Sherlock Fanfiction: Frail Blue
Sep. 16th, 2012 12:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101Title: Frail Blue
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: R-ish (this section), NC-17 (overall)
Length: ~3100 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. Frail Blue follows Carbonado.
Excerpt: Three days late. It wasn’t much. Timelines needed to shift and stretch, wild improvisations often followed meticulous research. Without their personal deadline, three days wouldn’t constitute a deviation worth mentioning.
Frail Blue
The canteen door seemed to recede as John navigated between the long tables of the dining hall towards it. He was disappointed that he was too tired to listen properly to what Bertrand had prepared to share with him. Confronting one’s younger self was not an easy task. Therapy had, at least, shown John that, even if most of his reflections had not been voiced to his therapist. The private correspondence of the Antoine Bertrand and Arthur A. Holmes of long ago required John’s full attention. The notes in the library, penned with some posterity in mind, had revealed enough emotion as it was. Bertrand’s trust, and Arthur’s, in agreeing to open their personal papers to John’s scutiny, deserved it. John pushed the door open. The air brushed like a rough hand over his face. He tilted his head back. The morning light hid the blaze of the night. Only a crescent moon hung near the horizon, above the low hills.
With slow steps, John headed towards it and the small hotel. He recognised the particular type of lassitude, though he hadn’t felt it in months. John halted, pressed his fingers to his closed eyes. The temptation to call or text was hard to resist. He didn’t dare give in to it. Even a vibration at the wrong time could endanger Sherlock.
Sherlock hadn’t explained the plan for Johannesburg, had said he wanted to save it all for when he returned. He had been tracing some sort of diagram on John’s stomach when he’d said that. John remembered how his smile had felt as it grew wider. Two orgasms, improbably close together, had rendered him nearly immobile and barely articulate, no strength left for drawing out details or even broad outlines. John knew how much pleasure it gave Sherlock to lay intricate solutions before him, how he basked in John’s expressions of admiration. So John hadn’t pressed. Sherlock would tell him in good time.
Three days late. It wasn’t much. Timelines needed to shift and stretch, wild improvisations often followed meticulous research. Without their personal deadline, three days wouldn’t constitute a deviation worth mentioning. Voices floated behind John in the clear quiet, others headed for a good day’s rest after a long night’s work. John opened his eyes and continued on towards the hotel, the sun warming his back, the voices receding.
No bird trilled, no insect buzzed. There were no vehicles parked on the packed earth near the hotel, the next batch of visitors not yet arrived. The air conditioning units on the roof rested after the cool of the night. John raised his hand to enter the door code and paused. At the edge of hearing, there was a vibration in the air. He swept his eyes over the frail blue of the sky. The vibration ceased. John lowered his hand, held his breath. The silence was absolute.
And then it wasn’t. John turned his ear towards the road. Nothing. Briefly again. Gone. Longer. Gone. Long again. Silence. Long. Quiet. Too quiet. Long. Faint. Long. Hardly there. Long. Nothing. John took a step towards the road, his sole scraping over a loose stone. Something was on the air, John didn’t wait to listen further. He ran.
He couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his breathing, of his shoes on the parched soil. John scrambled up a small hill, slipped on the sand over the rocks, scraped his palms, pulled himself higher, peered into the distance. There. A dark rectangle slightly off the road. John slid back down and ran faster.
The sound was constant now, loud enough to be heard over the pounding of the blood in his ears. It was hard to pull enough oxygen from the thin air. Blood loss, dehydration, exhaustion…To the rhythm of his footfalls, the possibilities flashed through John’s mind.
He drew closer, the sound a mere wheeze, the windscreen an opaque glare, orange sparks for headlamps. Sweat stung his eyes.
John’s hand almost slipped off the door handle when he tried it. Sherlock was slumped over the wheel, face hidden.
“Sherlock!” John gasped, banging on the window.
