Fill: Human For A While (1a/?)
anonymous
June 7 2011, 11:28:18 UTC
Human For A While
Part One: HarryJohn was a total wreck when he came home from Afghanistan: shoulder useless, hand shaking, a limp his therapist said was psychosomatic, if you wanted to listen to that sort of bullshit. Staggering along on an Army pension, no way he could stay in London permanently on that sort of money, but would he take anything from Harry? Would he buggery. Except the phone, and she was pretty sure he'd only accepted that because of Clara. Always thought he had an eye for Clara, though he denied it. His gaydar really was nonexistent, poor sap
( ... )
Fill: Human For A While, 4a/?
anonymous
June 18 2011, 15:02:36 UTC
Human For A While
Part Four: John
Finding the photograph changed everything.
He'd been trying to sort Hector's books into boxes - the ones he wanted to keep and the ones for the Oxfam shop. Tucked away behind a clutch of classic detective stories he'd decided to take for comfort reading was another volume of Scottish folktales, not one he'd seen before. Hector's name on the flyleaf and his notes in the margins looked firmer and clearer than John remembered. Written long ago, obviously.
The dust made him sneeze, and he banged the book shut to shake it off. A loose page dropped out of it and landed on the floor. Fuck. Torn it. As he bent to pick it up he realized it wasn't part of the book at all, but a separate black-and-white photograph. Slightly blurred, but it took his breath away.
What the hell was Hector doing with a picture of Sherlock?
Was it Sherlock, though? It was uncannily like him, but looking at it again, John wasn't quite sure. He peered closer at the pencilled figures in the corner: xii.viii.46There was
( ... )
Fill: Human For A While, 4c/?
anonymous
June 18 2011, 15:06:50 UTC
No finesse to it this time: they clutched and grabbed at each other, needy, frantic, trying to blot out what had happened. Sherlock was all bones, bruising and hard, slamming against him as John groaned and gasped for breath. He gripped tighter as Sherlock thrust, though his knee was hurting and his shoulder was screaming in protest.
Words kept forming in his mind: the last time, it can't be the last time, I can't bear it, if I have to give you up I'll die... He buried his face in Sherlock's neck, crying out and coming apart, shaken by the force of it
( ... )
Re: Fill: Human For A While, 4c/?
anonymous
June 18 2011, 15:58:08 UTC
Thank you so much - I am so happy to have found this prompt, because I'm loving writing this. I'm delighted you think the mixture is believable and that you like the story.
Part One: HarryJohn was a total wreck when he came home from Afghanistan: shoulder useless, hand shaking, a limp his therapist said was psychosomatic, if you wanted to listen to that sort of bullshit. Staggering along on an Army pension, no way he could stay in London permanently on that sort of money, but would he take anything from Harry? Would he buggery. Except the phone, and she was pretty sure he'd only accepted that because of Clara. Always thought he had an eye for Clara, though he denied it. His gaydar really was nonexistent, poor sap ( ... )
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Part Four: John
Finding the photograph changed everything.
He'd been trying to sort Hector's books into boxes - the ones he wanted to keep and the ones for the Oxfam shop. Tucked away behind a clutch of classic detective stories he'd decided to take for comfort reading was another volume of Scottish folktales, not one he'd seen before. Hector's name on the flyleaf and his notes in the margins looked firmer and clearer than John remembered. Written long ago, obviously.
The dust made him sneeze, and he banged the book shut to shake it off. A loose page dropped out of it and landed on the floor. Fuck. Torn it. As he bent to pick it up he realized it wasn't part of the book at all, but a separate black-and-white photograph. Slightly blurred, but it took his breath away.
What the hell was Hector doing with a picture of Sherlock?
Was it Sherlock, though? It was uncannily like him, but looking at it again, John wasn't quite sure. He peered closer at the pencilled figures in the corner: xii.viii.46There was ( ... )
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John groaned and buried his face in the sofa cushions, giving up the battle with exhaustion.
Must show Sherlock that picture, he thought, as his eyelids began to droop.
“Where did you get that?” Sherlock's voice was harsh.
“It was in one of Hector's books,” John said. “I thought at first it was you, till I saw the date. Do you know who it is?”
“It's my grandfather.” Sherlock looked as if he might be about to be sick. “I never knew him. But I've seen - other images of him.”
“There's a quotation on the back, but I don't know what it means,” John said, showing him.
Sherlock gave a cry and dropped to his knees, burying his face in his hands.
“Sherlock. Sherlock, please, what is it?” John knelt beside him and put a tentative hand on his shoulder.
“Not here,” Sherlock moaned, “it wasn't here, I'd have known“What wasn't?” John asked. His stomach was knotted with dread ( ... )
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Words kept forming in his mind: the last time, it can't be the last time, I can't bear it, if I have to give you up I'll die... He buried his face in Sherlock's neck, crying out and coming apart, shaken by the force of it ( ... )
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Anon, you are going to crush my soul, and I'm going to encourage you every step of the way with tears streaming down my face.
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