Sherlock Fanfiction: Leaf Fall
Dec. 2nd, 2013 12:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101Title: Leaf Fall
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saki101
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Gregory Lestrade
Rating: R
Genre: Slash
Word Count: ~2.7K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: Sherlock had been counting on the foliage for cover. Nature had other plans.
On AO3
A small stand-alone inspired by the season.
Leaf Fall may also be read as part of the Other Experiments Series; it would fit in a while after Necropolis. (For those who have read Necropolis, there is a small word game in Leaf Fall based on some symbols in the former.)
Excerpt: Sherlock glared through the bare branches of the shrubs curving around the east side of the hillock, dividing it from the lower path and the bench on its verge. Only the holly stood green and glossy to one side. “It wasn’t that windy last night,” he hissed, consulting his phone again. He shoved it in his pocket. A leaf floated past, serrated and gold, to land on the pile that came nearly to his knees.
Leaf Fall
“There,” Sherlock said and nudged me with his elbow. “Wainwright’s coming from the northeast and Rennig from the west. They should meet there in eight minutes. Give me your phone.”
“Where exactly?” I asked, handing over my phone and turning to quickly look back down the grassy incline we’d just climbed. I checked the path in both directions. A jogger was headed towards us, puffs of dust rising around his feet. He ran on past.
Sherlock dropped my mobile in his pocket, finished reading something on his phone and pointed. “The hillock with the two oaks. Hurry, John. Rennig’s moving fast.” Sherlock strode down the slope on the other side of the path.
I caught up with him by the trees, waded through the drift of leaves to stand next to him. To the west, a man was walking a dog, heading away from us. Behind him the sky was pewter. Other than these two, the heath seemed strangely deserted for a dry afternoon.
Sherlock glared through the bare branches of the shrubs curving around the east side of the hillock, dividing it from the lower path and the bench on its verge. Only the holly stood green and glossy to one side. “It wasn’t that windy last night,” he hissed, consulting his phone again. He shoved it in his pocket. A leaf floated past his shoulder, serrated and gold, to land on the pile that came nearly to his knees. “Fine,” he grumbled, dropping with a crackle amongst them, long arms thrashing on either side. A whirlwind of leaves flew up around him. “Here,” he said and tugged my arm hard.
I landed more on my side than my knees, in a hollow by the roots of the shrubs. A mat of damp leaves cushioned the impact, the newly fallen leaves showering over me by the armful. I closed my eyes and cupped my glove over my mouth and nose. “Christ,” I muttered. “A little warning, Sherlock.”
“Shh,” he whispered, “stay down.” The leaves he heaped upon me settled, tickling my forehead and ears. I was glad I had my collar turned up. Next to me, I felt his shoulder moving, heard the furious rustle of the disrupted leaves as he worked to cover himself as well. He stilled. I cracked an eyelid, the leaves blocked the light. I closed it again, let my limbs relax to wait. Above us, two birds set to whistling. Perhaps in answer, the dog barked. And then it was quiet and we were buried together.
I had wished for that during those drear months when I thought he was dead. Dreamt of cradling his bones in the ground, disintegrating into the earth with him, so he wouldn’t be alone. So neither of us would be alone in the dark.
The muscles in his arm tightened. I listened, expecting sounds of Rennig or Wainwright approaching. It was quiet, so not them. The signal was for me. Sometimes I think he reads my mind. I always did, but he could explain how my expression or my breathing, some action, however subtle, would have revealed my thoughts to him. It seems to me he's done it even more since I found him, found him alive and feared he would die in my arms. I suppose I tensed a bit or exhaled differently in our makeshift grave and it told him my thoughts had gone somewhere bleak and I needed reassurance. I flexed my fist and I knew he felt it. I imagined him smiling briefly under the leaves at my countersignal, knowing I understood.
The birds ceased their twittering. I breathed into my glove and it was warm against my face, Sherlock was warm against my side, the ground cool beneath my shins. I listened.
The bench creaked. “Where are you?” an irritated voice said quietly. There was a pause. “You’d better be. I won’t wait long.”
