Fic: Still Coming Home With Me, John/Sherlock, Severus/Harry, PG-13
Title: Still Coming Home With Me
Pairings: John/Sherlock, Harry/Severus
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,000
Warnings: Jealously.
A/N: The one in which Harry and John hit it off at a pub, and Sherlock and Snape end up doing their own snarky equivalent of bonding. Written for sra_danvers, for fandomaid . Hope you like, m’dear, and sorry for the wait!
Summary: The man is not truthful about who he is, or what he does - though he is quite probably the single best liar Sherlock has ever encountered, even more so than Mycroft - but that just makes the situation more interesting, and by the time John and the other man - Potter - come over to the table, Sherlock has decided that Snape’s casual rudeness is something he could do with having more of in his life.
By about midnight, Sherlock gets bored.
He recognizes that itch. That sensation of insects underneath his skin, crawling up and down the length of his spine. He’s alone in their apartment, and the decomposing fingernails are being horrendously tedious, and his mind has latched onto to something inconsequential and turned it into a loop, and he knows himself well enough that being alone is no longer a good idea. With a final scrape of his bow across his violin, he abandons the kitchen and puts on his coat. John will be displeased with the fingernails on the countertop, but he was the one who left Sherlock alone, so it’s hardly Sherlock’s fault that he suddenly needs to get out.
He walks. Turns up his coat collar, heads out into the rain, and walks. Doesn’t stop walking until John responds to his text - tells him where he is, and tells Sherlock to, for the love of everything, not blow up the kitchen in his absence - and then Sherlock heads towards the pub, tries to not start the futile task of counting raindrops against his skin. Makes his way to the pub and walks into the dry warmth, scans the room, catalogs everything, until he finds John. Who is leaning up against the bar with a young man - dark hair, slight build, conventionally attractive - leaning beside him, the second man’s face creased into a grin, and his hand resting on the bar, very close to John’s arm.
Sherlock stops. Closes his eyes, breathes in, breathes out, and then starts to count his heartbeats. He’s meant to be working on jealousy. John has - on several occasions - informed him that his possessiveness is not an attractive trait, and since Sherlock needs to ensure that John never leaves him, he is meant to be working on jealousy.
It’s not easy, though. For all that John has promised that he wants nobody but Sherlock, it’s still not easy. And when he opens his eyes again, it’s to slip back into the crowd and find a seat in the corner, where he settles in to watch. John would probably call this a bit not good, but Sherlock doesn’t care. And this is far more interesting than decomposing fingernails, even if the low ache in his chest is an annoying distraction - an ache that soothes slightly when the young man moves away again, crosses the room to speak to another man. Someone who looks just as unhappy as Sherlock - long black hair, pale skin, hooked nose - and Sherlock watches them for a moment, watches the way they seem to be arguing over something, before the young man visibly rolls his eyes, puts a hand on the older man’s shoulder, and returns to John, shrugging off whatever John asks him. It doesn’t take long for them to be ordering two new drinks together, and Sherlock breathes through the returning ache and slides across the room. Walks up to the man with the dark hair and pale skin, and stands there until the man looks up at him, expression creased into a scowl that most people would probably find disconcerting.
“Problem?”
Instead of responding, Sherlock pulls out a chair and sits down across from the man, whose expression pulls so tight it almost looks painful. He doesn’t say a word, though - just sits there and glares at Sherlock - and Sherlock takes the time to simply study him, the situation with John and the other man sliding to the back of his mind for a moment. There’s something… different, somehow, about this man, from everyone else in the room - something that feels like this man has been a soldier, but not in a way that fits the normal PTSD mold - and Sherlock brushes off the irritation of not immediately knowing. Reminds himself why he came here in the first place.
“I have a question about your friend.”
“He’s taken.”
It said with just the right lack of inflection that it can’t not be covering some deeper emotion, and Sherlock feels that tightness inside him ease ever so slightly. Reminds himself that he is working on this. That John cares for him, and isn’t leaving. And if the other man is taken -
“That man is with you?”
“None of your damn business.”
“He’s speaking with my partner. I was curious.”
“And by ‘partner’ -”
“Yes.”
The man only blinks at that, and then - incredibly, given the general air of misery around him - his lips turn up ever so slightly at the edges, the tiniest hint of a smirk, and his eyes cut to the bar before coming back to Sherlock.
“Worried someone was going to steal your man away?”
“You were equally unimpressed with the situation.”
“Yes, well. I’m a jealous bastard.”
“Perhaps you’re not the only one.”
“So it would seem.”
The man is still smirking just the tiniest bit, though, and they stare at each other for a second before the man holds out his hand across the table, and Sherlock takes it. Feels the callouses, and wonders what this man does with his life. Wonders why he can’t quite pinpoint the exact details.
“Snape.”
“Sherlock.”
