Fic: I Thought One Day I'd Live Alone (And You'd Be There Beside Me)
Title: I Thought One Day I'd Live Alone (And You'd Be There Beside Me)
Author: the_improbable1
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: John, Sherlock
Genre: angst, a bit of fluff, genfic
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: Set post-Return, minor spoilers for Reichenbach. No warnings.
Length: short
Summary/Prompt: Prompt here on the Meme: "After Sherlock's return, John refuses to move back into 221B Baker-street, despite Sherlock's cajoling and apologies. One evening, when Sherlock is sick with a fever, he tells John about the house he once stayed in when he visited Sussex, and how he'd dreamt of living there with John one day when they retired, keeping bees and growing old together."
It had been three years since Sherlock's supposed death. Three years of jumping at every glimpse of a long, black coat, three years of sleepless nights, three years of dodging impertinent questions and flinching at every bright yellow I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES, three years of feeling like a half whose other half had been ripped away, three years of wishing for just one more miracle.
And then that miracle had been granted. Sherlock had returned and, true to form, had dragged John out on a case almost immediately. That had been almost a month ago.
Now, Sherlock was trying to persuade John to return to Baker-street. John was having none of it. He'd finally got his life settled, got a steady job, a decent flat, and besides that, he was still angry with Sherlock for pretending to be dead to three years. Sherlock had had his reasons-John knew that, acknowledged that, even acknowledged that they were good reasons-but that didn't mean John was going to forgive him just like that.
Despite all this, when John got a text from Lestrade saying that he was needed at 221B, John rushed over almost immediately.
"What's the problem, Greg?" John asked upon arriving and seeing the Detective Inspector in the entry hall to the building.
Lestrade ran a hand roughly through his hair. "He's got the mother of all fevers. He's been asking for you. And Mycroft, but I think Mrs. Hudson would kill Mycroft if he showed up here."
Despite his still-simmering anger with Sherlock's deception, John couldn't help but feel his heart squeeze at this description. If Sherlock was asking for Mycroft, it had to be serious. "All right," he sighed. "I'll go see if I can at least get him to go to bed-is he still prancing about like a prat?"
Lestrade huffed in amusement. "He was when I left. Try to get some tea into him, yeah?"
"I'll try, but I dunno how successful I'll be," John sighed before starting up the too-familiar stairs.
By the time John entered the sitting-room, Sherlock was draped over the sofa in his best dramatic-Victorian-heroine pose, a blanket halfway across his lap and his eyes shut. When the door closed, he perked up slightly. "John?" he mumbled.
"Yeah, it's me," said John, unable to stop himself from going over to the sofa and brushing a hand across Sherlock's forehead. "Christ, Sherlock, you're burning up!" he exclaimed.
"Obviously," Sherlock sneered.
John scowled and shuffled over to the kitchen to flick the kettle on (after rinsing it out; he was all too aware of the health hazards inherent in that particular kitchen). Tea would be required for dealing with Sherlock. It wasn't until he heard two clinks of ceramic against the counter that he realised he'd got out two mugs instead of just one. Well, Lestrade had asked him to try to get some tea into Sherlock. He might as well. When the water boiled, he made the tea, bringing one cup to Sherlock and setting it down on the coffee table. He sat down in the chair that, even after three years away, he still thought of as his own with his own cup of tea and carefully did not look at Sherlock.
The silence was nearly tangible as both men drank their tea. Much had changed since the last time the two of them had sat together and drunk tea in this sitting-room, three years ago. The sitting-room itself, with its barely-reined-in chaos, however, was far too familiar.
"So," John began awkwardly after about five minutes. "How've you been?"
Sherlock mumbled something noncommittal, not looking up from his mug.
"Right," said John, and drank his tea.
After that, the silence remained undisturbed for perhaps half an hour, the only noise the clink of ceramic on countertop or table and the patter of the rain that had started up about ten minutes after John's arrival.
"I lived in a house in Sussex for a while," Sherlock confessed abruptly, randomly. "When I was-younger."
John nodded and sipped from his third-or was it fourth?-cup of tea.
"Mycroft insisted," Sherlock continued, grimacing. "He was-trying to persuade me to get clean, and for some inane reason he thought that the countryside would be more conducive to his goal."
John was fairly certain now that Sherlock's fever had broken down at least a few of his brain-to-mouth filters-ordinarily, Sherlock was very tight-lipped on the subject of his past.
"It was a nice house," Sherlock said absently. "Single storey, almost a cottage, ridiculously quaint. Very quiet. There was a garden out the back, with an orchard and beehives."
"Sounds very peaceful," John commented.
"It was dull," Sherlock complained. "Dull and tiresome and boring."
John couldn't help a small smile at the familiarity of the comment. "Go on," he encouraged. "What else about the house?"
Sherlock scowled. "It's just a memory. I was-reminded of it."
"By what?" John asked. "Can't have been nothing."
Sherlock drank his tea and frowned at it like it had committed a simple open-and-shut theft that initially looked interesting. "I just-I dreamt of living there again one day, when I finally retire. Keeping bees and other such trite rubbish."
"If you even make it to retirement age," John joked, then froze as what he'd just said hit him, with all its reminders of the past three years and the empty space that had existed in his life.
Sherlock ignored him. "I visited the house again, while I was-away. I remembered the dream I'd had, all that time ago, and I realised that it was missing something."
"What's that?" John asked.
Sherlock looked straight at him, fever-bright eyes boring through John's own. "You, John. You."
John froze with his cup of tea halfway to his mouth, then set the mug down carefully. "Oh," he said, a little quiet, a little shocked, a little touched.
