Fic: Hell Will Melt Like Snow 4/?
Title: Hell Will Melt Like Snow- chapter four
Author: ununpentium
Beta: grassle
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 911 (this chapter)
Pairing: Sherlock/John (one sided)
Chapter four on AO3
Notes:
Thanks to grassle for being wonderful!
And yes, there is some timey wimey stuff going on here. I know Stuart was made in 2008, but for the purposes of this fic it was made shortly after Sherlock died in 2011.
Chapter Text
John climbs the seventeen steps to 221b sighing with exhaustion, wanting to do nothing except take a ridiculously hot shower and climb into bed. He unlocks the door, flips on the light, and chucks his Oyster card down next to his computer along with some loose change he’s had rattling about in his pocket all day. The DVD lying there catches his attention.
John picks it up tentatively. Someone has been in his flat and left it there! John tenses and looks around; nothing has obviously been stolen. John takes a closer look at the DVD- Stuart: A Life Backwards he reads, starring Tom Hardy and Benedict Cumberbatch. John lets out a weak giggle; he can’t escape this man. Even shutting the TV in the kitchen cupboard didn’t do any good now the DVD fairy has paid him a visit.
“Sherlock you bastard. I know you left this here!” John says to the empty room, peering about for any other signs of a disturbance. He glances half-heartedly into the corners of the room for hidden cameras but doesn’t see anything.
John decides his shower can wait. The adrenaline that has started coursing through his veins has woken him up a bit, and truth be told he’s desperate to watch the film now Sherlock’s left it for him. John puts the disc into his computer, not wanting to waste time fetching the TV from its hiding place.
Not even a minute in and ‘Benedict’ is crying. John closes his eyes. All he can see is Sherlock standing on the roof.
~*~*~
Halfway through and John pauses the film.
He’s imagined Sherlock like this so many times. Sherlock, out of his suits and into something comfortable, relaxing out in the countryside, away from London. John’s imagined the two of them together, cooking dinner and having long discussions. He wonders if this is Sherlock’s way of saying he knows, and he wants all of that, too.
The doorbell rings once and John swears under his breath. It’s Lestrade. John hastily ejects the disc and places it back into the case before hiding it in the desk drawer.
“Hey, John, Mrs Hudson let me in,” Lestrade sticks his head around the door, and John schools his features into what he hopes passes for a smile.
“Greg, what can I do for you?”
Lestrade enters the flat, not hiding the fact that he’s looking around, checking that everything is in order. John feels angry; he doesn’t want to be checked up on like a child.
“I’ve got some cold cases; thought you might want to look them over, maybe check out some of the medical details?” Lestrade drops a pile of case files onto the table with a thud.
“I know what you’re doing, Greg.” John balls his hands into fists, “You’re treating me like you treated Sherlock. You’ve found an excuse to visit so you can see how I’m holding up!”
Lestrade shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable.
“We haven’t seen you around much recently. I was a bit worried, after, y’know.”
“After what, Greg? After you thought I was having some sort of mental breakdown, seeing Sherlock everywhere? Just go and take your stupid case files with you.”
John turns his back on Lestrade and does not move until he hears Lestrade make his way back down the stairs and out of the front door. John sits on the sofa and puts his head in his hands. His mind wanders back to the film, with Sherlock sitting in the garden surrounded by his friends. Christ, he’s calling him Sherlock now. He knows he needs to be cautious, this actor, Benedict, might just be someone who happens to look exactly like Sherlock. It might be a huge coincidence, but John cannot stop himself from hoping. He closes his eyes and imagines himself with Sherlock, sitting on the deck, sharing a bottle of wine. The sun is beating down on them and Sherlock looks happy and carefree, his shirt mostly unbuttoned and his shoes toed off. John catches Sherlock’s eye and they smile lazily at each other; John leans in towards Sherlock and lightly caresses the back of his head, fingers teasing the curls at the nape of his neck. Sherlock’s smile widens; the corners of his eyes crinkle, and he leans in towards John and kisses him gently on the lips.
John’s eyes fly open, he is breathing hard. Where is that image coming from? Before Sherlock died they’d never discussed their feelings for each other. John wasn’t even sure if Sherlock had ever been romantically attracted to anyone; so where is this sudden fantasy of kissing Sherlock coming from?
John groans and forces himself to his feet. He still hasn’t made it to the shower, and it’s getting late. He makes the decision to go straight to bed, but stops when he realises he’s standing outside Sherlock’s bedroom, not his own. John pushes the door open tentatively. There’s no-one inside.Why would there be? John’s brain supplies, Sherlock’s dead. John carefully takes off his clothes and climbs into Sherlock’s bed, pressing his face into the pillows. Very faintly he can still smell the shampoo Sherlock used, and it’s comforting. John settles down under the duvet and tells himself this can absolutely not happen again. He must get around to clearing Sherlock’s room out; only as he falls asleep his last thoughts are about buying Sherlock a new set of duvet covers.
CHAPTER FIVE
Notes:
If anyone has any suggestions or ideas for other films or situations they want me to write in with 'Benedict' and John's response to it, then please let me know.
The title comes from Nick Dear's adaptation of Frankenstein. The passage is "I'll clothe her in lace and velvet. I'll give her skills and pearls. I will walk in the garden with my fair angelic Eve! I will be Adam, she will be Eve! And all the memory of hell will melt like snow."
The inspiration for this story came from reading some tags on tumblr. I apologise for I cannot remember who wrote the tags that prompted me to write the ficlet. That ficlet written on tumblr has morphed into this.
