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Sherlock Fanfiction: There Are Times When the Stars Are Too Close
Title: There Are Times When the Stars Are Too Close
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: R (this section), NC-17 (overall)
Length: ~1650 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of the Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. There Are Times When the Stars Are Too Close follows Haploid.
Excerpt: “It was a couple days before I got shot,” John continued. John had not spoken of this.
There Are Times When the Stars Are Too Close
“There are times when the stars are too close,” John said.
Sherlock’s face was nestled in the curve at the base of John’s spine. He could feel the words. Sherlock nodded encouragement, cheekbone bumping along John’s vertebrae, John’s skin cool against his face. John hadn’t been totally wrong about his touch. The fever had risen. Sherlock inhaled the faint hint of smoke.
“It was a couple days before I got shot,” John continued. John had not spoken of this. Sherlock angled his head slightly upwards. Only the back of John’s head was visible past his shoulders. John shifted his weight onto one elbow and reached for the glass of water on the night table, took a quick sip and then another. “It was a conference, bit of R&R and professional development rolled into one,” John added, taking another sip. “Latest advances in burn treatment.” John let the glass rest on the pillow. “Civilian doctors mainly, so a bit of sight-seeing scheduled in, you know, after the sights of the lectures.” He lifted the glass again, emptied it. “Through the caves and out onto the Upper Rock of Gibraltar, a little patter about the monkeys and the pirates.” John paused. “It was hard to endure, so I wandered off.”
“I thought only I did that,” Sherlock said.
John gave a little snort and the muscles beneath Sherlock’s cheek moved with it. “Sometimes you can walk around a corner and all the sound stops.”
“Acoustics,” Sherlock murmured and rubbed his face against the ridge of bone under the smooth skin. He could hear John's nails tapping against his empty water glass.
“There were small lights on the border of the path, but a few were out the other side of this large outcropping. I leaned back against the stone. It was a little damp, but the breeze was warm.” John stopped tapping. “And the sky was all stars." John's muscles shifted as he gestured. "I could see the hands on my watch.” John put his glass back on the night stand. "You see skies like that in the desert when the wind is calm or at sea. I didn’t expect it there."
Sherlock waited.
"First time, I was up a tree in the mountains, ruining a new pair of denims with pine sap. My mother made quite a fuss about it the next morning." John huffed. "I decided to be an astronomer that summer.”
“What changed?” Sherlock asked, placing the irritation about his deficient knowledge of the solar system into context.
“I realised I could never touch them. Nothing I did would ever matter.”
Sherlock considered the tone of John’s words, the length of the silence following them.
“So you became a doctor,” Sherlock said. John’s head and shoulders settled onto the pillows. John remained quiet, his breathing deep and measured. “But you still wanted the stars.”
“I used to look at you and feel like that,” John said.
***
John set a bottle of apple juice, a bowl of fruit and a tray of implements on the night table, leaned over and brushed his fingertips over Sherlock’s forehead. He bent lower and touched his lips to the warm skin. Not very scientific. The fever was down.
John pulled a foot stool closer to the bed, lifted the sheet. The urge to kiss the bit of flesh showing above the bandages was strong. He indulged it for a moment before he began unwrapping.
The forearm was much improved, the red streaks faded to pink and the pink ones nearly gone. No need to be re-bandaged. John traced the marks from below the elbow to the wrist, moving along and then across the lines, laying his cheek against them. The difference in temperature was perceptible, warmest near the wrist. John sat up, scanned the skin, stroked the centre of the upturned palm. Warmer still. Carefully, he turned the hand over, leaning close and checking each finger. The thumb and the little finger had improved the least although their blisters had dried. The middle fingers looked best, the tips nearly smooth again. John sat back on the stool and considered.
***
When John returned, Sherlock was sitting up, a grape held between thumb and forefinger halfway to his mouth. The grape reached its destination and Sherlock raised both his hands, bandaged and unbandaged, and arched an eyebrow.
“I didn’t want to wake you reaching across for the other hand,” John said. “I can do it now though. How are you feeling?”
“Impatient. Hungry,” Sherlock said, turning his unwrapped hand, spreading the fingers and examining the skin between them. “Much better,” he said, flexing his thumb and curling his fingers to inspect the nails, noticing the differences.
“Feel up to a little blood work?” John asked, setting a small case on the edge of the bed.
“We should have done that last night,” Sherlock remarked, rubbing the tips of his fingers together in various combinations.
John exhaled. “Not the top priority,” he said.
