fic: make an observation (tear your world apart) (john/sherlock, john/mary)
Title: make an observation (tear your world apart)
Rating: g
Pairing: references to John/Mary and at least one-sided John/Sherlock
Word Count: ~950
Spoilers: 3x01 The Empty Hearse
Summary: "Is it serious?" he asks, and he hates, hates that he can't see, hates that he has to ask Mycroft, but he has a blind spot when it comes to the emotions of John Watson, and he so terribly misjudged John's grief and anger, but Mycroft knew, Mycroft could see, even when Sherlock couldn't (and it must be easier, easier to see, away, far away from John's steady presence and high-pitched laugh and terribly mediocre cooking).
"Are we having an actual conversation?" Mycroft asks, disdainfully, "I only agreed to Cluedo." His gaze travels, thoughtfully, from Cluedo to Operation before he asks, genuinely perplexed, "Why do you even have these, Sherlock?"
"Gift," Sherlock replies, sorting through the plastic figurines.
"From-"
"A friend," Sherlock's response is curt, and Mycroft raises his eyebrows.
"Ah," he says, "Of course." He touches his fingertips to Operation, "Doctor Watson," he touches Cluedo, "and Sherlock Holmes. How - quaint."
"He's engaged," Sherlock says, fishing out the purple piece, and Mycroft doesn't immediately reply.
"I apologise," he says, insincerely, after a long moment, "Did you want me to feign surprise?" Sherlock frowns at him. "You forget, Sherlock, that there's very little I don't see." He picks up the yellow character piece, gingerly.
"No," Sherlock says, to both the assertion and the character choice (and he's showing his hand, he knows, and not just a little).
Mycroft pauses. "My mistake." He swaps it for the green one, eyes not leaving Sherlock's.
"Is it serious?" he asks, and he hates, hates that he can't see, hates that he has to ask Mycroft, but he has a blind spot when it comes to the emotions of John Watson, and he so terribly misjudged John's grief and anger, but Mycroft knew, Mycroft could see, even when Sherlock couldn't (and it must be easier, easier to see, away, far away from John's steady presence and high-pitched laugh and terribly mediocre cooking).
"What," Mycroft says, reaching for the die, "Can't you tell?"
Sherlock clenches his teeth together, curses the traitorous muscle in his cheek that tightens (and Mycroft doesn't miss it, because there really is very little he doesn't see).
"Mycroft," he says, because this was clearly a mistake --
"Sherlock, John Watson is entirely predictable," and he doesn't disagree verbally, but Mycroft can read it on his face, of course, "It's only to you that he remains so charmingly unpredictable." There's something that feels almost like - humiliation? creeping up his neck, but they both ignore it.
"How so," Sherlock finally asks, flatly, as Mycroft moves his piece along the ballroom wall.
"He's overly attached to people who - save him," and he says the words like they repulse him (and they probably do). "Bill Murray," he continues, absently, the die lying forgotten between them, "saved John's life in Afghanistan."
His gaze is searching and frustratingly inscrutable. "I know that," Sherlock scoffs, because he read it in their interactions, at the pub and on John's blog, not some file.
"Yes," Mycroft agrees, like he's humouring him, and Sherlock's lips twist, unpleasantly. "And despite having almost nothing in common, John has remained - indebted - to him for years."
"I believe that's gratitude," Sherlock says, reaching for the die, "Gratitude and - fraternal camaraderie." He moves his piece towards the study. "Just because you don't experience either-"
"Don't be glib," Mycroft admonishes him, rolling the die again. "Then, you." And it takes Sherlock a beat too long to catch up, to understand what Mycroft's implying.
"He saved my life first," Sherlock protests, "He shot the cabbie." Not something they often refer to in front of company, but - well. It is Mycroft.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and moves his piece forward one box.
"Sometimes, brother dear," Mycroft says, as patiently as he deigns, "You're far too literal."
Sherlock leans back and steeples his hands under his chin for a moment, as he considers Mycroft. "You're saying I figuratively saved his life," he parses.
