Sherlock Fanfiction: Zygomata
Title: Zygomata
Author: Saki101
Genre: pre-slash or slash
Rating: PG
Length: ~650 words
Warning: Spoilers for second season.
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's note: Episode-related, The Hounds of Baskerville.
(Link also posted on sherlockbbc and AO3.)
Excerpt: Cheekbones. Not something John normally thought about, unless they were fractured or partially blown away, needing reconstructive surgery if the patient survived. Not until he’d met Sherlock Holmes anyway and spent months noting the pale curve of them.
Zygomata
Cheekbones. Not something John normally thought about, unless they were fractured or partially blown away, needing reconstructive surgery if the patient survived. Not until he’d met Sherlock Holmes anyway and spent months noting the pale curve of them.
“Oh, please. Can we not do that this time?” The words had just spilt out of John’s mouth.
“Do what?” Sherlock had asked, a thread of pleasure running through his voice.
The slimmest of threads, but John had noticed it glimmering in the rich depth of that voice. Such a versatile instrument, Sherlock’s voice, one from which he wrung melodies every bit as expressive as those he summoned from his violin. The sounds played along John’s nerves in unexpected ways. As did other things Sherlock did. And really, they couldn’t be unconscious, not all of them.
“You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.” More than cool. Unattainable. Don’t hide your neck. I love to see it. Strong, graceful. I wish to pull the collar back and see more. Don’t hide it.
“I don’t do that,” Sherlock had protested.
You doth protest too much. “Yeah, you do,” John said and got into the Land Rover. Sherlock glanced about as though for a witness to corroborate his testimony or for an audience. Sherlock liked an audience, but there had been no one else around as they walked towards the jeep except John. The performance had been for John, Sherlock’s most receptive audience. And John had protested instead of applauding and asking for an encore. I doth protest too much, John thought as he glanced sideways, his eyes tracing the contours of Sherlock’s profile against the passing grey-green countryside.
John returned to gazing out his window. Dartmoor suited Sherlock and he’d never thought that anything except the neon throb of London could suit him, could match his energy. But Sherlock atop the strange rock formations which erupted from the rolling landscape, had seemed right. John had turned his field glasses on him when Sherlock was looking out towards Baskerville, seen all of him outlined against the sky, including those high, sharp cheekbones.
“So the e-mail from Kirsty...the missing, luminous rabbit...” John had brought his thoughts back to the case and resumed speaking, ignoring, for the most part, the alluring elegance of Sherlock’s cheekbones.
**************
He’d been trying too hard. John realised it amidst the gravestones in the morning, reviewing the previous evening’s conversation. He’d been trying to focus on the case, to ignore the feelings Sherlock stirred in him. He’d concentrated so effectively that he’d managed to ignore what was happening to Sherlock right in front of him. How could he have done that as a physician, never mind as a friend? Ignored those symptoms? In Sherlock?
“You’ve been pretty wired lately, you know you have.” John could hear himself saying it in his best bedside manner. Condescending, unobservant. He was a better doctor than that. He had hoped he was a better friend.
Sherlock, who could disregard the most essential demands of his body when his mind was engaged, had had to spell it out for John. “My body is betraying me,” he had said and not only his hand, but his voice had trembled, trembled with the effort of keeping it under control. There had been tears in the corners of his eyes. And John had chalked it all up to nicotine withdrawal? He should have suspected a stronger substance. He’d seen drug reactions, interactions, knew more than a bit about pharmacology. Had even asked about chemical weapons as they strode through Baskerville. Why hadn’t he at least considered the possibility, instead of leaving Sherlock to grapple with it alone in his impaired state? John closed his notebook, walked away when Sherlock came through the churchyard gate, kept his distance as Sherlock followed. When Sherlock caught up, grabbing John's arm, explaining how disorienting having to doubt his own senses had been, John uttered a few glib words and turned away yet again.
It wasn't only Sherlock’s body betraying him. And all because of coat collars and cheekbones.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next ficlet in the series may be found here.
