Back where it started
Apr. 8th, 2012 07:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanNotes: The tenth, and last real, chapter of Eating us alive, again. The chapter contains three lines from The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest (Luftslottet som sprängdes) by Stieg Larsson. I’d say the lines don’t spoil anything, but still. I have no idea if I’ve used the official British translation or not.
The thanks and love goes to Laura.
Summary: John finds Sherlock on the bathroom floor again and, tired of lifting him off it, he decides to join him.
-x-
John sighed at the sight of Sherlock lying on his back on the bathroom floor. At least he was wearing his dressing gown and not a suit; their dry-cleaning bill had become ridiculous this last year. Sherlock turned his head to acknowledge John’s presence but looked at his feet rather than his face.
“How long…have….” John gave up with a sigh, shaking his head.
“John….” Sherlock reached for his leg, but John walked away.
“I’ll be right back.”
There was something very weary in John’s promise, but true to his word he came back just minutes later. He brought a pillow and the book he was reading.
“Lift your head,” he ordered gently and placed the pillow under Sherlock’s head before sitting down on the limited floor space still available. Sherlock reached for him again and this time John took his hand, squeezing it lightly.
“We have a bed. We have two beds even.” John said as he opened his book, trying to find where he had been when he fell asleep last night, “Remember your bed? It’s right next door. Big. Comfortable.”
Sherlock just looked at him in reply but John didn’t take notice. Instead he rested the book in his lap and stroked Sherlock’s hand with his thumb.
“You don’t have your glasses,” Sherlock absently pointed out after John had squinted his way through half a chapter.
“Fantastic observation,” John sighed and rubbed his face. “I forgot them on the nightstand.”
“You’re tired.”
“So are you,” John smiled wearily and turned over the book when Sherlock met his eyes, “Has something happened?”
“No.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“When have I ever?”
John’s smile grew fonder before it became worried, “Seriously, did anything happen?”
“Seriously, no.”
“Then why are we on the floor? I thought we were doing good.”
Sherlock’s answer was to turn away and close his eyes. John squeezed his hand, swallowing a sigh. He hated why-questions, because Sherlock never answered them. Still, it was impossible not to ask them.
“Why are you on the floor?” Sherlock said after a while and met John’s eyes again. It hurt John to see how honest the question was, but he took a deep breath and said with determination:
“Because.”
Sherlock almost smiled and John squeezed his hand hard.
“I’m on the floor because. Okay?” John waited until Sherlock nodded, “There is no other place I’d rather be.”
“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock murmured.
“I love you too,” John smiled and let go of Sherlock’s hand to stroke his hair instead. Sherlock smiled shyly and turned away with a failed snort.
For a moment John considered repeating what he’d said just to see if he could get Sherlock to blush, but he shook his head at the idea and returned to the book. He squinted and moved the book back and forth trying to get the words into focus and wishing for his glasses.
He had worked through yet another chapter and almost found the focus when Sherlock snatched the book from him with a huff.
“Sherlock….” John sighed and tried to get the book back.
Sherlock held it out of his reach, “Where were you?”
“What?”
“In the book, on the page, where were you?”
“Mid-page-ish?” John gave Sherlock a confused look, “Why?”
“You’re going to get a headache if you persist on reading without your glasses,” Sherlock muttered and skimmed the page, frowning as he did, before he started to read out loud: “’He had employed all his skills to persuade her to tell them, at the very least, where she lived. But in interview after interview that damn girl had just sat there, silent as a stone, staring at the wall behind him.’”
John was stunned, but as Sherlock kept on reading a smile crept over his face. He leaned back against the wall and just listened to Sherlock’s voice as it told the story without as much as a snarky remark about the fictional law-enforcers.
It was surreal.
“Do you want something to drink?” John interrupted after almost two hours of reading when Sherlock’s voice started to sound hoarse.
“It’s just four pages left of this chapter,” Sherlock said after looking ahead, “It can wait.”