Against my arm, I felt tiny movements. Sherlock was texting.
Even through the leaves, I could hear the heavy breathing, footsteps on the path. The bench creaked more loudly. “I got lost,” another voice said. I recognised Wainwright’s voice from the recordings. He was panting.
“In a fucking park?” the voice I assumed was Rennig replied. “Some James bleeding Bond you’d make. Did you manage not to lose, you know…”
There was a loud rustling in the leaves. I tensed. We were only meant to listen, to alert Lestrade. I didn’t know what Sherlock was doing, but I was ready to do it with him. His hand gripped mine, pressed it against the ground.
The bench creaked again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Bloody vermin. Scared the…don’t step on it.”
“No, no, I’ve got it. Damned squirrel.” Wainwright hadn’t caught his breath yet. “Here. You got it?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it now.”
There was a patter of pebbles falling. “Little bugger. Sitting up expecting a treat. There’s your treat. Fuck.”
“They get tame…” Wainwright took a deep breath. “In the parks.”
“Here,” Rennig said. Paper crinkled. “A little advance for any more Steinvik comes across, yeah? Keep him off guard.”
“Off guard?” Wainwright echoed.
“We don’t need him no more. Best he not know that though,” Rennig replied. The bench creaked, shoes scraped over dirt and stones.
“Oh,” Wainwright said, “right.”
“Try not to get lost or mugged before you deliver that to him, yeah?”
“No. Right,” Wainwright answered to the sound of footsteps.
He’d never caught his breath. Heart trouble was my guess, not at all helped by his current activities.
Sherlock’s arm muscles were moving again, small, quick movements. Another text.
“Hey, get off...” Rennig was loud and indignant in the distance. There were other voices and scuffling. I heard Lestrade shouting directions.
I didn’t hear Wainwright even move until after I heard the clink of manacles and some officer advising him of his legal rights. Perhaps Wainwright nodded in reply. I didn’t hear any answer from him.
It grew quiet again.
“Where are you, Sherlock?” Lestrade called softly. “We’ve got them both and the recording. Thanks for that.” Perhaps Lestrade was turning, stone ground beneath heels. “I can see you aren’t up in the tree. Look, if you planted the phone somewhere, don’t forget to retrieve it, yeah?”
I felt a slight tremor next to me. Sherlock was chuckling.
There were a couple steps along the path. “It’s getting cold out here, so could you quit playing games? I need both your statements. Assuming you haven’t lost John somewhere.”
Sherlock tensed. I didn’t move.
“Fine, fine. I will come get you tomorrow if you don’t show up in the morning, you hear me?”
His steps receded along the path. “I don’t know why I put up with you.” The steps stopped. “I know you’re here. I can hear you thinking, ‘because I need you’. I swear I can.”
Sherlock was chuckling silently again.
“Good-night, you lunatics. Tomorrow. Remember,” he said and resumed walking. There were some voices in the distance, Lestrade’s voice among them.
After a couple minutes, they all faded away. Sherlock’s arm snaked over my back, shifted me to my side and pulled me closer. The leaves rustled more loudly than when the squirrel had run past us, they brushed over my face. I kept my eyes shut against them. I felt Sherlock’s hand behind my head as he rolled me all the way onto my back.
“I shan’t lose you,” he murmured. He was dusting bits of leaves off my face, out of my hair. I felt his breath on my cheek, his knees either side of my thighs.
I opened my eyes. There wasn’t much light left in the sky, less in the shadows of the holly and the thick limbs of the oak trees where we were, but his face was still bright above me. Sometimes I think he has his own light, especially in his eyes. They gleamed.
“Are you comfortable, John?” he asked.
It was such a strange query. I hadn’t expected it, but then Sherlock isn’t easy to predict, even for me. I thought about his question. The leaves beneath me had conformed to my shape. They pressed up against my back, in against my arms. We had warmed them. Sherlock’s coat was open, it hung to either side, meeting the leaves, merging with them. Heat radiated from him. I shifted my hips away from a twig and he smiled, sitting up a little to slip his arms out from his coat sleeves. He bent closer.
