Fill: Red Sky in Morning 1/3
anonymous
May 19 2011, 11:11:18 UTC
This may or may not be what you're looking for, OP. But I hope you'll enjoy it regardless.
**
There’s this tension that crackles in the air, thick and heavy and electric-clouds gathering on the horizon before a storm, lightning flashing in the distance-when he sees Doctor John Watson for the very first time.
It’s so sudden, so unexpected, that at first he thinks that maybe it’s just static electricity, a particularly strong discharge that’s struck his entire body-when he feels the barest hint of warm, calloused fingers brush against his.
But...no. It’s...something else, which he has yet to fully deduce because he’s only experienced it one other time in his life and it was nothing like this. That was more of a calm drizzle, the remnants of an autumn rain that lasts for days and settles into skin and hair and clothes slowly, subtly.
This is...this is a summer storm, the kind that comes out of the blue-literally, because when he’d woken that day, the sky had been clear as a bell and there hadn’t been any hint of change on the horizon, none at all-a warm deluge that pounds heavily into the ground and leaves behind it the smell of life, of wet earth and wet concrete and a heat that clings to the curls of his hair.
And he tells himself that it’s the sudden shock of being awash in unexpected feelings-his skin buzzing pleasantlyunpleasantly, his stomach twisting, his heart clenching-that causes him to hold his chin up and deduce the man’s life story. Not everything-no, of course not, because there has to be some mystery left-but enough, a fishing line left in a lake, the hook floating just under the surface.
He gives his name as he leaves the room. And he winks.
It’s because of the surprise, is all.
**
He doesn’t need a flatmate, not really, but having help with the rent while Victor’s away on business is a plus. It’d been Victor’s idea, in fact, as he hadn’t wanted to concern himself with the tedious business. But Victor had insisted.
“We may as well sublet while I’m gone, you know,” Victor says one evening while he’s busy experimenting on the ears that he’d sweet-talked out of that woman who works in the morgue at Bart’s.
“Why?” he asks, distractedly, because it’s not important.
“You’ll be bored with only the skull and Mrs Hudson to talk to.”
He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want another flatmate.”
Victor laughs-the melodious sound of it that settles over him like the first snow of winter, gentle and powdery and magnificent-and ruffles his hair, kisses the back of his neck fondly. “That may be, love, but you know I’m right. Besides, if there’s no one here to look after you, you’ll neglect yourself. You’re always doing that.”
He grunts, but he already knows he’s going to give in. Victor’s never asked for much, and he supposes it’s worthwhile to have someone clean the flat and make dinner. Those things are Victor’s domain and he’s had more than enough lectures about surviving on takeaway to last him a lifetime.
“Sherlock...”
He rolls his eyes and sighs, but he doesn’t honestly mind that much. “Very well. Pick someone out.”
He feels Victor’s arms close around his waist, feels those familiar hands rub his stomach and it makes him think of curling in front of a fire-not too close where it’s hot, but far enough away that it’s warm and comfortable on one side of his body and starting to chill on the other. “I will if I can find someone before I leave. If not, it’ll be up to you.”
He makes a face-finding a temporary flatmate is so dull.
“It won’t be so bad,” Victor murmurs into his ear, and he relaxes back into his husband’s arms and closes his eyes.
“Yes, it will,” he says stubbornly.
Victor laughs and squeezes him a bit before releasing him. “No, it won’t, love. It’ll probably be someone new to the city who needs a place temporary place to stay before they find a more permanent home. Or it’ll be someone who will do their own thing and leave you alone.”
Fill: Red Sky in Morning 2/3
anonymous
May 19 2011, 11:13:49 UTC
The cab comes to a stop in front of the flat and he climbs out to greet his potential temporaryflatmate.
When their hands meet he swears he sees sparks fly and he can’t help the way his body shivers a bit.
He ignores the way there are clouds gathering on the horizon, ignores the heat he can feel seeping into his bones. It’s not the right time of year for that.
**
“You have a girlfriend?”
He wants to laugh, but he settles for saying, wryly, “Girls...not really my area.”