John brushed a lock of hair from Sherlock’s forehead and placed a kiss there, “Or I can go right now. Tea sound good?”
Sherlock nodded and, with a lot of effort, John got to his feet.
“I’m too old to sit on the floor this long,” he muttered.
“That’s why I am doing the reading,” Sherlock smirked.
“I’m not that much older than you, you know.”
“I’m not the one suffering from early symptoms of presbyopia and refuses to wear my glasses,” Sherlock said with an innocent smile and grabbed John’s trouser leg just as he was about to leave, “Put sugar in my tea.”
“Sure,” John’s heart had skipped a beat at that request and he smiled on his way to the kitchen. When he came back he found Sherlock sitting up, flipping through some pages in the beginning of the book.
“Do you want me to tell you what’s happened?” John offered and gave Sherlock one of the mugs.
“I couldn’t care less about these characters,” Sherlock muttered and blew on the tea as John sat down next to him, “Should I continue?”
“You should do recordings for audio books,” John teased.
“Yes, that wouldn’t be a colossal waste of time at all.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and started to find his way back to where they had left the book.
“The consumers of audio books wouldn’t think so,” John murmured and blew on his tea with a smirk. Sherlock snorted and picked up the reading, pausing at odd places to drink his tea. John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and forgot all about his own tea.
“How are you doing, Sherlock?” John interrupted in a low voice when Sherlock had finished the chapter. “Bathroom floor aside.”
“Better,” Sherlock admitted after some hesitation and turned his eyes from the book to John, “Not okay, but….”
“But better,” John finished the sentence for him, his words barely audible. “That’s good. That’s…. So this is just because….”
Sherlock looked back at the book and shrugged, turning one of the pages back and forth, with an insecure expression. “Sometimes I don’t want to get better….”
“What? Why?” John stared at him, his mouth open in shock. His chest filled with panic, grief or anger – he couldn’t tell which – as Sherlock took a deep breath and rubbed his face; the detective looked mortified by his own confession.
“She- Sherlock, look…look at me. Please?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“Then…talk to me?” John put down his mug and took Sherlock’s wrist, “Say…something?”
Sherlock looked down at John’s hand and placed his own on top of it.
“I’m afraid that….” Sherlock shook his head and wet his lips before starting again, “I like sleeping in your bed. I like that…when you have a nightmare, I can wake you and I can help. I like that you, that you…. I…. Sometimes I get afraid that it’ll stop if I get better and I’d rather have all this than….”
Shaken, John interrupted him with a hug.
“Do- do you listen to me?” he whispered and Sherlock nodded against his shoulder. “You’re the single most important thing in my life and you have nothing to be afraid of.”
“Last time-“ Sherlock mumbled but John shook his head and cut him off.
“Last time you stopped sleeping in my bed because you claimed I snore.”
“You do snore.”
“Do not. And I don’t care about having my bed to myself, okay?”
Sherlock nodded and John held him closer.
“I want you to get better because I want you to get better, not because I want my bed back. I actually sleep better with you there. I won’t leave. I won’t. I’m not here because I feel I have to; I’m here because I want to.”
Sherlock pulled away, avoiding looking at John who wondered if Sherlock had heard him at all.
“You’re the great Sherlock Holmes, why don’t you know this?” John whispered, half-teasing, half-desperate. Sherlock shrugged and John cupped his hand round his cheek, raising his head so their eyes could meet.
“I’ll remind you.” John said with a soft smile, “I’ll remind you every day if I have to.”
Sherlock looked lost for a moment before clearing his throat and picking up the book that had ended up on the floor, “Can we just…finish the book?”
“Can we go to the bed?”
“No.” Sherlock shook his head and finished the cold tea with a grimace before starting to read, “’Judge Iversen banged his gavel at 12.30 and decreed that district court proceedings were thereby resumed.’”
John sighed and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, the surprise interrupting the reading for a moment. Smiling, John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and took his hand. As he dozed off to the sound of Sherlock’s voice John realised that they were probably going to be okay this time too.
