Fic/Art collab
Title: The way to a man’s heart…
Art: sadynax
Words: stella_Polaris
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sherlock/John
A/N: This was born as an unintentional collaboration out of a cracky MSN chat about John's tummy with sadynax. I blame her for all of this! Also, considering this started as an idea about belly-loving, there’s a baffling amount of character-study and blah-blah. I feel the yammering/belly ratio is uneven.
I also slipped in minor quotes from the original stories, bonus points to those who catch them.
My thanks to irisbleufic for betaing, and Sadyna for being such a bad influence :D You should definitely go tell her how much you love her artistic interpretation of the story here.
John is soft, languid and warm when they breakfast in the sitting room, early sunlight heating them like the honeyed tea they drink. When they curl up on the sofa, watching Jeopardy, John's smile soft and private at Sherlock's bafflement at the concept of questioning answers.
There are numerous things about John that draw Sherlock to him. The way he's completely ordinary, almost commonplace, and yet so different from all the other dullards who cross Sherlock's path. How on some nights he's so fascinatingly content to spend the evening in lying on their sofa, cradling a mug of tea and watching Coronation Street while ignoring Sherlock's derisive comments, and on others they'll be running alongside, the thrill of the chase thrumming in their veins and, Sherlock knows, the weight of John's gun heavy in his pocket and the pain in his leg a forgotten memory.
John is emotional, boring, dull, beige, the very definition of mundane.
John is emotional, exciting, vibrant, dangerous, brave to the point of foolishness.
Sherlock can't pin John down, and it frightens him. People lack dimension to him, they're easy to figure out. What motivates them, how to manipulate them, how to get what he needs from them. John is different. Beneath the quiet surface there are millions of facets and sharp edges, viciousness caused by living in war zone, darkness caused by being sent home broke and broken.
There is a gentler side, too.
John is soft, languid and warm when they breakfast in the sitting room, early sunlight heating them like the honeyed tea they drink. When they curl up on the sofa, watching Jeopardy, John's smile soft and private at Sherlock's bafflement at the concept of questioning answers.
The patience with which he treats Sherlock, something Sherlock hasn't had from anyone in ages. Mycroft, perhaps, years ago, before childish feuds grew into something larger and more cutting than sibling rivalry. The kindness with which he pressures Sherlock to eat, to sleep, to slow down, you'll run yourself to the ground. The amazement and admiration when Sherlock deduces something so obvious to him, yet so obscure to John. Sherlock is used to dealing with mockery, spite and indifference. The way John looks at him leaves him raw, confused and out of sorts.
It's wonderful.
It's wonderful and so new, puzzling and stimulating, like drugs, but infinitely better. John is the longest unsolved case Sherlock has had, and it's absolutely marvellous.
John isn't always all softness and concern.
Sherlock is well aware of how exasperating he is to live with. The skull, the bodyparts, the black moods and nicotine binges, the heaps of old newspapers and piles of books, his habit of keeping his unanswered correspondence fixed by a jacknife to the mantlepiece, the criminal relics which have a habit of wandering into the butter-dish or less desirable places. Not to mention the fact that John is steadily of the opinion that pistol practice should be distinctly an open-aired past-time.
They have fights about Sherlock's selfishness at home, and his selfishness regarding cases. John is angered and hurt by how infuriatingly insensitive Sherlock is, and even worse, how naturally being insensitive comes to him. Feelings rarely matter, unless they motivate crime, and then they become oh, dull. John is sympathetic, caring, and he so disapproves of Sherlock's cold and clinical disposition towards other people's emotional plight.
John is sharp, hard, cutting and cold when they argue, when they have their screaming matches about Sherlock's ethics, about the leg in the bread-basket, about Sherlock manipulating that mourning widow.
John's disappointment slashes deep, though Sherlock tries hard not to let it. Tries telling himself it's John's own fault for putting him up on a pedestal, he's no hero, heroes don't exist.
Listening to the echo of the slammed door and the angry stomping in the staircase, it rarely works.
In bed, John comes together like nothing else. During sex, he is all angles, hard bones and sharp teeth, harsh gasps and groans like there’s gravel in his larynx, his grasp tight around Sherlock's biceps, knobbly knees pressing into Sherlock's sides.
