Wishlist fic for seolforan
Title: Normalcy
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/The Woman
Rating: PG-13
W/C: ~650
A/N: written for seolforan for her wishlist_fic prompt Sherlock/The Woman - normalcy. Something like the opposite of seduction. I was at a loss as to how to fill this, until my iTunes kicked on ‘Pretty Things’ and it gave me some inspiration.
She was beautiful, as she’d always been.
It was how things worked now, the two of them, doing a dance that was something like the opposite of seduction.
Sherlock was hiding, of course, he had to, wasn’t that the point of it all? He found his allies where he could.
He found her. Again.
So close, in each other’s paths, tripping over each other’s feet, but in reality…from where she was to where he is now may just have well been its own galaxy.
She was in it to help, but only because it was helping him. Moriarty and his gang of thugs meant nothing to her, until they were a threat to Sherlock and the people he loved.
Those people were not a threat to her, because Sherlock didn’t love her; never had, never would.
They were pretty lies, the ones they told each other on the dark lonely nights when they tumbled into bed together, or onto the floor, or against the wall. She’d never tried to seduce him, not since her failed attempt long ago, and he’d never tried it on her, either (though it wouldn’t have taken much effort). It was comfort, it was a connection, the only one they had after both of them had severed every single other connection they’d ever had in the past.
Sherlock always did like pretty things (clothes, people, lies, cuff links). She never bothered to pretend she didn’t see it. Not even on the days when he stayed in his dressing gown with dyed, unkempt hair falling across his eyes and they’d play cards or laugh together or run back to their isolated room breathless and afraid.
This time would pass, and with it would her as well, she knew that for certain. He’d get what he wanted, and he’d run right back to his old life, and she’d have no other choice but to move on. She had nothing to go back to, so she’d just have to find something new.
He was a star, a bright shining star, unique among hundreds of millions who were similar in some ways but not the same. Never the same, never like him, not really.
But when this particular star, the star named Sherlock Holmes, had fallen down somewhere next to her, she counted herself lucky. Not many people got to know him like this. To find out how many sugars he took in his coffee (two), what kind of mustard he liked (none, ever, on anything), that he couldn’t stand to sleep with socks on no matter how cold it was.
And so what if he liked pretty things and pretty lies? She was more than willing to let him have those in return for his camaraderie and his affection, his willingness to let her in on his grand plan when he hadn’t told anyone else, not anyone, just her.
Not because he held any particular affection for her on an emotional level. He knew she would be a great asset in his endeavors. The fact that he found her attractive and was more than compliant with having her as a live-in companion and travel partner, well, those were just convenient.
Things were just…well, things. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t put Sherlock in that category, but she’d have to find a way to live with it at some point. It didn’t matter, though; helping Sherlock meant he’d leave her sooner, but that didn’t stop her from doing it anyway.
For them, this was just the current level of ‘normal’. Going out for recon, the occasional garroting or gunshot inflicted on a random member of Moriarty’s network, then coming back to their hideout and heating up soup or reading on opposite sides of the sofa. It wouldn’t last long, but she’d take what she could get in the meantime.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/The Woman
Rating: PG-13
W/C: ~650
A/N: written for seolforan for her wishlist_fic prompt Sherlock/The Woman - normalcy. Something like the opposite of seduction. I was at a loss as to how to fill this, until my iTunes kicked on ‘Pretty Things’ and it gave me some inspiration.
She was beautiful, as she’d always been.
It was how things worked now, the two of them, doing a dance that was something like the opposite of seduction.
Sherlock was hiding, of course, he had to, wasn’t that the point of it all? He found his allies where he could.
He found her. Again.
So close, in each other’s paths, tripping over each other’s feet, but in reality…from where she was to where he is now may just have well been its own galaxy.
She was in it to help, but only because it was helping him. Moriarty and his gang of thugs meant nothing to her, until they were a threat to Sherlock and the people he loved.
Those people were not a threat to her, because Sherlock didn’t love her; never had, never would.
They were pretty lies, the ones they told each other on the dark lonely nights when they tumbled into bed together, or onto the floor, or against the wall. She’d never tried to seduce him, not since her failed attempt long ago, and he’d never tried it on her, either (though it wouldn’t have taken much effort). It was comfort, it was a connection, the only one they had after both of them had severed every single other connection they’d ever had in the past.
Sherlock always did like pretty things (clothes, people, lies, cuff links). She never bothered to pretend she didn’t see it. Not even on the days when he stayed in his dressing gown with dyed, unkempt hair falling across his eyes and they’d play cards or laugh together or run back to their isolated room breathless and afraid.
This time would pass, and with it would her as well, she knew that for certain. He’d get what he wanted, and he’d run right back to his old life, and she’d have no other choice but to move on. She had nothing to go back to, so she’d just have to find something new.
He was a star, a bright shining star, unique among hundreds of millions who were similar in some ways but not the same. Never the same, never like him, not really.
But when this particular star, the star named Sherlock Holmes, had fallen down somewhere next to her, she counted herself lucky. Not many people got to know him like this. To find out how many sugars he took in his coffee (two), what kind of mustard he liked (none, ever, on anything), that he couldn’t stand to sleep with socks on no matter how cold it was.
And so what if he liked pretty things and pretty lies? She was more than willing to let him have those in return for his camaraderie and his affection, his willingness to let her in on his grand plan when he hadn’t told anyone else, not anyone, just her.
Not because he held any particular affection for her on an emotional level. He knew she would be a great asset in his endeavors. The fact that he found her attractive and was more than compliant with having her as a live-in companion and travel partner, well, those were just convenient.
Things were just…well, things. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t put Sherlock in that category, but she’d have to find a way to live with it at some point. It didn’t matter, though; helping Sherlock meant he’d leave her sooner, but that didn’t stop her from doing it anyway.
For them, this was just the current level of ‘normal’. Going out for recon, the occasional garroting or gunshot inflicted on a random member of Moriarty’s network, then coming back to their hideout and heating up soup or reading on opposite sides of the sofa. It wouldn’t last long, but she’d take what she could get in the meantime.