Sherlock Fanfic: Finish Line
Title: Finish Line
Pairing: Sherlock and John
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Words: ~1500
Summary:
Sherlock turns up unexpectedly at 221B Baker Street. John is expecting someone else. Post Reichenbach; some spoilers.
Thank you as ever to reya and hannah for being wonderful people who keep me sane and happy and loved when it gets hard.
Sherlock is expecting the punch. As the pain blossoms on his cheek (very consistent, well done John), he feels a certain satisfaction borne out of the idea that he’s somehow apologising without having to use the words, because Sherlock knows himself well enough to acknowledge that he’d take the punch over the words every single time. What he isn’t expecting is the sensation of ice cold fingers being pressed to the ugly mark against his left cheekbone, and it takes him a moment to realise that John has improvised with a bag of severed fingers which Sherlock must have secreted away in the back of the freezer and promptly forgotten about. The sensation is less than pleasant, but he carefully pretends it doesn’t bother him; to protest about it would be churlish in the circumstances and he’s already been punched once today, so he attempts a conciliatory smile.
“Don’t even try that,” John says, more calmly than Sherlock expects, but there’s a tremor in his left hand as he raises it to inspect Sherlock’s face and Sherlock assumes that the twisting feeling in his gut is what people refer to as remorse. “Don’t you dare try that on me, Sherlock.”
John dumps the (now slightly soft at the edges) bag of fingers on the coffee table and presses his fingers to the small laceration less than gently. Sherlock winces and John prods harder, his mouth set in a grim line. Sherlock is happy to remain silent as he works, taking the opportunity to observe his friend at close quarters.
“And you can stop doing that as well,” says John shortly, turning his head to look for the plaster he’s left on the table. “I’m fairly sure that even Anderson would be able to tell what I’m thinking, Sherlock. You don’t need to be a genius to work that out.” Sherlock doesn’t like the way John says genius now. It sounds unhappy and bitter, and Sherlock blinks rapidly, twice, his ego (he assumes) a little stung. “Look John-”
“No. Sherlock. You don’t get to do that.” John is shouting now, and has sat down heavily on the coffee table, his fists clenched. “You don’t get to make it all better yet. Do you understand?” Sherlock’s hand instinctively moves to his bruised cheek as John’s voice rises and his knuckles turn white. John flattens out his hands against his thighs with an exasperated noise and lowers his head, shoulders moving rhythmically with the effort of keeping himself together. Sherlock can only watch, wondering if this isn’t actually worse than being punched again.
He allows the silence to lengthen, taking comfort in it. From downstairs, he can hear Mrs Hudson rearranging her saucepans with a vehemence which matches John’s silence in its eloquence. Sherlock winces. He’ll try to talk to her again later. Perhaps he’ll bring cake.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hit you again,” John says eventually. “For one thing, your cheekbones bloody hurt, you dick.”
Sherlock can hear the moment John starts smiling and he relaxes into the chair, mouth twitching at one corner. “So I’ve been told,” he says lightly, carefully; almost too carefully for him, but he senses that a great deal rests upon the next few minutes. “Many times.”
He watches as John shakes his head, sniffs once and then raises his head to meet his eyes. Sherlock tries (and fails, because he’s Sherlock) not to notice the evidence before him. For once he doesn’t want to notice, doesn’t want to know. The insomnia, the (regular) drinking, the (occasional) self medication, the (terrible) diet, the listlessness: the overall absence of John-ness. Sherlock isn’t sure how else to describe it, and that almost upsets him as much as the notion itself.
He sighs, an unhappy sound which seems to fill the room. “I felt guilty, John, if it helps at all?”
John gives him a look. It’s a look Sherlock knows particularly well, because it’s the one that means John’s pissed off with him. The familiarity of it pierces Sherlock, surprising him, and he rises from the chair and stalks the room, coming to a stop automatically in front of the fireplace. Dusty. Very. John’s not been back long then, or Mrs Hudson would have been in to “do” for him. He regards his friend in the mirror, fiddling with a yellowing postcard of the Yorkshire Dales (from Harry, evidently her idea of a condolence card, how tender of her) and waiting. Waiting.