He was almost sure of it.
-x-
Part XI: Blood oranges aren't real
The thanks and love goes to Laura.
Summary: John finds Sherlock on the bathroom floor again and, tired of lifting him off it, he decides to join him.
-x-
John sighed at the sight of Sherlock lying on his back on the bathroom floor. At least he was wearing his dressing gown and not a suit; their dry-cleaning bill had become ridiculous this last year. Sherlock turned his head to acknowledge John’s presence but looked at his feet rather than his face.
“How long…have….” John gave up with a sigh, shaking his head.
“John….” Sherlock reached for his leg, but John walked away.
“I’ll be right back.”
There was something very weary in John’s promise, but true to his word he came back just minutes later. He brought a pillow and the book he was reading.
“Lift your head,” he ordered gently and placed the pillow under Sherlock’s head before sitting down on the limited floor space still available. Sherlock reached for him again and this time John took his hand, squeezing it lightly.
“We have a bed. We have two beds even.” John said as he opened his book, trying to find where he had been when he fell asleep last night, “Remember your bed? It’s right next door. Big. Comfortable.”
Sherlock just looked at him in reply but John didn’t take notice. Instead he rested the book in his lap and stroked Sherlock’s hand with his thumb.
“You don’t have your glasses,” Sherlock absently pointed out after John had squinted his way through half a chapter.
“Fantastic observation,” John sighed and rubbed his face. “I forgot them on the nightstand.”
“You’re tired.”
“So are you,” John smiled wearily and turned over the book when Sherlock met his eyes, “Has something happened?”
“No.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“When have I ever?”
John’s smile grew fonder before it became worried, “Seriously, did anything happen?”
“Seriously, no.”
“Then why are we on the floor? I thought we were doing good.”
Sherlock’s answer was to turn away and close his eyes. John squeezed his hand, swallowing a sigh. He hated why-questions, because Sherlock never answered them. Still, it was impossible not to ask them.
“Why are you on the floor?” Sherlock said after a while and met John’s eyes again. It hurt John to see how honest the question was, but he took a deep breath and said with determination:
“Because.”
Sherlock almost smiled and John squeezed his hand hard.
“I’m on the floor because. Okay?” John waited until Sherlock nodded, “There is no other place I’d rather be.”
“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock murmured.
“I love you too,” John smiled and let go of Sherlock’s hand to stroke his hair instead. Sherlock smiled shyly and turned away with a failed snort.
For a moment John considered repeating what he’d said just to see if he could get Sherlock to blush, but he shook his head at the idea and returned to the book. He squinted and moved the book back and forth trying to get the words into focus and wishing for his glasses.
He had worked through yet another chapter and almost found the focus when Sherlock snatched the book from him with a huff.
“Sherlock….” John sighed and tried to get the book back.
Sherlock held it out of his reach, “Where were you?”
“What?”
“In the book, on the page, where were you?”
“Mid-page-ish?” John gave Sherlock a confused look, “Why?”
“You’re going to get a headache if you persist on reading without your glasses,” Sherlock muttered and skimmed the page, frowning as he did, before he started to read out loud: “’He had employed all his skills to persuade her to tell them, at the very least, where she lived. But in interview after interview that damn girl had just sat there, silent as a stone, staring at the wall behind him.’”
John was stunned, but as Sherlock kept on reading a smile crept over his face. He leaned back against the wall and just listened to Sherlock’s voice as it told the story without as much as a snarky remark about the fictional law-enforcers.
It was surreal.
“Do you want something to drink?” John interrupted after almost two hours of reading when Sherlock’s voice started to sound hoarse.
“It’s just four pages left of this chapter,” Sherlock said after looking ahead, “It can wait.”
John brushed a lock of hair from Sherlock’s forehead and placed a kiss there, “Or I can go right now. Tea sound good?”
Sherlock nodded and, with a lot of effort, John got to his feet.