No movement. Door locked, window not rolled down far enough for his hand to fit through. Rear door, locked. John skidded around the back of the vehicle. Both doors were locked on the other side. One foot found a toehold on the top of the front tyre. John vaulted onto the bonnet, thumped on the windscreen. No response. Hands patted down his chest. Folding knife. Inside breast pocket. John opened it, stabbed at the canvas roof, dragged the steel back towards him. He jerked the blade out. Sun flashed on the metal. John squinted. Plunged the knife in at right angles, ripped it through the fabric, yanked it free and slashed up the other side. He pushed the flap down with his elbow.
“Sherlock!” No response.
John hoisted himself up and into the hole in the roof, canvas scraping his thighs, his shoulders. He sniffed for blood, vomit, knelt on the passenger seat, pulled Sherlock’s head back. The horn stopped. Sherlock took a deep breath.
“Alive. Good,” John rasped. He flicked off the headlamps, checked the gear was in neutral and pressed down on Sherlock’s knee. The engine growled. “Can you hear me?” John demanded, both hands probing, fast. “Wounds? Internal injuries? Poisoning?” he panted.
Sherlock mumbled.
“Better,” John gasped. He bent over Sherlock, lifted his eyelids. “No concussion. Making progress here.” John’s fingers roved over Sherlock’s scalp. “No head injury. Sleep? When’d you last do that?”
“To…” Sherlock began.
“Tuesday? Two days ago? Too busy?” John rapped out. “Why didn’t you sleep in town before you drove up here? Or call me? There are vehicles up here, you know. I could have driven down to get you.”
One of Sherlock’s hands moved slightly. He turned his head on the back of the seat. “Too slow,” Sherlock murmured.
John thought of the speed at which Sherlock had probably navigated the mountain road in the dark, bit his lip at the image of Sherlock’s body broken in a ravine. John leaned his forehead against Sherlock, felt the sweat dripping from his hairline down his cheek, let his lungs drag in the air they needed, the scent.
“I’m a skilful driver,” Sherlock said.
“Got your voice back. Good,” John replied, raising his head to look at Sherlock, to dispel the other image. A drop of sweat was making its way along the side of Sherlock’s nose, towards his chapped lips. When the droplet reached the edge of the lip, Sherlock’s tongue swiped at it, retreated into his mouth.
“John.”
“God.”
******
Sherlock collapsed onto the bed. John set the computer bag on the desk and bent down to untie Sherlock’s shoes. Sherlock rolled onto his back, arms flung across the mattress. “Bring up the cases. The dead battery won’t have delayed the film crew for long,” Sherlock said. John hesitated. “It’s not secure anymore. What with the roof,” Sherlock added, half smiling.
John lifted Sherlock’s legs onto the bed, peeled off his socks. “If you promise not to move. I don’t want you collapsing in the bathroom,” John said, reaching for the metal jug of water on the night stand. “Can you sit up enough to drink this?”
“Will you go downstairs if I do?” Sherlock asked. Rising up on his elbows wasn’t easy.
John bunched the pillows together behind Sherlock and unstoppered the jug. Sherlock’s hand swiped in the general direction of the metal container and failed to grasp it. “I might not have heard you, you know,” John said and held the water up to Sherlock’s lips, tilted it gradually.
Sherlock batted at John’s hand, pushing the jug aside. “You listen for me,” Sherlock said, sinking lower into the pillows. “And you made me drink in the jeep. Get the cases. Please.”
The word caught John off-guard. He put the water down. “OK,” he said. “What do you have…no don’t tell me now. I’ll be back quickly.” He patted at the air with both hands. “Just don’t try to stand up alone. Wait for me, OK?”
Sherlock nodded. “They’re heavy, John.”
“Right. OK,” John said.
****
John was sweating again by the time he had emptied the jeep. He stood at the end of the reception desk, listening to Bertrand’s number ring, the air in the lobby raising goosebumps on his damp skin. He pulled a small cloth bag from his pocket.
“Did I wake you?” John held the receiver against his shoulder as he filled the sack with hard-boiled eggs and fruit and scones from the small buffet table.
“I expected to be, too. Sherlock’s back,” John said, stretching the telephone cord to reach for several little pots of cream and jam and honey.
“Seems to be in one piece.” John smiled. “Yeah. I’ll call.” John hung up the phone.