“Comfortable now?” he asked and his voice was quiet and deep.
I raised a hand to my mouth, bit into the leather and pulled off one glove, then the other and slipped my hands down his sides to his waist. He crouched lower. He is so lean, it is easy to feel his muscles. I slid one hand under the waistband of his trousers. He smiled and flexed his buttocks. I pushed further down and he smiled again before he dipped his head to kiss me. “Comfortable with this, I see,” he said when he lifted his head.
He sees me even better than he did before. Still doesn’t catch everything, but more, understands more, I guess is why. Or maybe he watches me even more carefully than he used to, like an eagle. Of course, his mouth is softer than an eagle’s would be. I raised my head to catch another kiss and he understood, didn’t lift his head until I could barely breathe. I gasped for air, my eyes still on his mouth.
“Breathing isn’t boring, the way you do it,” he murmured and leaned down to take all the breath I’d caught away.
I clutched harder at him. I’ve adopted his old point of view, breathing is boring. I’d give it up to keep the press of his lips, the warm insistence of his tongue forever. His mouth moved to my jaw. I sucked in air that I really didn’t care about any more and tilted my chin back. There. His lips were over my pulse. This was also good. He’d feel the rush of my blood. It was all moving towards him. He could have that, too, my blood and my breath. He could have it all. I think he knew.
I eased my hand up from his waist to his back. I clutched there as well. He mustn’t go too far away. I liked the weight of him. For all that he is slim, he is tall and there is much to him to press down against me and I wanted to feel every gram of him.
His hand was between us, loosening buttons and zips, his and mine. He is light-fingered, so light, and we were free. My hand grasped lower on his buttock, the muscle is so dense. I should relax my hold. I will bruise his luminous skin. I felt its brightness beneath my fingers.
“How much do you want, John?” he asked, his lips barely off my skin.
“Everything.” I pressed down with both hands and up with my hips to demonstrate.
“Here?” he asked and there was a smile there.
I could hear it. Especially here, on the ground, among the dead leaves, in our shallow grave. “Yes,” I said and I knew he heard the wildness in the word.
His mouth was by my ear then, his breath replacing the chill on the exposed flesh with moist heat. “Let go a moment,” he said and I knew he knew he was asking a lot of me. I sighed and let go. It took so much energy to comply. I closed my eyes. My arms fell limp to my sides.
His weight disappeared for a moment. I stretched my legs, felt a draught, bent them closer to my body. Twigs snapped, leaves crackled in protest. They understood. His knees were by my ears, his coat a curtain around us. I felt the collar catch about my raised knees and then I felt his mouth on me. His arm curved around my buttocks, pushed me deeper. I pressed my lips together, held in the sound that welled up. As quiet as a mouse, I was. Quiet and yearning to stroke his hair, but I couldn’t lift my hands. They lay where they had fallen, only the fingertips twitching with the sense memory of the softness and spring of those thick curls.
I sighed again, without a sound and he hummed about me in response, hunched closer to me. I barely had to move. I opened my mouth, let my tongue find what was so close. He hummed again, swallowed more deeply and my hand re-discovered mobility, placed him where he belonged and the circuit was complete. Our circuit.
***
“John.”
“Hm.”
“Your shoulder will ache if we lie here much longer.”
Sherlock had an arm and a leg hooked about me, his coat over both of us and I felt content to stay still. His coat is thicker than many blankets and the leaves beneath me were not cold. Only one side of my face was chilly, the side where Sherlock wasn’t breathing warmly across my cheek. Chilly and a bit damp. I considered moving. Something cold landed on my nose. I opened my eyes. Another cold mote settled on my forehead.
“It’s snowing?”
“Well observed,” Sherlock replied. “And we have a ways to walk before we can even hail a taxi.”
I was confident one would appear on any deserted street where he needed one, despite weather or hour, but it would require our getting to the edge of the heath and we weren’t close.