There’s a fluttering in his chest, because it’s unexpected this unassuming man who nonetheless seems to light up the room in brief, sharp bursts is engaging him in this conversation.
“Oh,” John says, looking momentarily confused before his face clears and he leans forward to ask, “So, do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way,” he hastily adds.
“I know it’s fine,” he answers teasinglyquickly, which is not at all what he meant to say.
“So you have a boyfriend?” John asks him.
He feels prickles on his skin, warning drops, brief pings of water before the deluge starts. He says, “No,” because it’s true. It’s not the whole story, and the wiggle room sets his heart racing, like the time he climbed into a tree as a child to have a better view of the clouds swirling, dark and foreboding, and thrilling. It’s on the tip of his tongue, now, to set the record straight, and he should, because he’s married, and he can see the interest shimmering in John Watson’s eyes, brief flashes of something electric and exciting and unknown. A storm of epic proportions.
John leaves him the perfect opening, too. "Oh, okay. So you're unattatched then. Just like me. Fine, good."
He finds himself at a crossroads; full-disclosure is the safe way, the easy path. It’s Mummy calling him in before he can get hurt, before the world explodes around him and he’s in danger of dying. The other path is the one he’s been treading this whole time, a dark and dangerous and infinitely more interesting one.
He wants to see what a storm is like close up, how it rents the air apart and shatters and destroys to put it all back together.
But he pulls back at the last minute when he thinks of warmth in winter, of cozy fireplaces and comfort.
The storm is still fascinating, even if there’s a window and a wall between him and it.
**
His chest is heaving as he stares down at the murderous cabbie, red blood seeping out onto the floor as he demands a name.
So close to death, so close, and there’s something magical about it, like standing near the top of a hill when lightning strikes. The air is tingling around him, and that feeling doesn’t go away when he looks across the police line and sees John Watson. His new flatmate.
**
When he watches the sunrise the next morning, the air still vibrates with the electricity of the night before.
The horizon is blood red, and some silly piece of trivia that he inexplicably hasn’t deleted bobs up to the front of his mind.
Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight, Red sky in morning, shepherd’s warning.
He dismisses it a moment later. It’s an old wives’ tale and absolute rubbish. It really should have been deleted years ago.
**
One time, he and Victor watched a documentary about storm chasers in America. It’d been interesting, after a fashion. He’d never seen storms quite like that before, the sheer size and force of them, beautiful in a raw, dangerous way.
He’d leaned against Victor lazily, ignoring the weather outside in favour of relishing the safety of the domestic scene. Once the programme was over, he’d turned away from the telly and had moved onto other things, giving very little thought to it afterwards.
Fill: Red Sky in Morning 3/3
anonymous
May 19 2011, 11:14:59 UTC
The documentary comes back to him one night not long after his flatmate moved in. They’ve been chasing a serial killer through London and-for once-John is ahead of him, Sherlock following behind, and it flashes though his mind in a moment, bright white light that overwhelms him. In the next instant, he thinks about how John is like those tornadoes-unexpected, unpredictable, sometimes small and sometimes so large and with the power to inspire and terrify. And he’s chasing after it, in spite of the danger, in spite of every instinct telling him to run indoors and find a safe place to ride it out.
He wonders what it would be like to be caught in the eye, to be tossed around and be inside it, to see something that no other person has seen directly.
When they catch the criminal, they’re both panting and John looks at him, eyes such a dark blue that they look like cumulonimbus clouds. Bright sparks flicker briefly and he feels like he could drown in those eyes, that the sheets of rain will consume him.
He doesn’t really want to be safe from that.
**
And maybe the storm will break over him, maybe he’ll race up to the highest point he can find-away from the comfort and safety indoors, out into the wild, untamed danger-and maybe he’ll spread his arms wide to welcome it.
But storms like that are so brief. Whole lives can be ruined in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, though, houses are spared. Sometimes there’s still a home to return to, still safety and comfort and the distant warmth of a cheery fire.
Re: Fill: Red Sky in Morning 3/3introductoryMay 19 2011, 22:53:38 UTC
Oh, wow.
