Dangerous: BBC Sherlock
Title: Dangerous
Characters: Sherlock, John, mention of Lestrade
Pairing: Johnlock pre-slash
Rating: T
Length: 954
Warnings: Allusions to drug usage
Summary: John knows Sherlock was dangerous, and Sherlock knows John will stay.
Written for arminna's prompt " Sherlock gives John a Christmas present. John's not too pleased with it."
The box was beautiful and clearly an antique: aged wood, polished by the oil of countless fingertips, delicately ornate carvings covering its lid and sides, and a brass latch. John let his fingers trace along its edges, a smile working its way across his face as he studied the box.
“Sherlock, it’s beautiful. Thank you,” he said, finally pulling his eyes and fingers away from the unexpected gift. He was met by silence and chanced a look at his flat-mate and friend.
Sherlock’s jaw was tensed, his back ridged, as he alternated between glaring at John and glaring at the box. Feeling John’s gaze, he settled for fixing his piercing stare solely on his companion. It was a look that John had grown used to in his time with the consulting detective: Sherlock used it whenever he seemed to want thoughts to flow directly from his gigantic brain into John’s more pedestrian one without having to waste any time with the tedium of proper verbal communication. John had tried repeatedly to convince him that this was utterly impossible. Most of the time, Sherlock’s only response was to stare even more vehemently. Occasionally, he’d mutter under his breath (though never low enough for John to miss) about John’s appalling inability to observe the world around him as opposed to merely seeing it.
With a sigh, John turned his attention back to the box. “If you want me to open it, you could just say so, you know. No need to work yourself up over it. I’d get there eventually.” He reached for the latch, pausing when he heard Sherlock’s breath hitch. It was sort of endearing, he supposed. The fact that Sherlock would be so nervous about how his gift would be received-on anyone else, it would have bordered on twee, but it was so very Sherlock. Vastly superior intellect, severely limited social skills. Shaking his head in gentle amusement and smiling fondly, he flipped up the latch and opened the lid.
The smile froze for a beat before melting away like first snow.
Laid out neatly on a bed of burgundy velvet was the evidence that Lestrade could never turn up in all of his busts, and that John himself had refused to believe existed at all. An antique lighter, three small vials of snowy white powder, two sealed test tubes of what he assumed was sterile water, a small and broad silver spoon, and a row of five syringes lined up like tidy little soldiers were all it took to leave John as reeling and breathless as any punch to the solar plexus ever could.
His hands slid numbly from the box and fell uselessly to his sides. He felt the rush of blood thrumming in his ears even as his cheeks cooled while damp sweat sprang up along his hair line and his vision began to bleed black at the edges. Instinct born through years of pushing himself and others in his care to their physical limits forced his lethargic limbs back into action; he slammed out his left hand to grip the kitchen table just as his knees buckled. Gritting his teeth, he shoved aside the visceral panic, stomped down the images now swarming through his mind of his brilliant, beautiful, ethereal friend lost to the throws of his particular poison. It was as though some dark door, previously hidden to even John himself had been flung open within his mind. Visions of Sherlock filled him: his impeccably cut shirt sleeve rolled up his arm (it’d be his left--Sherlock was a righty, he’d need coordination of his dominant hand to steady the needle as it slid home), his crystalline mind torn asunder, the rooms of his mind palace ravaged by the storm of benzoylmethylecgonine flooding his system, overriding his mesolimbic reward pathways as it made its way across the blood-brain barrier.
John forced himself to breathe through his nose in a serious of deeply measured inhales and exhales until his peripherals cleared and his legs steadied beneath him. Sherlock was watching, studying, and waiting. He knew that without looking, yet the impetus of the darker man’s stare was enough to lift John’s chin and bring his eyes to meet Sherlock’s.
“Sherlock…”
“When I said that potential flat-mates should know the worst about each other, I was not completely honest.”
A burst of nearly histrionic giggles escaped before John could rein them in. “Really? Not completely honest, Sherlock? Is that what this is? You, being honest now? Why now? Why at Christmas, for God sake, Sherlock?” He really wasn’t sure he wanted an answer, not that he was sure he’d get one. Sherlock always chose the most inconvenient and unpredictable times to switch between silent brooding and manic loquaciousness.
“It is tradition to give gifts of great personal importance at Christmas, is it not? As for the nature of my gift, I trust you now. I didn’t then.” Sherlock shook his head, sending dark curls flying like a halo around his head as he waved a dismissive hand. “No, not like that. Don’t take it like that. I meant I didn’t trust that you wouldn’t leave.”
“Oh? And you do now? You’re so sure, are you?” It was a stupid, spiteful question, and it felt good to spit out.
“Yes.”
“Why?” Again, did he really want to hear? John wasn’t sure.
“Because you care, John.” Sherlock took a step closer. John stood his ground. “Because I’m dangerous.” Another step. “Because Moriarty was right; I do have a heart.” A final step to bring his leather, doubtlessly bespoke, shoes to meet John’s battered house slippers. “You can’t leave. You won’t.” He closed the gap.
