Sherlock fic: Semantic Satiation
Title: Semantic Satiation
Characters: Sherlock/John (established relationship)
Rating/Warnings: G
Word Count: 1500
Summary: From the sherlockbbc_fic prompt "Sherlock practices saying 'I love you' in the mirror."
This shouldn’t be difficult. Children do it all the time. Normal children, an irritatingly specific part of his brain adds. Non-Holmes children who didn’t grow up fed on enmity and strained silence.
Act natural. This isn’t one of those dreadful romances with confessions in the rain where nobody’s remembered their umbrella. Sherlock rests his palms against the lip of the sink, alone in the loo with his reflection.
“I love-“ he starts, and stops, swallowing. His voice doesn’t always come out like that, does it? Such a sudden impact of a baritone, cold, like he’s barking at Molly to get out of his way. He nearly made her cry doing that once, when he was running low on nicotine patches. Not the effect he wants to have.
He inhales deeply and lets it out in a long, smooth release, relaxing his vocal cords. “I love you,” he says, less harshly. His reflected face lowers its eyebrows as the words come out, looking stern. Stern isn’t right, either. And the voice is still off.
Sherlock flexes his face a bit, relaxing his jaw, and rolls his head back and forth to loosen up his neck. He straightens up, tries again. “I love you.”
Voice still cold.
“I love you,” he says again.
No, no, too much blinking. And voice still cold. Or perhaps that’s just how he always sounds. It’s probably how he always sounds. If he always sounds like he wants some idiot lab tech to stop getting underfoot, though, shouldn’t he aim to change that for this particular context?
“I love you.” Ugh, no. Too far in the opposite direction - he sounds like a breathless Regency heroine.
He’s shammed the words before, he knows he has. Maybe that’s the key - pretend he’s someone else. He tries on the curious neighbor facade, collected from half a dozen crime scenes and half a dozen people who should have been minding their own business. Brow pinched, eyes wide, slack through the nose and mouth, slightly friendly tip to the lips. He checks his reflection - a whole new man. Perhaps a man who’s accustomed to the words, even. A man who found them easy as air when he was a child.
“I love you,” he says to the mirror, and winces. Wrong. Practically a request. He’s not asking, he’s stating: I love you. Response be damned, I love you, and now you know.
He tries it as the victim’s old friend, expression somber and voice barely held together. “I love you.”
So wrong. Impossibly wrong.
Himself again, straight-faced. “I love you.”
Ugh. Wrong.
Smiling. “I love you.”
Forceful. “I love you.”
Joyful, on the verge of laughter. “I love you!”
A hundred variations he tries. All wrong.
He drops his forehead to his arms, bent over the sink, and swears under his breath. How can so many variations of wrong exist in one person? Why does his voice keep sticking on the L? Aveolar consonants have never caused him problems in the past. It’s ridiculous. It should be so easy. An idiot could do this - an idiot child.
“I love you,” he hisses at the sink, scowling. The basin smells of John’s aftershave still, and his voice softens at the end of the sentence because of it. “I love you,” he says, quieter. The words echo very slightly back at him.
Straightening up, he stares his reflection down. He can do this. He’s Sherlock bloody Holmes, of course he can. Bracing the heels of his hands on the sink, he leans forward and says it quickly, like a dare.
“I love you.”
Ha! Better. He tries it again. “I love you.” The phonemes tumble off his tongue this time, practiced. They sound good - big, round sounds at just the right speed. “I love you.” His eyes are a bit narrowed, but maybe it’s okay to say it like the words are a challenge to the recipient. I love you, and now you know it, do what you will. “I love you.” He likes that. “I love you.”
Yes. That will do. He throws open the door and pads briskly down the stairs, the air of the stairwell chilly on his face after so long breathing words into a mirror.
John is in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. “Oh, there you are,” he says, not looking up. “I called for you. Thought you might like some-hi.”
The last word is spoken with a laugh as he realizes Sherlock’s invaded his personal space, fingers at the hem of his jumper and face looming over his. No, not looming - looming’s not good. Sherlock takes a breath and leans back slightly, licking his lips. Words. There should be words here. Where are they? All he can hear is the drumming of his own heartbeat.
John squeezes his waist and gives him an odd look. “You all right? You look a bit-“
“I love you,” Sherlock blurts out in an unusually high voice. Blurts, like spitting, and he wants to take it back the moment it’s out. The words don’t even sound like him, don’t even sound like words anymore. They’ve come apart into their base phonetic components, empty sounds hanging in the air without a stitch of meaning in them. No emotion. He may as well be telling John to go buy milk.
John laughs, nervously, and his eyes fly to the stairwell. “What were you doing up there? Should I be concerned about venting chemical fumes?”
No, no, no, it’s all wrong. It’s out now, and it’s a bloody joke, and he’s ruined it. The words are empty. He used them all up in the rehearsal, and now he’s not sure how to make them make sense again. “No,” he says, his shoulders sinking. “I…”
“You what?” John asks, looking up at him with those patient, smiling eyes. He smells of aftershave still, and of that cheap soap he thinks makes him smell masculine, and of his own warm skin, which is so much better than the soap.
