Game and Wager
title: Game and Wager
pairing: Sherlock/John
rating: G
author: reogulus
disclaimer: I do not have any rights to anything related to Sherlock BBC.
word count: 860
notes: A fill for this prompt at the sherlockbbc_fic kink meme.
Other wars are lowly and unworthy, driven by greed or stupidity, all the malice within human nature that no one could have defeated. Sherlock’s game is different. His game is driven by him and him alone. Perhaps the only duty he owes to the Queen and country is to thank them for providing him with a gaming board called London.
He’s the last one standing when the sound of shrieking sirens rings the game to an end. He’d smooth out the wrinkles in his coat, stand on the corner of the street and quietly observe as the sergeants take the criminals away. He’d pace back and forth on the pavement for days, deduct every passer-by within seconds and repeat his findings to the skull at night, a futile effort to burn off the excess adrenaline. He’d refuse to sleep until the high wears off, only to wake up feeling bored again.
Other people may agree that wars happen for a reasonable cause, but they don’t understand Sherlock’s game. Sometimes he’d laugh out loud just thinking about their confused faces.
He actually prefers ordinary people to misunderstand his motive as simply selfishness; it saves the trouble of explanations. They see him for what he does and not who he is, they see his genius but refuse to acknowledge him as an asset. Donovan’s mocked him countless times about how he gets his kicks, and he’d always smile back with the sharpest sarcasm in his eyes.
He hadn’t expected anything different from John, but the doctor somehow proved him wrong. Another round of the game finished, the curtains fell and they were back at 221B, at three in the morning with a stomach full of Chinese food. The cotton swabs and bottles of cleansers stood on the coffee table between them. John’s calloused fingers rested on Sherlock’s palm, as the consulting detective carefully scrubbed the powder burns clean. John wanted to do it himself but Sherlock insisted that he would be sloppy and leave traces behind. Lestrade could be terribly observant, although only at the wrong times.
They sat there waiting for every last bit of evidence to be erased. The rushing adrenaline and uncontrollable laughter was dying down, precipitating into a heavier knowledge. The strange privity between a man who had just killed, and a man who had almost been killed.
“Make sure I don’t take the wrong pill next time,” he mumbled before tossing the cotton swab into the dustbin.
John smiled. “Yeah, I have a feeling you will.”
Other people make mistakes in other wars. Sherlock’s game is never subject to those mistakes because his deduction never fails. There’s no blind confidence. There’s only science. There’s only him.
The game’s become more exciting with company. Even the mundane, uneventful weeks somehow feel more bearable (well, the wall begs to differ). It’s funny how the streets of London feel shorter when he’s chasing the target with John by his side. It’s funny how he actually refers to John as his friend in front of Sebastian, even though it’s only to show off. It’s funny how he never bothered to get the skull back from Mrs. Hudson because John’s actually the better listener.
He allows John to look into him. He knows that caring is dangerous and it would change the nature of the game, but John is the risk he’s willing to take.
Until Moriarty waltzes back in, and for the first time, Sherlock Holmes knows he’s calculated wrong. The smugness in Moriarty’s voice is the punishment for cheating at his own game.
The Bruce-Partington Plans is but a false wager - Moriarty knows it and it’s sunk to the bottom of the pool.
John gives him the slightest nod and it’s taking all of his self-restraint to keep his eyes on Moriarty.
In the fraction of the second it takes for the bullet to ignite the Semtex, Sherlock risks a final glance at him.
The only stake he can’t let go of is John Watson.
They are carried out of the smothering ruins together, lying side by side on two stretchers, the paramedics loading them into the ambulance.
He manages to stretch the index finger of his unburned hand and touches John’s bloody shirtsleeve.
“I wasn’t done speaking…when that bastard came back,” he croaks with the last of his strength. “What you offered… to do…Don’t do that again.”
John turns over to look at him. There are sweat beads on his forehead. It’s taking all of his efforts to just look back.
“But you said it was…” he pauses to gasp for air, “’twas good.”
Somehow watching John trying to speak with a damaged windpipe makes Sherlock more painful than the ugliest burns on his right arm.
He pulls his finger back, wincing at the sharp ache. But he doesn’t take his eyes off of John, even as the paramedics are speaking rapidly and the siren of the ambulance is ringing and he’s definitely not capable of standing up at the moment.
