Tag: ficlet

cleverwholigan:

John wakes up before Sherlock. Always.

It’s just habit, picked up in the Army. The minute the first streaks of light appear in the sky, he’s awake.

So he gets up, puts on the pajama pants discarded on the floor from last night’s romp, and putters around the flat. Gets things ready for breakfast and tea. Clears up the stack of newspapers by Sherlock’s chair. Tries NOT to disturb that experiment…whatever it is.

But then he hears Sherlock stirring and he returns, climbing on the bed and sitting up on his knees while Sherlock rolls over on his back and smiles at him, sleep-hooded eyes and morning-mussed curls making him look even younger than he already does. And John’s there every morning to kiss him, first thing, and Sherlock tells him bad jokes every morning that he looks up on the internet. Horrible, pun-riddled jokes that are terrible, but they make John laugh and Sherlock likes to watch the way his eyes crinkle in the morning sunlight.

And some days, when they don’t have anything planned and nowhere to be, they end up staying in bed ‘til afternoon, cracking jokes and kissing and touching and making love until they finally roll out of bed and John puts away the breakfast things he readied, because they’ll just get takeaway instead.

***

AND THEN… conversely, John’s the first one who starts yawning at night. Sherlock’s the night owl – he could stay up all night if there wasn’t anyone around to remind him to sleep. But he notices John blinking and yawning while he’s in his chair, trying to watch telly. His head dips, then straightens, while John tries desperately to keep himself awake. Until finally, Sherlock takes pity on the poor man and goes up behind him, snaking his arms around for a hug and a kiss.

“Go to bed, old man.” He’ll whisper, which makes John laugh. Sherlock always knows how to make him laugh.

“Only if you come with me.”

For John, only for John, Sherlock will postpone whatever ridiculous experiment he’s working on and go to bed. And surprisingly, even though he never feels tired, he always falls asleep when John’s behind him, arm draped over his waist, face at the perfect position so John can kiss the small curl at the base of Sherlock’s neck. They murmur back and forth to each other, sometimes stories, sometimes what they need at the grocery store, until Sherlock’s words get all muddy because he’s about to fall asleep. They lull each other together every night, with their steady breaths and the beat of their heart. John knows he’d never sleep again if he couldn’t fall asleep with Sherlock beside him. He doesn’t know how he ever slept without him.

hudders-and-hiddles:

After the vows had been exchanged, they had all sat down to dinner
under a sky painted rose and heather and tangerine by the setting sun, the
faintest flecks of stars beginning to peek through. Now that the food has been
eaten, the happy couple toasted, the champagne drunk, and the dancing begun,
Sherlock finds himself alone at a table, looking around at nothing in
particular. John has excused himself to give his regards to the newlyweds, and
everyone else has made their way to the patio-turned-dance floor. Sherlock lets
his eyes linger for a moment on the guests dancing there and wishes, for the
millionth or so time in his life, that he were a different kind of man–perhaps
the kind who feels comfortable asking a stranger to dance, or, better yet,
asking the one person he really wants to hold in his arms as they spin
gracefully around the floor, eyes locked on one another, the world around them
melting away. But Sherlock isn’t that kind of man.

The memory of the last time he had wanted to dance at a wedding needles
him, and Sherlock has to fight to tamp down the regret and sadness he still
feels about that entire situation. Yes, John is back at Baker Street now and
Mary is long gone, but part of Sherlock still hates that he hadn’t been more
vocal about his desires, that he hadn’t tried harder to stop John from marrying
her. He knows it’s selfish–though he tells himself it would have saved both of
them a lot of pain and suffering in the long run. The whole thing fills him
with self-loathing. He hadn’t been good enough to peg Mary as the liar she
really was from the start. He hadn’t been brave enough to tell John how he
felt. And in the end he hadn’t been quick enough to prevent Mary from
absconding with John’s daughter, both of them disappearing into the night like
phantoms. The guilt eats at Sherlock until he pushes himself away from the
table and slips into the darkness. He follows the low garden wall to the
farthest corner, well outside the warm sphere of light cast by the lanterns
surrounding the patio. Sherlock lifts his long legs carefully up and over
before taking a seat on the wall, facing out at the surrounding hills looming
nearly invisible in the darkness. He could really use a cigarette. Instead he
watches the stars emerge as his vision adjusts, and when the slight autumn
breeze ruffles his hair, he wishes he had thought to bring his coat.

Soft footsteps behind him. An all-too-familiar cadence. John.

“There you are. I was wondering where you’d got off to.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums noncommittally. John stops just behind him,
close enough that Sherlock could lean his head back against John’s chest if he
wanted to. And he does want to. But he doesn’t move. Since John has come home,
they seem to have found their rhythm again, and Sherlock doesn’t want to screw that
up. Sometimes though, there are little touches–John’s arm glancing off
Sherlock’s as they walk, John’s fingers brushing across his as John hands him a
cup of tea, John’s hand gently squeezing Sherlock’s bicep in an occasional
gesture of… friendship? understanding? support? Sherlock isn’t sure. He also
isn’t sure if they actually happen more often now or if he just notices them
more often now that he is more attuned to the effect that John has on him.
Either way, he doesn’t think that his head resting on John’s chest would be
welcome. It’s too… intimate. And so he restrains the desire that pulses through
him with every beat of his heart.

John clambers over the wall, his shorter legs making the movement
far less graceful than Sherlock’s had been, and takes a seat next to him.
Sherlock can feel the fabric of John’s suit jacket catch ever so slightly on
his own where their arms graze against each other. They sit in companionable
silence, the strains of a recent pop hit floating gently away from the cottage,
past where they’re huddled on the wall, and out into the open night.

John eventually breaks the silence with a quiet sigh. “I never
should have gotten married.”

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