Sherlock slips his long fingers along the line of John’s jaw and tips his face up to kiss him. John smiles against his mouth and closes his eyes, and the idea comes to Sherlock like a spark struck in a dark room. He parts his lips against John’s and forms the words silently: I love you.
John’s hands grip his shirt at the waist, fingers forming into loose fists, and the doctor’s face freezes. John can’t see Sherlock’s face to judge it one way or another, and there’s no voice to come out wrong. There are only the shapes between them, lips and tongue, a puzzle for John to suss out with his eyes closed.
Again, Sherlock tries: I love you.
And again, in case he didn’t get it the first two times: I love you.
John’s face goes slack, and he exhales with half a laugh, kissing Sherlock back soundly. Sherlock moves from lip to cheeks to forehead to nose, writing the words on John’s skin with his mouth. John’s arms rise around him, fingertips digging into his shoulder blades and his front pressing firmly against Sherlock’s. He doesn’t open his eyes until Sherlock kisses his chin and withdraws, and then his left hand curls up into Sherlock’s hair as he stares.
“I love you, too,” John says easily - so easily, because he was one of the normal children. He wasn’t a Holmes. He doesn’t have to practice basic elements of human interaction in the mirror; he’s mastered them already, makes them look effortless. He’s a Renoir while Sherlock is a crayon scribble.
Sherlock hardly hears the words for the pulse in his ears. Dropping his hands and his eyes abruptly, he turns away and retreats. His chair by the fireplace makes a whump sound as he throws himself into it and picks up his violin. Now the violin, that’s something he’s not rubbish at. He draws the bow experimentally across the strings, watching the tremor that travels down them.
John clears his throat. “So. You’ll be wanting the tea, then?”
“Yes.” Another draw, producing a low, round sound. Resonant, like velars, vowels, and labio-dentals strung together. Maybe he should have tried this medium first. He glances up.
John is smiling. Beaming, actually. He’s grinning at the bloody kettle, and Sherlock wonders if he can see his own ridiculous reflection in it. The sight makes Sherlock’s lips part, and he finds himself grinning unabashedly. He tamps down on the expression, forms it into a more appropriate, modest smile.
I love you. He wants to keep saying it, to fill the flat with it and cover John’s skin in it until he’s sure he’s perfectly understood.
I love you.
They do say that practice makes perfect. And with John, he expects he’ll have plenty of opportunities to practice.
THE END!
Characters: Sherlock/John (established relationship)
Rating/Warnings: G
Word Count: 1500
Summary: From the sherlockbbc_fic prompt "Sherlock practices saying 'I love you' in the mirror."
This shouldn’t be difficult. Children do it all the time. Normal children, an irritatingly specific part of his brain adds. Non-Holmes children who didn’t grow up fed on enmity and strained silence.
Act natural. This isn’t one of those dreadful romances with confessions in the rain where nobody’s remembered their umbrella. Sherlock rests his palms against the lip of the sink, alone in the loo with his reflection.
“I love-“ he starts, and stops, swallowing. His voice doesn’t always come out like that, does it? Such a sudden impact of a baritone, cold, like he’s barking at Molly to get out of his way. He nearly made her cry doing that once, when he was running low on nicotine patches. Not the effect he wants to have.
He inhales deeply and lets it out in a long, smooth release, relaxing his vocal cords. “I love you,” he says, less harshly. His reflected face lowers its eyebrows as the words come out, looking stern. Stern isn’t right, either. And the voice is still off.
Sherlock flexes his face a bit, relaxing his jaw, and rolls his head back and forth to loosen up his neck. He straightens up, tries again. “I love you.”
Voice still cold.
“I love you,” he says again.
No, no, too much blinking. And voice still cold. Or perhaps that’s just how he always sounds. It’s probably how he always sounds. If he always sounds like he wants some idiot lab tech to stop getting underfoot, though, shouldn’t he aim to change that for this particular context?
“I love you.” Ugh, no. Too far in the opposite direction - he sounds like a breathless Regency heroine.
He’s shammed the words before, he knows he has. Maybe that’s the key - pretend he’s someone else. He tries on the curious neighbor facade, collected from half a dozen crime scenes and half a dozen people who should have been minding their own business. Brow pinched, eyes wide, slack through the nose and mouth, slightly friendly tip to the lips. He checks his reflection - a whole new man. Perhaps a man who’s accustomed to the words, even. A man who found them easy as air when he was a child.
“I love you,” he says to the mirror, and winces. Wrong. Practically a request. He’s not asking, he’s stating: I love you. Response be damned, I love you, and now you know.
He tries it as the victim’s old friend, expression somber and voice barely held together. “I love you.”
So wrong. Impossibly wrong.
Himself again, straight-faced. “I love you.”
Ugh. Wrong.
Smiling. “I love you.”
Forceful. “I love you.”