Snape simply nods - there’s no, Nice to meet you, no, Pleasure to make your acquaintance - and pulls his hand away again, and Sherlock’s just about to get to his feet again - no point in staying now - when Snape rests his arms on the table in front of him and fixes him with a look that Sherlock can’t quite interpret.
“Returning to your corner to sulk in silence?”
“It’s not - I don’t sulk.”
“Sure you don’t.”
The smirk’s back again, ever so slightly, and Sherlock feels his mind flare hot, anger is a distraction, ignore it, ignore it - but before he can say anything, Snape’s smirk is gone again, and he’s leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms across his chest as he stares up at Sherlock.
“You seem to hate people as much as I do."
"Perhaps."
"Then I might actually not hate talking to you."
Sherlock is pretty sure that's an invitation, and he pauses. Tries to figure out if he wants to stay - whether he's just going to end up annoyed and bored. Watches as Snape watches him for a second, before Snape rolls his eyes and leans back a little further in his chair.
"Look, I don't give a damn either way, but if you want to stay until the two of them have finished with their cheerful little bonding exercise, then I wouldn’t be averse to the company. You seem less annoying than most people here.”
The frankness there is oddly compelling, and Sherlock considers the offer. Considers the fact that he hasn’t pinpointed the details of Snape’s life yet - air of a professor, but mixed with something that feels like a soldier; unidentified stains around his fingernails - and that there’s a large amount of data that still needs to be analyzed. Considers that Snape has already managed to elicit an emotional response from him, in a way that few people ever succeed in doing. Considers the fact that the alternative is sitting and glaring at John and Snape’s partner from the corner, which is - again - probably a bit not good - and then he sits back down, and leans back in the chair to study Snape, who simply raises an eyebrow.
“Staying?”
“So it would seem.”
“Good. Potter’s going to be so disconcerted when he founds out I’ve made a friend.”
- - -
It takes less than twenty-three minutes for Sherlock to conclude that Snape is one of the least boring - and one of the most intelligent - people that Sherlock has ever met. The man, in fact, is interesting in a way that few people ever managed to achieve, and Sherlock finds his curiosity about Snape only continues to grow as Snape and he talk. The man is not truthful about who he is, or what he does - though he is quite probably the single best liar Sherlock has ever encountered, even more so than Mycroft - but that just makes the situation more interesting, and by the time John and the other man - Potter - come over to the table, nearly an hour after Sherlock had sat down, Sherlock has decided that Snape’s casual rudeness is something he could do with having more of in his life. It’s refreshing to find someone else who doesn’t care about the social conventions that most people try so desperately to adhere to.
“Sherlock?”
John’s voice sounds a little strangled - steady to the rest of the world, because John is quite the consummate actor, but Sherlock can hear the cracks around the edges of his name - and he turns to face John and Potter with a smirk, noting that Potter - jagged scar, light blue eyes, faint lines around his mouth; unusual for one so young - has an expression that looks almost suspicious, his eyes sliding from Sherlock to Snape and back again. This, then, is - as Snape had implied - not a usual occurrence, and Sherlock takes a moment to be glad that he came to the bar tonight. He has officially not been bored for nearly an hour now.
“You have a most scintillating significant other, Mr. Watson.”
Snape’s voice is low and sardonic, but there’s no hint of mockery there, and Sherlock feels his lips pull a little higher as John blinks at the two of them, obviously trying to make sense of Sherlock being out of the apartment, and of him willingly socializing with another human being.
“Um. Yes, I do. Thank you?”
Snape’s response is a low snort, and the other man - Potter - narrows his eyes a bit further. Before he can say anything, though, Sherlock slides to his feet, and decides that he’s had enough for one night. As interesting as this entire situation might have been, he has the option of taking John home and having him all to himself, and that trumps sitting here in this pub for any longer.
“You have my contact information.”
“Indeed. I might even make use of it.”
Snape’s wearing that small smirk of his again, and Sherlock mirrors it, nods one last time in Snape’s direction, and then he turns away, with a final glance of his eyes across the man called Potter. After a couple of seconds, there’s the sound of footsteps behind him, and John catches up to him just as they slip back out into the street. It’s still raining, and John’s just started in on his questions - “Sherlock, what the hell are you even doing here?” - when Sherlock finds himself reaching out to take John’s warm hand in his own.
Beside him, John goes perfectly still, and then his fingers tighten in Sherlock’s, and Sherlock feels the touch straight into his chest. Leans in a bit closer, wishes - irrationally - that were was a way to shield John from the coldness of the rain until a taxi arrives. He’s done more than enough socializing for the night, and it’s time to take John home, so that they can be alone. John is not going to like the fingernails, but Sherlock can deal with being berated about the state of the kitchen, because John is the one who chooses to go home with him, who chooses to live in the same building as him and sleep in the same bed as him, and nothing else matters more than that.