"Well done," Mycroft says, and it's condescending, but not terribly unkind. "You saved him from a life of drudgery and monotony." His piece moves closer to the ballroom entrance. "Which brings us to Mary. She saved him from his grief."
Sherlock flinches, just minutely, but Mycroft doesn't miss that, either.
"And don't think he didn't grieve, Sherlock. But if you remove the source of that grief," he tips his head, pointedly, towards Sherlock. "Then what is she saving him from?"
"I've seen them together," Sherlock murmurs, "He's not with her out of - obligation, Mycroft."
"No," Mycroft agrees, "He genuinely cares for her."
(In a way, Sherlock knows, that's so different to the other girlfriends he's had; in a way that frightens him, just a little).
"Then-" and he can't keep the frustration from his voice, what was this all for?
"His hand," Mycroft answers the question before he can ask it.
"The tremor?" Sherlock asks.
"Still just intermittent," Mycroft says, "but often enough that he's starting to notice it."
And - fascinating.
"John," he says, slowly.
"Misses it," Mycroft finishes for him, almost politely leaving the heaven knows why just implied
(and it takes his breath away, for a moment, hope so fragile he's almost afraid to examine it too closely for fear of it shattering; John, missing Baker Street and cases and the blogging and the fighting and the laughing and the chase and him, and them, and their life together).
"I could - assist. If you wish. Nothing untoward," Mycroft says, delicately, pretending to examine his fingernails, and it'd be easy, so easy to let Mycroft pay her off, to let him find something on her, but --
"No," Sherlock says, almost reluctantly, and more than a little surprised at himself, but this has to be John's decision, he knows, and although he'd struggle to articulate it, more than he wants John back, wants John here, he wants John to be - well. Happy. It's a pedestrian emotion, an embarrassing thought, and he doesn't bother sharing it with Mycroft.
Mycroft's gaze is thoughtful, as he presses his fingertips together, just in front of his mouth. "Well," he says, after a long pause, "Your move, Sherlock."
Rating: g
Pairing: references to John/Mary and at least one-sided John/Sherlock
Word Count: ~950
Spoilers: 3x01 The Empty Hearse
Summary: "Is it serious?" he asks, and he hates, hates that he can't see, hates that he has to ask Mycroft, but he has a blind spot when it comes to the emotions of John Watson, and he so terribly misjudged John's grief and anger, but Mycroft knew, Mycroft could see, even when Sherlock couldn't (and it must be easier, easier to see, away, far away from John's steady presence and high-pitched laugh and terribly mediocre cooking).
"Are we having an actual conversation?" Mycroft asks, disdainfully, "I only agreed to Cluedo." His gaze travels, thoughtfully, from Cluedo to Operation before he asks, genuinely perplexed, "Why do you even have these, Sherlock?"
"Gift," Sherlock replies, sorting through the plastic figurines.
"From-"
"A friend," Sherlock's response is curt, and Mycroft raises his eyebrows.
"Ah," he says, "Of course." He touches his fingertips to Operation, "Doctor Watson," he touches Cluedo, "and Sherlock Holmes. How - quaint."
"He's engaged," Sherlock says, fishing out the purple piece, and Mycroft doesn't immediately reply.
"I apologise," he says, insincerely, after a long moment, "Did you want me to feign surprise?" Sherlock frowns at him. "You forget, Sherlock, that there's very little I don't see." He picks up the yellow character piece, gingerly.
"No," Sherlock says, to both the assertion and the character choice (and he's showing his hand, he knows, and not just a little).
Mycroft pauses. "My mistake." He swaps it for the green one, eyes not leaving Sherlock's.
"Is it serious?" he asks, and he hates, hates that he can't see, hates that he has to ask Mycroft, but he has a blind spot when it comes to the emotions of John Watson, and he so terribly misjudged John's grief and anger, but Mycroft knew, Mycroft could see, even when Sherlock couldn't (and it must be easier, easier to see, away, far away from John's steady presence and high-pitched laugh and terribly mediocre cooking).
