
The frown becomes a scowl as Sherlock starts pacing, dodging his scattered pens and books as he yanks his uniform jumper off with stiff movements, only to throw it on the ground. He feels angry, enraged even, it throbs through his veins, makes his fingers clumsy as he plucks at his tie.
"She had no right- no right!" He finally manages to spit out.
"Did you see the way she sneered when she said 'state school'? I don't think I've ever seen anyone so disgusted." John can barely be heard through the goose down.
Sherlock makes a snorting noise as he starts to attack his button-up, in time with his irate stomping about the room.
"Don't suppose you told her about that?"
"No, no, she figured that out on her own. It's fairly obvious, from what you're wearing. Should have borrowed a uniform, but then it wouldn't of fit right, the wear patterns would’ve been off, she would have seen right through it..."
Lost in thought, Sherlock forgets to discard his shirt dramatically; it slides from his fingers to the floor in an anticlimactic fashion. It also means that there's no anger to act as an emotional buffer when he finally turns to face the bed, to face John, looking small and sad and dejected as Sherlock's comforter slowly swallows him. Helplessness slams into him like a freight train; Sherlock knows full well how absolutely abysmal he is at comforting. He did nothing to spare John from his mother's judgments, and he's doing nothing to spare John from his own internal flagellation.
Sherlock shifts his weight from foot to foot as he watches John's shoulders shift with each deep, measured breath; he honestly has no idea what to do, and it would be infuriating if it wasn't so very pathetic. John always seems to know what to do when Sherlock is in a mood, and it makes Sherlock feel completely inadequate that he's incapable of returning the favor.
To be honest, right now all he wants is to be close to John.
Well, that's certainly better than nothing.
He crosses the room noiselessly before crawling over John's prone form. Sherlock desperately wants to see his face, his eyes, but John remains pressed into the duvet.
"John..." He tries, wetting his lips, "John, you must know how little her opinion matters."
He still feels so far away from John, crouching over him like some emotionally insensate gargoyle, so he presses his chest to John's back, lays his body over John’s to cover him completely; to shield John from the world as he buries his nose into the hair at the nape of John's neck and grabs John's left hand with his own.
"You matter. We matter." Sherlock mumbles to the skin there.
Beneath his lips John's neck twists, revealing dark blue eyes and a sad smile.
Closer, Sherlock still wants to be closer, so he places a gentle kiss on John's cheek, strokes the back of John's hand with his thumb. "The rest of the world can just... can just fuck off."
John lets out a tiny chuckle at that, and it's not the giggle that Sherlock is secretly, ridiculously fond of, but it's something, something that makes him feel a little less helpless, a little more certain, as presses his body to John's.
END!
Apparently I have a remarkable ability to be inspired by a prompt, start a fill, and come back later to find someone else has already filled it excellently. This has happened three or four times now, I don’t know what the deal is. Either way, totally didn’t mean to steal your thunder, first-author-anon your fill is adorable.
Re: FILL #2: School-Aged FluffcyerusMay 2 2011, 02:39:49 UTC
Oh my. That was just sweet and sad and adorable, and now I want to hug an even tinier John. Or just watch Sherlock hug him. Yeah, let Sherlock hug him.
Well, I for one am bloody ecstatic that I'm getting more than one fill to my prompt. I mean, two absolutely wonderful fills that I will forever hold dear to my heart? Oh, it's Christmas. I LOVE YOU BOTH!! ♥
Young!Sherlock and young!John cuddles anyone?
Found on Sadynax's wondrous tumblr and apparently is from the movie ‘Les chansons d’amour’ (2007) aka ‘Love Songs’.
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Fifth'd!
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fifthed tenthed whatever
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‘I’ve been posted.’
Sherlock looked round to regard John lain face down on the freshly made bed. He dropped the shirt he’d been about to put on.
‘What?’