This took me completely by surprise with how achy it was. I think anyone can identify with Sherlock's indecision -- wanting something you shouldn't have, something you shouldn't want. The way it ends is sort of heartbreakingly perfect: no decision having been made -- yet. Loved your use of the storm metaphor throughout; it never seemed forced, and it's particularly apt.
Re: Fill: Red Sky in Morning 3/3
anonymous
May 20 2011, 23:14:21 UTC
Thanks! Yeah, I think Sherlock is in a predicament that almost anyone can relate to. I'm glad the ambiguous ending worked. I honestly couldn't decide what he would choose, so I thought it was best left up to the audience. :)
**
There’s this tension that crackles in the air, thick and heavy and electric-clouds gathering on the horizon before a storm, lightning flashing in the distance-when he sees Doctor John Watson for the very first time.
It’s so sudden, so unexpected, that at first he thinks that maybe it’s just static electricity, a particularly strong discharge that’s struck his entire body-when he feels the barest hint of warm, calloused fingers brush against his.
But...no. It’s...something else, which he has yet to fully deduce because he’s only experienced it one other time in his life and it was nothing like this. That was more of a calm drizzle, the remnants of an autumn rain that lasts for days and settles into skin and hair and clothes slowly, subtly.
This is...this is a summer storm, the kind that comes out of the blue-literally, because when he’d woken that day, the sky had been clear as a bell and there hadn’t been any hint of change on the horizon, none at all-a warm deluge that pounds heavily into the ground and leaves behind it the smell of life, of wet earth and wet concrete and a heat that clings to the curls of his hair.
And he tells himself that it’s the sudden shock of being awash in unexpected feelings-his skin buzzing pleasantlyunpleasantly, his stomach twisting, his heart clenching-that causes him to hold his chin up and deduce the man’s life story. Not everything-no, of course not, because there has to be some mystery left-but enough, a fishing line left in a lake, the hook floating just under the surface.
He gives his name as he leaves the room. And he winks.
It’s because of the surprise, is all.
**
He doesn’t need a flatmate, not really, but having help with the rent while Victor’s away on business is a plus. It’d been Victor’s idea, in fact, as he hadn’t wanted to concern himself with the tedious business. But Victor had insisted.
“We may as well sublet while I’m gone, you know,” Victor says one evening while he’s busy experimenting on the ears that he’d sweet-talked out of that woman who works in the morgue at Bart’s.
“Why?” he asks, distractedly, because it’s not important.
“You’ll be bored with only the skull and Mrs Hudson to talk to.”
He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want another flatmate.”
Victor laughs-the melodious sound of it that settles over him like the first snow of winter, gentle and powdery and magnificent-and ruffles his hair, kisses the back of his neck fondly. “That may be, love, but you know I’m right. Besides, if there’s no one here to look after you, you’ll neglect yourself. You’re always doing that.”
He grunts, but he already knows he’s going to give in. Victor’s never asked for much, and he supposes it’s worthwhile to have someone clean the flat and make dinner. Those things are Victor’s domain and he’s had more than enough lectures about surviving on takeaway to last him a lifetime.
“Sherlock...”
He rolls his eyes and sighs, but he doesn’t honestly mind that much. “Very well. Pick someone out.”
He feels Victor’s arms close around his waist, feels those familiar hands rub his stomach and it makes him think of curling in front of a fire-not too close where it’s hot, but far enough away that it’s warm and comfortable on one side of his body and starting to chill on the other. “I will if I can find someone before I leave. If not, it’ll be up to you.”
He makes a face-finding a temporary flatmate is so dull.
“It won’t be so bad,” Victor murmurs into his ear, and he relaxes back into his husband’s arms and closes his eyes.
“Yes, it will,” he says stubbornly.
Victor laughs and squeezes him a bit before releasing him. “No, it won’t, love. It’ll probably be someone new to the city who needs a place temporary place to stay before they find a more permanent home. Or it’ll be someone who will do their own thing and leave you alone.”
“It better be,” he says.
He does mean that. Or did. At the time.
