Sherlock Fanfiction: Stone Mirror
Title: Stone Mirror
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: Somewhere between R & NC-17 (this section), NC-17 (overall)
Length: ~1400 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of the Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. Stone Mirror follows Nighttide.
Excerpt: John wondered what it was, because it wasn’t sound. He kept his eye on the corona of light grey in the upper windows as Sherlock approached from behind, his bare feet silent on the mosaic, not a rustle of silk, nor a hint of respiration, to give him away.
Stone Mirror
John wondered what it was, because it wasn’t sound. He kept his eye on the corona of light grey in the upper windows as Sherlock approached from behind, his bare feet silent on the mosaic, not a rustle of silk, nor a hint of respiration, to give him away. The clouds drifted past, a sliver of moon showing through one high pane. John shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. Why do I do that? I often do that.
“This wavelength of light affects you,” Sherlock said and John didn’t spill a drop of wine.
“Me and most of the planet. A cliché of song and story, Sherlock, love and moonlight,” John replied. The slice of moon disappeared; Sherlock’s hand landed on John’s shoulder and John settled his weight back on his heels.
“It’s just a stone mirror,” Sherlock observed. “But you thought of jumping one night when the moon was like this.”
John’s exhalation was audible. “I often thought of it.” He took a sip of wine. “Were you close enough to stop me…that night?”
“No,” Sherlock said and his fingers tightened slightly on John’s shoulder. “Close enough to summon aid immediately. You wouldn’t have died.”
“I could have hit my temple on the edge of a table.” The edge of the clouds was outlined in white light.
“Well, if you would be contrary,” Sherlock said and his hand slid to the side of John’s neck.
Taking my pulse again, are you? John switched his wineglass to his other hand and traced the knuckles of Sherlock’s hand with a fingertip.
“There’s a place I’d like to take you. You would like the sky there, at night,” Sherlock said.
“But,” John supplied the word.
“Being dead has proved a helpful subterfuge,” Sherlock continued. “Together we’re harder to disguise.”
John breathed a little more easily. Sherlock liked a challenge. The clouds sank and Sherlock’s hand drifted away from John’s throat. Half a moon beamed through the window, brilliant and cold.
Chair legs scraped along the floor. “You imagined me on one of the tables below you, when you looked from the balcony,” Sherlock said. “But I disappointed you.”
John turned. Sherlock was arranging himself alongside the reading lamps, raised on one elbow, other hand undoing the knot of his sash.
John finished his wine, set the glass carefully beneath the table. His lips were still moist from the wine when he pressed them against the cool arch of Sherlock’s foot.
***
“I didn’t dare do this,” Sherlock whispered and John paused above him.
“But you wanted to,” John said, wishing to state the obvious, to underscore it with words and with the warm motion of his body.
Sherlock’s fingers fluttered along John’s hips, John's thighs. They wanted to grip tightly and pull John down at the right angle. John sensed it and it pleased him.
“It’s understandable that it should please you, John. There was so much you wanted that you couldn’t have, that I had taken away from you,” Sherlock said, holding his voice steady, contemplative. John adjusted his hips just enough that Sherlock’s breath quivered as he exhaled.
“I don’t want to like that. I want to give you what you need,” John said, bearing down, overcoming the resistance. Sherlock’s breath began to carry sound. John was inexorable.
“John,” Sherlock said and the steadiness was gone. “I don’t think I can leave you.”
“That would be the point of this exercise, Sherlock,” John said, leaning back to run both his hands along the back of Sherlock’s thighs. Because there are things I need, too.
***
Something hot was digging into John’s back when he awoke. He considered the shape sleepily.
“Panama,” Sherlock stated. Keys clicked. “Would have known where to go next much more quickly if Moran had survived to talk.”
“Maybe that’s why he put his throat in the way of the knife,” John said, waking up more rapidly than usual.
“You think he’d rather have died than help destroy Moriarty’s empire?” Sherlock asked.
