Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
not_a_hero) wrote2012-09-10 08:37 pm
not_a_hero) wrote2012-09-10 08:37 pm
Entry tags:
September 6, 2012
Response to this thread.
John reads the post. Then, thinking he might have misunderstood what Sherlock had said, reads it once more. But the words haven't changed, nor their meaning. Licking his lips, he sits back in his chair and considers the carpet under his bare feet. It was less than a fortnight after their coupling, and since then they had shared a few stolen kisses and the school kid shy brushing of hands... Sure, they had argued just the morning after as well, but that had been sorted out, in a sense. But there it was, in black and white sans serif; "It rarely brings out the best in people" and "complicates simple relationships." Did that mean that Sherlock had done what he found necessary to court John simply because of some sense of obligation, or simple curiosity which he had now stated? John felt a little sick at the thought.
Sherlock had no idea the public thread had been found and read by John. He really hadn’t given much thought to what he’d written aside from the fact that he did feel it was probably best not for his words to be shared. Instead he laid out on his could, communicator on his lap as he voyeuristicly checked in on all the posts to do his normal surveillance type work on his fellow residents.
John glanced at the man spread out on the couch, gaze unconsciously wandering down to that long pale neck and lingering on the line where shirt met skin. He remembered burying his face there, gasping against Sherlock's flesh, and clutching at his shoulders, his hips. John's face flushed and his mouth went dry, and he had to swallow a few times before he could open his mouth. As he spoke, he looked away again to his communication device, considering the words there once again. "Been busy picking fights with other residents, have you?" He tried to make it sound casual, but Sherlock could probably tell the question was loaded.
Sherlock looked over at him, brows slightly furrowed. “I haven’t been picking fights. Have I been picking fights?” He certainly hadn’t intended to. Sometimes it happened, though. Sort of the price of having a rather overbearing personality. He looked back at his list of activity. He’d really only even talked to one perso—Oh. Oh, fantastic. Sherlock sat up a bit from his slouch. “I think you’ll find I was being helpful, not antagonistic. Intentionally.”
"Helpful. Right." John said with a smile and soft chuckle that wasn't humorous. "The Sherlock definition, I guess." He stood, making a show of stretching like all was casual and good. "Try to not skew alien minds on the definition of love too much, okay? Most of us disagree with your opinion."
Sherlock watched him, his ‘not good’ senses tingling. “Right. Well… I’ll do that.” He cleared his throat a bit. “Ah… listen.. John. About what I wrote. It wasn’t.. it’s not a reflection of this.”
John paused in fixing his shirt collar for a moment before resuming, still not looking at the other man but maintaining a casual appearance... save for the small pinch between his eyebrows. "Oh. It wasn't?" He shoved his communicator into his pocket. "...In that you wouldn't call it love or that you would call it a bad addition to our relationship?"
“It’s love as I’ve read about but not love as I know it. Because I’ve never really known love. Just you.” He scowls at his lap and his stupidity. Of course John was going to find that thread of text. Of course he’d take it somewhat personally. He laid his head back against the armrest, looking over at John. “Perhaps I should justify my findings with the often misinterpreted lust/love conundrum in the modern context of the word?” It didn’t exactly sound like ‘sorry’.
He stopped, took a breath. "Perhaps. Let me know what you figure out." And with that he turned and headed towards the door. Sherlock could justify it how he wanted, but John was too hurt at the moment to hear it.
Well, shit! Sherlock tossed his communicator across the room. Shit, shit, and damn it all to hell. He was going to have to think of a way to fix this, now. He hopped up from his couch and went to follow John. “John!” he called out, reaching to grab hold of his arm.
John let out a surprised noise as his arm was snagged, staggering in his stop to the door just less then two steps away. He looked over his shoulder, not having expected Sherlock to actually chase after him, to grab his arm and hold him back. In fact he'd just expected him to roll over in a huff and let him go. He stared for a long breath, lips parted, feeling the sear of that hold through his shirt before remembering he was supposed to be upset and his eyebrows pinched together again. "Sherlock... let go."
“What do you expect me to say, John?” He did not let go but did not force him to turn and face him. “That love conquers all, love lifts us up, all you need is love? That has never been my experience with the word. Love is a thing people say, sex is a thing people do and coupling off in romantic pairs is the social imperative. When I think of love I think of murder, meddling, and psychological trauma. Love is just a word and one I am adapting to use but holds very little positive meaning in my experience. The only word that expresses for me what love expresses for you is ‘John’. Because you are everything I have ever known of the magic and mystery that love was always expressed to me to be but never lived up to.”