The glass jars clanked as he crossed the lobby and shoved the last case away from the elevator door. Mirabel came out of the office behind the reception desk as the doors began to close. John waved. He saw her note the suitcases and smile.
The cases seemed to get heavier as John tugged them over the threshold. “What do you have in here, rocks?” John asked, shutting the door and setting the bag of food on the bureau. He looked across the room at Sherlock, saw the bare shoulder, opened his mouth to chide and saw the clothes strewn about the floor.
“A fair number, yes,” Sherlock replied, without opening his eyes.
John heard voices down the corridor, saw Sherlock’s head tilt slightly. “Just made it, then,” John said.
“Have a look through the cases,” Sherlock murmured. “Particularly the black one,” he added, a faint smile on his lips.
“Can’t you eat something before you sleep?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head once and sighed. His muscles relaxed. John knew it wouldn’t be a light doze this time. It would be a deep sleep for hours.
Safe. John’s most recent crowd of fears retreated. His limbs felt weak. John sat down in the desk chair and watched Sherlock sink deeper into sleep. Home.
******
John hovered in the bathroom doorway, rubbing a towel over his head as he considered the dark leather cases he had left haphazardly around the room. A sliver of sunlight from the edge of the ceiling shades revealed one to be a deep green. John eyed the other three. They all had buckled straps like luggage from another century, scuffed about the corners and scored here and there along their surfaces. They looked to be the veterans of many journeys, although John had never seen them before. John glanced at the white jacket that had landed on one of them.
In contrast to the rugged vehicle he had been driving, Sherlock had been dressed in white linen, a three-piece suit with a shirt gauzelike in its fineness, open at the collar. John’s fingers rubbed back and forth along his temple. The silver chain looped between the waistcoat pockets had scraped against his skin there.
John pursed his lips and hung the damp towel on the door handle. Sherlock knew how to get John to do what he wanted him to do. “Could be dangerous…particularly the black one.” John no longer resented it. Sometimes the manipulation felt almost like a caress, the way Sherlock could reach into his psyche and stroke secret places. John had been tired after breakfast. The conversation with Antoine and Arthur seemed to belong to another decade. Now John was wide awake. He stepped past the nearest case. Even in the muted light, he could see that one was dark brown.
The other two cases appeared to be the same colour. John lowered the closest onto its side, unfastened a strap. The leather was thick, the holes reinforced with brass. The bottom strap fell onto the carpet, across another strip of light. Navy blue. John looked over to the last case. It was the largest one.
John didn’t think, just reached out to touch. White on white. Soft kid gloves, smooth silk ties, linen handkerchiefs shining with embroidered vines. With a will of their own, John’s fingers roved, but his eyes were fixed on what lay beneath them, the expanse of watered silk spanning the width and length of the open case. He had seen it before, yearned to feel it.
Both hands felt their way along the edges of the case, seeking to hold, to lift. The garment was thick and heavy. John’s hands met underneath it, drew it up, the smaller items sliding down to the sides of the case. He held the fabric to his face, breathed its fragrance in. The library. On the nights he couldn’t leave, the air too sweet in his lungs, too soft on his skin. The garment unfolded slowly. John had to stand to free it completely, to hold his hands above his shoulders; it still trailed on the floor. Meant to fall from tall shoulders. John scooped it up, his fingertips finding soft wool and rough edges. John draped the cloak over the empty side of the bed, knelt to peer at the narrow pattern of black beads, tiny pearls and unpolished stones that outlined the hem. He rested his head on the wool, dragged his fingertips along the design, a few empty prongs scratching at his skin. Empty. He didn’t realise until he inhaled it, that there was a tear sliding down his nose.
The emptiness had been hard to endure, but he would never have run from it, nor from that endless loop in his mind - Sherlock flailing through the air, never reaching him soon enough. John’s hand gripped the wool, felt it soft and thick between his fingers. A sound rose up, a howl that yearned to escape. John clamped his lips shut, held it in. His chest heaved with the effort. Will it be like this every time you’re out of my sight? John crawled further onto the bed, gathered the heavy garment in his arms, buried his face in it. You aren’t to be caged, Sherlock. Not you. John pulled his knees up under him, pressed his chest against his thighs. His muscles were sore from running, from half carrying Sherlock to the room. You were only three days late. John rocked slightly, pulled the fabric over his ears, listened to his heart beat. Three days and I could hear a car horn a mile away. If you’d been gone long enough, could I have heard your heart beating? John curled his body tighter, inhaled the soft scent of the cloth.