Pairings: John/Sherlock, Harry/Severus
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,000
Warnings: Jealously.
A/N: The one in which Harry and John hit it off at a pub, and Sherlock and Snape end up doing their own snarky equivalent of bonding. Written for sra_danvers, for fandomaid . Hope you like, m’dear, and sorry for the wait!
Summary: The man is not truthful about who he is, or what he does - though he is quite probably the single best liar Sherlock has ever encountered, even more so than Mycroft - but that just makes the situation more interesting, and by the time John and the other man - Potter - come over to the table, Sherlock has decided that Snape’s casual rudeness is something he could do with having more of in his life.
By about midnight, Sherlock gets bored.
He recognizes that itch. That sensation of insects underneath his skin, crawling up and down the length of his spine. He’s alone in their apartment, and the decomposing fingernails are being horrendously tedious, and his mind has latched onto to something inconsequential and turned it into a loop, and he knows himself well enough that being alone is no longer a good idea. With a final scrape of his bow across his violin, he abandons the kitchen and puts on his coat. John will be displeased with the fingernails on the countertop, but he was the one who left Sherlock alone, so it’s hardly Sherlock’s fault that he suddenly needs to get out.
He walks. Turns up his coat collar, heads out into the rain, and walks. Doesn’t stop walking until John responds to his text - tells him where he is, and tells Sherlock to, for the love of everything, not blow up the kitchen in his absence - and then Sherlock heads towards the pub, tries to not start the futile task of counting raindrops against his skin. Makes his way to the pub and walks into the dry warmth, scans the room, catalogs everything, until he finds John. Who is leaning up against the bar with a young man - dark hair, slight build, conventionally attractive - leaning beside him, the second man’s face creased into a grin, and his hand resting on the bar, very close to John’s arm.
Sherlock stops. Closes his eyes, breathes in, breathes out, and then starts to count his heartbeats. He’s meant to be working on jealousy. John has - on several occasions - informed him that his possessiveness is not an attractive trait, and since Sherlock needs to ensure that John never leaves him, he is meant to be working on jealousy.
It’s not easy, though. For all that John has promised that he wants nobody but Sherlock, it’s still not easy. And when he opens his eyes again, it’s to slip back into the crowd and find a seat in the corner, where he settles in to watch. John would probably call this a bit not good, but Sherlock doesn’t care. And this is far more interesting than decomposing fingernails, even if the low ache in his chest is an annoying distraction - an ache that soothes slightly when the young man moves away again, crosses the room to speak to another man. Someone who looks just as unhappy as Sherlock - long black hair, pale skin, hooked nose - and Sherlock watches them for a moment, watches the way they seem to be arguing over something, before the young man visibly rolls his eyes, puts a hand on the older man’s shoulder, and returns to John, shrugging off whatever John asks him. It doesn’t take long for them to be ordering two new drinks together, and Sherlock breathes through the returning ache and slides across the room. Walks up to the man with the dark hair and pale skin, and stands there until the man looks up at him, expression creased into a scowl that most people would probably find disconcerting.
“Problem?”
Instead of responding, Sherlock pulls out a chair and sits down across from the man, whose expression pulls so tight it almost looks painful. He doesn’t say a word, though - just sits there and glares at Sherlock - and Sherlock takes the time to simply study him, the situation with John and the other man sliding to the back of his mind for a moment. There’s something… different, somehow, about this man, from everyone else in the room - something that feels like this man has been a soldier, but not in a way that fits the normal PTSD mold - and Sherlock brushes off the irritation of not immediately knowing. Reminds himself why he came here in the first place.
“I have a question about your friend.”
“He’s taken.”
It said with just the right lack of inflection that it can’t not be covering some deeper emotion, and Sherlock feels that tightness inside him ease ever so slightly. Reminds himself that he is working on this. That John cares for him, and isn’t leaving. And if the other man is taken -
“That man is with you?”
“None of your damn business.”
“He’s speaking with my partner. I was curious.”
“And by ‘partner’ -”
“Yes.”
The man only blinks at that, and then - incredibly, given the general air of misery around him - his lips turn up ever so slightly at the edges, the tiniest hint of a smirk, and his eyes cut to the bar before coming back to Sherlock.
“Worried someone was going to steal your man away?”
“You were equally unimpressed with the situation.”
“Yes, well. I’m a jealous bastard.”
“Perhaps you’re not the only one.”
“So it would seem.”
The man is still smirking just the tiniest bit, though, and they stare at each other for a second before the man holds out his hand across the table, and Sherlock takes it. Feels the callouses, and wonders what this man does with his life. Wonders why he can’t quite pinpoint the exact details.
“Snape.”
“Sherlock.”
