Drumming Noise
Title: Drumming Noise
Author: CagedWriter61
Rating: PG 13
Part: 1/1
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John (platonic romance)
Summary: Sherlock and John value the heart beat.
Warnings: None.
Notes: Totally gratuitous schmoop. Title taken from the absolutely brilliant song "Drumming Song" by Florence & the Machine, which I will forever associate with Sherlock and John.
Chronologically follows the other fics in my Sherlock series, now called A Love with No Name.
Drumming Noise
The beat becomes their touchstone.
It begins with John, because he's a doctor and because he doesn't play with death like Sherlock and because Sherlock would never think to care about something so mundane without someone else's guidance in the first place. John used to lie awake in bed, before Baker Street and after Afghanistan, in that depressing room he had; he used to lie awake with insomnia and flashbacks and listen to his own pulse. It told him that he was alive, that the past was harmless and only in his head, that the future was still possible. He never felt glad or remorseful about it. He just listened and acknowledged and rolled over to try again.
Somehow, he moved in with Sherlock Holmes and fell in love with the man, despite his total lack of sexual interest. And time passed and the love deepened and John proposed and they got married and it's been over a decade and Sherlock's still Sherlock and crimes are unceasing but John never gets used to the feeling, the suffocating fear that tightens in his chest and sucks out all the warmth from his head down, of watching Sherlock wrestle with death.
At some point, when they're cuddling on the sofa or in bed, John begins to lay his head on Sherlock's chest and just listen. He listens to that heart pumping away in there, doesn't sound any different than any other he's heard, but the more he listens, the more the sound fills him with unadulterated peace. As if he's on some kind of drug that turns everything quiet and calm and good.
If Sherlock notices this becoming a habit, he doesn't say anything.
He lies on his back in bed on mornings without work and stares at the ceiling, eyes opening and closing, until John wakes up and curls against him if he isn't already there. He positions himself with his head on Sherlock's chest, arm around torso, and he listens. Sherlock just holds him with both arms and doesn't move until John does, no matter how long it takes. Sometimes, John falls back asleep. Sometimes, his eyes sting and he must steel himself against the urge to weep. Sometimes, he smiles that kind of sleepy, pleased smile of someone whose world is all right. Sherlock's hands find John's head and stroke through his hair. They are warm together and comfortable and the sound of Sherlock's heart beating is the most Godlike sound in the entire universe to John.
He listens and he forgets his own and he thinks, This means Sherlock is alive. The past is irrelevant and the future is possible. The one I love most is alive.
John takes out his stethoscope whenever Sherlock falls sick or when he's inhaled smoke from an exploded experiment or bomb or fire. He takes it out on a few dark occasions when Sherlock's used coke again. He likes using the stethoscope because through it, the sound of Sherlock's heartbeat is loud and strong and clear and fills John's whole head. He can hear the air in Sherlock's lungs too.
"Breathe for me."
And Sherlock does and Jesus, it's the sound of heaven. Handel's fucking Messiah.
If John listens longer than he needs to, Sherlock doesn't complain, not even about the cold metal on his bare chest. He sits there quietly, patiently, while John takes care of them both.
One night, while working a case, their suspect turns around and starts chasing them. And they run because the man is dangerous but mostly because it's one hell of a fun time. Everything is adrenaline and blurred colors and disorienting lights when they're running like this. They never have more than half a second to think about anything, and Sherlock always leads with John following blindly, not caring where they go. John finds himself breathing a little harder after it's over than he did when he first met Sherlock (damn aging) but it's always worth the euphoria that comes after.
This time, they manage to get away on their own, leaning in a narrow space between the walls of two buildings. They spend several minutes just catching their breath and there's a cramp in John's side and shite, he needs a water. He's smiling because that was fantastic. That was long overdue.