“Life in prison doesn’t appeal to some,” John replied and shifted his hips.
“Be still. We’ll end up with tickets to Papua New Guinea instead of Panama City,” Sherlock scolded.
John let his limbs relax into the mattress and smiled.
***
“I’ve ordered a new case and a new carry-on to be delivered to Baker Street,” Sherlock said from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop balanced on the ottoman in front of him. “You’ve recently finished a six-month contract. Not strange to go on a holiday.”
“Not your typical destination though,” John said, looking away from the open book on his lap.
“Can you smuggle my violin in here before you pack? I’ve missed it and the carry-on is the perfect size,” Sherlock said and pressed one more key with a flourish.
“What did you just buy?” John asked.
“Clothes. Not ones either of us will wish to keep,” Sherlock said.
“When are we going?” John smiled as he said we.
“Day after tomorrow, Dr Watson departs with his new luggage on a well-deserved holiday. A sojourn to refresh his spirits and to have a little holiday sex, perhaps,” Sherlock said, eyes still fixed on his laptop. “The clothes inside, however, are for J. Hamish Watson, pharmaceutical executive, to wear as he seeks the most advantageous shipping contract for his company.” Sherlock looked over the top of the screen for a moment. “Perhaps we should darken your hair a little. J. Hamish Watson has a small gambling habit, nothing out of control he insists; a wife, blonde, petite, interior designer, likes pretty things, and two children, attending private schools, very expensive.” Sherlock tapped rhythmically on the keyboard with one finger. “Any preferences as to gender, colouring, for the children? I’m creating photos for your wallet.”
“I’d like them to be tall for their age,” John began, watching the colours on the screen tint the top of Sherlock's face. “With thick, dark hair and blue-green eyes.”
Sherlock stopped tapping, took a breath before asking, “When did you discover this?”
“When I was running the blood tests on Molly and Mike and Mrs Hudson, I ran some extra tests on myself.”
“It’s a big leap. What made you think to test your semen?” Sherlock probed, his eyes noting the movement of every muscle in John’s face.
“The portrait, for one,” John answered, glancing away. “It does happen. My grandfather grew up to look just like an older cousin who had died in WWII, I am told. Such strong resemblences are unusual though.” John brought his eyes back to Sherlock.
“You still forgave me,” Sherlock stated, appearing to weigh the implications.
“That certainly wasn’t the worst of your transgressions.”
“No? Your children wouldn’t only be yours,” Sherlock said.
“No one’s children are just their own,” John replied. “But you didn’t foresee that effect, did you?” Sherlock shook his head. “How did you feel when you found out?” Sherlock looked down. “Sherlock.”
“Happy,” Sherlock replied to his hands. “I observed it in my system first, then I tested you.”
“But you assumed it would only be relevant to me,” John said. “That I’d outlive you, marry someone and have a family.” Sherlock nodded. “How did you think I would feel when my children grew to look like you?”
Sherlock’s thumb was running across his fingertips. “I thought you might name one after me anyway. You suggested I name one after you,” he said quietly. “And they might take after their mother.”
“I have a theory that the altered genes are dominant, so these hypothetical progeny of mine don’t resemble my hypothetical spouse. How do I feel?”
Sherlock’s gaze flicked up to John and back to his hands. “Happy?”
“A boy and a girl,” John said. “Make the wife a tall brunette. I should have her photo in my wallet, too.”
***
John rolled over, slid his arm across the sheets. The cool emptiness woke him. He heard high, faint sounds. He lifted his head, made out the dim outline of the open bedroom door. Not bothering with dressing gown or sheet, John followed the unrelated notes into the office and out again into the Rare Books Room. The last echo faded. Another cloudy night left the room dark, but he still looked up. It was the direction where he sought Sherlock first. The clouds edged away from the moon and the opening strains of Clair du Lune fell with the pale light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A link if you would like to hear Clair du Lune.
