The story I think this is too similar for to my liking is coloredink's "Sleep Hath Its Own World" (http://archiveofourown.org/works/456904). In my story, John is an artist and one day begins to paint portraits of a man (Sherlock). The paintings then come to life at night.
Anyway, it's around 4600 words long so I feel kind of bad posting the whole thing here, so feel free to TL;DR this...
The Paper of His Skin 2/7
anonymous
July 15 2012, 01:29:08 UTC
₪₪₪
John is twenty-eight and in Afghanistan.
It's hot and dry. The sun glares down at him, blinding white. He wipes his brow with his sleeve, tilts his helmet. There's sand in his boot, and his pack is heavy on his shoulders.
During the evening, he sketches his mates. Sometimes, when they're waiting for an order and it seems like nothing is happening, like nothing will happen again, John draws in the dirt with a stick.
“That's all right,” one soldier says, nodding toward the drawing.
“Ta, mate,” John smiles.
Twenty meters to his left, a Jeep explodes.
₪₪₪His grandmother was wrong, because John is never going to become a famous painter
( ... )
The Paper of His Skin 3/7
anonymous
July 15 2012, 01:29:36 UTC
₪₪₪
In the end it doesn't work out, but they remain friends. Which is perfectly all right, John thinks.
John could always do with more friends.
₪₪₪
The next time John paints, he flips through his box of canvases to find one that's the right size. There's one, tucked in the back, that's facing the opposite direction and he assumes that it's blank. John pulls it out, flips it over in his hands, and says, “Oh.”
The dark, curly-haired man stares back at him.
“I don't remember painting you,” John says.
It must be a trick of the light, because he swears the man in the painting winks at him.
₪₪₪For weeks, the man is all John paints. He tries different styles, different colours, different mediums. His fingers are covered in pastel smudges, and he breaks two charcoal sticks. The graphite eventually disappears. John buys more canvases, more charcoal and graphite and pastels
( ... )
The Paper of His Skin 4/7
anonymous
July 15 2012, 01:30:06 UTC
₪₪₪
Most nights, John has nightmares. He wakes himself up shouting, or thrashing, tangled up in his sheets, or thrashing so hard he knocks something over, off his bedside table and startles himself awake.
He cries himself back to sleep, and hates himself for it.
Other nights, nights that he spends painting or drawing or sketching into the early hours of the morning, he falls asleep and dreams of him - the man with the dark, curly hair. The man is warm, solid. He is heavy, and sharp, and he chases away John's nightmares.
₪₪₪It used to embarrass him, before. Drawing nudes. Which is odd, John thinks, because he's a doctor. He sees people without their clothes on all the time. He puts on gloves, he prods and pokes and taps their skin, their knees. He puts stethoscopes to their chests, their backs. He puts sticks in their mouth, on their tongues. He looks in their ears, he shines lights into their eyes. He knows the dark, intimate secrets of their lives - sometimes things even their spouses or their parents don't know
( ... )
The Paper of His Skin 5/7
anonymous
July 15 2012, 01:30:36 UTC
Everything becomes the thump-thump-thump of liquid pumping down his arms and legs. Everything becomes the thump-thump-thump of a bird beating its wings wildly in the cage in his chest. Everything becomes the thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He moves his thumb, brushes it against John's lips, and shudders when something shocks his system, when a feeling vibrates through him. That one he doesn't know; that one he can't place.
Everything becomes John's skin, soft and warm under his hand.
John twists under the blanket with a groan. His eyes open, and he blinks up at the figure.
“You,” he whispers.
The figure opens his mouth. He inhales, then exhales. He pushes sound out from his throat.
“Yes,” he says. Then he says, “John.”
“You. You're. Sher-Sherlock?” he whispers.
“Yes,” Sherlock says, then presses his lips against John's.
₪₪₪The next time, John pulls Sherlock down. He wraps his arms around him, tight. He pulls off his boxers, kicks them down to the end of the bed, and then he's as exposed as
( ... )
The Paper of His Skin 6/7
anonymous
July 15 2012, 01:31:08 UTC
₪₪₪
John is thirty-six and limps across the park, his cane tapping with every step.
There's no where in particular he needs to be, and no where in particular that he's going. He just needed to get out of the flat, get some fresh air. He missed going for walks. He missed walking, just for the sake of walking.
He limps along the path, past a bench. Someone says, “John!”
Someone says, “John Watson!”
John stops and turns around, and a round, bespectacled man approaches him with a smile.
“Stamford! Mike Stamford!” he says, holding out his hand. “We were at Bart's together?”
“Yes. Sorry, yes,” John says. He arranges himself, shifts his cane to his other hand. He takes Mike's hand into his own. “Hello.”
They have coffee and catch up. Mike mentions a flatshare, and John laughs bitterly.