He sat up and the cold air found more of me. “OK, yes,” I said. “That was convincing.” He slipped his arm behind my back to help me sit up.
I heard him patting the leaves. “You warmed them up well,” he stated and handed me my gloves.
“I had a little help with elevating the body temperature,” I said, taking them and getting to my knees. Sherlock was up in a flash, his hand reaching down for my empty one. I grasped it. My legs were a bit numb from the weight of his leg across mine.
He used his grip to pull me up against him. “We’re quite good at generating heat,” he said and kissed me before he let me go.
I tapped my finger against my lips. “Yeah, we are.” I fastened the button of my trousers, pulled my jacket down and slipped on my gloves. A snowflake landed on my neck and melted. “Which way’s fastest?” I asked, turning up my collar.
Sherlock turned and pointed. “Southeast,” he said and was off up the slope.
“Where’s all the solicitude gone?” I called and hared after him.
“A fast pace will keep you warm,” he said over his shoulder. He’d reached the upper path and disappeared down the incline on the other side.
“Right,” I grumbled, but the rapid movement was working the stiffness out of my legs. The grass was slick, but I managed not to slip as I followed the beeline he was making for a string of lights I could see through the trees.
“And if it doesn’t, I’ll fix that in the cab,” he said, his long legs widening the distance between us.
He is very good at manipulating me. I rushed all the faster. He was waiting at the gate, leaning against the stone post with the statue of the lion on top, the two of them lit by the street lamp. The melted snow in his hair reflected the light. Incredibly picturesque. Of course, I know he knows that. And he knows, I know he knows that. At the kerb, a taxi was already idling.
“My shoes got soaked walking across the grass,” I announced, getting into the cab. “My feet are freezing.” Two can play at this game.
He swooped in after me. The taxi pulled away as soon as he closed the door and a moment later my feet were in his lap, wet shoes and socks removed and long, pale hands rubbing the damp and cold away. I slumped against the side of the cab and smiled at him.
The tip of his index finger stroked the inside of my arch. It tickled. He smiled back at me.
Two can definitely play.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Author:
saki101Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Gregory Lestrade
Rating: R
Genre: Slash
Word Count: ~2.7K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: Sherlock had been counting on the foliage for cover. Nature had other plans.
On AO3
A small stand-alone inspired by the season.
Leaf Fall may also be read as part of the Other Experiments Series; it would fit in a while after Necropolis. (For those who have read Necropolis, there is a small word game in Leaf Fall based on some symbols in the former.)
Excerpt: Sherlock glared through the bare branches of the shrubs curving around the east side of the hillock, dividing it from the lower path and the bench on its verge. Only the holly stood green and glossy to one side. “It wasn’t that windy last night,” he hissed, consulting his phone again. He shoved it in his pocket. A leaf floated past, serrated and gold, to land on the pile that came nearly to his knees.
“There,” Sherlock said and nudged me with his elbow. “Wainwright’s coming from the northeast and Rennig from the west. They should meet there in eight minutes. Give me your phone.”
“Where exactly?” I asked, handing over my phone and turning to quickly look back down the grassy incline we’d just climbed. I checked the path in both directions. A jogger was headed towards us, puffs of dust rising around his feet. He ran on past.
Sherlock dropped my mobile in his pocket, finished reading something on his phone and pointed. “The hillock with the two oaks. Hurry, John. Rennig’s moving fast.” Sherlock strode down the slope on the other side of the path.
I caught up with him by the trees, waded through the drift of leaves to stand next to him. To the west, a man was walking a dog, heading away from us. Behind him the sky was pewter. Other than these two, the heath seemed strangely deserted for a dry afternoon.
Sherlock glared through the bare branches of the shrubs curving around the east side of the hillock, dividing it from the lower path and the bench on its verge. Only the holly stood green and glossy to one side. “It wasn’t that windy last night,” he hissed, consulting his phone again. He shoved it in his pocket. A leaf floated past his shoulder, serrated and gold, to land on the pile that came nearly to his knees. “Fine,” he grumbled, dropping with a crackle amongst them, long arms thrashing on either side. A whirlwind of leaves flew up around him. “Here,” he said and tugged my arm hard.