All of sudden, Sherlock takes John's hand and presses it against his heart, the thin fabric of his button-down shirt smooth and familiar. John can feel the other man's racing pulse. Sherlock just stands there, head back against the wall, and John quits smiling and looks at him and feels Sherlock's hand over his and Sherlock's heart beneath his palm.
Sherlock opens those blue eyes and looks at him and smiles with half his mouth.
John loves him.
He wakes up to someone tugging at his shoulder, wanting him to roll on his back from where he's been sleeping on his side, and he cracks his eyes open just a bit and his brain reminds him, must be Sherlock.He lies on his back and decides to pass out again but pauses in brief surprise when he feels a warm and heavy weight settle on his chest. Eyes still shut, he feels for it with his hand and his fingers recognize Sherlock's curls and scalp and the base of his skull. Sherlock's arms circle around his torso. They don't say a word, although John vaguely considers mumbling, what are you doing? He doesn't bother, too sleepy and assuming that Sherlock is too.
John's heart beats slow and steady, beneath Sherlock's brain.
When John wakes up in the hospital, he doesn't remember what happened but he has no trouble recognizing where he is. (He's been here so bloody often in the last several years, after all.) It doesn't take him long to shake off his disorientation; as soon as he sees Sherlock sitting in the chair next to his bed, his brain sparks to attention.
Sherlock's posture is painfully straight, elbows on the armrests of the chair, hands folded under his chin. He's crying. He has his eyes closed and his face remains still and John doesn't know if Sherlock even realizes he's crying. But he is.
They've lived together for almost twelve years, but John can count the number of times he's seen Sherlock cry on one hand. Seeing it now, seeing him like this, shakes John in a way he cannot describe even to himself.
"Sherlock," he says, almost in a whisper.
Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at John, otherwise frozen in his pose. There are those impossibly blue irises, swimming in tears, and John feels his stomach clench. Sherlock lowers his arms, hands on the armrests now and elbows pointing backward.
He smiles. Gently. "Hello," he says.
"You're crying."
Sherlock doesn't even attempt to wipe his face. "Unimportant."
He stands up and leans over John, and John stares up at him.
"Are you all right now?" says Sherlock.
John nods, his face dark with concern. Sherlock starts to shift away from the bed, and John catches him by the sleeve of his suit jacket.
"Sherlock, are you?"
Sherlock just leans over him again and presses a kiss to John's forehead. His hand slides onto John's chest and finds his heart. John holds it there with his own hand, even after Sherlock's straightened away from him.
For a few moments, the two men just look at each other there, in that pose. Sherlock's faintly smiling, and John isn't at all. Sherlock could always hear John's pulse on the monitor but it wasn't the same.
Now he feels it. And now it's fine.
They've just outrun-on foot-a killer suspected of working for Moriarty. The man's dead against the steering wheel, car smashed head-on into a street light. The scene is swarming with police and Lestrade's not even paying Sherlock and John attention, he's too busy giving orders and asking questions. Sherlock's leaned up against the back of an ambulance, and John's standing in front of him with his hands on his hips and they're both so out of breath, it hurts their lungs and the muscles in their sides.
With the two of them still panting heavily, John steps closer and presses his left hand against Sherlock's right shoulder, leaning against him for support.
He puts his right hand over Sherlock's heart.
Donovan can see them; she stops to watch. But neither of them sees her and if they did, they wouldn't care.
It's after dinner and they're lying on the sofa with the telly on. John's listening to it more than watching, because he doesn't want to crook his neck to see. Sherlock's pressed along his left side, back against the sofa, top arm around him. John's got his arm around Sherlock and his thumb strokes over the same spot of Sherlock's shoulder. John doesn't think about it but Sherlock can hear his heart beating, though his head's not precisely over it. It's a bit muffled through John's thick jumper, but it's there.
"I think I understand," he says.
"What's that?"
"Why you're always listening to my pulse."
"Oh?"
Sherlock nods against John's chest. He moves his arm and lays his hand flat over John's heart, in front of his own face. He closes his eyes, and after a moment, John's hand curls around his.
