In which progress is made…
Now up on:
FF.net / LiveJournal / AO3
or from Chapter 1: FF.net / LiveJournal / AO3
Oh, my. I was so sleepy last night, I couldn’t wait much longer for this to update. Darn! But, I’m reading it now~ XD
John reached out a hand and lightly stroked it over the side of Sherlock’s neck. “But you are breathtakingly gorgeous. How did I walk in on you in the shower just a few weeks ago and not think that?”
“Well, I was a bit scrawny.” Sherlock glanced down and John followed his gaze to where the concerted efforts of the people he lived with had managed to ‘feed him up’ a bit.
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
They looked at each other, unspoken words arching like a rainbow between them in the spray, then Sherlock shook his head like a dog, sending water in all directions and the moment was gone.
Several times each month, the two of them dined at Angelo’s. Sherlock usually suggested it; John usually teased him on the way.
“I thought you didn’t believe in sentiment.”
“It isn’t sentiment, John. It’s economy. Angelo provides my meal free of charge, as you know.”
“Yeah, well, mine isn’t free. And you never eat, anyway.”
“Untrue. I do eat something from time to time.”
“Then prove it. Tonight, you’re having a slice of pizza with me.”
“John, really.”
John shook his head. “No, Sherlock, I’m serious. Eat the pizza, or I’m telling Lestrade you keep bringing me here because it reminds you of our first date.”
“I believe you were the one who kept insisting it wasn’t a date.” Sherlock held the door open for John as they went inside.
With a nod to Billy, they took their seats at the booth near the front window. John looked over at their reflection in the mirror above the bar; it was a different picture than it had been the first time, certainly. They looked more at ease, happier. They definitely looked like two people who belonged together, whatever you took ‘together’ to mean.
He wondered why it had taken so long for that realisation to hit him.
“Now you mention it, Sherlock, I was the ONLY one who kept insisting it wasn’t a date. In fact, I was the only one who ever insisted we weren’t a couple. Why is that, do you figure?” He fixed Sherlock with a wry smile.
As expected, the only response was an eyeroll and an indignant sigh.
The pizza arrived (margherita, something simple, John had decided), and John put the first slice onto Sherlock’s plate.
Sherlock considered it as if it were a decomposing limb brought in from Bart’s. “And how much of this am I expected to consume?”
John squared his shoulders. “At least half. Any less, and you have to admit that the only reason we’re here,” he gestured at the dining area in general, “is because is Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, is a hopeless romantic.”
In the air overhead they swarmed and danced: Thousands upon thousands of honey bees, chubby little officiants buzzing their approval, brilliant in bright finery of yellow and black.
…..
Sherlock lowered his arm but not his gaze, pressed a fist against the beautiful ache in his chest. “You did this for me?”
John wiped gently at Sherlock’s warm tears. “You already know I’d die for you…five thousand bees ordered online? Oh honey, that was a piece of cake.”
Ladies and Gents, Fanart inspired by The Fantastic Atlin Merrick as always.Sherlock and John’s Beeutiful wedding in the finale chapter of Skullduggery.
It’s always when the flat is at its quietest - when isn’t it, though? - that John thinks, for a fleeting second, that everything will be okay. It’s when he hears things that his hope is rekindled. The creaking of the fifth step up to 221B. Light, pacing feet too early in the morning. The violin that used to keep him up at night. Irritated muttering from the kitchen. Audible signs of boredom from the sitting room. A baritone voice calling his name.
He thinks it’s him - he thinks he’s come home. John thinks he’s no longer alone.
“… Sherlock?” he calls softly, as if even saying the name will break the illusion. He waits for a reply that never comes.
When he looks over his shoulder at the silent flat, Sherlock is never there.
“I do not understand this one, Mycroft.”
“Understand what?”
“This emotion. I do not understand this specific emotion.”
“Anger? You’ve been angry before, Sherlock, we both know that.”
A heavy sigh caught in the wind. “No. Not anger. Something else, something worse.”
Mycroft paused as he turned to look at Sherlock, frowning some. He may have helped in the building of this revolutionary being, but he couldn’t begin to pretend that he understood him in his entirety. Sherlock was a thing, a creature all his own. It was why Mycroft had brought in John Watson. The man might seem ordinary but he saw the pattern in the pieces that Mycroft needed to decode the puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes. “Well, then describe to me what it is you are experiencing and I will try to assist in assessing just what emotion it is.”