After Sherlock's fever broke, he denied any knowledge of the incident, but two weeks later John moved back in.
Author: the_improbable1
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: John, Sherlock
Genre: angst, a bit of fluff, genfic
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: Set post-Return, minor spoilers for Reichenbach. No warnings.
Length: short
Summary/Prompt: Prompt here on the Meme: "After Sherlock's return, John refuses to move back into 221B Baker-street, despite Sherlock's cajoling and apologies. One evening, when Sherlock is sick with a fever, he tells John about the house he once stayed in when he visited Sussex, and how he'd dreamt of living there with John one day when they retired, keeping bees and growing old together."
It had been three years since Sherlock's supposed death. Three years of jumping at every glimpse of a long, black coat, three years of sleepless nights, three years of dodging impertinent questions and flinching at every bright yellow I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES, three years of feeling like a half whose other half had been ripped away, three years of wishing for just one more miracle.
And then that miracle had been granted. Sherlock had returned and, true to form, had dragged John out on a case almost immediately. That had been almost a month ago.
Now, Sherlock was trying to persuade John to return to Baker-street. John was having none of it. He'd finally got his life settled, got a steady job, a decent flat, and besides that, he was still angry with Sherlock for pretending to be dead to three years. Sherlock had had his reasons-John knew that, acknowledged that, even acknowledged that they were good reasons-but that didn't mean John was going to forgive him just like that.
Despite all this, when John got a text from Lestrade saying that he was needed at 221B, John rushed over almost immediately.
"What's the problem, Greg?" John asked upon arriving and seeing the Detective Inspector in the entry hall to the building.
Lestrade ran a hand roughly through his hair. "He's got the mother of all fevers. He's been asking for you. And Mycroft, but I think Mrs. Hudson would kill Mycroft if he showed up here."
Despite his still-simmering anger with Sherlock's deception, John couldn't help but feel his heart squeeze at this description. If Sherlock was asking for Mycroft, it had to be serious. "All right," he sighed. "I'll go see if I can at least get him to go to bed-is he still prancing about like a prat?"
Lestrade huffed in amusement. "He was when I left. Try to get some tea into him, yeah?"
"I'll try, but I dunno how successful I'll be," John sighed before starting up the too-familiar stairs.
By the time John entered the sitting-room, Sherlock was draped over the sofa in his best dramatic-Victorian-heroine pose, a blanket halfway across his lap and his eyes shut. When the door closed, he perked up slightly. "John?" he mumbled.
"Yeah, it's me," said John, unable to stop himself from going over to the sofa and brushing a hand across Sherlock's forehead. "Christ, Sherlock, you're burning up!" he exclaimed.
"Obviously," Sherlock sneered.
John scowled and shuffled over to the kitchen to flick the kettle on (after rinsing it out; he was all too aware of the health hazards inherent in that particular kitchen). Tea would be required for dealing with Sherlock. It wasn't until he heard two clinks of ceramic against the counter that he realised he'd got out two mugs instead of just one. Well, Lestrade had asked him to try to get some tea into Sherlock. He might as well. When the water boiled, he made the tea, bringing one cup to Sherlock and setting it down on the coffee table. He sat down in the chair that, even after three years away, he still thought of as his own with his own cup of tea and carefully did not look at Sherlock.
The silence was nearly tangible as both men drank their tea. Much had changed since the last time the two of them had sat together and drunk tea in this sitting-room, three years ago. The sitting-room itself, with its barely-reined-in chaos, however, was far too familiar.
"So," John began awkwardly after about five minutes. "How've you been?"
Sherlock mumbled something noncommittal, not looking up from his mug.
"Right," said John, and drank his tea.
After that, the silence remained undisturbed for perhaps half an hour, the only noise the clink of ceramic on countertop or table and the patter of the rain that had started up about ten minutes after John's arrival.
"I lived in a house in Sussex for a while," Sherlock confessed abruptly, randomly. "When I was-younger."
John nodded and sipped from his third-or was it fourth?-cup of tea.
"Mycroft insisted," Sherlock continued, grimacing. "He was-trying to persuade me to get clean, and for some inane reason he thought that the countryside would be more conducive to his goal."
John was fairly certain now that Sherlock's fever had broken down at least a few of his brain-to-mouth filters-ordinarily, Sherlock was very tight-lipped on the subject of his past.
"It was a nice house," Sherlock said absently. "Single storey, almost a cottage, ridiculously quaint. Very quiet. There was a garden out the back, with an orchard and beehives."
"Sounds very peaceful," John commented.
"It was dull," Sherlock complained. "Dull and tiresome and boring."
John couldn't help a small smile at the familiarity of the comment. "Go on," he encouraged. "What else about the house?"
Sherlock scowled. "It's just a memory. I was-reminded of it."
"By what?" John asked. "Can't have been nothing."
Sherlock drank his tea and frowned at it like it had committed a simple open-and-shut theft that initially looked interesting. "I just-I dreamt of living there again one day, when I finally retire. Keeping bees and other such trite rubbish."
"If you even make it to retirement age," John joked, then froze as what he'd just said hit him, with all its reminders of the past three years and the empty space that had existed in his life.
Sherlock ignored him. "I visited the house again, while I was-away. I remembered the dream I'd had, all that time ago, and I realised that it was missing something."
"What's that?" John asked.
Sherlock looked straight at him, fever-bright eyes boring through John's own. "You, John. You."
John froze with his cup of tea halfway to his mouth, then set the mug down carefully. "Oh," he said, a little quiet, a little shocked, a little touched.
After Sherlock's fever broke, he denied any knowledge of the incident, but two weeks later John moved back in.