Author: ununpentium
Beta: grassle
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 911 (this chapter)
Pairing: Sherlock/John (one sided)
Chapter four on AO3
Notes:
Thanks to grassle for being wonderful!
And yes, there is some timey wimey stuff going on here. I know Stuart was made in 2008, but for the purposes of this fic it was made shortly after Sherlock died in 2011.
Chapter Text
John climbs the seventeen steps to 221b sighing with exhaustion, wanting to do nothing except take a ridiculously hot shower and climb into bed. He unlocks the door, flips on the light, and chucks his Oyster card down next to his computer along with some loose change he’s had rattling about in his pocket all day. The DVD lying there catches his attention.
John picks it up tentatively. Someone has been in his flat and left it there! John tenses and looks around; nothing has obviously been stolen. John takes a closer look at the DVD- Stuart: A Life Backwards he reads, starring Tom Hardy and Benedict Cumberbatch. John lets out a weak giggle; he can’t escape this man. Even shutting the TV in the kitchen cupboard didn’t do any good now the DVD fairy has paid him a visit.
“Sherlock you bastard. I know you left this here!” John says to the empty room, peering about for any other signs of a disturbance. He glances half-heartedly into the corners of the room for hidden cameras but doesn’t see anything.
John decides his shower can wait. The adrenaline that has started coursing through his veins has woken him up a bit, and truth be told he’s desperate to watch the film now Sherlock’s left it for him. John puts the disc into his computer, not wanting to waste time fetching the TV from its hiding place.
Not even a minute in and ‘Benedict’ is crying. John closes his eyes. All he can see is Sherlock standing on the roof.
~*~*~
Halfway through and John pauses the film.
He’s imagined Sherlock like this so many times. Sherlock, out of his suits and into something comfortable, relaxing out in the countryside, away from London. John’s imagined the two of them together, cooking dinner and having long discussions. He wonders if this is Sherlock’s way of saying he knows, and he wants all of that, too.
The doorbell rings once and John swears under his breath. It’s Lestrade. John hastily ejects the disc and places it back into the case before hiding it in the desk drawer.
“Hey, John, Mrs Hudson let me in,” Lestrade sticks his head around the door, and John schools his features into what he hopes passes for a smile.
“Greg, what can I do for you?”
Lestrade enters the flat, not hiding the fact that he’s looking around, checking that everything is in order. John feels angry; he doesn’t want to be checked up on like a child.
“I’ve got some cold cases; thought you might want to look them over, maybe check out some of the medical details?” Lestrade drops a pile of case files onto the table with a thud.
“I know what you’re doing, Greg.” John balls his hands into fists, “You’re treating me like you treated Sherlock. You’ve found an excuse to visit so you can see how I’m holding up!”
Lestrade shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable.
“We haven’t seen you around much recently. I was a bit worried, after, y’know.”
“After what, Greg? After you thought I was having some sort of mental breakdown, seeing Sherlock everywhere? Just go and take your stupid case files with you.”
John turns his back on Lestrade and does not move until he hears Lestrade make his way back down the stairs and out of the front door. John sits on the sofa and puts his head in his hands. His mind wanders back to the film, with Sherlock sitting in the garden surrounded by his friends. Christ, he’s calling him Sherlock now. He knows he needs to be cautious, this actor, Benedict, might just be someone who happens to look exactly like Sherlock. It might be a huge coincidence, but John cannot stop himself from hoping. He closes his eyes and imagines himself with Sherlock, sitting on the deck, sharing a bottle of wine. The sun is beating down on them and Sherlock looks happy and carefree, his shirt mostly unbuttoned and his shoes toed off. John catches Sherlock’s eye and they smile lazily at each other; John leans in towards Sherlock and lightly caresses the back of his head, fingers teasing the curls at the nape of his neck. Sherlock’s smile widens; the corners of his eyes crinkle, and he leans in towards John and kisses him gently on the lips.
John’s eyes fly open, he is breathing hard. Where is that image coming from? Before Sherlock died they’d never discussed their feelings for each other. John wasn’t even sure if Sherlock had ever been romantically attracted to anyone; so where is this sudden fantasy of kissing Sherlock coming from?
John groans and forces himself to his feet. He still hasn’t made it to the shower, and it’s getting late. He makes the decision to go straight to bed, but stops when he realises he’s standing outside Sherlock’s bedroom, not his own. John pushes the door open tentatively. There’s no-one inside.Why would there be? John’s brain supplies, Sherlock’s dead. John carefully takes off his clothes and climbs into Sherlock’s bed, pressing his face into the pillows. Very faintly he can still smell the shampoo Sherlock used, and it’s comforting. John settles down under the duvet and tells himself this can absolutely not happen again. He must get around to clearing Sherlock’s room out; only as he falls asleep his last thoughts are about buying Sherlock a new set of duvet covers.
CHAPTER FIVE
Notes:
If anyone has any suggestions or ideas for other films or situations they want me to write in with 'Benedict' and John's response to it, then please let me know.
The title comes from Nick Dear's adaptation of Frankenstein. The passage is "I'll clothe her in lace and velvet. I'll give her skills and pearls. I will walk in the garden with my fair angelic Eve! I will be Adam, she will be Eve! And all the memory of hell will melt like snow."
The inspiration for this story came from reading some tags on tumblr. I apologise for I cannot remember who wrote the tags that prompted me to write the ficlet. That ficlet written on tumblr has morphed into this.