Choking On Your Alibis
Title: Choking On Your Alibis
Author: Star (ryanbrendonlove)
Pairings: Sherlock/John (John/Sarah)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 780
Disclaimer/notes: Not mine; property of ACD, BBC, Moff and Gatiss. Inspired by and based on 'Mr Brightside' by The Killers.
The house door bangs open and Sherlock takes the stairs three at a time. “John, it’s Christmas again! A nasty double murder, promises to be interesting.” He pauses for effect, then adds, “and likely dangerous,” knowing all too well how to push John’s buttons.
He flings open the living room door and expects John coming out to meet him. Expects him to be rushing his shoes and coat on. Expects him to be asleep on the sofa or consumed by some hideous television car crash. What he doesn’t expect is to see Sarah on his sofa. He doesn’t expect John to be right next to her. He doesn’t expect the slow slide of their tongues and the tentative way they’re hardly touching.
He doesn’t want to see, but finds it impossible to tear his eyes away. After 10 seconds that feel like hours John must sense his presence; and turns to lock eyes with Sherlock. He expects to see hurt, irritation, impatience in that expressive and honest face, but instead John’s face is calm and composed, almost content with his presence.
Sherlock could watch that expression for days, but he finds himself apologising for the intrusion, turning away and fleeing for the comfort of his room. He flops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, tries to impose the crime scene on it and think through his data but suddenly he feels tired, more tired than he has in months. His eyes are dropping, and all he can concentrate on is the muffled sounds he can hear in the living room. Sarah’s calling a taxi. John lighting a cigarette, letting her take a drag; another little bit of intimacy Sherlock is intruding on tonight.
He hears them clatter down the stairs, so desperate to be alone and when the door slams he can no longer hear and deduce but the absolute knowledge Sherlock has of the situation unsettles him. It’s everything he’s tried to ignore for the whole of his life, so why is the image of Sarah’s pale pink nails running over John’s shoulder, down his chest as he struggles with the zip on her dress and pulls her out of it, quickly but not quick enough, falling into her bed. It started with a kiss, Sherlock thinks bitterly. How did it end up like this, it was only a kiss, but…
Sherlock closes his eyes hard, focuses on anything but the way Sarah’s neck looks as she throws her head back; the way John’s eyes cloud as he bites into her, the marks left on her skin. He can’t look, it’s killing him; imagining the hurt on John’s face if he knew what Sherlock was seeing, on top of the seething, burning jealousy he’s feeling.
This is the price he pays for throwing himself so intently into pursuing his destiny, for marrying his work at such an early age and never daring to let anyone get in between that. John Watson, of course, made himself an integral part of that work and screwed the whole arrangement sideways, but the man always has to be the exception to the rule.
He pulls himself out of bed, intending to make tea, or coffee, or talk to his skull, or revisit the crime scene so he can snipe at Anderson and Donovan or coat himself in nicotine patches until the last of the images are hidden just as his last piece of bare skin is. Moving slowly out into the dark living room, he wonders what the best distraction would be when an almost imperceptible movement from the far side of the room startles him.
He turns sharply and distinguishes a silhouette standing by the window in the faint moonlight and instinctively knows it’s John before his consciousness even has a chance to think.
As his eyes become accustomed to the dark he can see that John is looking at him expectantly, and Sherlock finds himself lost for words; a situation he’d never found himself in until John Watson.
Sherlock starts, “I never…” though this would happen.
“I never…” thought someone would affect me this way.
“I never…” thought I’d want to stand in the way of you being happy.
“I never…” thought you’d become invaluable to me.
“I never…” thought.
John seems to sense the words that Sherlock can’t say, yet hang in the air and smother their breathing.
“I would never let her come between us, Sherlock,” he says. “Whenever you need me, you have me.”
And that’s just the last straw, the last thread snapping inside him, and they both hear that in the crack of Sherlock’s voice as he says, “I will always need you, John.”
Author: Star (ryanbrendonlove)
Pairings: Sherlock/John (John/Sarah)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 780
Disclaimer/notes: Not mine; property of ACD, BBC, Moff and Gatiss. Inspired by and based on 'Mr Brightside' by The Killers.
The house door bangs open and Sherlock takes the stairs three at a time. “John, it’s Christmas again! A nasty double murder, promises to be interesting.” He pauses for effect, then adds, “and likely dangerous,” knowing all too well how to push John’s buttons.
He flings open the living room door and expects John coming out to meet him. Expects him to be rushing his shoes and coat on. Expects him to be asleep on the sofa or consumed by some hideous television car crash. What he doesn’t expect is to see Sarah on his sofa. He doesn’t expect John to be right next to her. He doesn’t expect the slow slide of their tongues and the tentative way they’re hardly touching.
He doesn’t want to see, but finds it impossible to tear his eyes away. After 10 seconds that feel like hours John must sense his presence; and turns to lock eyes with Sherlock. He expects to see hurt, irritation, impatience in that expressive and honest face, but instead John’s face is calm and composed, almost content with his presence.
Sherlock could watch that expression for days, but he finds himself apologising for the intrusion, turning away and fleeing for the comfort of his room. He flops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, tries to impose the crime scene on it and think through his data but suddenly he feels tired, more tired than he has in months. His eyes are dropping, and all he can concentrate on is the muffled sounds he can hear in the living room. Sarah’s calling a taxi. John lighting a cigarette, letting her take a drag; another little bit of intimacy Sherlock is intruding on tonight.
He hears them clatter down the stairs, so desperate to be alone and when the door slams he can no longer hear and deduce but the absolute knowledge Sherlock has of the situation unsettles him. It’s everything he’s tried to ignore for the whole of his life, so why is the image of Sarah’s pale pink nails running over John’s shoulder, down his chest as he struggles with the zip on her dress and pulls her out of it, quickly but not quick enough, falling into her bed. It started with a kiss, Sherlock thinks bitterly. How did it end up like this, it was only a kiss, but…
Sherlock closes his eyes hard, focuses on anything but the way Sarah’s neck looks as she throws her head back; the way John’s eyes cloud as he bites into her, the marks left on her skin. He can’t look, it’s killing him; imagining the hurt on John’s face if he knew what Sherlock was seeing, on top of the seething, burning jealousy he’s feeling.
This is the price he pays for throwing himself so intently into pursuing his destiny, for marrying his work at such an early age and never daring to let anyone get in between that. John Watson, of course, made himself an integral part of that work and screwed the whole arrangement sideways, but the man always has to be the exception to the rule.
He pulls himself out of bed, intending to make tea, or coffee, or talk to his skull, or revisit the crime scene so he can snipe at Anderson and Donovan or coat himself in nicotine patches until the last of the images are hidden just as his last piece of bare skin is. Moving slowly out into the dark living room, he wonders what the best distraction would be when an almost imperceptible movement from the far side of the room startles him.
He turns sharply and distinguishes a silhouette standing by the window in the faint moonlight and instinctively knows it’s John before his consciousness even has a chance to think.
As his eyes become accustomed to the dark he can see that John is looking at him expectantly, and Sherlock finds himself lost for words; a situation he’d never found himself in until John Watson.
Sherlock starts, “I never…” though this would happen.
“I never…” thought someone would affect me this way.
“I never…” thought I’d want to stand in the way of you being happy.
“I never…” thought you’d become invaluable to me.
“I never…” thought.
John seems to sense the words that Sherlock can’t say, yet hang in the air and smother their breathing.
“I would never let her come between us, Sherlock,” he says. “Whenever you need me, you have me.”
And that’s just the last straw, the last thread snapping inside him, and they both hear that in the crack of Sherlock’s voice as he says, “I will always need you, John.”