Joyful, on the verge of laughter. “I love you!”
A hundred variations he tries. All wrong.
He drops his forehead to his arms, bent over the sink, and swears under his breath. How can so many variations of wrong exist in one person? Why does his voice keep sticking on the L? Aveolar consonants have never caused him problems in the past. It’s ridiculous. It should be so easy. An idiot could do this - an idiot child.
“I love you,” he hisses at the sink, scowling. The basin smells of John’s aftershave still, and his voice softens at the end of the sentence because of it. “I love you,” he says, quieter. The words echo very slightly back at him.
Straightening up, he stares his reflection down. He can do this. He’s Sherlock bloody Holmes, of course he can. Bracing the heels of his hands on the sink, he leans forward and says it quickly, like a dare.
“I love you.”
Ha! Better. He tries it again. “I love you.” The phonemes tumble off his tongue this time, practiced. They sound good - big, round sounds at just the right speed. “I love you.” His eyes are a bit narrowed, but maybe it’s okay to say it like the words are a challenge to the recipient. I love you, and now you know it, do what you will. “I love you.” He likes that. “I love you.”
Yes. That will do. He throws open the door and pads briskly down the stairs, the air of the stairwell chilly on his face after so long breathing words into a mirror.
John is in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. “Oh, there you are,” he says, not looking up. “I called for you. Thought you might like some-hi.”
The last word is spoken with a laugh as he realizes Sherlock’s invaded his personal space, fingers at the hem of his jumper and face looming over his. No, not looming - looming’s not good. Sherlock takes a breath and leans back slightly, licking his lips. Words. There should be words here. Where are they? All he can hear is the drumming of his own heartbeat.
John squeezes his waist and gives him an odd look. “You all right? You look a bit-“
“I love you,” Sherlock blurts out in an unusually high voice. Blurts, like spitting, and he wants to take it back the moment it’s out. The words don’t even sound like him, don’t even sound like words anymore. They’ve come apart into their base phonetic components, empty sounds hanging in the air without a stitch of meaning in them. No emotion. He may as well be telling John to go buy milk.
John laughs, nervously, and his eyes fly to the stairwell. “What were you doing up there? Should I be concerned about venting chemical fumes?”
No, no, no, it’s all wrong. It’s out now, and it’s a bloody joke, and he’s ruined it. The words are empty. He used them all up in the rehearsal, and now he’s not sure how to make them make sense again. “No,” he says, his shoulders sinking. “I…”
“You what?” John asks, looking up at him with those patient, smiling eyes. He smells of aftershave still, and of that cheap soap he thinks makes him smell masculine, and of his own warm skin, which is so much better than the soap.
Sherlock slips his long fingers along the line of John’s jaw and tips his face up to kiss him. John smiles against his mouth and closes his eyes, and the idea comes to Sherlock like a spark struck in a dark room. He parts his lips against John’s and forms the words silently: I love you.
John’s hands grip his shirt at the waist, fingers forming into loose fists, and the doctor’s face freezes. John can’t see Sherlock’s face to judge it one way or another, and there’s no voice to come out wrong. There are only the shapes between them, lips and tongue, a puzzle for John to suss out with his eyes closed.
Again, Sherlock tries: I love you.
And again, in case he didn’t get it the first two times: I love you.
John’s face goes slack, and he exhales with half a laugh, kissing Sherlock back soundly. Sherlock moves from lip to cheeks to forehead to nose, writing the words on John’s skin with his mouth. John’s arms rise around him, fingertips digging into his shoulder blades and his front pressing firmly against Sherlock’s. He doesn’t open his eyes until Sherlock kisses his chin and withdraws, and then his left hand curls up into Sherlock’s hair as he stares.
“I love you, too,” John says easily - so easily, because he was one of the normal children. He wasn’t a Holmes. He doesn’t have to practice basic elements of human interaction in the mirror; he’s mastered them already, makes them look effortless. He’s a Renoir while Sherlock is a crayon scribble.
Sherlock hardly hears the words for the pulse in his ears. Dropping his hands and his eyes abruptly, he turns away and retreats. His chair by the fireplace makes a whump sound as he throws himself into it and picks up his violin. Now the violin, that’s something he’s not rubbish at. He draws the bow experimentally across the strings, watching the tremor that travels down them.
John clears his throat. “So. You’ll be wanting the tea, then?”
“Yes.” Another draw, producing a low, round sound. Resonant, like velars, vowels, and labio-dentals strung together. Maybe he should have tried this medium first. He glances up.
John is smiling. Beaming, actually. He’s grinning at the bloody kettle, and Sherlock wonders if he can see his own ridiculous reflection in it. The sight makes Sherlock’s lips part, and he finds himself grinning unabashedly. He tamps down on the expression, forms it into a more appropriate, modest smile.
I love you. He wants to keep saying it, to fill the flat with it and cover John’s skin in it until he’s sure he’s perfectly understood.
I love you.
They do say that practice makes perfect. And with John, he expects he’ll have plenty of opportunities to practice.
THE END!