Sherlock’s voice was above him. Always above. His hand light on John’s shoulder. “I’m here, John.”
How soon will you be gone again? “You don’t know how much I missed you,” John whispered.
Sherlock’s grip tightened. “Yes, I think I do.”
*****
“You won’t like it,” John said, spreading cream across a scone and handing it to Sherlock. “It’s more like literary analysis than science.”
Sherlock bit into the scone, replied with his mouth full. “I’ve worked with literary clues before.” John slid the mug of tea towards Sherlock. “Consider Baskerville. That case started with a word,” Sherlock said and took another bite of scone.
John reached over the corner of the desk and wiped a speck of cream from Sherlock’s lip. “Well, we have lots more than one word to work with now.
*****
“I don’t have secrets from you, do I?” John asked. He didn’t open his eyes. There were beautiful images behind his eyelids and the feel of Sherlock’s long hair to consider as it slid through his fingers.
“Despite all the time I’ve spent observing you, including times when you were unaware, you still surprise me.”
John could feel Sherlock’s lips moving against his skin. John pressed Sherlock’s head against his stomach, imagined them just staying like this, Sherlock absorbing what he needed. The faintest tightening of muscles followed the thought. John hooked his foot around one of Sherlock’s shins, remembered how very long it had taken to divest Sherlock of all those layers of clothing.
“Where did they come from?” John asked.
“I wrote to Mike. Asked him to ship them to Johannesburg. There’s a hotel owner there who…”
“…owes you a favour,” John finished and smiled. He lifted his hand from his hip and rested it on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s hand shifted between John’s thighs. John took in a long, slow breath, let it out thoughtfully. “And here I had thought you only had London in your thrall.”
“John,” Sherlock murmured. Idiot was implied.
“Why not ship them here?” John asked. “Those cases must have cost a fortune in excess baggage.”
“I needed things with which to tempt Huysmann. He has a weakness for beautiful antiques from the 1800s. And as a dealer in antique clothing and jewellery, I needed some samples of my wares to explain my interest in his diamonds, particularly the carbonado, and, ever so incidentally, his distribution system for them,” Sherlock explained. His breath was very warm on John’s abdomen. John wondered whether Huysmann had a weakness for beautiful men from the 1900s. John’s hand tightened in Sherlock’s hair.
“Your jealous streak was a surprise, for example,” Sherlock continued. “You always seemed so nonchalant with your lady friends.”
John turned them over, lifted himself on his arms and looked down at Sherlock. Sherlock tilted his head back to meet John’s eyes. “Yeah, that surprised me, too,” John said.
“Try not to be too obviously possessive when we meet him in Brazil,” Sherlock cautioned.
“You think that’s the primary source of wealth funding Moriarty’s web?” John said, backing down on his knees and elbows until his face was level with Sherlock’s.
“He invested it in diverse ways, of course, but I think the black diamonds are the source,” Sherlock replied. “And from there we should be able to trace everything.”
“I could go for avaricious business partner,” John said, planting his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head. “One who wasn’t interested in anyone else cutting in on his profit.”
Sherlock’s irises were an especially pale shade of blue as he considered the look of concentration on John’s face. “I think you could convey that most convincingly,” Sherlock replied.
John's eyes remained fixed on Sherlock’s as he spoke. “That’s sorted, then,” John said, hooking his feet behind Sherlock’s shins and tucking his face against Sherlock’s neck.
Sherlock’s arm came up around John’s back and pulled all John’s weight down. “Yes.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part, Correspondence, may be read here.
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: R-ish (this section), NC-17 (overall)
Length: ~3100 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. Frail Blue follows Carbonado.
Excerpt: Three days late. It wasn’t much. Timelines needed to shift and stretch, wild improvisations often followed meticulous research. Without their personal deadline, three days wouldn’t constitute a deviation worth mentioning.