I landed more on my side than my knees, in a hollow by the roots of the shrubs. A mat of damp leaves cushioned the impact, the newly fallen leaves showering over me by the armful. I closed my eyes and cupped my glove over my mouth and nose. “Christ,” I muttered. “A little warning, Sherlock.”
“Shh,” he whispered, “stay down.” The leaves he heaped upon me settled, tickling my forehead and ears. I was glad I had my collar turned up. Next to me, I felt his shoulder moving, heard the furious rustle of the disrupted leaves as he worked to cover himself as well. He stilled. I cracked an eyelid, the leaves blocked the light. I closed it again, let my limbs relax to wait. Above us, two birds set to whistling. Perhaps in answer, the dog barked. And then it was quiet and we were buried together.
I had wished for that during those drear months when I thought he was dead. Dreamt of cradling his bones in the ground, disintegrating into the earth with him, so he wouldn’t be alone. So neither of us would be alone in the dark.
The muscles in his arm tightened. I listened, expecting sounds of Rennig or Wainwright approaching. It was quiet, so not them. The signal was for me. Sometimes I think he reads my mind. I always did, but he could explain how my expression or my breathing, some action, however subtle, would have revealed my thoughts to him. It seems to me he's done it even more since I found him, found him alive and feared he would die in my arms. I suppose I tensed a bit or exhaled differently in our makeshift grave and it told him my thoughts had gone somewhere bleak and I needed reassurance. I flexed my fist and I knew he felt it. I imagined him smiling briefly under the leaves at my countersignal, knowing I understood.
The birds ceased their twittering. I breathed into my glove and it was warm against my face, Sherlock was warm against my side, the ground cool beneath my shins. I listened.
The bench creaked. “Where are you?” an irritated voice said quietly. There was a pause. “You’d better be. I won’t wait long.”
Against my arm, I felt tiny movements. Sherlock was texting.
Even through the leaves, I could hear the heavy breathing, footsteps on the path. The bench creaked more loudly. “I got lost,” another voice said. I recognised Wainwright’s voice from the recordings. He was panting.
“In a fucking park?” the voice I assumed was Rennig replied. “Some James bleeding Bond you’d make. Did you manage not to lose, you know…”
There was a loud rustling in the leaves. I tensed. We were only meant to listen, to alert Lestrade. I didn’t know what Sherlock was doing, but I was ready to do it with him. His hand gripped mine, pressed it against the ground.
The bench creaked again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Bloody vermin. Scared the…don’t step on it.”
“No, no, I’ve got it. Damned squirrel.” Wainwright hadn’t caught his breath yet. “Here. You got it?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it now.”
There was a patter of pebbles falling. “Little bugger. Sitting up expecting a treat. There’s your treat. Fuck.”
“They get tame…” Wainwright took a deep breath. “In the parks.”
“Here,” Rennig said. Paper crinkled. “A little advance for any more Steinvik comes across, yeah? Keep him off guard.”
“Off guard?” Wainwright echoed.
“We don’t need him no more. Best he not know that though,” Rennig replied. The bench creaked, shoes scraped over dirt and stones.
“Oh,” Wainwright said, “right.”
“Try not to get lost or mugged before you deliver that to him, yeah?”
“No. Right,” Wainwright answered to the sound of footsteps.
He’d never caught his breath. Heart trouble was my guess, not at all helped by his current activities.
Sherlock’s arm muscles were moving again, small, quick movements. Another text.
“Hey, get off...” Rennig was loud and indignant in the distance. There were other voices and scuffling. I heard Lestrade shouting directions.
I didn’t hear Wainwright even move until after I heard the clink of manacles and some officer advising him of his legal rights. Perhaps Wainwright nodded in reply. I didn’t hear any answer from him.
It grew quiet again.