John's eyes widened slowly as Sherlock talked, the anger fading away and turning into shocked wonder. He had been about to retort in the middle of the detective's words, his mouth opening and half a syllable making it's way out, before the sudden turn in tone strangled the argument into nothing but a whimper of noise. And when Sherlock was finally done speaking, John was quiet, that half word leaving his mouth ajar and his eyes wide and something prickling on the edges of them that could become tears but he savagely hoped wouldn't for the sake of his pride. Sherlock didn't feel that way about anyone, he remembered telling Mycroft in Speedy's. Yet here Sherlock was saying he defined love, real fulfilling love, with /his/ name, their relationship. 'What might we say about his heart?' the elder Holmes had asked him. And now John had a hundred things to say in response but no words to describe them.
Sherlock didn’t let go of John’s arm even with the quiet settling in over him. He was never letting go. He wasn’t going to lose now or ever--especially not over the semantics of language and his own emotional stagnation. “I’m sorry if I expressed my opinions on love in a way that made our relationship sound meaningless to the informed eye. I was merely stating facts and evidence. In all honesty, if love is anything like what I feel for you, I cannot imagine how it can be the motive of so much pain. Husbands murdering wives, mothers their children… what I feel is not a motive for death. It’s one for life.”
He didn't move, he didn't pull away. He let them stay in this tense pose even as Sherlock talked him down, because the moment felt like glass. "...I'd hope so." John finally said, voice rough and soft at the same time. His mouth twitched into a hint of a smile, forgiveness. "You're not to die on me again, Sherlock Holmes, understand?" Finally he turned his shoulders so he was facing Sherlock a bit better, slowly, though he was unsure if he was treating Sherlock or himself like a wild animal primed to be spooked away.
Sherlock reached his hand to John’s cheek as he’d felt John do several times, thumb against the apple as his long fingers curled round to his ear and the joint of his jaw. “I will die for you as many times as necessary. And there’s really nothing you can do about that. Nor I for your readiness to do the same.” He pressed a kiss to his forehead.
John closed his eyes, tighter as he felt the dry kiss in his skin and holding back the prickle of heat just behind the lids. Groping his free hand up, he grasped Sherlock's against his cheek and held it there. "Christ, don't say that." He mutters, though the hush in his breath shows no actual denial or ignorance of the truth in Sherlock's words. Far too wonderful words. How could a man who hurt him so much be able to use that same mind and mouth and vocabulary to patch up the wound so quickly and place a far more bittersweet ache in it's place? Opening his eyes, John looked up into Sherlock's before ducking his head down and clearing his tight throat, face flushed in splotches around his cheeks and eyes. "If I'm your definition of love, you're my definition of life. Living with you, by you, has been the greatest thing I have experienced. You saved me." The words came out fast and halting as he fought to remain composed. He pressed his lips into a thin line to try and stop the stutter in his breath and blink away the returning sting.
Sherlock remembered vividly John’s confessions to his younger self about the gun in the drawer with the laptop. He didn’t like thinking of John as something broken by circumstance. He was too magnificent to be that weak. But he had never taken the gun instead of the computer. So perhaps John truly wasn’t as weak as he set himself up to be.
Sherlock rolled his hand along to the back of John’s skull to pull him closer at the tells of tears. He’d hurt John. He was an utter ass for it as well. Sherlock pulled him to rest his head against his shoulder, not sure what more in the way of words he could say to make everything okay.
John let himself be tugged in, ears burning hot with shame that he was teary. He bit them back, taking the time he was hidden against Sherlock's neck to collect himself. It wasn't the hurt, but what Sherlock had professed to him about what he thought of love that made his heart ache. "You idiot..." He muttered, half to himself and half to his partner, reaching up to bury his hands in Sherlock's hair.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. And though the words were often very difficult to say, he had no problem with them now.
"It's fine." He'll comment later on the surprising words passing Sherlock's lips not once, but twice. But for now, he draws back, holding Sherlock's face between his hands, and looking up at him with a smile that wavered between a variety of emotions as it sat on his lips. "I forgive you."
Sherlock smiled back just a little before leaning in for a quick kiss. It hadn’t taken long to learn the small, affirming nature of kisses. They felt nice and they were rarely misunderstood. Kisses were rather the win/win of physical communication.
John hummed, following the other's lips as soon as he drew back and initiating another kiss, still quick and gentle but a tad longer then the other. It was comforting, and made his toes curl happily in his shoes.
Sherlock smirked. “Should I make this up to you?”
"...Kiss me more." John said, blinking slowly and getting a handful of Sherlock's shirt.