The canteen door seemed to recede as John navigated between the long tables of the dining hall towards it. He was disappointed that he was too tired to listen properly to what Bertrand had prepared to share with him. Confronting one’s younger self was not an easy task. Therapy had, at least, shown John that, even if most of his reflections had not been voiced to his therapist. The private correspondence of the Antoine Bertrand and Arthur A. Holmes of long ago required John’s full attention. The notes in the library, penned with some posterity in mind, had revealed enough emotion as it was. Bertrand’s trust, and Arthur’s, in agreeing to open their personal papers to John’s scutiny, deserved it. John pushed the door open. The air brushed like a rough hand over his face. He tilted his head back. The morning light hid the blaze of the night. Only a crescent moon hung near the horizon, above the low hills.
With slow steps, John headed towards it and the small hotel. He recognised the particular type of lassitude, though he hadn’t felt it in months. John halted, pressed his fingers to his closed eyes. The temptation to call or text was hard to resist. He didn’t dare give in to it. Even a vibration at the wrong time could endanger Sherlock.
Sherlock hadn’t explained the plan for Johannesburg, had said he wanted to save it all for when he returned. He had been tracing some sort of diagram on John’s stomach when he’d said that. John remembered how his smile had felt as it grew wider. Two orgasms, improbably close together, had rendered him nearly immobile and barely articulate, no strength left for drawing out details or even broad outlines. John knew how much pleasure it gave Sherlock to lay intricate solutions before him, how he basked in John’s expressions of admiration. So John hadn’t pressed. Sherlock would tell him in good time.
Three days late. It wasn’t much. Timelines needed to shift and stretch, wild improvisations often followed meticulous research. Without their personal deadline, three days wouldn’t constitute a deviation worth mentioning. Voices floated behind John in the clear quiet, others headed for a good day’s rest after a long night’s work. John opened his eyes and continued on towards the hotel, the sun warming his back, the voices receding.
No bird trilled, no insect buzzed. There were no vehicles parked on the packed earth near the hotel, the next batch of visitors not yet arrived. The air conditioning units on the roof rested after the cool of the night. John raised his hand to enter the door code and paused. At the edge of hearing, there was a vibration in the air. He swept his eyes over the frail blue of the sky. The vibration ceased. John lowered his hand, held his breath. The silence was absolute.
And then it wasn’t. John turned his ear towards the road. Nothing. Briefly again. Gone. Longer. Gone. Long again. Silence. Long. Quiet. Too quiet. Long. Faint. Long. Hardly there. Long. Nothing. John took a step towards the road, his sole scraping over a loose stone. Something was on the air, John didn’t wait to listen further. He ran.
He couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his breathing, of his shoes on the parched soil. John scrambled up a small hill, slipped on the sand over the rocks, scraped his palms, pulled himself higher, peered into the distance. There. A dark rectangle slightly off the road. John slid back down and ran faster.
The sound was constant now, loud enough to be heard over the pounding of the blood in his ears. It was hard to pull enough oxygen from the thin air. Blood loss, dehydration, exhaustion…To the rhythm of his footfalls, the possibilities flashed through John’s mind.
He drew closer, the sound a mere wheeze, the windscreen an opaque glare, orange sparks for headlamps. Sweat stung his eyes.
John’s hand almost slipped off the door handle when he tried it. Sherlock was slumped over the wheel, face hidden.
“Sherlock!” John gasped, banging on the window.
No movement. Door locked, window not rolled down far enough for his hand to fit through. Rear door, locked. John skidded around the back of the vehicle. Both doors were locked on the other side. One foot found a toehold on the top of the front tyre. John vaulted onto the bonnet, thumped on the windscreen. No response. Hands patted down his chest. Folding knife. Inside breast pocket. John opened it, stabbed at the canvas roof, dragged the steel back towards him. He jerked the blade out. Sun flashed on the metal. John squinted. Plunged the knife in at right angles, ripped it through the fabric, yanked it free and slashed up the other side. He pushed the flap down with his elbow.
“Sherlock!” No response.