“Where are you, Sherlock?” Lestrade called softly. “We’ve got them both and the recording. Thanks for that.” Perhaps Lestrade was turning, stone ground beneath heels. “I can see you aren’t up in the tree. Look, if you planted the phone somewhere, don’t forget to retrieve it, yeah?”
I felt a slight tremor next to me. Sherlock was chuckling.
There were a couple steps along the path. “It’s getting cold out here, so could you quit playing games? I need both your statements. Assuming you haven’t lost John somewhere.”
Sherlock tensed. I didn’t move.
“Fine, fine. I will come get you tomorrow if you don’t show up in the morning, you hear me?”
His steps receded along the path. “I don’t know why I put up with you.” The steps stopped. “I know you’re here. I can hear you thinking, ‘because I need you’. I swear I can.”
Sherlock was chuckling silently again.
“Good-night, you lunatics. Tomorrow. Remember,” he said and resumed walking. There were some voices in the distance, Lestrade’s voice among them.
After a couple minutes, they all faded away. Sherlock’s arm snaked over my back, shifted me to my side and pulled me closer. The leaves rustled more loudly than when the squirrel had run past us, they brushed over my face. I kept my eyes shut against them. I felt Sherlock’s hand behind my head as he rolled me all the way onto my back.
“I shan’t lose you,” he murmured. He was dusting bits of leaves off my face, out of my hair. I felt his breath on my cheek, his knees either side of my thighs.
I opened my eyes. There wasn’t much light left in the sky, less in the shadows of the holly and the thick limbs of the oak trees where we were, but his face was still bright above me. Sometimes I think he has his own light, especially in his eyes. They gleamed.
“Are you comfortable, John?” he asked.
It was such a strange query. I hadn’t expected it, but then Sherlock isn’t easy to predict, even for me. I thought about his question. The leaves beneath me had conformed to my shape. They pressed up against my back, in against my arms. We had warmed them. Sherlock’s coat was open, it hung to either side, meeting the leaves, merging with them. Heat radiated from him. I shifted my hips away from a twig and he smiled, sitting up a little to slip his arms out from his coat sleeves. He bent closer.
“Comfortable now?” he asked and his voice was quiet and deep.
I raised a hand to my mouth, bit into the leather and pulled off one glove, then the other and slipped my hands down his sides to his waist. He crouched lower. He is so lean, it is easy to feel his muscles. I slid one hand under the waistband of his trousers. He smiled and flexed his buttocks. I pushed further down and he smiled again before he dipped his head to kiss me. “Comfortable with this, I see,” he said when he lifted his head.
He sees me even better than he did before. Still doesn’t catch everything, but more, understands more, I guess is why. Or maybe he watches me even more carefully than he used to, like an eagle. Of course, his mouth is softer than an eagle’s would be. I raised my head to catch another kiss and he understood, didn’t lift his head until I could barely breathe. I gasped for air, my eyes still on his mouth.
“Breathing isn’t boring, the way you do it,” he murmured and leaned down to take all the breath I’d caught away.
I clutched harder at him. I’ve adopted his old point of view, breathing is boring. I’d give it up to keep the press of his lips, the warm insistence of his tongue forever. His mouth moved to my jaw. I sucked in air that I really didn’t care about any more and tilted my chin back. There. His lips were over my pulse. This was also good. He’d feel the rush of my blood. It was all moving towards him. He could have that, too, my blood and my breath. He could have it all. I think he knew.
I eased my hand up from his waist to his back. I clutched there as well. He mustn’t go too far away. I liked the weight of him. For all that he is slim, he is tall and there is much to him to press down against me and I wanted to feel every gram of him.
His hand was between us, loosening buttons and zips, his and mine. He is light-fingered, so light, and we were free. My hand grasped lower on his buttock, the muscle is so dense. I should relax my hold. I will bruise his luminous skin. I felt its brightness beneath my fingers.
“How much do you want, John?” he asked, his lips barely off my skin.
“Everything.” I pressed down with both hands and up with my hips to demonstrate.
“Here?” he asked and there was a smile there.