Sherlock put his face to the wind and if Mycroft didn’t know any better he would say the bot was sad, stricken even. He was looking past the city, past the sky, wandering the naked, looming corridors of his mind. “I do not know how to describe it properly. I feel angry, yes, but not in the same manner. I feel… lost? No, no that is not correct. I am not lost but I feel lost, confused. Is this what confused feels like? Like I am at a loss for what to do with myself? I feel as if I have no purpose, Mycroft. I feel useless. How do I feel that way? How am I, irreplaceable and best at what I do, useless?” He turned to the other, eyes imploring, lips tight.
“You are not useless. You know this Sherlock. You will always have a use, a purpose.”
“Yes! I understand this, yes. But I do not have use right now. I care not to work on cases. I don’t wish to look at bodies. I just wish… I just.” He had to stop. Being lost for words, having trouble even expressing himself in the simplest of terms was new for him. New and unwelcome. He was not familiar with this state, this state of mental disrepair. ”Help me, Mycroft. I do not understand this.” His voice sounded so human, so provincially organic and honest because inside his supercomputer mind, inside the head that knew so much, he did not know this, he could not handle this. “I don’t understand.”
“It is called guilt, Sherlock. Guilt and what I would assume is grief.”
“Nonsense. Why would I be grieving? And why should I feel guilty.”
“Well, you’re grieving for your loss. You’re grieving because you are upset. And I don’t believe you should feel guilty but I believe you do. For not being there sooner, for not stopping the sniper from shooting John Watson. You feel guilty for his injuries, because you brought him there and because you have done nothing to deter his unhealthy habit of following you around by the sleeve.”
Sherlock turned sharply to hiss at the other man.
“Oh do not give me that. I can be observant too. And I also know you greatly enjoyed the attention. You enjoyed the fact that he stuck by your side and you flew into situations without proper forethought. Not for yourself, no, you always think of yourself. But for John and his own safety. You thrust him into situations forgetting the most crucial and, decidedly, most important aspect of him: his mortality. John Watson is fragile and finite. I believe you forget that. I believe that you forgot that, which led to where we are now.”
Sherlock couldn’t look at Mycroft, couldn’t face the truth because the truth made those vile feelings within his chest more vagrant and acrid. They tasted bitter on his tongue, sounded painful to his ears, and made his skin prick and hum in ways he couldn’t even begin to describe as pleasant. He felt simultaneously sick and angry, grief stricken… and guilty. “You speak of him as if he is dead.”
“Well, he very nearly is. And actually, if we look at the facts, he HAS died. Twice now.”
“Why are you telling me this? I was under the impression that “family” was supposed to show support in times of elevated stress and emotional compromise.” Anger was bubbling up over the other things he felt, forcing him to cut sharp glares in the direction of the man with the umbrella.
“Under normal circumstances, yes. I most certainly would. But I believe a large dose of reality will be healthy for you Sherlock. I sympathize with your pain, and I apologize that you are ill prepared to deal with the emotions that follow, but you need to understand the entirety of this situation and where you stand in it if you are ever going to understand the rest. If you are choosing to participate in society and act human, you must know the consequences that come with that. Humanity comes at a price, love highest of all. If you wish to understand this, experience this, then you must take responsibility for your actions while doing so.”
“I do not know what you are talking about.” He spoke through grit teeth.
“Yes you do. Don’t insult us both by saying otherwise. Go back downstairs. Go back to his room. Exist, with him, be there. He may be unconscious but the company will be appreciated. I promise.” Mycroft left with a tip-tap of his umbrella on the rooftop, the door creaking loudly but left open for Sherlock. Soon after, it would swing closed behind the tall automaton as he moved downstairs to take up his residence back in the chair by John’s bedside. As the silence filled the room again and the white noise in Sherlock’s mind threatened to drive him mad once more, he reached forward and slid his hand into John’s, feeling the warmth from his human companion and finally beginning to understand the beauty in the human fragility.——————————-
- Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI - Part VII - Part VIII -
The events that led up to their current predicament were wild and mildly unbelievable and to be saved for another time. The stories would come, of their harrowing foot chase through the darkened sleepy city, jumping over railways and turnstiles, cutting corners and acting heroic for the sake of doing good. John would tell some friendly blokes when they took him out to the bar and put one too many beers in his system. He would tell of Sherlock’s brilliance, of the deduction that saved six children and three cats. He would tell of how he was able to catch two of the bad guys by being faster than them despite being hurt. He would tell of how the both of them, a lonely mechanic and his fantastic friend, bested two of the smartest fugitives in London at the time.
