Sherlock fic: Burn Burn
Title: Burn Burn
Author: tunes84
Rating: K+
Genre: Angst
Characters: Sherlock, John
Word Count: 816
Summary: After the events of "The Great Game", Sherlock returns to 221B Baker Street to find it empty.
Warnings: Spoilers for all episodes.
A/N: Happy Birthday, patster223 . I <3 you like crazy.
Flat empty, Sherlock categorizes when he steps in through the open door. The open door that was closed when he left, now ajar when he returns.
"Wrong," he breathes, dropping the groceries on the floor with a heavy thunk. Eggs smashed now, dripping slowly out of the bag, but what does that matter? The flat is empty.
Not supposed to be empty.
Sherlock scans the sitting room quickly, then the kitchen, then upstairs (two steps at a time, he is running) and nothing. There is nothing, it's empty.
Shouldn't be empty.
The air seems cold now, contradicting the heat rising from his chest into his face. Is this what he meant?
"John?" he croaks, voice unlike his normal tone and he curses. Snap out of it, he curses.
"John." It's a whisper, not a name. A plea, really, unheard (he will never tell), barely spoken.
Sherlock should have stayed here. Never should have walked out the door, never should have gotten into the taxi. Damn the groceries, they didn't need them! They didn't matter, not like John mattered. Everything is secondary to John.
John is first. Always first, never second, never third or fourth or twelfth or God, why did he leave the flat?
Stay here, Sherlock had said. I'll go, you stay.
Why? John had wondered, curious, unsure.
It seemed so obvious then, Sherlock thinks. Still thinks, because John is vulnerable. John can be taken, John can be hurt and that isn't right. John is his, no one elses.
John is his.
Burns, his mind tells him. It does burn, he was right. He stares at John's bed, perfectly made up, clean and precise.
Clean and precise and empty.
"Think," Sherlock practically yells, grabbing fistfulls of hair, wildly scanning everything. Clues, he needs clues! Why can't he focus on the clues?
This can't happen, he can't be taken, not again. Every time it happens it gets harder. It keeps happening, shouldn't be happening, harder every time it happens. How unnatural, how wrong to feel this way.
And Sherlock can't think. Sherlock can always think, but not when it comes to John. Not with John, never with John.
Better with John. Things are better with John, Sherlock needs (won't tell) him.
Think. Just think, bloody think! He just needs to think!
There are footsteps and Sherlock's head snaps up, listening intently. Familiar footsteps, footsteps he's memorized.
"What the hell happened here?"
John.
Sherlock runs (practically falls) down the stairs and stops, hands on either side of the door frame breathing erratically and feeling lightheaded (concerned, that's all). He stares at John, who is there. Not gone, real, right in front of him.
John looks up and cocks his head. "Sherlock, did you possibly forget something?" he asks, gesturing to the soggy food beside the open door. Sherlock doesn't move, just watches. The look on John's face reads uncomfortable, but he has to watch.
Before his brain catches up (never behind, just occupied at the time) he's inches from John's face, his hands on either side of John's head. A thumb runs slowly over John's eyebrow and Sherlock stares like it is a curious thing. John's eyes fall and he takes a shuddering breath in, then out. In again, then out. Sherlock closes his eyes, puts his head on John's chest and listens.
His heart is intact.
John's voice fills Sherlock's head. "Mind telling me what this is about?"
Sherlock, hands still tightly placed on his flatmate's head, looks up and simply states, "I couldn't find you."
Eyes shocked, he's shocked but tries to hide it. John shrugs and says, "Mrs. Hudson had something stuck in the drain. I went to help flush it out."
Sherlock nods. "I told you to stay here."
Confused now, John shakes his head (still can't let go, Sherlock, he needs to feel). "You keep saying that. I can't stay in here all day, I'm going mad."
Still staring, never letting go, Sherlock shakes his head. "You just have to."
"Why do I have to stay in the flat? Enlighten me," John says. Sarcastic, he doesn't understand. Isn't it obvious? Sherlock thinks.
"Because," he says coolly, "you're breakable."
Upset? No, surprised. Stunned, John was stunned, Sherlock could see it. Why was he stunned? Didn't he know this?
"I'm not a toy, Sherlock," John mumbles, pulling Sherlock's hands from his face.
Sherlock grabs hold of John's hands and for a moment they stare at each other, intense, unbreakable.
"Of course not," Sherlock finally agrees. He lets go and the tension suddenly drops away completely. John straightens his sweater and clears his throat.
"Right, then, let's get this mess cleaned up before Mrs. Hudson sees what you've done to her floor."
A voice inside Sherlock's head (not his own) says, It'll burn hotter next time.
As John walks off into the kitchen, Sherlock wonders if the scorch marks inside his chest will ever fully heal.
