Say My Name 2b/?ever_insaneAugust 22 2011, 13:58:29 UTC
Sherlock dashed the image from his mind as swiftly as he had recalled it. He would not be ruled by this. If it was to be allowed, it would be when, and how, he determined. He was the master of his mind and would not be overthrown now.
Next to him in the bed, John shifted and stirred, blinking as though the sound of Sherlock thinking had driven him to wakefulness. Maybe it had: if John was worrying quietly, it always kept Sherlock from falling asleep.
"All right?" John asked muzzily. Sherlock tugged the duvet up where it had slipped from his shoulder, tucking him in as one would a child.
"It's not morning yet," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."
"Can't," replied John. "You're over there. Come here."
Sherlock did not comment that 'over there' constituted a scant ten centimetres of distance between them, but obediently rolled closer. Immediately he was enveloped in John's arms and tugged down until his head rested against John's shoulder, where he could just hear the faint echo of his heart. His calm, regular, reliable, kind, loving heart. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to rest his mind, focusing on the scent and feel of John wrapped around him, instinctively protecting him from unknown foes.
This was perfect. If this could be all there was, Sherlock would be completely content, and he thought he could remain in this place forever.
~~~
It was a weekend with no case and no clinic, and so John slept late into the morning. Sherlock lay awake, using his Blackberry to revise his notes on footprints, walking styles and the types of scuff left by different brands of popular shoes for his website - or possibly for presenting to Anderson with a helpful flourish and a winning smile - but did not move. He was slightly too hot, now, but John's arms were still twined around him, even in sleep. He too would overheat soon, and then he would wake, and roll away, and the moment would be gone. Sherlock did not want to lose it sooner than necessary.
Eventually the change in John's breathing alerted him and he dropped his phone to watch the moment where consciousness crept back into John's mind and eyes, and he remembered that he was holding his best friend in his arms. John always held him a little tighter when that realisation hit him, and Sherlock enjoyed the reminder of how much he was valued and buried the twinge of guilt that he had led John such a dance before they reached this point that he still, on waking, forgot for a second that they were together.
He knew, now, that John would have understood, had he trusted him enough to say "I've not had a good run with relationships, things have been difficult, give me time?" If he had said that, John might have waited. But Sherlock had noticed the attraction before he knew him well enough to realise his patience, saw what he took to be interest in John's eyes and immediately fell back on his old line, stolen from his father to save him from the world.
Married to his work.
He had almost believed it. For the longest time he had been content alone, happy, safe with facts and logic, conclusion and deduction, hs violin for comfort, his skull for company, and Mycroft for the thrust and parry of a good argument when he could stand him. He had been so sure that that was all he needed. So when John made his tentative approach, Sherlock slammed the door on him and John nodded, smiled, and went looking for someone else. For Sarah from work, then Suzie from the coffee shop near work, and a couple of frankly ludicrous dates with a youngish DI from Scotland Yard called Gregson.
They were ludicrous not for anything John or Gregson had done, but because the first date was the moment that Sherlock realised the sense of attraction that he had buried had propogated in the dark and grown beyond recognition, and this Gregson was not silly or shallow or boring but interesting and amusing and definitely interested in John despite already having heard all about his freak of a flatmate from colleagues. Gregson was a threat, and that dragged all of Sherlock's feelings about John into the open and threw the world out of joint.
Next to him in the bed, John shifted and stirred, blinking as though the sound of Sherlock thinking had driven him to wakefulness. Maybe it had: if John was worrying quietly, it always kept Sherlock from falling asleep.
"All right?" John asked muzzily. Sherlock tugged the duvet up where it had slipped from his shoulder, tucking him in as one would a child.
"It's not morning yet," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."
"Can't," replied John. "You're over there. Come here."
Sherlock did not comment that 'over there' constituted a scant ten centimetres of distance between them, but obediently rolled closer. Immediately he was enveloped in John's arms and tugged down until his head rested against John's shoulder, where he could just hear the faint echo of his heart. His calm, regular, reliable, kind, loving heart. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to rest his mind, focusing on the scent and feel of John wrapped around him, instinctively protecting him from unknown foes.
This was perfect. If this could be all there was, Sherlock would be completely content, and he thought he could remain in this place forever.
~~~
It was a weekend with no case and no clinic, and so John slept late into the morning. Sherlock lay awake, using his Blackberry to revise his notes on footprints, walking styles and the types of scuff left by different brands of popular shoes for his website - or possibly for presenting to Anderson with a helpful flourish and a winning smile - but did not move. He was slightly too hot, now, but John's arms were still twined around him, even in sleep. He too would overheat soon, and then he would wake, and roll away, and the moment would be gone. Sherlock did not want to lose it sooner than necessary.
Eventually the change in John's breathing alerted him and he dropped his phone to watch the moment where consciousness crept back into John's mind and eyes, and he remembered that he was holding his best friend in his arms. John always held him a little tighter when that realisation hit him, and Sherlock enjoyed the reminder of how much he was valued and buried the twinge of guilt that he had led John such a dance before they reached this point that he still, on waking, forgot for a second that they were together.
He knew, now, that John would have understood, had he trusted him enough to say "I've not had a good run with relationships, things have been difficult, give me time?" If he had said that, John might have waited. But Sherlock had noticed the attraction before he knew him well enough to realise his patience, saw what he took to be interest in John's eyes and immediately fell back on his old line, stolen from his father to save him from the world.
Married to his work.
He had almost believed it. For the longest time he had been content alone, happy, safe with facts and logic, conclusion and deduction, hs violin for comfort, his skull for company, and Mycroft for the thrust and parry of a good argument when he could stand him. He had been so sure that that was all he needed. So when John made his tentative approach, Sherlock slammed the door on him and John nodded, smiled, and went looking for someone else. For Sarah from work, then Suzie from the coffee shop near work, and a couple of frankly ludicrous dates with a youngish DI from Scotland Yard called Gregson.
They were ludicrous not for anything John or Gregson had done, but because the first date was the moment that Sherlock realised the sense of attraction that he had buried had propogated in the dark and grown beyond recognition, and this Gregson was not silly or shallow or boring but interesting and amusing and definitely interested in John despite already having heard all about his freak of a flatmate from colleagues. Gregson was a threat, and that dragged all of Sherlock's feelings about John into the open and threw the world out of joint.
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