Author: CagedWriter61
Rating: PG 13
Part: 1/1
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John (platonic romance)
Summary: Sherlock and John value the heart beat.
Warnings: None.
Notes: Totally gratuitous schmoop. Title taken from the absolutely brilliant song "Drumming Song" by Florence & the Machine, which I will forever associate with Sherlock and John.
Chronologically follows the other fics in my Sherlock series, now called A Love with No Name.
Drumming Noise
The beat becomes their touchstone.
It begins with John, because he's a doctor and because he doesn't play with death like Sherlock and because Sherlock would never think to care about something so mundane without someone else's guidance in the first place. John used to lie awake in bed, before Baker Street and after Afghanistan, in that depressing room he had; he used to lie awake with insomnia and flashbacks and listen to his own pulse. It told him that he was alive, that the past was harmless and only in his head, that the future was still possible. He never felt glad or remorseful about it. He just listened and acknowledged and rolled over to try again.
Somehow, he moved in with Sherlock Holmes and fell in love with the man, despite his total lack of sexual interest. And time passed and the love deepened and John proposed and they got married and it's been over a decade and Sherlock's still Sherlock and crimes are unceasing but John never gets used to the feeling, the suffocating fear that tightens in his chest and sucks out all the warmth from his head down, of watching Sherlock wrestle with death.
At some point, when they're cuddling on the sofa or in bed, John begins to lay his head on Sherlock's chest and just listen. He listens to that heart pumping away in there, doesn't sound any different than any other he's heard, but the more he listens, the more the sound fills him with unadulterated peace. As if he's on some kind of drug that turns everything quiet and calm and good.
If Sherlock notices this becoming a habit, he doesn't say anything.
He lies on his back in bed on mornings without work and stares at the ceiling, eyes opening and closing, until John wakes up and curls against him if he isn't already there. He positions himself with his head on Sherlock's chest, arm around torso, and he listens. Sherlock just holds him with both arms and doesn't move until John does, no matter how long it takes. Sometimes, John falls back asleep. Sometimes, his eyes sting and he must steel himself against the urge to weep. Sometimes, he smiles that kind of sleepy, pleased smile of someone whose world is all right. Sherlock's hands find John's head and stroke through his hair. They are warm together and comfortable and the sound of Sherlock's heart beating is the most Godlike sound in the entire universe to John.
He listens and he forgets his own and he thinks, This means Sherlock is alive. The past is irrelevant and the future is possible. The one I love most is alive.
John takes out his stethoscope whenever Sherlock falls sick or when he's inhaled smoke from an exploded experiment or bomb or fire. He takes it out on a few dark occasions when Sherlock's used coke again. He likes using the stethoscope because through it, the sound of Sherlock's heartbeat is loud and strong and clear and fills John's whole head. He can hear the air in Sherlock's lungs too.
"Breathe for me."
And Sherlock does and Jesus, it's the sound of heaven. Handel's fucking Messiah.
If John listens longer than he needs to, Sherlock doesn't complain, not even about the cold metal on his bare chest. He sits there quietly, patiently, while John takes care of them both.
One night, while working a case, their suspect turns around and starts chasing them. And they run because the man is dangerous but mostly because it's one hell of a fun time. Everything is adrenaline and blurred colors and disorienting lights when they're running like this. They never have more than half a second to think about anything, and Sherlock always leads with John following blindly, not caring where they go. John finds himself breathing a little harder after it's over than he did when he first met Sherlock (damn aging) but it's always worth the euphoria that comes after.
This time, they manage to get away on their own, leaning in a narrow space between the walls of two buildings. They spend several minutes just catching their breath and there's a cramp in John's side and shite, he needs a water. He's smiling because that was fantastic. That was long overdue.
All of sudden, Sherlock takes John's hand and presses it against his heart, the thin fabric of his button-down shirt smooth and familiar. John can feel the other man's racing pulse. Sherlock just stands there, head back against the wall, and John quits smiling and looks at him and feels Sherlock's hand over his and Sherlock's heart beneath his palm.
