Fic: The Concept of Beauty (Sherlock)
Title: The Concept of Beauty
Author: karlamartinova
Pairing: Sherlock/girl!John
Genre: Romance, General
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock! And even the idea of John being a woman is stolen!
Word Count: 580
Summary: Sherlock never understood the concept of arts. He learned.
...
Sherlock never understood the concept of arts. It was based on emotions, moods, feelings. These concepts were foreign to him too. He understood logic and sense and wit and you can’t make sense out of any arts. Sherlock doesn’t understand and not being able to understand is something he could never get used to.
Sherlock was stubborn too. He tried to grasp that idea, manage to control them. His mother had wanted him to learn to play an instrument. Sherlock had chosen violin; naturally, they had said it isn’t anything simple; he had to prove them wrong.
They had spoken of great talent; Sherlock had talked about acoustics, the different metal elements of strings and he talked about the air and pressure and fingers, they were the most important.
This way had Sherlock learned how to understand the music but there were paintings and theatre, literature and photography. Learning everything still wasn’t enough and he gave up when the meaning of the world was clearer to him, when he finally knew what he needs to do.
It all came back with Joan. She enjoyed classic rock, something he never found interesting but she made it for him. The way she swayed her hips while making him tea, the soft movements of her lips when the lyrics were known to her, Joan made him curious again.
She took him to the cinema because she missed it at Afghanistan. Sherlock always made a big show of complaining but let her drag him because she was a curiosity to him too. Joan was too normal, too ordinary to be found on his side but she didn’t bore him at all.
And as time went, Sherlock started to understand. The way morning light made Joan’s skin look, it differed from the colour it had while she laid on his white sheets in the middle of the night. Her clothing did the trick too and Sherlock made more and more notes, which ones suit her the most.
When she asked him why is he looking at her like that, he answered and another day she dragged him to national gallery. They walked slowly, taking in every picture and Sherlock made more notes, made more observations, especially how much better Joan looks when her hair is down and she doesn’t comb it. She smiled when she caught him staring and in the evening he took time to let his hands wander in her hair.
But there was still too much to learn. Joan’s body was a picture to him, every angle casted a different shadow, every scar differed in colour and shape and every single one caused a different reaction when he traced his tongue along it.
Some of them weren’t difficult to deduce, knife or bullet. A childhood injury or a remnant of the war but some of them were a mystery to him, like those stretch marks along her abdomen and even though Sherlock knew what could have cause them, to ask or deduce didn’t come to him easily.
She was ticklish behind her knees and Sherlock wanted to know what will a kiss cause, will she giggle or gasp?
Sherlock knew he would never understand the concept of arts, he learned that not everything can be deduced and there isn’t a straight answer to every question but he knew one thing, whatever was artistic to the world, Joan was a piece of art to him, beautiful and perfect and flawed.
He didn’t need to understand anything else.
Author: karlamartinova
Pairing: Sherlock/girl!John
Genre: Romance, General
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock! And even the idea of John being a woman is stolen!
Word Count: 580
Summary: Sherlock never understood the concept of arts. He learned.
...
Sherlock never understood the concept of arts. It was based on emotions, moods, feelings. These concepts were foreign to him too. He understood logic and sense and wit and you can’t make sense out of any arts. Sherlock doesn’t understand and not being able to understand is something he could never get used to.
Sherlock was stubborn too. He tried to grasp that idea, manage to control them. His mother had wanted him to learn to play an instrument. Sherlock had chosen violin; naturally, they had said it isn’t anything simple; he had to prove them wrong.
They had spoken of great talent; Sherlock had talked about acoustics, the different metal elements of strings and he talked about the air and pressure and fingers, they were the most important.
This way had Sherlock learned how to understand the music but there were paintings and theatre, literature and photography. Learning everything still wasn’t enough and he gave up when the meaning of the world was clearer to him, when he finally knew what he needs to do.
It all came back with Joan. She enjoyed classic rock, something he never found interesting but she made it for him. The way she swayed her hips while making him tea, the soft movements of her lips when the lyrics were known to her, Joan made him curious again.
She took him to the cinema because she missed it at Afghanistan. Sherlock always made a big show of complaining but let her drag him because she was a curiosity to him too. Joan was too normal, too ordinary to be found on his side but she didn’t bore him at all.
And as time went, Sherlock started to understand. The way morning light made Joan’s skin look, it differed from the colour it had while she laid on his white sheets in the middle of the night. Her clothing did the trick too and Sherlock made more and more notes, which ones suit her the most.
When she asked him why is he looking at her like that, he answered and another day she dragged him to national gallery. They walked slowly, taking in every picture and Sherlock made more notes, made more observations, especially how much better Joan looks when her hair is down and she doesn’t comb it. She smiled when she caught him staring and in the evening he took time to let his hands wander in her hair.
But there was still too much to learn. Joan’s body was a picture to him, every angle casted a different shadow, every scar differed in colour and shape and every single one caused a different reaction when he traced his tongue along it.
Some of them weren’t difficult to deduce, knife or bullet. A childhood injury or a remnant of the war but some of them were a mystery to him, like those stretch marks along her abdomen and even though Sherlock knew what could have cause them, to ask or deduce didn’t come to him easily.
She was ticklish behind her knees and Sherlock wanted to know what will a kiss cause, will she giggle or gasp?
Sherlock knew he would never understand the concept of arts, he learned that not everything can be deduced and there isn’t a straight answer to every question but he knew one thing, whatever was artistic to the world, Joan was a piece of art to him, beautiful and perfect and flawed.
He didn’t need to understand anything else.