Sherlock nodded slowly and complied, hands wrapping around to his back to keep him close.
*RP-ed via AIM by Niko and Em
John reads the post. Then, thinking he might have misunderstood what Sherlock had said, reads it once more. But the words haven't changed, nor their meaning. Licking his lips, he sits back in his chair and considers the carpet under his bare feet. It was less than a fortnight after their coupling, and since then they had shared a few stolen kisses and the school kid shy brushing of hands... Sure, they had argued just the morning after as well, but that had been sorted out, in a sense. But there it was, in black and white sans serif; "It rarely brings out the best in people" and "complicates simple relationships." Did that mean that Sherlock had done what he found necessary to court John simply because of some sense of obligation, or simple curiosity which he had now stated? John felt a little sick at the thought.
Sherlock had no idea the public thread had been found and read by John. He really hadn’t given much thought to what he’d written aside from the fact that he did feel it was probably best not for his words to be shared. Instead he laid out on his could, communicator on his lap as he voyeuristicly checked in on all the posts to do his normal surveillance type work on his fellow residents.
John glanced at the man spread out on the couch, gaze unconsciously wandering down to that long pale neck and lingering on the line where shirt met skin. He remembered burying his face there, gasping against Sherlock's flesh, and clutching at his shoulders, his hips. John's face flushed and his mouth went dry, and he had to swallow a few times before he could open his mouth. As he spoke, he looked away again to his communication device, considering the words there once again. "Been busy picking fights with other residents, have you?" He tried to make it sound casual, but Sherlock could probably tell the question was loaded.
Sherlock looked over at him, brows slightly furrowed. “I haven’t been picking fights. Have I been picking fights?” He certainly hadn’t intended to. Sometimes it happened, though. Sort of the price of having a rather overbearing personality. He looked back at his list of activity. He’d really only even talked to one perso—Oh. Oh, fantastic. Sherlock sat up a bit from his slouch. “I think you’ll find I was being helpful, not antagonistic. Intentionally.”
"Helpful. Right." John said with a smile and soft chuckle that wasn't humorous. "The Sherlock definition, I guess." He stood, making a show of stretching like all was casual and good. "Try to not skew alien minds on the definition of love too much, okay? Most of us disagree with your opinion."
Sherlock watched him, his ‘not good’ senses tingling. “Right. Well… I’ll do that.” He cleared his throat a bit. “Ah… listen.. John. About what I wrote. It wasn’t.. it’s not a reflection of this.”
John paused in fixing his shirt collar for a moment before resuming, still not looking at the other man but maintaining a casual appearance... save for the small pinch between his eyebrows. "Oh. It wasn't?" He shoved his communicator into his pocket. "...In that you wouldn't call it love or that you would call it a bad addition to our relationship?"
“It’s love as I’ve read about but not love as I know it. Because I’ve never really known love. Just you.” He scowls at his lap and his stupidity. Of course John was going to find that thread of text. Of course he’d take it somewhat personally. He laid his head back against the armrest, looking over at John. “Perhaps I should justify my findings with the often misinterpreted lust/love conundrum in the modern context of the word?” It didn’t exactly sound like ‘sorry’.
He stopped, took a breath. "Perhaps. Let me know what you figure out." And with that he turned and headed towards the door. Sherlock could justify it how he wanted, but John was too hurt at the moment to hear it.
Well, shit! Sherlock tossed his communicator across the room. Shit, shit, and damn it all to hell. He was going to have to think of a way to fix this, now. He hopped up from his couch and went to follow John. “John!” he called out, reaching to grab hold of his arm.
John let out a surprised noise as his arm was snagged, staggering in his stop to the door just less then two steps away. He looked over his shoulder, not having expected Sherlock to actually chase after him, to grab his arm and hold him back. In fact he'd just expected him to roll over in a huff and let him go. He stared for a long breath, lips parted, feeling the sear of that hold through his shirt before remembering he was supposed to be upset and his eyebrows pinched together again. "Sherlock... let go."
“What do you expect me to say, John?” He did not let go but did not force him to turn and face him. “That love conquers all, love lifts us up, all you need is love? That has never been my experience with the word. Love is a thing people say, sex is a thing people do and coupling off in romantic pairs is the social imperative. When I think of love I think of murder, meddling, and psychological trauma. Love is just a word and one I am adapting to use but holds very little positive meaning in my experience. The only word that expresses for me what love expresses for you is ‘John’. Because you are everything I have ever known of the magic and mystery that love was always expressed to me to be but never lived up to.”