“You observed the differences among them?” Sherlock asked, extending his hand.
John nodded. “Yeah,” he replied.
Sherlock tapped two fingers against John’s lips. “Remedy that,” Sherlock said.
***
Like spice. John paused, eyes closed, his tongue pressed against the injured digit in his mouth. Or citrus. He moved his tongue over the skin, the insides of his cheeks tingling. His thumb massaged the palm of Sherlock’s hand as he slowly drew his mouth away and opened his eyes.
They met Sherlock’s. “Carry on,” Sherlock said, gaze intent. John ran his tongue over the palm, probed between each pair of fingers with it. Sherlock’s eyes widened and John’s eyes dropped to his mouth.
“I should…wait,” John said and lay the hand on the bed.
“No.” Sherlock leaned forward.
“A moment,” John said, moving the case to the table and pulling his shirt over his head. “Just an instant,” he added, his fingers working as efficiently as if he were baring a wound to be treated in the field. “There,” he said, pushing the sheet away and climbing over Sherlock, pressing him back into the pillows and covering his mouth. “There,” he repeated and closed his mouth over Sherlock’s lips again.
Sherlock’s hand hovered near John’s face. He hummed against John’s mouth and touched a fingertip to the corner of John’s lips. John let go, his chest pressing with each deep breath against Sherlock’s chest and let Sherlock insert the finger into his mouth.
***
When John woke up, Sherlock was studying his hand. He glanced at John. “It’s a gift any doctor would wish to have,” Sherlock said, holding his thumb close enough to John’s eyes for him to see the improvement in the skin.
John disentangled the hand that had been tucked between Sherlock’s thighs and grasped Sherlock's, turned it to see the inside of the wrist, of the little finger.
“This is more than boosted immunity,” he said, rubbing his thumb across the pulse point at Sherlock’s wrist. “This looks like regeneration.”
“Perhaps if the demands on the immune system are shared, healing can proceed more rapidly,” Sherlock suggested.
John pulled Sherlock’s hand closer, laid it against his cheek. The impulse to suckle it was difficult to resist. “The skin of the mouth heals quickly,” John said before giving in to the compulsion.
***
John took a step away from the microscope, so Sherlock could look again at the slide.
“Moran was much more than a colleague of Moriarty’s then,” John said.
Sherlock hummed. “Let’s combine them directly,” Sherlock said, glancing away from the microscope for a moment.
John raised an eyebrow. “Oh. You want to add some of mine?”
Sherlock murmured assent, his attention back on the slide. John reached for a pipette and the vial of his blood.
***
“Did he know, at the end, about Moriarty?” John asked, cutting a thin slice of liver and spearing it and some sautéed onions on his fork.
“Most likely,” Sherlock said, before taking a mouthful of spinach and sesame seeds. He chewed thoughtfully. “He wasn’t brilliant, but if he thought Moriarty was being held, I don't think he would have tried to cut my throat before finding out where.”
John poured more burgundy. “Might he have known his blood could harm you?”
“Hard to say,” Sherlock said, reaching for his glass. “Unless one of them confided in someone still alive or left some written records, we aren’t likely to ever know.”
John stabbed at a chunk of beetroot. “From what you described, it almost seems as though he positioned himself to let the knife reach his jugular once you began to overpower him.”
“You are probably giving him credit for more foresight than he had,” Sherlock said, reaching across the table to take the slice of liver John had just finished cutting. “Although it is possible that Moriarty had given him instructions for various scenarios.”
“Do you think Moriarty understood?” John asked.
“No,” Sherlock replied. “But I think he had hypotheses. I think that’s why he had the gun.”
“I can see him wanting to kill you, but why himself?” John asked, his eyes on Sherlock’s face.
“If he thought death would intensify the transfer,” Sherlock replied, his hand closing around his wineglass, “he might have been willing to have his satisfaction posthumously.”
John looked down at his plate. “I had been hoping he killed himself in despair.”
“You might be right,” Sherlock agreed. John looked up, but Sherlock was staring off to the left. “Assigning his lieutenant as your assassin showed some appreciation for your skills, but one of his mistakes was that he still underestimated you.”
Perhaps you did, too. John considered Sherlock’s profile. On the other hand, the urge to protect what one loves is powerful. I appreciate that.
Sherlock met John’s eyes and raised his wineglass. “Let’s make sure we don’t underestimate him.”
Their glasses chimed as they touched. It wasn't a comforting thought. John sighed and finished his wine. Sherlock set his glass down and turned his eyes to the shadows.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part, Nighttide, may be read here.