“I’m too old to sit on the floor this long,” he muttered.
“That’s why I am doing the reading,” Sherlock smirked.
“I’m not that much older than you, you know.”
“I’m not the one suffering from early symptoms of presbyopia and refuses to wear my glasses,” Sherlock said with an innocent smile and grabbed John’s trouser leg just as he was about to leave, “Put sugar in my tea.”
“Sure,” John’s heart had skipped a beat at that request and he smiled on his way to the kitchen. When he came back he found Sherlock sitting up, flipping through some pages in the beginning of the book.
“Do you want me to tell you what’s happened?” John offered and gave Sherlock one of the mugs.
“I couldn’t care less about these characters,” Sherlock muttered and blew on the tea as John sat down next to him, “Should I continue?”
“You should do recordings for audio books,” John teased.
“Yes, that wouldn’t be a colossal waste of time at all.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and started to find his way back to where they had left the book.
“The consumers of audio books wouldn’t think so,” John murmured and blew on his tea with a smirk. Sherlock snorted and picked up the reading, pausing at odd places to drink his tea. John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and forgot all about his own tea.
“How are you doing, Sherlock?” John interrupted in a low voice when Sherlock had finished the chapter. “Bathroom floor aside.”
“Better,” Sherlock admitted after some hesitation and turned his eyes from the book to John, “Not okay, but….”
“But better,” John finished the sentence for him, his words barely audible. “That’s good. That’s…. So this is just because….”
Sherlock looked back at the book and shrugged, turning one of the pages back and forth, with an insecure expression. “Sometimes I don’t want to get better….”
“What? Why?” John stared at him, his mouth open in shock. His chest filled with panic, grief or anger – he couldn’t tell which – as Sherlock took a deep breath and rubbed his face; the detective looked mortified by his own confession.
“She- Sherlock, look…look at me. Please?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“Then…talk to me?” John put down his mug and took Sherlock’s wrist, “Say…something?”
Sherlock looked down at John’s hand and placed his own on top of it.
“I’m afraid that….” Sherlock shook his head and wet his lips before starting again, “I like sleeping in your bed. I like that…when you have a nightmare, I can wake you and I can help. I like that you, that you…. I…. Sometimes I get afraid that it’ll stop if I get better and I’d rather have all this than….”
Shaken, John interrupted him with a hug.
“Do- do you listen to me?” he whispered and Sherlock nodded against his shoulder. “You’re the single most important thing in my life and you have nothing to be afraid of.”
“Last time-“ Sherlock mumbled but John shook his head and cut him off.
“Last time you stopped sleeping in my bed because you claimed I snore.”
“You do snore.”
“Do not. And I don’t care about having my bed to myself, okay?”
Sherlock nodded and John held him closer.
“I want you to get better because I want you to get better, not because I want my bed back. I actually sleep better with you there. I won’t leave. I won’t. I’m not here because I feel I have to; I’m here because I want to.”
Sherlock pulled away, avoiding looking at John who wondered if Sherlock had heard him at all.
“You’re the great Sherlock Holmes, why don’t you know this?” John whispered, half-teasing, half-desperate. Sherlock shrugged and John cupped his hand round his cheek, raising his head so their eyes could meet.
“I’ll remind you.” John said with a soft smile, “I’ll remind you every day if I have to.”
Sherlock looked lost for a moment before clearing his throat and picking up the book that had ended up on the floor, “Can we just…finish the book?”
“Can we go to the bed?”
“No.” Sherlock shook his head and finished the cold tea with a grimace before starting to read, “’Judge Iversen banged his gavel at 12.30 and decreed that district court proceedings were thereby resumed.’”
John sighed and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, the surprise interrupting the reading for a moment. Smiling, John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and took his hand. As he dozed off to the sound of Sherlock’s voice John realised that they were probably going to be okay this time too.
He was almost sure of it.
-x-
Part XI: Blood oranges aren't real