Snape simply nods - there’s no, Nice to meet you, no, Pleasure to make your acquaintance - and pulls his hand away again, and Sherlock’s just about to get to his feet again - no point in staying now - when Snape rests his arms on the table in front of him and fixes him with a look that Sherlock can’t quite interpret.
“Returning to your corner to sulk in silence?”
“It’s not - I don’t sulk.”
“Sure you don’t.”
The smirk’s back again, ever so slightly, and Sherlock feels his mind flare hot, anger is a distraction, ignore it, ignore it - but before he can say anything, Snape’s smirk is gone again, and he’s leaning back in the chair and crossing his arms across his chest as he stares up at Sherlock.
“You seem to hate people as much as I do."
"Perhaps."
"Then I might actually not hate talking to you."
Sherlock is pretty sure that's an invitation, and he pauses. Tries to figure out if he wants to stay - whether he's just going to end up annoyed and bored. Watches as Snape watches him for a second, before Snape rolls his eyes and leans back a little further in his chair.
"Look, I don't give a damn either way, but if you want to stay until the two of them have finished with their cheerful little bonding exercise, then I wouldn’t be averse to the company. You seem less annoying than most people here.”
The frankness there is oddly compelling, and Sherlock considers the offer. Considers the fact that he hasn’t pinpointed the details of Snape’s life yet - air of a professor, but mixed with something that feels like a soldier; unidentified stains around his fingernails - and that there’s a large amount of data that still needs to be analyzed. Considers that Snape has already managed to elicit an emotional response from him, in a way that few people ever succeed in doing. Considers the fact that the alternative is sitting and glaring at John and Snape’s partner from the corner, which is - again - probably a bit not good - and then he sits back down, and leans back in the chair to study Snape, who simply raises an eyebrow.
“Staying?”
“So it would seem.”
“Good. Potter’s going to be so disconcerted when he founds out I’ve made a friend.”
- - -
It takes less than twenty-three minutes for Sherlock to conclude that Snape is one of the least boring - and one of the most intelligent - people that Sherlock has ever met. The man, in fact, is interesting in a way that few people ever managed to achieve, and Sherlock finds his curiosity about Snape only continues to grow as Snape and he talk. The man is not truthful about who he is, or what he does - though he is quite probably the single best liar Sherlock has ever encountered, even more so than Mycroft - but that just makes the situation more interesting, and by the time John and the other man - Potter - come over to the table, nearly an hour after Sherlock had sat down, Sherlock has decided that Snape’s casual rudeness is something he could do with having more of in his life. It’s refreshing to find someone else who doesn’t care about the social conventions that most people try so desperately to adhere to.
“Sherlock?”
John’s voice sounds a little strangled - steady to the rest of the world, because John is quite the consummate actor, but Sherlock can hear the cracks around the edges of his name - and he turns to face John and Potter with a smirk, noting that Potter - jagged scar, light blue eyes, faint lines around his mouth; unusual for one so young - has an expression that looks almost suspicious, his eyes sliding from Sherlock to Snape and back again. This, then, is - as Snape had implied - not a usual occurrence, and Sherlock takes a moment to be glad that he came to the bar tonight. He has officially not been bored for nearly an hour now.
“You have a most scintillating significant other, Mr. Watson.”
Snape’s voice is low and sardonic, but there’s no hint of mockery there, and Sherlock feels his lips pull a little higher as John blinks at the two of them, obviously trying to make sense of Sherlock being out of the apartment, and of him willingly socializing with another human being.
“Um. Yes, I do. Thank you?”
Snape’s response is a low snort, and the other man - Potter - narrows his eyes a bit further. Before he can say anything, though, Sherlock slides to his feet, and decides that he’s had enough for one night. As interesting as this entire situation might have been, he has the option of taking John home and having him all to himself, and that trumps sitting here in this pub for any longer.
“You have my contact information.”
“Indeed. I might even make use of it.”
Snape’s wearing that small smirk of his again, and Sherlock mirrors it, nods one last time in Snape’s direction, and then he turns away, with a final glance of his eyes across the man called Potter. After a couple of seconds, there’s the sound of footsteps behind him, and John catches up to him just as they slip back out into the street. It’s still raining, and John’s just started in on his questions - “Sherlock, what the hell are you even doing here?” - when Sherlock finds himself reaching out to take John’s warm hand in his own.
Beside him, John goes perfectly still, and then his fingers tighten in Sherlock’s, and Sherlock feels the touch straight into his chest. Leans in a bit closer, wishes - irrationally - that were was a way to shield John from the coldness of the rain until a taxi arrives. He’s done more than enough socializing for the night, and it’s time to take John home, so that they can be alone. John is not going to like the fingernails, but Sherlock can deal with being berated about the state of the kitchen, because John is the one who chooses to go home with him, who chooses to live in the same building as him and sleep in the same bed as him, and nothing else matters more than that.