After sex, he's loose and pliant, muscles relaxed and breathing even. Like this, he brings out a softer side in Sherlock.
They lie together, back to chest, in the privacy of their dark bedroom. Cleaned up and settled down, wearing boxers and tees, the cotton of John’s shirt worn soft and threadbare. In a moment of weakness, Sherlock wraps his arm around John's waist and pulls him close, presses his nose into the silky hairs at the nape of John's neck. The skin there is soft and warm and smells of sweat and sex, of sleep and sweet tea. It makes Sherlock feel indulgent.
Sherlock traces John's ribs, counts them gently with his fingertips, follows their curve to the roundness of his belly. John is in shape, by necessity during his career in the military, and from running around London chasing criminals. But age has molded his body into something almost homely, given him gentle padding around the waist, hipbones hidden by comfort. Tugging at the hem of John’s shirt, Sherlock strokes his fingers over the revealed strip of pale skin, tracing the place where John’s boxers press indentations into his flesh. He pets the round swell of John’s tummy, the smooth, soft skin and the downy hair, feeling it rise and fall in time with John's breathing. There is comfort in this, the imperfections of John’s body, the rounding of the edges, the curve of his stomach, a manifestation of middle-age sliding over him like a warm blanket.
"I'll throw out the toenails tomorrow," Sherlock mutters into John's skin, his words accompanied by warm puffs of damp air.
John shifts against him, rearranges his limbs, settles with a sigh. "Just don't store them in the toothbrush mug, please."
Sherlock hums and keeps petting John's belly. He gives it gentle little experimental pokes just to feel the give and the muscle beneath.
John's hand, calloused and strong, wraps around the delicate bones of Sherlock's wrist and pulls it away from his stomach.
"I must be the most long-suffering of mortals," John mutters into his pillow. "Really, Sherlock, you are a bit trying at times."
Sherlock hides a smirk into John's neck, nuzzling his nose into his hair. He settles his hand on John's hip, and waits.
When the gentle snoring starts, Sherlock's hand travels back to John's belly. He falls asleep caressing the familiar softness of John's body.
Art: sadynax
Words: stella_Polaris
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sherlock/John
A/N: This was born as an unintentional collaboration out of a cracky MSN chat about John's tummy with sadynax. I blame her for all of this! Also, considering this started as an idea about belly-loving, there’s a baffling amount of character-study and blah-blah. I feel the yammering/belly ratio is uneven.
I also slipped in minor quotes from the original stories, bonus points to those who catch them.
My thanks to irisbleufic for betaing, and Sadyna for being such a bad influence :D You should definitely go tell her how much you love her artistic interpretation of the story here.
John is soft, languid and warm when they breakfast in the sitting room, early sunlight heating them like the honeyed tea they drink. When they curl up on the sofa, watching Jeopardy, John's smile soft and private at Sherlock's bafflement at the concept of questioning answers.
There are numerous things about John that draw Sherlock to him. The way he's completely ordinary, almost commonplace, and yet so different from all the other dullards who cross Sherlock's path. How on some nights he's so fascinatingly content to spend the evening in lying on their sofa, cradling a mug of tea and watching Coronation Street while ignoring Sherlock's derisive comments, and on others they'll be running alongside, the thrill of the chase thrumming in their veins and, Sherlock knows, the weight of John's gun heavy in his pocket and the pain in his leg a forgotten memory.
John is emotional, boring, dull, beige, the very definition of mundane.
John is emotional, exciting, vibrant, dangerous, brave to the point of foolishness.
Sherlock can't pin John down, and it frightens him. People lack dimension to him, they're easy to figure out. What motivates them, how to manipulate them, how to get what he needs from them. John is different. Beneath the quiet surface there are millions of facets and sharp edges, viciousness caused by living in war zone, darkness caused by being sent home broke and broken.
There is a gentler side, too.
John is soft, languid and warm when they breakfast in the sitting room, early sunlight heating them like the honeyed tea they drink. When they curl up on the sofa, watching Jeopardy, John's smile soft and private at Sherlock's bafflement at the concept of questioning answers.
