"A Man Lost In The Desert" - Part 5
A Man Lost In The Desert
Part 5
Sherlock says, the next day, that he’s going out, and John doesn’t press further. “Just to fetch something,” Sherlock adds, and John bids him goodbye with faith that he’s figured out what’s best.
Not half an hour later, when Sherlock returns, John opens his mouth to ask where he’s gone, since he hasn’t got anything with him that he hadn’t before. He notices then the black umbrella Sherlock holds that had blended in with his black coat, and he breathes out is “Oh, Sherlock.”
Sherlock nods in acknowledgement before he retires to his bedroom.
It’s midnight, at least, and John’s gotten up to pour himself a glass of water. Only then does he hear the loud dobbing coming from Sherlock’s bedroom, and his heart just drops, right into his stomach. The water can wait, surely- he’s needed. He’s most definitely needed, and it doesn’t take him another minute to make his way to Sherlock’s bedroom.
Looking in, Sherlock looks so tremendously precious and so unbelievably sad. The lights in the room are all off, but he’s still dressed as he lays on his side on top of the covers. He holds the umbrella close, so close considering how small and thin it us. His arms are wrapped around his stomach, only because he has nothing more solid than the umbrella to hold in them.
John doesn’t waste time with a greeting or a question, just enters the room, leaving the door just a crack for a bit of light from the hallway. He climbs into the bed and Sherlock looks up at him, and they don’t exchange a single word. John lies now, facing Sherlock, and they simply look at each other because no words are needed. Almost subconsciously, John presumes, Sherlock hugs the umbrella tighter in protection.
Sherlock’s lips part just slightly as he draws in a breath and looks at John, and it’s nothing hidden that he’s most vulnerable now, with Mycroft’s umbrella that he must have stolen from the crime scene. John offers a small, sympathetic smile, and Sherlock nods, trembling.
Sherlock relaxes and separates his arms, only to grasp the umbrella in his hands, so very firmly, almost as if his fingers were a vice. Though his grip relaxes soon, he buries his fingers in the black, nylon folds time and time again, basking in the feel of the fabric on his fingertips like it’s the only thing to ever matter in the universe. It is, to him.
The light from the hallway casts a dim glow over Sherlock’s pale face, highlighting the intensity of the care with which he handles the umbrella, as well as the tracks left on his face by his tears and the new tracks being painted by the second as tears slip easily out of his eye and into the red, raw skin underneath, before soaking spots on the sheets.
The only sounds in the room for quite some time are those of Sherlock’s labored breathing and the whimpers that never cease to escape his throat. Both men are content with this, and it remains until Sherlock comments, “I keep thinking, John, that it’s so thin, just like he was, with… with his diet and all.”
It’s clear and plain to John- probably that to anyone with eyes and a fairly susceptible heart- that the umbrella that lies between the two radiates the warmth and soul of a million shimmering spirits mingled together, but also a painful as well as painfully obvious lack thereof, because everything it symbolizes is gone.
Every ounce of Sherlock’s hurt and pain seems to ripple out and every glance at the wrecked, sobbing man is crippling. Each of Sherlock’s small, broken sounds is a stab to John’s heart, and John can’t help but reach out to stroke Sherlock’s cheek. Never has he felt so connected to his flatmate, to the genius consulting detective who is everything John admires and everything John needs in his life. Sherlock’s face is so soft, so sticky but so warm and smooth, so filled with the life and emotion that surrounds the pair and their umbrella.
John is leaning forward again, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s face for the second time, but this time to Sherlock’s pale, pink lips that still tremble as he tries his best to breathe steadily and be decent at the kissing that he, simply being himself, doesn’t do often at all.
Right over Mycroft’s umbrella do John and Sherlock share their first kiss, which couldn’t at all be more memorable for either. Sherlock associates John’s lips, then, not with death, but with comfort.
As they pull apart, John wraps one arm around Sherlock’s bony waist and beings the other up to rest his hand on Sherlock’s face. He plants a soft kiss to Sherlock’s cheekbone, then, before swiping his thumb over the spot.
“John,” Sherlock croaks, and John presses their foreheads together as they breathe heavily against each other, though much more so on Sherlock’s part. “John, thank you.”
“It’s alright, you’re alright,” John mutters as Sherlock nuzzles into his neck and the umbrella presses into both of their chests at once.