“Shut up.”
end
pairing: Sherlock/John
rating: G
author: reogulus
disclaimer: I do not have any rights to anything related to Sherlock BBC.
word count: 860
notes: A fill for this prompt at the sherlockbbc_fic kink meme.
Other wars are lowly and unworthy, driven by greed or stupidity, all the malice within human nature that no one could have defeated. Sherlock’s game is different. His game is driven by him and him alone. Perhaps the only duty he owes to the Queen and country is to thank them for providing him with a gaming board called London.
He’s the last one standing when the sound of shrieking sirens rings the game to an end. He’d smooth out the wrinkles in his coat, stand on the corner of the street and quietly observe as the sergeants take the criminals away. He’d pace back and forth on the pavement for days, deduct every passer-by within seconds and repeat his findings to the skull at night, a futile effort to burn off the excess adrenaline. He’d refuse to sleep until the high wears off, only to wake up feeling bored again.
Other people may agree that wars happen for a reasonable cause, but they don’t understand Sherlock’s game. Sometimes he’d laugh out loud just thinking about their confused faces.
He actually prefers ordinary people to misunderstand his motive as simply selfishness; it saves the trouble of explanations. They see him for what he does and not who he is, they see his genius but refuse to acknowledge him as an asset. Donovan’s mocked him countless times about how he gets his kicks, and he’d always smile back with the sharpest sarcasm in his eyes.
He hadn’t expected anything different from John, but the doctor somehow proved him wrong. Another round of the game finished, the curtains fell and they were back at 221B, at three in the morning with a stomach full of Chinese food. The cotton swabs and bottles of cleansers stood on the coffee table between them. John’s calloused fingers rested on Sherlock’s palm, as the consulting detective carefully scrubbed the powder burns clean. John wanted to do it himself but Sherlock insisted that he would be sloppy and leave traces behind. Lestrade could be terribly observant, although only at the wrong times.
They sat there waiting for every last bit of evidence to be erased. The rushing adrenaline and uncontrollable laughter was dying down, precipitating into a heavier knowledge. The strange privity between a man who had just killed, and a man who had almost been killed.
“Make sure I don’t take the wrong pill next time,” he mumbled before tossing the cotton swab into the dustbin.
John smiled. “Yeah, I have a feeling you will.”
Other people make mistakes in other wars. Sherlock’s game is never subject to those mistakes because his deduction never fails. There’s no blind confidence. There’s only science. There’s only him.
The game’s become more exciting with company. Even the mundane, uneventful weeks somehow feel more bearable (well, the wall begs to differ). It’s funny how the streets of London feel shorter when he’s chasing the target with John by his side. It’s funny how he actually refers to John as his friend in front of Sebastian, even though it’s only to show off. It’s funny how he never bothered to get the skull back from Mrs. Hudson because John’s actually the better listener.
He allows John to look into him. He knows that caring is dangerous and it would change the nature of the game, but John is the risk he’s willing to take.
Until Moriarty waltzes back in, and for the first time, Sherlock Holmes knows he’s calculated wrong. The smugness in Moriarty’s voice is the punishment for cheating at his own game.
The Bruce-Partington Plans is but a false wager - Moriarty knows it and it’s sunk to the bottom of the pool.
John gives him the slightest nod and it’s taking all of his self-restraint to keep his eyes on Moriarty.
In the fraction of the second it takes for the bullet to ignite the Semtex, Sherlock risks a final glance at him.
The only stake he can’t let go of is John Watson.
They are carried out of the smothering ruins together, lying side by side on two stretchers, the paramedics loading them into the ambulance.
He manages to stretch the index finger of his unburned hand and touches John’s bloody shirtsleeve.
“I wasn’t done speaking…when that bastard came back,” he croaks with the last of his strength. “What you offered… to do…Don’t do that again.”
John turns over to look at him. There are sweat beads on his forehead. It’s taking all of his efforts to just look back.
“But you said it was…” he pauses to gasp for air, “’twas good.”
Somehow watching John trying to speak with a damaged windpipe makes Sherlock more painful than the ugliest burns on his right arm.
He pulls his finger back, wincing at the sharp ache. But he doesn’t take his eyes off of John, even as the paramedics are speaking rapidly and the siren of the ambulance is ringing and he’s definitely not capable of standing up at the moment.
“Shut up.”
end