John's eyes widened slowly as Sherlock talked, the anger fading away and turning into shocked wonder. He had been about to retort in the middle of the detective's words, his mouth opening and half a syllable making it's way out, before the sudden turn in tone strangled the argument into nothing but a whimper of noise. And when Sherlock was finally done speaking, John was quiet, that half word leaving his mouth ajar and his eyes wide and something prickling on the edges of them that could become tears but he savagely hoped wouldn't for the sake of his pride. Sherlock didn't feel that way about anyone, he remembered telling Mycroft in Speedy's. Yet here Sherlock was saying he defined love, real fulfilling love, with /his/ name, their relationship. 'What might we say about his heart?' the elder Holmes had asked him. And now John had a hundred things to say in response but no words to describe them.
Sherlock didn’t let go of John’s arm even with the quiet settling in over him. He was never letting go. He wasn’t going to lose now or ever--especially not over the semantics of language and his own emotional stagnation. “I’m sorry if I expressed my opinions on love in a way that made our relationship sound meaningless to the informed eye. I was merely stating facts and evidence. In all honesty, if love is anything like what I feel for you, I cannot imagine how it can be the motive of so much pain. Husbands murdering wives, mothers their children… what I feel is not a motive for death. It’s one for life.”
He didn't move, he didn't pull away. He let them stay in this tense pose even as Sherlock talked him down, because the moment felt like glass. "...I'd hope so." John finally said, voice rough and soft at the same time. His mouth twitched into a hint of a smile, forgiveness. "You're not to die on me again, Sherlock Holmes, understand?" Finally he turned his shoulders so he was facing Sherlock a bit better, slowly, though he was unsure if he was treating Sherlock or himself like a wild animal primed to be spooked away.
Sherlock reached his hand to John’s cheek as he’d felt John do several times, thumb against the apple as his long fingers curled round to his ear and the joint of his jaw. “I will die for you as many times as necessary. And there’s really nothing you can do about that. Nor I for your readiness to do the same.” He pressed a kiss to his forehead.
John closed his eyes, tighter as he felt the dry kiss in his skin and holding back the prickle of heat just behind the lids. Groping his free hand up, he grasped Sherlock's against his cheek and held it there. "Christ, don't say that." He mutters, though the hush in his breath shows no actual denial or ignorance of the truth in Sherlock's words. Far too wonderful words. How could a man who hurt him so much be able to use that same mind and mouth and vocabulary to patch up the wound so quickly and place a far more bittersweet ache in it's place? Opening his eyes, John looked up into Sherlock's before ducking his head down and clearing his tight throat, face flushed in splotches around his cheeks and eyes. "If I'm your definition of love, you're my definition of life. Living with you, by you, has been the greatest thing I have experienced. You saved me." The words came out fast and halting as he fought to remain composed. He pressed his lips into a thin line to try and stop the stutter in his breath and blink away the returning sting.
Sherlock remembered vividly John’s confessions to his younger self about the gun in the drawer with the laptop. He didn’t like thinking of John as something broken by circumstance. He was too magnificent to be that weak. But he had never taken the gun instead of the computer. So perhaps John truly wasn’t as weak as he set himself up to be.
Sherlock rolled his hand along to the back of John’s skull to pull him closer at the tells of tears. He’d hurt John. He was an utter ass for it as well. Sherlock pulled him to rest his head against his shoulder, not sure what more in the way of words he could say to make everything okay.
John let himself be tugged in, ears burning hot with shame that he was teary. He bit them back, taking the time he was hidden against Sherlock's neck to collect himself. It wasn't the hurt, but what Sherlock had professed to him about what he thought of love that made his heart ache. "You idiot..." He muttered, half to himself and half to his partner, reaching up to bury his hands in Sherlock's hair.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. And though the words were often very difficult to say, he had no problem with them now.
"It's fine." He'll comment later on the surprising words passing Sherlock's lips not once, but twice. But for now, he draws back, holding Sherlock's face between his hands, and looking up at him with a smile that wavered between a variety of emotions as it sat on his lips. "I forgive you."
Sherlock smiled back just a little before leaning in for a quick kiss. It hadn’t taken long to learn the small, affirming nature of kisses. They felt nice and they were rarely misunderstood. Kisses were rather the win/win of physical communication.
John hummed, following the other's lips as soon as he drew back and initiating another kiss, still quick and gentle but a tad longer then the other. It was comforting, and made his toes curl happily in his shoes.
Sherlock smirked. “Should I make this up to you?”
"...Kiss me more." John said, blinking slowly and getting a handful of Sherlock's shirt.
Sherlock nodded slowly and complied, hands wrapping around to his back to keep him close.
*RP-ed via AIM by Niko and Em