Author: Saki101
Genre: pre-slash or slash
Rating: PG
Length: ~650 words
Warning: Spoilers for second season.
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's note: Episode-related, The Hounds of Baskerville.
(Link also posted on sherlockbbc and AO3.)
Excerpt: Cheekbones. Not something John normally thought about, unless they were fractured or partially blown away, needing reconstructive surgery if the patient survived. Not until he’d met Sherlock Holmes anyway and spent months noting the pale curve of them.
Zygomata
Cheekbones. Not something John normally thought about, unless they were fractured or partially blown away, needing reconstructive surgery if the patient survived. Not until he’d met Sherlock Holmes anyway and spent months noting the pale curve of them.
“Oh, please. Can we not do that this time?” The words had just spilt out of John’s mouth.
“Do what?” Sherlock had asked, a thread of pleasure running through his voice.
The slimmest of threads, but John had noticed it glimmering in the rich depth of that voice. Such a versatile instrument, Sherlock’s voice, one from which he wrung melodies every bit as expressive as those he summoned from his violin. The sounds played along John’s nerves in unexpected ways. As did other things Sherlock did. And really, they couldn’t be unconscious, not all of them.
“You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.” More than cool. Unattainable. Don’t hide your neck. I love to see it. Strong, graceful. I wish to pull the collar back and see more. Don’t hide it.
“I don’t do that,” Sherlock had protested.
You doth protest too much. “Yeah, you do,” John said and got into the Land Rover. Sherlock glanced about as though for a witness to corroborate his testimony or for an audience. Sherlock liked an audience, but there had been no one else around as they walked towards the jeep except John. The performance had been for John, Sherlock’s most receptive audience. And John had protested instead of applauding and asking for an encore. I doth protest too much, John thought as he glanced sideways, his eyes tracing the contours of Sherlock’s profile against the passing grey-green countryside.
John returned to gazing out his window. Dartmoor suited Sherlock and he’d never thought that anything except the neon throb of London could suit him, could match his energy. But Sherlock atop the strange rock formations which erupted from the rolling landscape, had seemed right. John had turned his field glasses on him when Sherlock was looking out towards Baskerville, seen all of him outlined against the sky, including those high, sharp cheekbones.
“So the e-mail from Kirsty...the missing, luminous rabbit...” John had brought his thoughts back to the case and resumed speaking, ignoring, for the most part, the alluring elegance of Sherlock’s cheekbones.
**************
He’d been trying too hard. John realised it amidst the gravestones in the morning, reviewing the previous evening’s conversation. He’d been trying to focus on the case, to ignore the feelings Sherlock stirred in him. He’d concentrated so effectively that he’d managed to ignore what was happening to Sherlock right in front of him. How could he have done that as a physician, never mind as a friend? Ignored those symptoms? In Sherlock?
“You’ve been pretty wired lately, you know you have.” John could hear himself saying it in his best bedside manner. Condescending, unobservant. He was a better doctor than that. He had hoped he was a better friend.
Sherlock, who could disregard the most essential demands of his body when his mind was engaged, had had to spell it out for John. “My body is betraying me,” he had said and not only his hand, but his voice had trembled, trembled with the effort of keeping it under control. There had been tears in the corners of his eyes. And John had chalked it all up to nicotine withdrawal? He should have suspected a stronger substance. He’d seen drug reactions, interactions, knew more than a bit about pharmacology. Had even asked about chemical weapons as they strode through Baskerville. Why hadn’t he at least considered the possibility, instead of leaving Sherlock to grapple with it alone in his impaired state? John closed his notebook, walked away when Sherlock came through the churchyard gate, kept his distance as Sherlock followed. When Sherlock caught up, grabbing John's arm, explaining how disorienting having to doubt his own senses had been, John uttered a few glib words and turned away yet again.
It wasn't only Sherlock’s body betraying him. And all because of coat collars and cheekbones.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next ficlet in the series may be found here.