The next part may be read here.
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: Somewhere between R & NC-17 (this section), NC-17 (overall)
Length: ~1400 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of the Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. Stone Mirror follows Nighttide.
Excerpt: John wondered what it was, because it wasn’t sound. He kept his eye on the corona of light grey in the upper windows as Sherlock approached from behind, his bare feet silent on the mosaic, not a rustle of silk, nor a hint of respiration, to give him away.
Stone Mirror
John wondered what it was, because it wasn’t sound. He kept his eye on the corona of light grey in the upper windows as Sherlock approached from behind, his bare feet silent on the mosaic, not a rustle of silk, nor a hint of respiration, to give him away. The clouds drifted past, a sliver of moon showing through one high pane. John shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. Why do I do that? I often do that.
“This wavelength of light affects you,” Sherlock said and John didn’t spill a drop of wine.
“Me and most of the planet. A cliché of song and story, Sherlock, love and moonlight,” John replied. The slice of moon disappeared; Sherlock’s hand landed on John’s shoulder and John settled his weight back on his heels.
“It’s just a stone mirror,” Sherlock observed. “But you thought of jumping one night when the moon was like this.”
John’s exhalation was audible. “I often thought of it.” He took a sip of wine. “Were you close enough to stop me…that night?”
“No,” Sherlock said and his fingers tightened slightly on John’s shoulder. “Close enough to summon aid immediately. You wouldn’t have died.”
“I could have hit my temple on the edge of a table.” The edge of the clouds was outlined in white light.
“Well, if you would be contrary,” Sherlock said and his hand slid to the side of John’s neck.
Taking my pulse again, are you? John switched his wineglass to his other hand and traced the knuckles of Sherlock’s hand with a fingertip.
“There’s a place I’d like to take you. You would like the sky there, at night,” Sherlock said.
“But,” John supplied the word.
“Being dead has proved a helpful subterfuge,” Sherlock continued. “Together we’re harder to disguise.”
John breathed a little more easily. Sherlock liked a challenge. The clouds sank and Sherlock’s hand drifted away from John’s throat. Half a moon beamed through the window, brilliant and cold.
Chair legs scraped along the floor. “You imagined me on one of the tables below you, when you looked from the balcony,” Sherlock said. “But I disappointed you.”
John turned. Sherlock was arranging himself alongside the reading lamps, raised on one elbow, other hand undoing the knot of his sash.
John finished his wine, set the glass carefully beneath the table. His lips were still moist from the wine when he pressed them against the cool arch of Sherlock’s foot.
***
“I didn’t dare do this,” Sherlock whispered and John paused above him.
“But you wanted to,” John said, wishing to state the obvious, to underscore it with words and with the warm motion of his body.
Sherlock’s fingers fluttered along John’s hips, John's thighs. They wanted to grip tightly and pull John down at the right angle. John sensed it and it pleased him.
“It’s understandable that it should please you, John. There was so much you wanted that you couldn’t have, that I had taken away from you,” Sherlock said, holding his voice steady, contemplative. John adjusted his hips just enough that Sherlock’s breath quivered as he exhaled.
“I don’t want to like that. I want to give you what you need,” John said, bearing down, overcoming the resistance. Sherlock’s breath began to carry sound. John was inexorable.
“John,” Sherlock said and the steadiness was gone. “I don’t think I can leave you.”
“That would be the point of this exercise, Sherlock,” John said, leaning back to run both his hands along the back of Sherlock’s thighs. Because there are things I need, too.
***
Something hot was digging into John’s back when he awoke. He considered the shape sleepily.
“Panama,” Sherlock stated. Keys clicked. “Would have known where to go next much more quickly if Moran had survived to talk.”
“Maybe that’s why he put his throat in the way of the knife,” John said, waking up more rapidly than usual.
“You think he’d rather have died than help destroy Moriarty’s empire?” Sherlock asked.