The patience with which he treats Sherlock, something Sherlock hasn't had from anyone in ages. Mycroft, perhaps, years ago, before childish feuds grew into something larger and more cutting than sibling rivalry. The kindness with which he pressures Sherlock to eat, to sleep, to slow down, you'll run yourself to the ground. The amazement and admiration when Sherlock deduces something so obvious to him, yet so obscure to John. Sherlock is used to dealing with mockery, spite and indifference. The way John looks at him leaves him raw, confused and out of sorts.
It's wonderful.
It's wonderful and so new, puzzling and stimulating, like drugs, but infinitely better. John is the longest unsolved case Sherlock has had, and it's absolutely marvellous.
John isn't always all softness and concern.
Sherlock is well aware of how exasperating he is to live with. The skull, the bodyparts, the black moods and nicotine binges, the heaps of old newspapers and piles of books, his habit of keeping his unanswered correspondence fixed by a jacknife to the mantlepiece, the criminal relics which have a habit of wandering into the butter-dish or less desirable places. Not to mention the fact that John is steadily of the opinion that pistol practice should be distinctly an open-aired past-time.
They have fights about Sherlock's selfishness at home, and his selfishness regarding cases. John is angered and hurt by how infuriatingly insensitive Sherlock is, and even worse, how naturally being insensitive comes to him. Feelings rarely matter, unless they motivate crime, and then they become oh, dull. John is sympathetic, caring, and he so disapproves of Sherlock's cold and clinical disposition towards other people's emotional plight.
John is sharp, hard, cutting and cold when they argue, when they have their screaming matches about Sherlock's ethics, about the leg in the bread-basket, about Sherlock manipulating that mourning widow.
John's disappointment slashes deep, though Sherlock tries hard not to let it. Tries telling himself it's John's own fault for putting him up on a pedestal, he's no hero, heroes don't exist.
Listening to the echo of the slammed door and the angry stomping in the staircase, it rarely works.
In bed, John comes together like nothing else. During sex, he is all angles, hard bones and sharp teeth, harsh gasps and groans like there’s gravel in his larynx, his grasp tight around Sherlock's biceps, knobbly knees pressing into Sherlock's sides.
After sex, he's loose and pliant, muscles relaxed and breathing even. Like this, he brings out a softer side in Sherlock.
They lie together, back to chest, in the privacy of their dark bedroom. Cleaned up and settled down, wearing boxers and tees, the cotton of John’s shirt worn soft and threadbare. In a moment of weakness, Sherlock wraps his arm around John's waist and pulls him close, presses his nose into the silky hairs at the nape of John's neck. The skin there is soft and warm and smells of sweat and sex, of sleep and sweet tea. It makes Sherlock feel indulgent.
Sherlock traces John's ribs, counts them gently with his fingertips, follows their curve to the roundness of his belly. John is in shape, by necessity during his career in the military, and from running around London chasing criminals. But age has molded his body into something almost homely, given him gentle padding around the waist, hipbones hidden by comfort. Tugging at the hem of John’s shirt, Sherlock strokes his fingers over the revealed strip of pale skin, tracing the place where John’s boxers press indentations into his flesh. He pets the round swell of John’s tummy, the smooth, soft skin and the downy hair, feeling it rise and fall in time with John's breathing. There is comfort in this, the imperfections of John’s body, the rounding of the edges, the curve of his stomach, a manifestation of middle-age sliding over him like a warm blanket.
"I'll throw out the toenails tomorrow," Sherlock mutters into John's skin, his words accompanied by warm puffs of damp air.
John shifts against him, rearranges his limbs, settles with a sigh. "Just don't store them in the toothbrush mug, please."
Sherlock hums and keeps petting John's belly. He gives it gentle little experimental pokes just to feel the give and the muscle beneath.
John's hand, calloused and strong, wraps around the delicate bones of Sherlock's wrist and pulls it away from his stomach.
"I must be the most long-suffering of mortals," John mutters into his pillow. "Really, Sherlock, you are a bit trying at times."
Sherlock hides a smirk into John's neck, nuzzling his nose into his hair. He settles his hand on John's hip, and waits.
When the gentle snoring starts, Sherlock's hand travels back to John's belly. He falls asleep caressing the familiar softness of John's body.
