Sherlock - fic - Scapula, Sherlock, John, PG
Title - Scapula
Author - laurab1
Characters - Sherlock, John
Rating - PG, gen, friendship
Length - 850 words
Spoilers - S1 of Sherlock
Summary - When it comes to massage, Sherlock’s hands are as skilled as John expected.
Disclaimer - Alas, none of these people are entirely mine. This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. However, Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
Directly follows Trapezius.
Scapula
by Laura
Alone in his room, John strips off his shirt and trousers, changes into just pajama trousers, as instructed, and sits on the bed, covers turned down. Looking at the bottle of olive oil on his bedside table, he considers that his shoulder aches on both sides, but the back is definitely more painful, today. He hears footsteps, and then Sherlock, now wearing a t-shirt and pajama trousers, is pushing open his door.
“Deltoid,” he says, walking over to the bed, pressing his hand gently against John’s arm. John looks up at him. “Shattered clavicle, now held together with metal pins,” Sherlock continues, running his fingers over it, touch completely clinical. He goes over to John’s back. “Scapula, trapezius. Is that enough to be going on with?” Sherlock asks, with a smile.
“Yes, I think so.”
“I suggest you lie on your front, then, and let me work.”
“Do I get the whale songs?” John asks, as an experiment.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock replies. He snatches up the olive oil, opens the bottle, and tips some into his hand. “You get my voice, which is a far better sound, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re a smug git,” John says, to Sherlock’s smirk, but he’s laughing as he lies down, arms hanging by his sides. Head turned to one side, he sees Sherlock set the bottle back down, hears him rub the oil between his hands, warming it.
“John,” is all the warning he gets, before Sherlock’s slick hands are on him, fingers gently probing at his shoulder to find the knots in the muscles. He locates one particularly tight and painful spot, and John winces, loudly.
“Dear God, man, what do you normally do when it’s quite this bad?”
“Swear a fair bit, and try to rub some arnica gel on it,” John answers, honestly.
“You, Doctor John Watson, are a stubborn idiot.” True enough. “You are going to allow me to help you now, and in the future, aren’t you?”
“I said that, didn’t I? I’ll even let you choose the massage oil, Sherlock.” Possibly a very bad idea, who knows what they’ll end up with, but never mind.
“Thank you. Now, be quiet and relax, so I can work.”
Sherlock’s hands are as skilled as John expected. He exhales a slow, deep breath as all the knots and tension on the back of his shoulder are gradually eased, with the use of careful, correctly judged pressure…
He must have drifted off, as the next thing he’s aware of is Sherlock shaking his shoulder, and whispering in his ear. “Turn over, and I’ll do the front as well.”
That would necessitate moving, which John doesn’t think he can manage, at the moment. “Give me a few minutes.” He breathes for a bit, waking up again, then wriggles over onto his back. They look at each other; he sees that Sherlock’s eyes are as bright and alert as when they’re on a case. John knows it’s more from being clever, right now, but he has to say something.
“I’m still alive, here, you know, Sherlock,” he opts for, half joke and half warning.
“Indeed, John.” Sherlock grabs the bottle, tips more olive oil onto his hands. Warm, slick, skilled fingers back on his now much less cramped shoulder, and John closes his eyes again.
Or maybe it’s a third joke, a third warning, and a third mutual ‘Thank God’, he thinks, as Sherlock’s last stroke ends with his right hand settled over John’s heart. John opens his eyes, moves his left arm, and places his hand on top of Sherlock’s. The contact lasts just a few seconds, before he’s turning his hand under John’s to gently place his arm back by his side, on the bed.
“Are you all right?” Sherlock asks, breaking the physical link between them.
“I’m bloody marvelous. Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure to help.”
“Where did you learn to do that, then?”
“A spa in Stockholm.”
John has to smile at that. He knows exactly what would have happened. “Of course. You fake-flirted with some tall, blonde, cute Swedish girl to get her to teach you all of her very best moves, didn’t you?”
Sherlock smirks, the smug, manipulative git part of him making a re-appearance. “I may possibly have abused Stella’s interest in me, yes.”
The decision to let Sherlock pick the massage oil now sounds even less wise than it already did. But John said he could, so he has to keep his word.
“Stop worrying. I’ll choose something that I know will have maximum benefit to you,” Sherlock says, as he grabs the covers and pulls them up over John. “I’ll show you everything she taught me, too. Now, sleep for a bit, and I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
One day, John knows he might understand how Sherlock can pretty much read his mind. Right now, though, his shoulder is relatively relaxed and pain-free, and there’s the prospect of tea. So he watches Sherlock leave his room, taking the olive oil with him, smiles to himself, and closes his eyes.