Sherlock opens those blue eyes and looks at him and smiles with half his mouth.
John loves him.
He wakes up to someone tugging at his shoulder, wanting him to roll on his back from where he's been sleeping on his side, and he cracks his eyes open just a bit and his brain reminds him, must be Sherlock.He lies on his back and decides to pass out again but pauses in brief surprise when he feels a warm and heavy weight settle on his chest. Eyes still shut, he feels for it with his hand and his fingers recognize Sherlock's curls and scalp and the base of his skull. Sherlock's arms circle around his torso. They don't say a word, although John vaguely considers mumbling, what are you doing? He doesn't bother, too sleepy and assuming that Sherlock is too.
John's heart beats slow and steady, beneath Sherlock's brain.
When John wakes up in the hospital, he doesn't remember what happened but he has no trouble recognizing where he is. (He's been here so bloody often in the last several years, after all.) It doesn't take him long to shake off his disorientation; as soon as he sees Sherlock sitting in the chair next to his bed, his brain sparks to attention.
Sherlock's posture is painfully straight, elbows on the armrests of the chair, hands folded under his chin. He's crying. He has his eyes closed and his face remains still and John doesn't know if Sherlock even realizes he's crying. But he is.
They've lived together for almost twelve years, but John can count the number of times he's seen Sherlock cry on one hand. Seeing it now, seeing him like this, shakes John in a way he cannot describe even to himself.
"Sherlock," he says, almost in a whisper.
Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at John, otherwise frozen in his pose. There are those impossibly blue irises, swimming in tears, and John feels his stomach clench. Sherlock lowers his arms, hands on the armrests now and elbows pointing backward.
He smiles. Gently. "Hello," he says.
"You're crying."
Sherlock doesn't even attempt to wipe his face. "Unimportant."
He stands up and leans over John, and John stares up at him.
"Are you all right now?" says Sherlock.
John nods, his face dark with concern. Sherlock starts to shift away from the bed, and John catches him by the sleeve of his suit jacket.
"Sherlock, are you?"
Sherlock just leans over him again and presses a kiss to John's forehead. His hand slides onto John's chest and finds his heart. John holds it there with his own hand, even after Sherlock's straightened away from him.
For a few moments, the two men just look at each other there, in that pose. Sherlock's faintly smiling, and John isn't at all. Sherlock could always hear John's pulse on the monitor but it wasn't the same.
Now he feels it. And now it's fine.
They've just outrun-on foot-a killer suspected of working for Moriarty. The man's dead against the steering wheel, car smashed head-on into a street light. The scene is swarming with police and Lestrade's not even paying Sherlock and John attention, he's too busy giving orders and asking questions. Sherlock's leaned up against the back of an ambulance, and John's standing in front of him with his hands on his hips and they're both so out of breath, it hurts their lungs and the muscles in their sides.
With the two of them still panting heavily, John steps closer and presses his left hand against Sherlock's right shoulder, leaning against him for support.
He puts his right hand over Sherlock's heart.
Donovan can see them; she stops to watch. But neither of them sees her and if they did, they wouldn't care.
It's after dinner and they're lying on the sofa with the telly on. John's listening to it more than watching, because he doesn't want to crook his neck to see. Sherlock's pressed along his left side, back against the sofa, top arm around him. John's got his arm around Sherlock and his thumb strokes over the same spot of Sherlock's shoulder. John doesn't think about it but Sherlock can hear his heart beating, though his head's not precisely over it. It's a bit muffled through John's thick jumper, but it's there.
"I think I understand," he says.
"What's that?"
"Why you're always listening to my pulse."
"Oh?"
Sherlock nods against John's chest. He moves his arm and lays his hand flat over John's heart, in front of his own face. He closes his eyes, and after a moment, John's hand curls around his.