‘I leave for Afghanistan tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Sherlock stuttered, taking a half step back towards the bed. John didn’t move, face still turned away from Sherlock, a sad smile on his lips. ‘You’ve known for weeks. You just didn’t know how to tell me.’ Sherlock sighed and then clambered onto the bed, lying flush against John so he couldn’t move.
‘I won’t let you go,’ Sherlock whispered into John’s neck.
‘You don’t really have a choice, Sherlock.’
Sherlock considered this for a moment, thumb running over John’s hand. He sighed, lifting his head so he could press a kiss to John’s cheek.
‘Just make sure you come back then.’
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LET ME HUG YOU
Asdflkjh bawww THEY WILL MEET AGAIN AND BE HAPPY DAMMIT ;o;
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Sherlock follows him in with a series of slams- first, the door into its frame, then his own bag, which thuds into the wall before its contents spill onto the hardwood. The deep frown on his face goes completely unnoticed by John, who has made his way over to Sherlock's bed, only to flop, face first, onto the duvet.
The frown becomes a scowl as Sherlock starts pacing, dodging his scattered pens and books as he yanks his uniform jumper off with stiff movements, only to throw it on the ground. He feels angry, enraged even, it throbs through his veins, makes his fingers clumsy as he plucks at his tie.
"She had no right- no right!" He finally manages to spit out.
"Did you see the way she sneered when she said 'state school'? I don't think I've ever seen anyone so disgusted." John can barely be heard through the goose down.
Sherlock makes a snorting noise as he starts to attack his button-up, in time with his irate stomping about the room.
"Don't suppose you told her about that?"
"No, no, she figured that out on her own. It's fairly obvious, from what you're wearing. Should have borrowed a uniform, but then it wouldn't of fit right, the wear patterns would’ve been off, she would have seen right through it..."
Lost in thought, Sherlock forgets to discard his shirt dramatically; it slides from his fingers to the floor in an anticlimactic fashion. It also means that there's no anger to act as an emotional buffer when he finally turns to face the bed, to face John, looking small and sad and dejected as Sherlock's comforter slowly swallows him. Helplessness slams into him like a freight train; Sherlock knows full well how absolutely abysmal he is at comforting. He did nothing to spare John from his mother's judgments, and he's doing nothing to spare John from his own internal flagellation.
Sherlock shifts his weight from foot to foot as he watches John's shoulders shift with each deep, measured breath; he honestly has no idea what to do, and it would be infuriating if it wasn't so very pathetic. John always seems to know what to do when Sherlock is in a mood, and it makes Sherlock feel completely inadequate that he's incapable of returning the favor.
To be honest, right now all he wants is to be close to John.
Well, that's certainly better than nothing.
He crosses the room noiselessly before crawling over John's prone form. Sherlock desperately wants to see his face, his eyes, but John remains pressed into the duvet.
"John..." He tries, wetting his lips, "John, you must know how little her opinion matters."
He still feels so far away from John, crouching over him like some emotionally insensate gargoyle, so he presses his chest to John's back, lays his body over John’s to cover him completely; to shield John from the world as he buries his nose into the hair at the nape of John's neck and grabs John's left hand with his own.
"You matter. We matter." Sherlock mumbles to the skin there.
Beneath his lips John's neck twists, revealing dark blue eyes and a sad smile.
Closer, Sherlock still wants to be closer, so he places a gentle kiss on John's cheek, strokes the back of John's hand with his thumb. "The rest of the world can just... can just fuck off."
John lets out a tiny chuckle at that, and it's not the giggle that Sherlock is secretly, ridiculously fond of, but it's something, something that makes him feel a little less helpless, a little more certain, as presses his body to John's.
END!
Apparently I have a remarkable ability to be inspired by a prompt, start a fill, and come back later to find someone else has already filled it excellently. This has happened three or four times now, I don’t know what the deal is. Either way, totally didn’t mean to steal your thunder, first-author-anon your fill is adorable.
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