John hoisted himself up and into the hole in the roof, canvas scraping his thighs, his shoulders. He sniffed for blood, vomit, knelt on the passenger seat, pulled Sherlock’s head back. The horn stopped. Sherlock took a deep breath.
“Alive. Good,” John rasped. He flicked off the headlamps, checked the gear was in neutral and pressed down on Sherlock’s knee. The engine growled. “Can you hear me?” John demanded, both hands probing, fast. “Wounds? Internal injuries? Poisoning?” he panted.
Sherlock mumbled.
“Better,” John gasped. He bent over Sherlock, lifted his eyelids. “No concussion. Making progress here.” John’s fingers roved over Sherlock’s scalp. “No head injury. Sleep? When’d you last do that?”
“To…” Sherlock began.
“Tuesday? Two days ago? Too busy?” John rapped out. “Why didn’t you sleep in town before you drove up here? Or call me? There are vehicles up here, you know. I could have driven down to get you.”
One of Sherlock’s hands moved slightly. He turned his head on the back of the seat. “Too slow,” Sherlock murmured.
John thought of the speed at which Sherlock had probably navigated the mountain road in the dark, bit his lip at the image of Sherlock’s body broken in a ravine. John leaned his forehead against Sherlock, felt the sweat dripping from his hairline down his cheek, let his lungs drag in the air they needed, the scent.
“I’m a skilful driver,” Sherlock said.
“Got your voice back. Good,” John replied, raising his head to look at Sherlock, to dispel the other image. A drop of sweat was making its way along the side of Sherlock’s nose, towards his chapped lips. When the droplet reached the edge of the lip, Sherlock’s tongue swiped at it, retreated into his mouth.
“John.”
“God.”
******
Sherlock collapsed onto the bed. John set the computer bag on the desk and bent down to untie Sherlock’s shoes. Sherlock rolled onto his back, arms flung across the mattress. “Bring up the cases. The dead battery won’t have delayed the film crew for long,” Sherlock said. John hesitated. “It’s not secure anymore. What with the roof,” Sherlock added, half smiling.
John lifted Sherlock’s legs onto the bed, peeled off his socks. “If you promise not to move. I don’t want you collapsing in the bathroom,” John said, reaching for the metal jug of water on the night stand. “Can you sit up enough to drink this?”
“Will you go downstairs if I do?” Sherlock asked. Rising up on his elbows wasn’t easy.
John bunched the pillows together behind Sherlock and unstoppered the jug. Sherlock’s hand swiped in the general direction of the metal container and failed to grasp it. “I might not have heard you, you know,” John said and held the water up to Sherlock’s lips, tilted it gradually.
Sherlock batted at John’s hand, pushing the jug aside. “You listen for me,” Sherlock said, sinking lower into the pillows. “And you made me drink in the jeep. Get the cases. Please.”
The word caught John off-guard. He put the water down. “OK,” he said. “What do you have…no don’t tell me now. I’ll be back quickly.” He patted at the air with both hands. “Just don’t try to stand up alone. Wait for me, OK?”
Sherlock nodded. “They’re heavy, John.”
“Right. OK,” John said.
****
John was sweating again by the time he had emptied the jeep. He stood at the end of the reception desk, listening to Bertrand’s number ring, the air in the lobby raising goosebumps on his damp skin. He pulled a small cloth bag from his pocket.
“Did I wake you?” John held the receiver against his shoulder as he filled the sack with hard-boiled eggs and fruit and scones from the small buffet table.
“I expected to be, too. Sherlock’s back,” John said, stretching the telephone cord to reach for several little pots of cream and jam and honey.
“Seems to be in one piece.” John smiled. “Yeah. I’ll call.” John hung up the phone.
The glass jars clanked as he crossed the lobby and shoved the last case away from the elevator door. Mirabel came out of the office behind the reception desk as the doors began to close. John waved. He saw her note the suitcases and smile.
The cases seemed to get heavier as John tugged them over the threshold. “What do you have in here, rocks?” John asked, shutting the door and setting the bag of food on the bureau. He looked across the room at Sherlock, saw the bare shoulder, opened his mouth to chide and saw the clothes strewn about the floor.
“A fair number, yes,” Sherlock replied, without opening his eyes.