I could hear it. Especially here, on the ground, among the dead leaves, in our shallow grave. “Yes,” I said and I knew he heard the wildness in the word.
His mouth was by my ear then, his breath replacing the chill on the exposed flesh with moist heat. “Let go a moment,” he said and I knew he knew he was asking a lot of me. I sighed and let go. It took so much energy to comply. I closed my eyes. My arms fell limp to my sides.
His weight disappeared for a moment. I stretched my legs, felt a draught, bent them closer to my body. Twigs snapped, leaves crackled in protest. They understood. His knees were by my ears, his coat a curtain around us. I felt the collar catch about my raised knees and then I felt his mouth on me. His arm curved around my buttocks, pushed me deeper. I pressed my lips together, held in the sound that welled up. As quiet as a mouse, I was. Quiet and yearning to stroke his hair, but I couldn’t lift my hands. They lay where they had fallen, only the fingertips twitching with the sense memory of the softness and spring of those thick curls.
I sighed again, without a sound and he hummed about me in response, hunched closer to me. I barely had to move. I opened my mouth, let my tongue find what was so close. He hummed again, swallowed more deeply and my hand re-discovered mobility, placed him where he belonged and the circuit was complete. Our circuit.
***
“John.”
“Hm.”
“Your shoulder will ache if we lie here much longer.”
Sherlock had an arm and a leg hooked about me, his coat over both of us and I felt content to stay still. His coat is thicker than many blankets and the leaves beneath me were not cold. Only one side of my face was chilly, the side where Sherlock wasn’t breathing warmly across my cheek. Chilly and a bit damp. I considered moving. Something cold landed on my nose. I opened my eyes. Another cold mote settled on my forehead.
“It’s snowing?”
“Well observed,” Sherlock replied. “And we have a ways to walk before we can even hail a taxi.”
I was confident one would appear on any deserted street where he needed one, despite weather or hour, but it would require our getting to the edge of the heath and we weren’t close.
He sat up and the cold air found more of me. “OK, yes,” I said. “That was convincing.” He slipped his arm behind my back to help me sit up.
I heard him patting the leaves. “You warmed them up well,” he stated and handed me my gloves.
“I had a little help with elevating the body temperature,” I said, taking them and getting to my knees. Sherlock was up in a flash, his hand reaching down for my empty one. I grasped it. My legs were a bit numb from the weight of his leg across mine.
He used his grip to pull me up against him. “We’re quite good at generating heat,” he said and kissed me before he let me go.
I tapped my finger against my lips. “Yeah, we are.” I fastened the button of my trousers, pulled my jacket down and slipped on my gloves. A snowflake landed on my neck and melted. “Which way’s fastest?” I asked, turning up my collar.
Sherlock turned and pointed. “Southeast,” he said and was off up the slope.
“Where’s all the solicitude gone?” I called and hared after him.
“A fast pace will keep you warm,” he said over his shoulder. He’d reached the upper path and disappeared down the incline on the other side.
“Right,” I grumbled, but the rapid movement was working the stiffness out of my legs. The grass was slick, but I managed not to slip as I followed the beeline he was making for a string of lights I could see through the trees.
“And if it doesn’t, I’ll fix that in the cab,” he said, his long legs widening the distance between us.
He is very good at manipulating me. I rushed all the faster. He was waiting at the gate, leaning against the stone post with the statue of the lion on top, the two of them lit by the street lamp. The melted snow in his hair reflected the light. Incredibly picturesque. Of course, I know he knows that. And he knows, I know he knows that. At the kerb, a taxi was already idling.
“My shoes got soaked walking across the grass,” I announced, getting into the cab. “My feet are freezing.” Two can play at this game.
He swooped in after me. The taxi pulled away as soon as he closed the door and a moment later my feet were in his lap, wet shoes and socks removed and long, pale hands rubbing the damp and cold away. I slumped against the side of the cab and smiled at him.
The tip of his index finger stroked the inside of my arch. It tickled. He smiled back at me.
Two can definitely play.