But he would not tell them of the trap they were led into. He would not tell them of the power surge that knocked out Sherlock. He would not tell them of the bar that hit him across the head. He would not tell them of the blood running in his eyes or the way Sherlock looked at him when he’d rebooted. He would not tell them of the laugh that still made his skin crawl. Or the smell of rich cologne and cigar smoke that hung to the expensive fibers of his suit. He would not tell them of the man who had outsmarted a robot. Or of the man who sunk three bullets into John’s chest.
He would not tell them of the smell that hit his nose or the taste that laid on his tongue.
He would not tell them how cold tiles feel beneath quivering knees.
He would not tell them of the sounds he heard underneath the rushing ocean waves of blood in his ears.
And he would not tell them of the broken record whispers he heard come from Sherlock’s mouth.
John, he would not tell.
John, no John no no, no John John no he would not tell.
John john john john stop john john no john stop john not tell john please no tell no john please.
He would not tell.
Those words were his. Heard amongst the rush in his ears and the feel in his knees and the smell in his nose and the taste on his tongue. Heard when he could no longer see, no longer sense, no longer breathe. Heard when he was dead. Heard in his dreams.
No, John Watson would not tell. The words that would forever rest on the tip of his tongue, in his mouth, along his teeth and in his throat. Those were his, given to him by a man with no heart. By a man with no heart.——————————-
- Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI - Part VII -
Wait.
What.
What?
What?!
OH GOD I NEED MORE.
Goodness…this is extraordinary.
(Click for full size please!)
I am yours,My king
I will shield your back and give my life for yours if it comes to that。
I swear it by light god————————————————
I always think John likes Sherlock’s knight
Will someone like to write a AU fic?LOLWhen the war in the East ended, every soldier returned with the same story: there was a captain among their ranks beyond any man in loyalty to his men. He had come out of each battle against all odds, for he had risked life and limb and sanity on multiple occasions to save dying men, men who would be unquestionably dead were it not for the unbelievable and fairly stupid actions of this one captain.
The king had heard it all by the time his general came with the story. He sent for the captain, a man who had been promoted early in his career at the behest of the king’s late father, shortly before the king himself took the throne.
The captain came at once. He entered the throne room with a peculiar air of confidence and humility. The king read much about the man in those first few steps, and more than enough by the time the captain kneeled before his lord.
“Rise,” the king said, almost lazily. The soldier obeyed and stood with one hand comfortably and unthreateningly on the hilt of his sword. “You’re quite the talk of the city, Captain Watson.” The man hardly blinked. “Tell me, how does a man meant to be a physician, a healer of men, become a killer?”
At last the captain flinched, a small crease appearing on his brow. “Excuse me, your majesty,” he said in a deep, smooth voice, “but how did you—”
“Your hands, Watson. Your hands. If you’d be so kind to answer the question, though.”
“Apologies, milord.” He bowed his head. “My father was a physician himself, and my mother well-versed in herbs and potions. It’s true, sire, I was intended for the same profession, but when the war came I thought it best to defend the kingdom.”
The merest hint of a smirk graced the king’s lips. “Noble. Foolish, but noble.” The king put his fingertips together before his lips and leaned forward in his throne. “Tell me, Watson, what do you see?”
The king’s talents were well-known throughout the city, if not the entire realm. He could read a situation in a moment, a man’s life in less. It was this people feared and respected above all else; few dared commit even the pettiest of crimes with this man on the throne. And the king, it was also well-known, enjoyed testing his subjects. Most considered it pride, that he enjoyed making fools of lords and commoners alike.
Without turning his head, the captain glanced around at what was before him. After a moment, he looked back at the king and answered with only a sliver of uncertainty in his voice, “I see you, your majesty. My lord and king.”
Most men would make poor attempts at detailing their surroundings; others would simply reply that they did not know. This Captain Watson’s answer was the last the king expected, and for that reason the king found himself drawn to the man.
Thank you!!!!Zerotonothing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!My wishes come true!!!!!!
Captain Watson❤❤❤❤ King Holmes❤❤❤❤!!!!! I LOVE the little story!!
In which things are uncovered…
Now up on:
FF.net / LiveJournal / AO3
or from Chapter 1: FF.net / LiveJournal / AO3
*silent squeak* Yay!
playing violin
I absolutely adore this.
I was informed that this needed ficcery and that some fluff was required, stat. This is the first thing the Muse offered up, hope it’ll do?
~~~
The sounds of the traffic outside fade, along with his awareness of the room in general, as Sherlock adjusts the violin under John’s chin, moves his fingers to a more proper hold on the bow, and lays one each of his fingers over John’s on the strings.