Part 5
Sherlock says, the next day, that he’s going out, and John doesn’t press further. “Just to fetch something,” Sherlock adds, and John bids him goodbye with faith that he’s figured out what’s best.
Not half an hour later, when Sherlock returns, John opens his mouth to ask where he’s gone, since he hasn’t got anything with him that he hadn’t before. He notices then the black umbrella Sherlock holds that had blended in with his black coat, and he breathes out is “Oh, Sherlock.”
Sherlock nods in acknowledgement before he retires to his bedroom.
It’s midnight, at least, and John’s gotten up to pour himself a glass of water. Only then does he hear the loud dobbing coming from Sherlock’s bedroom, and his heart just drops, right into his stomach. The water can wait, surely- he’s needed. He’s most definitely needed, and it doesn’t take him another minute to make his way to Sherlock’s bedroom.
Looking in, Sherlock looks so tremendously precious and so unbelievably sad. The lights in the room are all off, but he’s still dressed as he lays on his side on top of the covers. He holds the umbrella close, so close considering how small and thin it us. His arms are wrapped around his stomach, only because he has nothing more solid than the umbrella to hold in them.
John doesn’t waste time with a greeting or a question, just enters the room, leaving the door just a crack for a bit of light from the hallway. He climbs into the bed and Sherlock looks up at him, and they don’t exchange a single word. John lies now, facing Sherlock, and they simply look at each other because no words are needed. Almost subconsciously, John presumes, Sherlock hugs the umbrella tighter in protection.
Sherlock’s lips part just slightly as he draws in a breath and looks at John, and it’s nothing hidden that he’s most vulnerable now, with Mycroft’s umbrella that he must have stolen from the crime scene. John offers a small, sympathetic smile, and Sherlock nods, trembling.
Sherlock relaxes and separates his arms, only to grasp the umbrella in his hands, so very firmly, almost as if his fingers were a vice. Though his grip relaxes soon, he buries his fingers in the black, nylon folds time and time again, basking in the feel of the fabric on his fingertips like it’s the only thing to ever matter in the universe. It is, to him.
The light from the hallway casts a dim glow over Sherlock’s pale face, highlighting the intensity of the care with which he handles the umbrella, as well as the tracks left on his face by his tears and the new tracks being painted by the second as tears slip easily out of his eye and into the red, raw skin underneath, before soaking spots on the sheets.
The only sounds in the room for quite some time are those of Sherlock’s labored breathing and the whimpers that never cease to escape his throat. Both men are content with this, and it remains until Sherlock comments, “I keep thinking, John, that it’s so thin, just like he was, with… with his diet and all.”
It’s clear and plain to John- probably that to anyone with eyes and a fairly susceptible heart- that the umbrella that lies between the two radiates the warmth and soul of a million shimmering spirits mingled together, but also a painful as well as painfully obvious lack thereof, because everything it symbolizes is gone.
Every ounce of Sherlock’s hurt and pain seems to ripple out and every glance at the wrecked, sobbing man is crippling. Each of Sherlock’s small, broken sounds is a stab to John’s heart, and John can’t help but reach out to stroke Sherlock’s cheek. Never has he felt so connected to his flatmate, to the genius consulting detective who is everything John admires and everything John needs in his life. Sherlock’s face is so soft, so sticky but so warm and smooth, so filled with the life and emotion that surrounds the pair and their umbrella.
John is leaning forward again, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s face for the second time, but this time to Sherlock’s pale, pink lips that still tremble as he tries his best to breathe steadily and be decent at the kissing that he, simply being himself, doesn’t do often at all.
Right over Mycroft’s umbrella do John and Sherlock share their first kiss, which couldn’t at all be more memorable for either. Sherlock associates John’s lips, then, not with death, but with comfort.
As they pull apart, John wraps one arm around Sherlock’s bony waist and beings the other up to rest his hand on Sherlock’s face. He plants a soft kiss to Sherlock’s cheekbone, then, before swiping his thumb over the spot.
“John,” Sherlock croaks, and John presses their foreheads together as they breathe heavily against each other, though much more so on Sherlock’s part. “John, thank you.”
“It’s alright, you’re alright,” John mutters as Sherlock nuzzles into his neck and the umbrella presses into both of their chests at once.