Reply
When their hands meet he swears he sees sparks fly and he can’t help the way his body shivers a bit.
He ignores the way there are clouds gathering on the horizon, ignores the heat he can feel seeping into his bones. It’s not the right time of year for that.
**
“You have a girlfriend?”
He wants to laugh, but he settles for saying, wryly, “Girls...not really my area.”
There’s a fluttering in his chest, because it’s unexpected this unassuming man who nonetheless seems to light up the room in brief, sharp bursts is engaging him in this conversation.
“Oh,” John says, looking momentarily confused before his face clears and he leans forward to ask, “So, do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way,” he hastily adds.
“I know it’s fine,” he answers teasinglyquickly, which is not at all what he meant to say.
“So you have a boyfriend?” John asks him.
He feels prickles on his skin, warning drops, brief pings of water before the deluge starts. He says, “No,” because it’s true. It’s not the whole story, and the wiggle room sets his heart racing, like the time he climbed into a tree as a child to have a better view of the clouds swirling, dark and foreboding, and thrilling. It’s on the tip of his tongue, now, to set the record straight, and he should, because he’s married, and he can see the interest shimmering in John Watson’s eyes, brief flashes of something electric and exciting and unknown. A storm of epic proportions.
John leaves him the perfect opening, too. "Oh, okay. So you're unattatched then. Just like me. Fine, good."
He finds himself at a crossroads; full-disclosure is the safe way, the easy path. It’s Mummy calling him in before he can get hurt, before the world explodes around him and he’s in danger of dying. The other path is the one he’s been treading this whole time, a dark and dangerous and infinitely more interesting one.
He wants to see what a storm is like close up, how it rents the air apart and shatters and destroys to put it all back together.
But he pulls back at the last minute when he thinks of warmth in winter, of cozy fireplaces and comfort.
The storm is still fascinating, even if there’s a window and a wall between him and it.
**
His chest is heaving as he stares down at the murderous cabbie, red blood seeping out onto the floor as he demands a name.
So close to death, so close, and there’s something magical about it, like standing near the top of a hill when lightning strikes. The air is tingling around him, and that feeling doesn’t go away when he looks across the police line and sees John Watson. His new flatmate.
**
When he watches the sunrise the next morning, the air still vibrates with the electricity of the night before.
The horizon is blood red, and some silly piece of trivia that he inexplicably hasn’t deleted bobs up to the front of his mind.
Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,
Red sky in morning, shepherd’s warning.
He dismisses it a moment later. It’s an old wives’ tale and absolute rubbish. It really should have been deleted years ago.
**
One time, he and Victor watched a documentary about storm chasers in America. It’d been interesting, after a fashion. He’d never seen storms quite like that before, the sheer size and force of them, beautiful in a raw, dangerous way.
He’d leaned against Victor lazily, ignoring the weather outside in favour of relishing the safety of the domestic scene. Once the programme was over, he’d turned away from the telly and had moved onto other things, giving very little thought to it afterwards.
Reply
He wonders what it would be like to be caught in the eye, to be tossed around and be inside it, to see something that no other person has seen directly.
When they catch the criminal, they’re both panting and John looks at him, eyes such a dark blue that they look like cumulonimbus clouds. Bright sparks flicker briefly and he feels like he could drown in those eyes, that the sheets of rain will consume him.
He doesn’t really want to be safe from that.
**
And maybe the storm will break over him, maybe he’ll race up to the highest point he can find-away from the comfort and safety indoors, out into the wild, untamed danger-and maybe he’ll spread his arms wide to welcome it.
But storms like that are so brief. Whole lives can be ruined in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, though, houses are spared. Sometimes there’s still a home to return to, still safety and comfort and the distant warmth of a cheery fire.
Life is unpredictable like that.
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This took me completely by surprise with how achy it was. I think anyone can identify with Sherlock's indecision -- wanting something you shouldn't have, something you shouldn't want. The way it ends is sort of heartbreakingly perfect: no decision having been made -- yet. Loved your use of the storm metaphor throughout; it never seemed forced, and it's particularly apt.
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