John heard voices down the corridor, saw Sherlock’s head tilt slightly. “Just made it, then,” John said.
“Have a look through the cases,” Sherlock murmured. “Particularly the black one,” he added, a faint smile on his lips.
“Can’t you eat something before you sleep?” John asked. Sherlock shook his head once and sighed. His muscles relaxed. John knew it wouldn’t be a light doze this time. It would be a deep sleep for hours.
Safe. John’s most recent crowd of fears retreated. His limbs felt weak. John sat down in the desk chair and watched Sherlock sink deeper into sleep. Home.
******
John hovered in the bathroom doorway, rubbing a towel over his head as he considered the dark leather cases he had left haphazardly around the room. A sliver of sunlight from the edge of the ceiling shades revealed one to be a deep green. John eyed the other three. They all had buckled straps like luggage from another century, scuffed about the corners and scored here and there along their surfaces. They looked to be the veterans of many journeys, although John had never seen them before. John glanced at the white jacket that had landed on one of them.
In contrast to the rugged vehicle he had been driving, Sherlock had been dressed in white linen, a three-piece suit with a shirt gauzelike in its fineness, open at the collar. John’s fingers rubbed back and forth along his temple. The silver chain looped between the waistcoat pockets had scraped against his skin there.
John pursed his lips and hung the damp towel on the door handle. Sherlock knew how to get John to do what he wanted him to do. “Could be dangerous…particularly the black one.” John no longer resented it. Sometimes the manipulation felt almost like a caress, the way Sherlock could reach into his psyche and stroke secret places. John had been tired after breakfast. The conversation with Antoine and Arthur seemed to belong to another decade. Now John was wide awake. He stepped past the nearest case. Even in the muted light, he could see that one was dark brown.
The other two cases appeared to be the same colour. John lowered the closest onto its side, unfastened a strap. The leather was thick, the holes reinforced with brass. The bottom strap fell onto the carpet, across another strip of light. Navy blue. John looked over to the last case. It was the largest one.
John didn’t think, just reached out to touch. White on white. Soft kid gloves, smooth silk ties, linen handkerchiefs shining with embroidered vines. With a will of their own, John’s fingers roved, but his eyes were fixed on what lay beneath them, the expanse of watered silk spanning the width and length of the open case. He had seen it before, yearned to feel it.
Both hands felt their way along the edges of the case, seeking to hold, to lift. The garment was thick and heavy. John’s hands met underneath it, drew it up, the smaller items sliding down to the sides of the case. He held the fabric to his face, breathed its fragrance in. The library. On the nights he couldn’t leave, the air too sweet in his lungs, too soft on his skin. The garment unfolded slowly. John had to stand to free it completely, to hold his hands above his shoulders; it still trailed on the floor. Meant to fall from tall shoulders. John scooped it up, his fingertips finding soft wool and rough edges. John draped the cloak over the empty side of the bed, knelt to peer at the narrow pattern of black beads, tiny pearls and unpolished stones that outlined the hem. He rested his head on the wool, dragged his fingertips along the design, a few empty prongs scratching at his skin. Empty. He didn’t realise until he inhaled it, that there was a tear sliding down his nose.
The emptiness had been hard to endure, but he would never have run from it, nor from that endless loop in his mind - Sherlock flailing through the air, never reaching him soon enough. John’s hand gripped the wool, felt it soft and thick between his fingers. A sound rose up, a howl that yearned to escape. John clamped his lips shut, held it in. His chest heaved with the effort. Will it be like this every time you’re out of my sight? John crawled further onto the bed, gathered the heavy garment in his arms, buried his face in it. You aren’t to be caged, Sherlock. Not you. John pulled his knees up under him, pressed his chest against his thighs. His muscles were sore from running, from half carrying Sherlock to the room. You were only three days late. John rocked slightly, pulled the fabric over his ears, listened to his heart beat. Three days and I could hear a car horn a mile away. If you’d been gone long enough, could I have heard your heart beating? John curled his body tighter, inhaled the soft scent of the cloth.
Sherlock’s voice was above him. Always above. His hand light on John’s shoulder. “I’m here, John.”