Sherlock’s very good at waiting. John makes him wait for almost longer than even he can bear.
“You should have told me,” John says at last, quietly. “You should have trusted me.”
Sherlock ignores the way John’s voice breaks on the word trusted and replaces the postcard on the mantelpiece. He is still watching John through the mirror. It feels safer this way; he feels protected by the layer of glass between them.
“It was never a matter of trust, John. I was protecting you.”
John’s laugh is humourless and brash and cold. “Do you even know, Sherlock? Do you even know what it’s been like?”
“They would have killed you, John. You and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.”
“I could have helped you, Sherlock! I would have done anything, don’t you...you’re such a bloody idiot!”
Sherlock forces himself to watch John’s face as it tries to crumple, as he fight it, composes himself again. Another unspoken apology. Only this time he realises that it’s not enough. “I’m sorry John. But it was the only solution to my final problem.”
John is up and out of his chair and standing alongside him in one movement, shaking with rage and adrenaline and something else that Sherlock struggles to interpret, because he’s never seen it directed at himself with such honestly and intensity. He decides that he likes it very much.
“Your final problem?,” says John incredulously. “You really are a pompous git, aren’t you? Well, I’ve got news for you, Sherlock. Your final problem hasn’t even been solved yet. Your final bloody problem, the one that will keep you awake every night for days to come, is this: who’s going to tell my new flatmate that you weren’t dead after all, sorry, a huge mistake, easily done, but the room’s not available any more?”
Sherlock turns to look at his friend, struggling to maintain a serious expression. “You mean the Simon Hall you’re supposed to be meeting here today? The one Molly told you about? Who works as a laboratory technician at St Bart’s? With the initials SH. What a remarkable coincidence.”
John’s mouth opens and closes as he processes this information, his fists mirroring the action comically.
“You bastard. You.”
Sherlock’s controlled demeanor slides at last, and he all but twirls in satisfaction. “Well, I heard you were looking for a room-mate!” he exclaims, laughing boyishly. John tilts his head to regard him critically, although he can’t hide the amusement from his twinkling eyes.
“You don’t have any nasty habits, do you? My last flatmate was an absolute nightmare. Kept putting body parts in the fridge, played his violin at all hours, really, really badly, and worst of all, he never, EVER got any milk in.”
John swallows. “But you know how it is,” he says quietly, “you never know how much you’re going to miss people until they’re gone.”
Sherlock hasn’t hugged another person since he was eleven; his (mutually beneficial) departure for boarding school had brought out some deep seated maternal feelings in his mother and she had held him briefly on the station platform before stalking off in her heels and hat and bright red lipstick, not once looking back to make sure he had found a seat on the train. He remembers the school matron holding his unruly hair away from his face as he vomited for what seemed like hours after eating a hebeloma crustuliniforme (proving his theory about the toxicity of this particular wild mushroom more perfectly than any textbook) and he can still recall the way Molly’s lips felt against his cheek as she kissed him chastely goodbye two nights after the events he now refers to in his head as The Great Game. This time, the train was bound for Berlin, and this time, Molly watched the train until it disappeared from view, her clasped hands telegraphing her agitation and dismay.
Sherlock wants to hug John Watson. He wants to embrace him until they both feel awkward and start to laugh. He wants John to know that the past three years have been awful for him too, that keeping away for this long was almost his destruction. He wants him to know how much he cares for him.
“Right,” says John, pushing himself away from the hearth with his hip. “Shall I put the kettle on?”
“Does that mean I’m your new flatmate?” Sherlock asks in amusement.
“Only if you buy the milk once in a while,” John says, the fond, long suffering, accepting expression on his face flooding Sherlock with warmth. “Earl Grey or PG Tips?” John wanders off in to the kitchen and hunts for the kettle, humming something rather tunelessly. Nevertheless, Sherlock recognises it as the last piece he played for John before he left, and he follows him slowly in to the kitchen, leaning against the worktop and watching him work quietly.