-end-
Author - laurab1
Characters - Sherlock, John
Rating - PG, gen, friendship
Length - 850 words
Spoilers - S1 of Sherlock
Summary - When it comes to massage, Sherlock’s hands are as skilled as John expected.
Disclaimer - Alas, none of these people are entirely mine. This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. However, Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
Directly follows Trapezius.
Scapula
by Laura
Alone in his room, John strips off his shirt and trousers, changes into just pajama trousers, as instructed, and sits on the bed, covers turned down. Looking at the bottle of olive oil on his bedside table, he considers that his shoulder aches on both sides, but the back is definitely more painful, today. He hears footsteps, and then Sherlock, now wearing a t-shirt and pajama trousers, is pushing open his door.
“Deltoid,” he says, walking over to the bed, pressing his hand gently against John’s arm. John looks up at him. “Shattered clavicle, now held together with metal pins,” Sherlock continues, running his fingers over it, touch completely clinical. He goes over to John’s back. “Scapula, trapezius. Is that enough to be going on with?” Sherlock asks, with a smile.
“Yes, I think so.”
“I suggest you lie on your front, then, and let me work.”
“Do I get the whale songs?” John asks, as an experiment.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock replies. He snatches up the olive oil, opens the bottle, and tips some into his hand. “You get my voice, which is a far better sound, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re a smug git,” John says, to Sherlock’s smirk, but he’s laughing as he lies down, arms hanging by his sides. Head turned to one side, he sees Sherlock set the bottle back down, hears him rub the oil between his hands, warming it.
“John,” is all the warning he gets, before Sherlock’s slick hands are on him, fingers gently probing at his shoulder to find the knots in the muscles. He locates one particularly tight and painful spot, and John winces, loudly.
“Dear God, man, what do you normally do when it’s quite this bad?”
“Swear a fair bit, and try to rub some arnica gel on it,” John answers, honestly.
“You, Doctor John Watson, are a stubborn idiot.” True enough. “You are going to allow me to help you now, and in the future, aren’t you?”
“I said that, didn’t I? I’ll even let you choose the massage oil, Sherlock.” Possibly a very bad idea, who knows what they’ll end up with, but never mind.
“Thank you. Now, be quiet and relax, so I can work.”
Sherlock’s hands are as skilled as John expected. He exhales a slow, deep breath as all the knots and tension on the back of his shoulder are gradually eased, with the use of careful, correctly judged pressure…
He must have drifted off, as the next thing he’s aware of is Sherlock shaking his shoulder, and whispering in his ear. “Turn over, and I’ll do the front as well.”
That would necessitate moving, which John doesn’t think he can manage, at the moment. “Give me a few minutes.” He breathes for a bit, waking up again, then wriggles over onto his back. They look at each other; he sees that Sherlock’s eyes are as bright and alert as when they’re on a case. John knows it’s more from being clever, right now, but he has to say something.
“I’m still alive, here, you know, Sherlock,” he opts for, half joke and half warning.
“Indeed, John.” Sherlock grabs the bottle, tips more olive oil onto his hands. Warm, slick, skilled fingers back on his now much less cramped shoulder, and John closes his eyes again.
Or maybe it’s a third joke, a third warning, and a third mutual ‘Thank God’, he thinks, as Sherlock’s last stroke ends with his right hand settled over John’s heart. John opens his eyes, moves his left arm, and places his hand on top of Sherlock’s. The contact lasts just a few seconds, before he’s turning his hand under John’s to gently place his arm back by his side, on the bed.
“Are you all right?” Sherlock asks, breaking the physical link between them.
“I’m bloody marvelous. Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure to help.”
“Where did you learn to do that, then?”
“A spa in Stockholm.”
John has to smile at that. He knows exactly what would have happened. “Of course. You fake-flirted with some tall, blonde, cute Swedish girl to get her to teach you all of her very best moves, didn’t you?”
Sherlock smirks, the smug, manipulative git part of him making a re-appearance. “I may possibly have abused Stella’s interest in me, yes.”
The decision to let Sherlock pick the massage oil now sounds even less wise than it already did. But John said he could, so he has to keep his word.
“Stop worrying. I’ll choose something that I know will have maximum benefit to you,” Sherlock says, as he grabs the covers and pulls them up over John. “I’ll show you everything she taught me, too. Now, sleep for a bit, and I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
One day, John knows he might understand how Sherlock can pretty much read his mind. Right now, though, his shoulder is relatively relaxed and pain-free, and there’s the prospect of tea. So he watches Sherlock leave his room, taking the olive oil with him, smiles to himself, and closes his eyes.
-end-