Breath just brushing his ear and cheek, Sherlock speaks in a low murmur. “Now, no slouching, but don’t tense up. Yes, John, just like that.”
Almost surprised into following orders, John lets himself be guided, posed. “I just asked -“
Sherlock cuts him off, a quiet baritone rumble to which he has somehow trained himself to listen, “It’s pointless to explain if you have no basis for understanding. Now, feel the strings, each one’s tension. Touch the bow to them, move it…yes, very smooth for a novice, John… feel the vibrations?”
John nods the tiny increment he is allowed, violin under his chin, Sherlock’s cheek against the side of his head, and the realisation that he has no wish to dislodge either. Nor does he mind the warm presence of Sherlock’s body, all along his back, or those longer arms curved over and around his upper arms, or having the graceful and sure touch of those long-fingered hands atop his own.
“Now, press this finger hardest, then this… here… yes, now draw the bow steadily across those strings… no, firm enough to engage the strings properly.” When has Sherlock ever sounded so patient? Rarely, to be sure, and the few times John can recall were often when walking him through some convoluted deduction.
“I’m sure to be rubbish at this, Sherlock,” John protests, aware his voice has dropped to a soft tone, too.
A breath of a chuckle, nearly silent, tickles the hair at his temple and his ear. “Everyone’s rubbish to start,” Sherlock retorts.
John draws the bow across the string, a multiple tone sounds from the contact, weak and uneven, and John presses slightly more firmly, keeps his fingers tight where Sherlock’s holding them, and the tone solidifies into one long smooth note that is resonant and sweet in the quiet room. A grin flashes across John’s mouth and he feels another soft laugh from Sherlock, this time the movement of his chest and diaphragm press against John’s back.
“Perfect,” Sherlock says, guiding John’s fingers into another configuration. “Now, this will be—”
This time John interrupts Sherlock, “You’re not going to actually teach me how to play, are you?”
“Not this afternoon, no.” From the drag of Sherlock’s hair against his own and the feeling of the other man’s breath against his cheek, John is sure Sherlock’s head has turned and he’s studying John, but John doesn’t return the gaze, feeling strangely unnerved.
“I mean,” he says almost reluctantly, not even sure why he’s arguing, “this sort of thing takes years.”
Sherlock’s head moves again, and John lets his fingers be guided once more, and he is only mildly surprised when Sherlock speaks, a little more humour infusing the deep, quiet voice. “Well, it’ll be something to fill the time between cases, won’t it?”
A smile pulls at John’s lips, accompanied by a bright, buoyant feeling in his middle. Years. Of cases and excitement, of squabbling over the shopping and messy experiments, of violin in the wee hours and the flickers of genius in changeable eyes that see everything.
They bring another pure note out of Sherlock’s violin, with only a tiny hint of scratchy off-tone at the end, and John glances at Sherlock, who’s also smiling, and he gives a tiny tilt of his head. “Better than bullet holes in the wall, yeah?”
Sherlock’s answering chuckle is low and rich, like dark chocolate and honey, and John joins in, his own lighter while being just as warm, and yet they blend almost perfectly.~~~
(For Lady-Karasu)
“He wasn’t limping.”
Presumably that meant more to him than it did to her. Mrs Hudson kept quiet.
“I was at the cemetery when you both visited, not too long after…” Sherlock shifted in his seat and looked down at his hands. “I needed to go abroad but I didn’t want to leave without seeing…”
She nodded at him encouragingly, not that he was looking. “Go on.”
He glanced at her, then away again. “It was obvious that he was upset. That you both were,” he amended. “But he didn’t have his cane. He wasn’t limping.” He shrugged. “It seemed that he would be all right.”
Mrs Hudson frowned. “I don’t really understand about the limping,” she admitted. “I remember he had a cane when he first came to look at the flat, but I’ve not seen it since. And then while you were gone… I kept thinking he must have been hurt, but he always said he was fine.” She thought back, remembering uneven footsteps on the stairs and catching him off guard every now and then. “But he still limped when he thought no one could see him.”
Looking forward to this…yes. XD
Wow. It’s just now Friday and already I can feel myself getting hyped up for verityburns’ next chapter of Given in Evidence. But it doesn’t update until Monday, so I still have the weekend to wait. But that’s more than cool~ *giggles*
Patience me…patience. I know I’m anticipating it because it was a longer wait this time for the newest chapter, but the wait is always worth it. <3
I’m enjoying reading it so much. Hee.