Where he belongs.
Pairing: Sherlock and John
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Words: ~1500
Summary:
Sherlock turns up unexpectedly at 221B Baker Street. John is expecting someone else. Post Reichenbach; some spoilers.
Thank you as ever to reya and hannah for being wonderful people who keep me sane and happy and loved when it gets hard.
Sherlock is expecting the punch. As the pain blossoms on his cheek (very consistent, well done John), he feels a certain satisfaction borne out of the idea that he’s somehow apologising without having to use the words, because Sherlock knows himself well enough to acknowledge that he’d take the punch over the words every single time. What he isn’t expecting is the sensation of ice cold fingers being pressed to the ugly mark against his left cheekbone, and it takes him a moment to realise that John has improvised with a bag of severed fingers which Sherlock must have secreted away in the back of the freezer and promptly forgotten about. The sensation is less than pleasant, but he carefully pretends it doesn’t bother him; to protest about it would be churlish in the circumstances and he’s already been punched once today, so he attempts a conciliatory smile.
“Don’t even try that,” John says, more calmly than Sherlock expects, but there’s a tremor in his left hand as he raises it to inspect Sherlock’s face and Sherlock assumes that the twisting feeling in his gut is what people refer to as remorse. “Don’t you dare try that on me, Sherlock.”
John dumps the (now slightly soft at the edges) bag of fingers on the coffee table and presses his fingers to the small laceration less than gently. Sherlock winces and John prods harder, his mouth set in a grim line. Sherlock is happy to remain silent as he works, taking the opportunity to observe his friend at close quarters.
“And you can stop doing that as well,” says John shortly, turning his head to look for the plaster he’s left on the table. “I’m fairly sure that even Anderson would be able to tell what I’m thinking, Sherlock. You don’t need to be a genius to work that out.” Sherlock doesn’t like the way John says genius now. It sounds unhappy and bitter, and Sherlock blinks rapidly, twice, his ego (he assumes) a little stung. “Look John-”
“No. Sherlock. You don’t get to do that.” John is shouting now, and has sat down heavily on the coffee table, his fists clenched. “You don’t get to make it all better yet. Do you understand?” Sherlock’s hand instinctively moves to his bruised cheek as John’s voice rises and his knuckles turn white. John flattens out his hands against his thighs with an exasperated noise and lowers his head, shoulders moving rhythmically with the effort of keeping himself together. Sherlock can only watch, wondering if this isn’t actually worse than being punched again.
He allows the silence to lengthen, taking comfort in it. From downstairs, he can hear Mrs Hudson rearranging her saucepans with a vehemence which matches John’s silence in its eloquence. Sherlock winces. He’ll try to talk to her again later. Perhaps he’ll bring cake.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hit you again,” John says eventually. “For one thing, your cheekbones bloody hurt, you dick.”
Sherlock can hear the moment John starts smiling and he relaxes into the chair, mouth twitching at one corner. “So I’ve been told,” he says lightly, carefully; almost too carefully for him, but he senses that a great deal rests upon the next few minutes. “Many times.”
He watches as John shakes his head, sniffs once and then raises his head to meet his eyes. Sherlock tries (and fails, because he’s Sherlock) not to notice the evidence before him. For once he doesn’t want to notice, doesn’t want to know. The insomnia, the (regular) drinking, the (occasional) self medication, the (terrible) diet, the listlessness: the overall absence of John-ness. Sherlock isn’t sure how else to describe it, and that almost upsets him as much as the notion itself.
He sighs, an unhappy sound which seems to fill the room. “I felt guilty, John, if it helps at all?”
John gives him a look. It’s a look Sherlock knows particularly well, because it’s the one that means John’s pissed off with him. The familiarity of it pierces Sherlock, surprising him, and he rises from the chair and stalks the room, coming to a stop automatically in front of the fireplace. Dusty. Very. John’s not been back long then, or Mrs Hudson would have been in to “do” for him. He regards his friend in the mirror, fiddling with a yellowing postcard of the Yorkshire Dales (from Harry, evidently her idea of a condolence card, how tender of her) and waiting. Waiting.