“Who'd want me as a flatmate?”
Mike smiles.
₪₪₪His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he's the man John bumped into on the street, nearly two years ago. He's the man John felt himself draw, sketch and paint, obsessively, for a year. He's the man that
( ... )
The story I think this is too similar for to my liking is coloredink's "Sleep Hath Its Own World" (http://archiveofourown.org/works/456904). In my story, John is an artist and one day begins to paint portraits of a man (Sherlock). The paintings then come to life at night.
Anyway, it's around 4600 words long so I feel kind of bad posting the whole thing here, so feel free to TL;DR this...
Reply
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John is twenty-eight and in Afghanistan.
It's hot and dry. The sun glares down at him, blinding white. He wipes his brow with his sleeve, tilts his helmet. There's sand in his boot, and his pack is heavy on his shoulders.
During the evening, he sketches his mates. Sometimes, when they're waiting for an order and it seems like nothing is happening, like nothing will happen again, John draws in the dirt with a stick.
“That's all right,” one soldier says, nodding toward the drawing.
“Ta, mate,” John smiles.
Twenty meters to his left, a Jeep explodes.
₪₪₪His grandmother was wrong, because John is never going to become a famous painter ( ... )
Reply
In the end it doesn't work out, but they remain friends. Which is perfectly all right, John thinks.
John could always do with more friends.
₪₪₪
The next time John paints, he flips through his box of canvases to find one that's the right size. There's one, tucked in the back, that's facing the opposite direction and he assumes that it's blank. John pulls it out, flips it over in his hands, and says, “Oh.”
The dark, curly-haired man stares back at him.
“I don't remember painting you,” John says.
It must be a trick of the light, because he swears the man in the painting winks at him.
₪₪₪For weeks, the man is all John paints. He tries different styles, different colours, different mediums. His fingers are covered in pastel smudges, and he breaks two charcoal sticks. The graphite eventually disappears. John buys more canvases, more charcoal and graphite and pastels ( ... )
Reply
Most nights, John has nightmares. He wakes himself up shouting, or thrashing, tangled up in his sheets, or thrashing so hard he knocks something over, off his bedside table and startles himself awake.
He cries himself back to sleep, and hates himself for it.
Other nights, nights that he spends painting or drawing or sketching into the early hours of the morning, he falls asleep and dreams of him - the man with the dark, curly hair. The man is warm, solid. He is heavy, and sharp, and he chases away John's nightmares.
₪₪₪It used to embarrass him, before. Drawing nudes. Which is odd, John thinks, because he's a doctor. He sees people without their clothes on all the time. He puts on gloves, he prods and pokes and taps their skin, their knees. He puts stethoscopes to their chests, their backs. He puts sticks in their mouth, on their tongues. He looks in their ears, he shines lights into their eyes. He knows the dark, intimate secrets of their lives - sometimes things even their spouses or their parents don't know ( ... )
Reply
He moves his thumb, brushes it against John's lips, and shudders when something shocks his system, when a feeling vibrates through him. That one he doesn't know; that one he can't place.
Everything becomes John's skin, soft and warm under his hand.
John twists under the blanket with a groan. His eyes open, and he blinks up at the figure.
“You,” he whispers.
The figure opens his mouth. He inhales, then exhales. He pushes sound out from his throat.
“Yes,” he says. Then he says, “John.”
“You. You're. Sher-Sherlock?” he whispers.
“Yes,” Sherlock says, then presses his lips against John's.
₪₪₪The next time, John pulls Sherlock down. He wraps his arms around him, tight. He pulls off his boxers, kicks them down to the end of the bed, and then he's as exposed as ( ... )
Reply
John is thirty-six and limps across the park, his cane tapping with every step.
There's no where in particular he needs to be, and no where in particular that he's going. He just needed to get out of the flat, get some fresh air. He missed going for walks. He missed walking, just for the sake of walking.
He limps along the path, past a bench. Someone says, “John!”
Someone says, “John Watson!”
John stops and turns around, and a round, bespectacled man approaches him with a smile.
“Stamford! Mike Stamford!” he says, holding out his hand. “We were at Bart's together?”
“Yes. Sorry, yes,” John says. He arranges himself, shifts his cane to his other hand. He takes Mike's hand into his own. “Hello.”
They have coffee and catch up. Mike mentions a flatshare, and John laughs bitterly.
“Who'd want me as a flatmate?”
Mike smiles.
₪₪₪His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he's the man John bumped into on the street, nearly two years ago. He's the man John felt himself draw, sketch and paint, obsessively, for a year. He's the man that ( ... )
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Seconding what the anon above me said. Yours is about paintings, theirs is dreams.
It's a lovely fic, anon.
I prefer yours.
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