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: R (this section), NC-17 (overall)
Length: ~1650 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of the Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. There Are Times When the Stars Are Too Close follows Haploid.
Excerpt: “It was a couple days before I got shot,” John continued. John had not spoken of this.
“There are times when the stars are too close,” John said.
Sherlock’s face was nestled in the curve at the base of John’s spine. He could feel the words. Sherlock nodded encouragement, cheekbone bumping along John’s vertebrae, John’s skin cool against his face. John hadn’t been totally wrong about his touch. The fever had risen. Sherlock inhaled the faint hint of smoke.
“It was a couple days before I got shot,” John continued. John had not spoken of this. Sherlock angled his head slightly upwards. Only the back of John’s head was visible past his shoulders. John shifted his weight onto one elbow and reached for the glass of water on the night table, took a quick sip and then another. “It was a conference, bit of R&R and professional development rolled into one,” John added, taking another sip. “Latest advances in burn treatment.” John let the glass rest on the pillow. “Civilian doctors mainly, so a bit of sight-seeing scheduled in, you know, after the sights of the lectures.” He lifted the glass again, emptied it. “Through the caves and out onto the Upper Rock of Gibraltar, a little patter about the monkeys and the pirates.” John paused. “It was hard to endure, so I wandered off.”
“I thought only I did that,” Sherlock said.
John gave a little snort and the muscles beneath Sherlock’s cheek moved with it. “Sometimes you can walk around a corner and all the sound stops.”
“Acoustics,” Sherlock murmured and rubbed his face against the ridge of bone under the smooth skin. He could hear John's nails tapping against his empty water glass.
“There were small lights on the border of the path, but a few were out the other side of this large outcropping. I leaned back against the stone. It was a little damp, but the breeze was warm.” John stopped tapping. “And the sky was all stars." John's muscles shifted as he gestured. "I could see the hands on my watch.” John put his glass back on the night stand. "You see skies like that in the desert when the wind is calm or at sea. I didn’t expect it there."
Sherlock waited.
"First time, I was up a tree in the mountains, ruining a new pair of denims with pine sap. My mother made quite a fuss about it the next morning." John huffed. "I decided to be an astronomer that summer.”
“What changed?” Sherlock asked, placing the irritation about his deficient knowledge of the solar system into context.
“I realised I could never touch them. Nothing I did would ever matter.”
Sherlock considered the tone of John’s words, the length of the silence following them.
“So you became a doctor,” Sherlock said. John’s head and shoulders settled onto the pillows. John remained quiet, his breathing deep and measured. “But you still wanted the stars.”
“I used to look at you and feel like that,” John said.
***
John set a bottle of apple juice, a bowl of fruit and a tray of implements on the night table, leaned over and brushed his fingertips over Sherlock’s forehead. He bent lower and touched his lips to the warm skin. Not very scientific. The fever was down.
John pulled a foot stool closer to the bed, lifted the sheet. The urge to kiss the bit of flesh showing above the bandages was strong. He indulged it for a moment before he began unwrapping.
The forearm was much improved, the red streaks faded to pink and the pink ones nearly gone. No need to be re-bandaged. John traced the marks from below the elbow to the wrist, moving along and then across the lines, laying his cheek against them. The difference in temperature was perceptible, warmest near the wrist. John sat up, scanned the skin, stroked the centre of the upturned palm. Warmer still. Carefully, he turned the hand over, leaning close and checking each finger. The thumb and the little finger had improved the least although their blisters had dried. The middle fingers looked best, the tips nearly smooth again. John sat back on the stool and considered.
***
When John returned, Sherlock was sitting up, a grape held between thumb and forefinger halfway to his mouth. The grape reached its destination and Sherlock raised both his hands, bandaged and unbandaged, and arched an eyebrow.
“I didn’t want to wake you reaching across for the other hand,” John said. “I can do it now though. How are you feeling?”
“Impatient. Hungry,” Sherlock said, turning his unwrapped hand, spreading the fingers and examining the skin between them. “Much better,” he said, flexing his thumb and curling his fingers to inspect the nails, noticing the differences.
“Feel up to a little blood work?” John asked, setting a small case on the edge of the bed.
“We should have done that last night,” Sherlock remarked, rubbing the tips of his fingers together in various combinations.
John exhaled. “Not the top priority,” he said.
“You observed the differences among them?” Sherlock asked, extending his hand.