Sherlock’s very good at waiting. John makes him wait for almost longer than even he can bear.
“You should have told me,” John says at last, quietly. “You should have trusted me.”
Sherlock ignores the way John’s voice breaks on the word trusted and replaces the postcard on the mantelpiece. He is still watching John through the mirror. It feels safer this way; he feels protected by the layer of glass between them.
“It was never a matter of trust, John. I was protecting you.”
John’s laugh is humourless and brash and cold. “Do you even know, Sherlock? Do you even know what it’s been like?”
“They would have killed you, John. You and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.”
“I could have helped you, Sherlock! I would have done anything, don’t you...you’re such a bloody idiot!”
Sherlock forces himself to watch John’s face as it tries to crumple, as he fight it, composes himself again. Another unspoken apology. Only this time he realises that it’s not enough. “I’m sorry John. But it was the only solution to my final problem.”
John is up and out of his chair and standing alongside him in one movement, shaking with rage and adrenaline and something else that Sherlock struggles to interpret, because he’s never seen it directed at himself with such honestly and intensity. He decides that he likes it very much.
“Your final problem?,” says John incredulously. “You really are a pompous git, aren’t you? Well, I’ve got news for you, Sherlock. Your final problem hasn’t even been solved yet. Your final bloody problem, the one that will keep you awake every night for days to come, is this: who’s going to tell my new flatmate that you weren’t dead after all, sorry, a huge mistake, easily done, but the room’s not available any more?”
Sherlock turns to look at his friend, struggling to maintain a serious expression. “You mean the Simon Hall you’re supposed to be meeting here today? The one Molly told you about? Who works as a laboratory technician at St Bart’s? With the initials SH. What a remarkable coincidence.”
John’s mouth opens and closes as he processes this information, his fists mirroring the action comically.
“You bastard. You.”
Sherlock’s controlled demeanor slides at last, and he all but twirls in satisfaction. “Well, I heard you were looking for a room-mate!” he exclaims, laughing boyishly. John tilts his head to regard him critically, although he can’t hide the amusement from his twinkling eyes.
“You don’t have any nasty habits, do you? My last flatmate was an absolute nightmare. Kept putting body parts in the fridge, played his violin at all hours, really, really badly, and worst of all, he never, EVER got any milk in.”
John swallows. “But you know how it is,” he says quietly, “you never know how much you’re going to miss people until they’re gone.”
Sherlock hasn’t hugged another person since he was eleven; his (mutually beneficial) departure for boarding school had brought out some deep seated maternal feelings in his mother and she had held him briefly on the station platform before stalking off in her heels and hat and bright red lipstick, not once looking back to make sure he had found a seat on the train. He remembers the school matron holding his unruly hair away from his face as he vomited for what seemed like hours after eating a hebeloma crustuliniforme (proving his theory about the toxicity of this particular wild mushroom more perfectly than any textbook) and he can still recall the way Molly’s lips felt against his cheek as she kissed him chastely goodbye two nights after the events he now refers to in his head as The Great Game. This time, the train was bound for Berlin, and this time, Molly watched the train until it disappeared from view, her clasped hands telegraphing her agitation and dismay.
Sherlock wants to hug John Watson. He wants to embrace him until they both feel awkward and start to laugh. He wants John to know that the past three years have been awful for him too, that keeping away for this long was almost his destruction. He wants him to know how much he cares for him.
“Right,” says John, pushing himself away from the hearth with his hip. “Shall I put the kettle on?”
“Does that mean I’m your new flatmate?” Sherlock asks in amusement.
“Only if you buy the milk once in a while,” John says, the fond, long suffering, accepting expression on his face flooding Sherlock with warmth. “Earl Grey or PG Tips?” John wanders off in to the kitchen and hunts for the kettle, humming something rather tunelessly. Nevertheless, Sherlock recognises it as the last piece he played for John before he left, and he follows him slowly in to the kitchen, leaning against the worktop and watching him work quietly.
Where he belongs.