“Life in prison doesn’t appeal to some,” John replied and shifted his hips.
“Be still. We’ll end up with tickets to Papua New Guinea instead of Panama City,” Sherlock scolded.
John let his limbs relax into the mattress and smiled.
***
“I’ve ordered a new case and a new carry-on to be delivered to Baker Street,” Sherlock said from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop balanced on the ottoman in front of him. “You’ve recently finished a six-month contract. Not strange to go on a holiday.”
“Not your typical destination though,” John said, looking away from the open book on his lap.
“Can you smuggle my violin in here before you pack? I’ve missed it and the carry-on is the perfect size,” Sherlock said and pressed one more key with a flourish.
“What did you just buy?” John asked.
“Clothes. Not ones either of us will wish to keep,” Sherlock said.
“When are we going?” John smiled as he said we.
“Day after tomorrow, Dr Watson departs with his new luggage on a well-deserved holiday. A sojourn to refresh his spirits and to have a little holiday sex, perhaps,” Sherlock said, eyes still fixed on his laptop. “The clothes inside, however, are for J. Hamish Watson, pharmaceutical executive, to wear as he seeks the most advantageous shipping contract for his company.” Sherlock looked over the top of the screen for a moment. “Perhaps we should darken your hair a little. J. Hamish Watson has a small gambling habit, nothing out of control he insists; a wife, blonde, petite, interior designer, likes pretty things, and two children, attending private schools, very expensive.” Sherlock tapped rhythmically on the keyboard with one finger. “Any preferences as to gender, colouring, for the children? I’m creating photos for your wallet.”
“I’d like them to be tall for their age,” John began, watching the colours on the screen tint the top of Sherlock's face. “With thick, dark hair and blue-green eyes.”
Sherlock stopped tapping, took a breath before asking, “When did you discover this?”
“When I was running the blood tests on Molly and Mike and Mrs Hudson, I ran some extra tests on myself.”
“It’s a big leap. What made you think to test your semen?” Sherlock probed, his eyes noting the movement of every muscle in John’s face.
“The portrait, for one,” John answered, glancing away. “It does happen. My grandfather grew up to look just like an older cousin who had died in WWII, I am told. Such strong resemblences are unusual though.” John brought his eyes back to Sherlock.
“You still forgave me,” Sherlock stated, appearing to weigh the implications.
“That certainly wasn’t the worst of your transgressions.”
“No? Your children wouldn’t only be yours,” Sherlock said.
“No one’s children are just their own,” John replied. “But you didn’t foresee that effect, did you?” Sherlock shook his head. “How did you feel when you found out?” Sherlock looked down. “Sherlock.”
“Happy,” Sherlock replied to his hands. “I observed it in my system first, then I tested you.”
“But you assumed it would only be relevant to me,” John said. “That I’d outlive you, marry someone and have a family.” Sherlock nodded. “How did you think I would feel when my children grew to look like you?”
Sherlock’s thumb was running across his fingertips. “I thought you might name one after me anyway. You suggested I name one after you,” he said quietly. “And they might take after their mother.”
“I have a theory that the altered genes are dominant, so these hypothetical progeny of mine don’t resemble my hypothetical spouse. How do I feel?”
Sherlock’s gaze flicked up to John and back to his hands. “Happy?”
“A boy and a girl,” John said. “Make the wife a tall brunette. I should have her photo in my wallet, too.”
***
John rolled over, slid his arm across the sheets. The cool emptiness woke him. He heard high, faint sounds. He lifted his head, made out the dim outline of the open bedroom door. Not bothering with dressing gown or sheet, John followed the unrelated notes into the office and out again into the Rare Books Room. The last echo faded. Another cloudy night left the room dark, but he still looked up. It was the direction where he sought Sherlock first. The clouds edged away from the moon and the opening strains of Clair du Lune fell with the pale light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A link if you would like to hear Clair du Lune.
The next part may be read here.