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Title: The Difference Between Then and Now
Fanart or Fanfic: Fanfic
Characters: Sherlock & John
Prompt: Dark
Word Count: 539
Spoilers: ----
Rating: G
Summary: It's late at night and Sherlock has broken promises and secrets.
Author's Notes: Written for sherlock100. Cross posted. Self-beta'd. The summary, plus the combination of the prompt, makes it sound like angst, but I promise you it's not :'D I think it leans towards fluff, a bit, but, yes, definitely not angst.
Disclaimer: Sherlock is ACD's & Sherlock BBC is the lovechild of Godtiss & The Moff.
Link to el table
Here's a secret:
Sherlock promised John he'd find time to sleep. What John doesn't know won't hurt him, so Sherlock doesn't.
It's late at night. It always is; Sherlock has to be sure that John is in deep slumber. John has always been a light sleeper; more so when he is trapped in a nightmare. Sherlock had to learn which floorboards creaked, to find out which ones to avoid.
Now he pads in, careful and quiet. The hallway light leaks in, highlighting John's sleeping form. John is curled on his side, head partly hidden in the crook of his elbow. Takes deep breathes, grunts once. He reaches for something in mid-air before settling his palm over an eye. Sherlock's heart flutters with something like affection and worry. He gently shuts the door and waits for his eyes to adjust in the dark.
John's bed is big, for one person, and sturdy. The bed barely dips when Sherlock seats himself at the foot of John's bed, where he tucks his chin above his knees and leans forward with fascination.
He is a marvel, Sherlock believes. But John is not. He's something more, because he looks at Sherlock with admiration and fierce loyalty. For once, Sherlock feels like he doesn't deserve all that because he can't look at John the same way. Not in front of everyone, the way John does.
He has to wait when the world has winked its eyes shut.
Sherlock reaches out, fingers trembling from things he barely comprehends. He hesitates. DadumDadum, he hears his heart and that pushes him.
He rests his hand on John's shoulder. John murmurs quietly. Too quietly and Sherlock can't lip read in the dark. He trails his fingers, slow tip toe trails, along his collarbone, the side of his neck. John sighs.
(Sherlock wonders if John is dreaming. Would he be embedded symbolic enough in John's mind to appear in his dreams?)
Lower. He ventures lower and stops at John's chest, on top of his heart. John's is a calm steady beat in comparison to Sherlock's.
Reckless. That's what he feels. As though he were conducting an experiment without sufficient research. Sherlock holds his breath, waiting--
for nothing. John doesn't wake up, doesn't stir. Right. He stays, for moments, hours. Afterwards, he leaves, just as silently as he entered.
*
Here's another secret:
That was years ago. Years ago when he was still confused and overwhelmed by his feelings. Now, John still makes him promise to get some sleep and he still breaks it.
Tonight, he taps John's hipbone. Drags his knuckles across John's stomach, slightly pudgy from age and the occasional beer. He rests his hand on top of John's, wraps his fingers around a slightly curled fist.
John stirs, groans. He turns his face toward Sherlock, eye's still heavy with sleep.
"Jesus, you're still awake? Go to sleep, idiot."
John uncurls his fingers and laces them with Sherlock's. He tugs lightly and Sherlock follows, placing himself beside John. John grunts and turns to his side, bringing along Sherlock's hand so that his arm rests across John's waist.
As Sherlock caves in and curls himself around John, he thinks that it looks like he will be keeping his promise tonight.
Fanart or Fanfic: Fanfic
Characters: Sherlock & John
Prompt: Dark
Word Count: 539
Spoilers: ----
Rating: G
Summary: It's late at night and Sherlock has broken promises and secrets.
Author's Notes: Written for sherlock100. Cross posted. Self-beta'd. The summary, plus the combination of the prompt, makes it sound like angst, but I promise you it's not :'D I think it leans towards fluff, a bit, but, yes, definitely not angst.
Disclaimer: Sherlock is ACD's & Sherlock BBC is the lovechild of Godtiss & The Moff.
Link to el table
Here's a secret:
Sherlock promised John he'd find time to sleep. What John doesn't know won't hurt him, so Sherlock doesn't.
It's late at night. It always is; Sherlock has to be sure that John is in deep slumber. John has always been a light sleeper; more so when he is trapped in a nightmare. Sherlock had to learn which floorboards creaked, to find out which ones to avoid.
Now he pads in, careful and quiet. The hallway light leaks in, highlighting John's sleeping form. John is curled on his side, head partly hidden in the crook of his elbow. Takes deep breathes, grunts once. He reaches for something in mid-air before settling his palm over an eye. Sherlock's heart flutters with something like affection and worry. He gently shuts the door and waits for his eyes to adjust in the dark.
John's bed is big, for one person, and sturdy. The bed barely dips when Sherlock seats himself at the foot of John's bed, where he tucks his chin above his knees and leans forward with fascination.
He is a marvel, Sherlock believes. But John is not. He's something more, because he looks at Sherlock with admiration and fierce loyalty. For once, Sherlock feels like he doesn't deserve all that because he can't look at John the same way. Not in front of everyone, the way John does.
He has to wait when the world has winked its eyes shut.
Sherlock reaches out, fingers trembling from things he barely comprehends. He hesitates. DadumDadum, he hears his heart and that pushes him.
He rests his hand on John's shoulder. John murmurs quietly. Too quietly and Sherlock can't lip read in the dark. He trails his fingers, slow tip toe trails, along his collarbone, the side of his neck. John sighs.
(Sherlock wonders if John is dreaming. Would he be embedded symbolic enough in John's mind to appear in his dreams?)
Lower. He ventures lower and stops at John's chest, on top of his heart. John's is a calm steady beat in comparison to Sherlock's.
Reckless. That's what he feels. As though he were conducting an experiment without sufficient research. Sherlock holds his breath, waiting--
for nothing. John doesn't wake up, doesn't stir. Right. He stays, for moments, hours. Afterwards, he leaves, just as silently as he entered.
*
Here's another secret:
That was years ago. Years ago when he was still confused and overwhelmed by his feelings. Now, John still makes him promise to get some sleep and he still breaks it.
Tonight, he taps John's hipbone. Drags his knuckles across John's stomach, slightly pudgy from age and the occasional beer. He rests his hand on top of John's, wraps his fingers around a slightly curled fist.
John stirs, groans. He turns his face toward Sherlock, eye's still heavy with sleep.
"Jesus, you're still awake? Go to sleep, idiot."
John uncurls his fingers and laces them with Sherlock's. He tugs lightly and Sherlock follows, placing himself beside John. John grunts and turns to his side, bringing along Sherlock's hand so that his arm rests across John's waist.
As Sherlock caves in and curls himself around John, he thinks that it looks like he will be keeping his promise tonight.