John surrendered. Know when you are beaten.
Characters: Sherlock, John, mention of Lestrade
Pairing: Johnlock pre-slash
Rating: T
Length: 954
Warnings: Allusions to drug usage
Summary: John knows Sherlock was dangerous, and Sherlock knows John will stay.
Written for arminna's prompt " Sherlock gives John a Christmas present. John's not too pleased with it."
The box was beautiful and clearly an antique: aged wood, polished by the oil of countless fingertips, delicately ornate carvings covering its lid and sides, and a brass latch. John let his fingers trace along its edges, a smile working its way across his face as he studied the box.
“Sherlock, it’s beautiful. Thank you,” he said, finally pulling his eyes and fingers away from the unexpected gift. He was met by silence and chanced a look at his flat-mate and friend.
Sherlock’s jaw was tensed, his back ridged, as he alternated between glaring at John and glaring at the box. Feeling John’s gaze, he settled for fixing his piercing stare solely on his companion. It was a look that John had grown used to in his time with the consulting detective: Sherlock used it whenever he seemed to want thoughts to flow directly from his gigantic brain into John’s more pedestrian one without having to waste any time with the tedium of proper verbal communication. John had tried repeatedly to convince him that this was utterly impossible. Most of the time, Sherlock’s only response was to stare even more vehemently. Occasionally, he’d mutter under his breath (though never low enough for John to miss) about John’s appalling inability to observe the world around him as opposed to merely seeing it.
With a sigh, John turned his attention back to the box. “If you want me to open it, you could just say so, you know. No need to work yourself up over it. I’d get there eventually.” He reached for the latch, pausing when he heard Sherlock’s breath hitch. It was sort of endearing, he supposed. The fact that Sherlock would be so nervous about how his gift would be received-on anyone else, it would have bordered on twee, but it was so very Sherlock. Vastly superior intellect, severely limited social skills. Shaking his head in gentle amusement and smiling fondly, he flipped up the latch and opened the lid.
The smile froze for a beat before melting away like first snow.
Laid out neatly on a bed of burgundy velvet was the evidence that Lestrade could never turn up in all of his busts, and that John himself had refused to believe existed at all. An antique lighter, three small vials of snowy white powder, two sealed test tubes of what he assumed was sterile water, a small and broad silver spoon, and a row of five syringes lined up like tidy little soldiers were all it took to leave John as reeling and breathless as any punch to the solar plexus ever could.
His hands slid numbly from the box and fell uselessly to his sides. He felt the rush of blood thrumming in his ears even as his cheeks cooled while damp sweat sprang up along his hair line and his vision began to bleed black at the edges. Instinct born through years of pushing himself and others in his care to their physical limits forced his lethargic limbs back into action; he slammed out his left hand to grip the kitchen table just as his knees buckled. Gritting his teeth, he shoved aside the visceral panic, stomped down the images now swarming through his mind of his brilliant, beautiful, ethereal friend lost to the throws of his particular poison. It was as though some dark door, previously hidden to even John himself had been flung open within his mind. Visions of Sherlock filled him: his impeccably cut shirt sleeve rolled up his arm (it’d be his left--Sherlock was a righty, he’d need coordination of his dominant hand to steady the needle as it slid home), his crystalline mind torn asunder, the rooms of his mind palace ravaged by the storm of benzoylmethylecgonine flooding his system, overriding his mesolimbic reward pathways as it made its way across the blood-brain barrier.
John forced himself to breathe through his nose in a serious of deeply measured inhales and exhales until his peripherals cleared and his legs steadied beneath him. Sherlock was watching, studying, and waiting. He knew that without looking, yet the impetus of the darker man’s stare was enough to lift John’s chin and bring his eyes to meet Sherlock’s.
“Sherlock…”
“When I said that potential flat-mates should know the worst about each other, I was not completely honest.”
A burst of nearly histrionic giggles escaped before John could rein them in. “Really? Not completely honest, Sherlock? Is that what this is? You, being honest now? Why now? Why at Christmas, for God sake, Sherlock?” He really wasn’t sure he wanted an answer, not that he was sure he’d get one. Sherlock always chose the most inconvenient and unpredictable times to switch between silent brooding and manic loquaciousness.
“It is tradition to give gifts of great personal importance at Christmas, is it not? As for the nature of my gift, I trust you now. I didn’t then.” Sherlock shook his head, sending dark curls flying like a halo around his head as he waved a dismissive hand. “No, not like that. Don’t take it like that. I meant I didn’t trust that you wouldn’t leave.”
“Oh? And you do now? You’re so sure, are you?” It was a stupid, spiteful question, and it felt good to spit out.
“Yes.”
“Why?” Again, did he really want to hear? John wasn’t sure.
“Because you care, John.” Sherlock took a step closer. John stood his ground. “Because I’m dangerous.” Another step. “Because Moriarty was right; I do have a heart.” A final step to bring his leather, doubtlessly bespoke, shoes to meet John’s battered house slippers. “You can’t leave. You won’t.” He closed the gap.
John surrendered. Know when you are beaten.