How soon will you be gone again? “You don’t know how much I missed you,” John whispered.
Sherlock’s grip tightened. “Yes, I think I do.”
*****
“You won’t like it,” John said, spreading cream across a scone and handing it to Sherlock. “It’s more like literary analysis than science.”
Sherlock bit into the scone, replied with his mouth full. “I’ve worked with literary clues before.” John slid the mug of tea towards Sherlock. “Consider Baskerville. That case started with a word,” Sherlock said and took another bite of scone.
John reached over the corner of the desk and wiped a speck of cream from Sherlock’s lip. “Well, we have lots more than one word to work with now.
*****
“I don’t have secrets from you, do I?” John asked. He didn’t open his eyes. There were beautiful images behind his eyelids and the feel of Sherlock’s long hair to consider as it slid through his fingers.
“Despite all the time I’ve spent observing you, including times when you were unaware, you still surprise me.”
John could feel Sherlock’s lips moving against his skin. John pressed Sherlock’s head against his stomach, imagined them just staying like this, Sherlock absorbing what he needed. The faintest tightening of muscles followed the thought. John hooked his foot around one of Sherlock’s shins, remembered how very long it had taken to divest Sherlock of all those layers of clothing.
“Where did they come from?” John asked.
“I wrote to Mike. Asked him to ship them to Johannesburg. There’s a hotel owner there who…”
“…owes you a favour,” John finished and smiled. He lifted his hand from his hip and rested it on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s hand shifted between John’s thighs. John took in a long, slow breath, let it out thoughtfully. “And here I had thought you only had London in your thrall.”
“John,” Sherlock murmured. Idiot was implied.
“Why not ship them here?” John asked. “Those cases must have cost a fortune in excess baggage.”
“I needed things with which to tempt Huysmann. He has a weakness for beautiful antiques from the 1800s. And as a dealer in antique clothing and jewellery, I needed some samples of my wares to explain my interest in his diamonds, particularly the carbonado, and, ever so incidentally, his distribution system for them,” Sherlock explained. His breath was very warm on John’s abdomen. John wondered whether Huysmann had a weakness for beautiful men from the 1900s. John’s hand tightened in Sherlock’s hair.
“Your jealous streak was a surprise, for example,” Sherlock continued. “You always seemed so nonchalant with your lady friends.”
John turned them over, lifted himself on his arms and looked down at Sherlock. Sherlock tilted his head back to meet John’s eyes. “Yeah, that surprised me, too,” John said.
“Try not to be too obviously possessive when we meet him in Brazil,” Sherlock cautioned.
“You think that’s the primary source of wealth funding Moriarty’s web?” John said, backing down on his knees and elbows until his face was level with Sherlock’s.
“He invested it in diverse ways, of course, but I think the black diamonds are the source,” Sherlock replied. “And from there we should be able to trace everything.”
“I could go for avaricious business partner,” John said, planting his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head. “One who wasn’t interested in anyone else cutting in on his profit.”
Sherlock’s irises were an especially pale shade of blue as he considered the look of concentration on John’s face. “I think you could convey that most convincingly,” Sherlock replied.
John's eyes remained fixed on Sherlock’s as he spoke. “That’s sorted, then,” John said, hooking his feet behind Sherlock’s shins and tucking his face against Sherlock’s neck.
Sherlock’s arm came up around John’s back and pulled all John’s weight down. “Yes.”
The next part, Correspondence, may be read here.
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no subject
Date: 2012-09-16 11:54 am (UTC)All the beautiful complexities make me so happy! John opening the case and touching the old clothing, all the overlapping images... lush! I love how totally obsessed they are with each other too, while still able to let one another go.
Fabulous, thank you.
no subject
Date: 2012-09-16 12:28 pm (UTC)It would be so easy to smother one another, but neither of them would survive that. Still the temptation would have to be there, I think.
I've been toying with the idea of going back and writing a part between Locked Rooms and Immunology. I don't know whether that could really work, but the idea is connected to the issue of attraction, independence and fear of loss.
Thank you for continuing to comment! It is sustaining. (I'm thinking Pooh Bear, here. :-))