Author: tunes84
Rating: K+
Genre: Angst
Characters: Sherlock, John
Word Count: 816
Summary: After the events of "The Great Game", Sherlock returns to 221B Baker Street to find it empty.
Warnings: Spoilers for all episodes.
A/N: Happy Birthday, patster223 . I <3 you like crazy.
Flat empty, Sherlock categorizes when he steps in through the open door. The open door that was closed when he left, now ajar when he returns.
"Wrong," he breathes, dropping the groceries on the floor with a heavy thunk. Eggs smashed now, dripping slowly out of the bag, but what does that matter? The flat is empty.
Not supposed to be empty.
Sherlock scans the sitting room quickly, then the kitchen, then upstairs (two steps at a time, he is running) and nothing. There is nothing, it's empty.
Shouldn't be empty.
The air seems cold now, contradicting the heat rising from his chest into his face. Is this what he meant?
"John?" he croaks, voice unlike his normal tone and he curses. Snap out of it, he curses.
"John." It's a whisper, not a name. A plea, really, unheard (he will never tell), barely spoken.
Sherlock should have stayed here. Never should have walked out the door, never should have gotten into the taxi. Damn the groceries, they didn't need them! They didn't matter, not like John mattered. Everything is secondary to John.
John is first. Always first, never second, never third or fourth or twelfth or God, why did he leave the flat?
Stay here, Sherlock had said. I'll go, you stay.
Why? John had wondered, curious, unsure.
It seemed so obvious then, Sherlock thinks. Still thinks, because John is vulnerable. John can be taken, John can be hurt and that isn't right. John is his, no one elses.
John is his.
Burns, his mind tells him. It does burn, he was right. He stares at John's bed, perfectly made up, clean and precise.
Clean and precise and empty.
"Think," Sherlock practically yells, grabbing fistfulls of hair, wildly scanning everything. Clues, he needs clues! Why can't he focus on the clues?
This can't happen, he can't be taken, not again. Every time it happens it gets harder. It keeps happening, shouldn't be happening, harder every time it happens. How unnatural, how wrong to feel this way.
And Sherlock can't think. Sherlock can always think, but not when it comes to John. Not with John, never with John.
Better with John. Things are better with John, Sherlock needs (won't tell) him.
Think. Just think, bloody think! He just needs to think!
There are footsteps and Sherlock's head snaps up, listening intently. Familiar footsteps, footsteps he's memorized.
"What the hell happened here?"
John.
Sherlock runs (practically falls) down the stairs and stops, hands on either side of the door frame breathing erratically and feeling lightheaded (concerned, that's all). He stares at John, who is there. Not gone, real, right in front of him.
John looks up and cocks his head. "Sherlock, did you possibly forget something?" he asks, gesturing to the soggy food beside the open door. Sherlock doesn't move, just watches. The look on John's face reads uncomfortable, but he has to watch.
Before his brain catches up (never behind, just occupied at the time) he's inches from John's face, his hands on either side of John's head. A thumb runs slowly over John's eyebrow and Sherlock stares like it is a curious thing. John's eyes fall and he takes a shuddering breath in, then out. In again, then out. Sherlock closes his eyes, puts his head on John's chest and listens.
His heart is intact.
John's voice fills Sherlock's head. "Mind telling me what this is about?"
Sherlock, hands still tightly placed on his flatmate's head, looks up and simply states, "I couldn't find you."
Eyes shocked, he's shocked but tries to hide it. John shrugs and says, "Mrs. Hudson had something stuck in the drain. I went to help flush it out."
Sherlock nods. "I told you to stay here."
Confused now, John shakes his head (still can't let go, Sherlock, he needs to feel). "You keep saying that. I can't stay in here all day, I'm going mad."
Still staring, never letting go, Sherlock shakes his head. "You just have to."
"Why do I have to stay in the flat? Enlighten me," John says. Sarcastic, he doesn't understand. Isn't it obvious? Sherlock thinks.
"Because," he says coolly, "you're breakable."
Upset? No, surprised. Stunned, John was stunned, Sherlock could see it. Why was he stunned? Didn't he know this?
"I'm not a toy, Sherlock," John mumbles, pulling Sherlock's hands from his face.
Sherlock grabs hold of John's hands and for a moment they stare at each other, intense, unbreakable.
"Of course not," Sherlock finally agrees. He lets go and the tension suddenly drops away completely. John straightens his sweater and clears his throat.
"Right, then, let's get this mess cleaned up before Mrs. Hudson sees what you've done to her floor."
A voice inside Sherlock's head (not his own) says, It'll burn hotter next time.
As John walks off into the kitchen, Sherlock wonders if the scorch marks inside his chest will ever fully heal.