"What," Mycroft says, reaching for the die, "Can't you tell?"
Sherlock clenches his teeth together, curses the traitorous muscle in his cheek that tightens (and Mycroft doesn't miss it, because there really is very little he doesn't see).
"Mycroft," he says, because this was clearly a mistake --
"Sherlock, John Watson is entirely predictable," and he doesn't disagree verbally, but Mycroft can read it on his face, of course, "It's only to you that he remains so charmingly unpredictable." There's something that feels almost like - humiliation? creeping up his neck, but they both ignore it.
"How so," Sherlock finally asks, flatly, as Mycroft moves his piece along the ballroom wall.
"He's overly attached to people who - save him," and he says the words like they repulse him (and they probably do). "Bill Murray," he continues, absently, the die lying forgotten between them, "saved John's life in Afghanistan."
His gaze is searching and frustratingly inscrutable. "I know that," Sherlock scoffs, because he read it in their interactions, at the pub and on John's blog, not some file.
"Yes," Mycroft agrees, like he's humouring him, and Sherlock's lips twist, unpleasantly. "And despite having almost nothing in common, John has remained - indebted - to him for years."
"I believe that's gratitude," Sherlock says, reaching for the die, "Gratitude and - fraternal camaraderie." He moves his piece towards the study. "Just because you don't experience either-"
"Don't be glib," Mycroft admonishes him, rolling the die again. "Then, you." And it takes Sherlock a beat too long to catch up, to understand what Mycroft's implying.
"He saved my life first," Sherlock protests, "He shot the cabbie." Not something they often refer to in front of company, but - well. It is Mycroft.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and moves his piece forward one box.
"Sometimes, brother dear," Mycroft says, as patiently as he deigns, "You're far too literal."
Sherlock leans back and steeples his hands under his chin for a moment, as he considers Mycroft. "You're saying I figuratively saved his life," he parses.
"Well done," Mycroft says, and it's condescending, but not terribly unkind. "You saved him from a life of drudgery and monotony." His piece moves closer to the ballroom entrance. "Which brings us to Mary. She saved him from his grief."
Sherlock flinches, just minutely, but Mycroft doesn't miss that, either.
"And don't think he didn't grieve, Sherlock. But if you remove the source of that grief," he tips his head, pointedly, towards Sherlock. "Then what is she saving him from?"
"I've seen them together," Sherlock murmurs, "He's not with her out of - obligation, Mycroft."
"No," Mycroft agrees, "He genuinely cares for her."
(In a way, Sherlock knows, that's so different to the other girlfriends he's had; in a way that frightens him, just a little).
"Then-" and he can't keep the frustration from his voice, what was this all for?
"His hand," Mycroft answers the question before he can ask it.
"The tremor?" Sherlock asks.
"Still just intermittent," Mycroft says, "but often enough that he's starting to notice it."
And - fascinating.
"John," he says, slowly.
"Misses it," Mycroft finishes for him, almost politely leaving the heaven knows why just implied
(and it takes his breath away, for a moment, hope so fragile he's almost afraid to examine it too closely for fear of it shattering; John, missing Baker Street and cases and the blogging and the fighting and the laughing and the chase and him, and them, and their life together).
"I could - assist. If you wish. Nothing untoward," Mycroft says, delicately, pretending to examine his fingernails, and it'd be easy, so easy to let Mycroft pay her off, to let him find something on her, but --
"No," Sherlock says, almost reluctantly, and more than a little surprised at himself, but this has to be John's decision, he knows, and although he'd struggle to articulate it, more than he wants John back, wants John here, he wants John to be - well. Happy. It's a pedestrian emotion, an embarrassing thought, and he doesn't bother sharing it with Mycroft.
Mycroft's gaze is thoughtful, as he presses his fingertips together, just in front of his mouth. "Well," he says, after a long pause, "Your move, Sherlock."