John nodded. “Yeah,” he replied.
Sherlock tapped two fingers against John’s lips. “Remedy that,” Sherlock said.
***
Like spice. John paused, eyes closed, his tongue pressed against the injured digit in his mouth. Or citrus. He moved his tongue over the skin, the insides of his cheeks tingling. His thumb massaged the palm of Sherlock’s hand as he slowly drew his mouth away and opened his eyes.
They met Sherlock’s. “Carry on,” Sherlock said, gaze intent. John ran his tongue over the palm, probed between each pair of fingers with it. Sherlock’s eyes widened and John’s eyes dropped to his mouth.
“I should…wait,” John said and lay the hand on the bed.
“No.” Sherlock leaned forward.
“A moment,” John said, moving the case to the table and pulling his shirt over his head. “Just an instant,” he added, his fingers working as efficiently as if he were baring a wound to be treated in the field. “There,” he said, pushing the sheet away and climbing over Sherlock, pressing him back into the pillows and covering his mouth. “There,” he repeated and closed his mouth over Sherlock’s lips again.
Sherlock’s hand hovered near John’s face. He hummed against John’s mouth and touched a fingertip to the corner of John’s lips. John let go, his chest pressing with each deep breath against Sherlock’s chest and let Sherlock insert the finger into his mouth.
***
When John woke up, Sherlock was studying his hand. He glanced at John. “It’s a gift any doctor would wish to have,” Sherlock said, holding his thumb close enough to John’s eyes for him to see the improvement in the skin.
John disentangled the hand that had been tucked between Sherlock’s thighs and grasped Sherlock's, turned it to see the inside of the wrist, of the little finger.
“This is more than boosted immunity,” he said, rubbing his thumb across the pulse point at Sherlock’s wrist. “This looks like regeneration.”
“Perhaps if the demands on the immune system are shared, healing can proceed more rapidly,” Sherlock suggested.
John pulled Sherlock’s hand closer, laid it against his cheek. The impulse to suckle it was difficult to resist. “The skin of the mouth heals quickly,” John said before giving in to the compulsion.
***
John took a step away from the microscope, so Sherlock could look again at the slide.
“Moran was much more than a colleague of Moriarty’s then,” John said.
Sherlock hummed. “Let’s combine them directly,” Sherlock said, glancing away from the microscope for a moment.
John raised an eyebrow. “Oh. You want to add some of mine?”
Sherlock murmured assent, his attention back on the slide. John reached for a pipette and the vial of his blood.
***
“Did he know, at the end, about Moriarty?” John asked, cutting a thin slice of liver and spearing it and some sautéed onions on his fork.
“Most likely,” Sherlock said, before taking a mouthful of spinach and sesame seeds. He chewed thoughtfully. “He wasn’t brilliant, but if he thought Moriarty was being held, I don't think he would have tried to cut my throat before finding out where.”
John poured more burgundy. “Might he have known his blood could harm you?”
“Hard to say,” Sherlock said, reaching for his glass. “Unless one of them confided in someone still alive or left some written records, we aren’t likely to ever know.”
John stabbed at a chunk of beetroot. “From what you described, it almost seems as though he positioned himself to let the knife reach his jugular once you began to overpower him.”
“You are probably giving him credit for more foresight than he had,” Sherlock said, reaching across the table to take the slice of liver John had just finished cutting. “Although it is possible that Moriarty had given him instructions for various scenarios.”
“Do you think Moriarty understood?” John asked.
“No,” Sherlock replied. “But I think he had hypotheses. I think that’s why he had the gun.”
“I can see him wanting to kill you, but why himself?” John asked, his eyes on Sherlock’s face.
“If he thought death would intensify the transfer,” Sherlock replied, his hand closing around his wineglass, “he might have been willing to have his satisfaction posthumously.”
John looked down at his plate. “I had been hoping he killed himself in despair.”
“You might be right,” Sherlock agreed. John looked up, but Sherlock was staring off to the left. “Assigning his lieutenant as your assassin showed some appreciation for your skills, but one of his mistakes was that he still underestimated you.”
Perhaps you did, too. John considered Sherlock’s profile. On the other hand, the urge to protect what one loves is powerful. I appreciate that.
Sherlock met John’s eyes and raised his wineglass. “Let’s make sure we don’t underestimate him.”
Their glasses chimed as they touched. It wasn't a comforting thought. John sighed and finished his wine. Sherlock set his glass down and turned his eyes to the shadows.
The next part, Nighttide, may be read here.