Sherlock ficlets
Aug. 2nd, 2012 02:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
goseawardCouple of things I threw together over the last few weeks and never posted here. Both can be gen or preslash as the mood takes you, both ~teen rated.
crossover with pushing daisies, 250 words:
It has been two years, one month, fourteen days, seven hours, and twenty-six minutes since Sherlock Holmes jumped off a building and lived.
John doesn't know how, yet. He doesn't know where Sherlock is, what he's doing, if he thinks John thinks he's dead or hopes John knows the truth; but John is sure, deep in the core of him, that Sherlock is alive. It took him a while to reach this point--months of guilt that the one time he needed it, his gift had deserted him--but eventually the truth forced its way to the surface. His touch hadn't resurrected Sherlock because Sherlock hadn't been dead.
Even so, the grief is a raw wound, fed by those endless seconds when John had stumbled towards Sherlock, not caring which of the clustered passersby would die so Sherlock could live. Even if it meant he could never touch Sherlock the way he'd dreamed of, meant a life of careful watching because a second touch would return him to death--that was better than no Sherlock at all.
Tonight, it's closer than it usually is, that sense of loss that Sherlock didn't trust him enough to tell him, didn't think about what John would go through, years and years alone. Guilt, too, that Sherlock wasn't the only one holding things back. Somewhere, in a place far away from John, Sherlock is about to turn thirty-eight years old. John drinks a shot of whisky and dreams about telling Sherlock all his secrets.
For the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sherlockmas Friday drabble days, prompt: 54. John; swimming at the lake and somebody notices his scar. 250 words.
"What happened to your shoulder?"
John twists; there's a child standing behind him.
"John was shot by a bad man." John turns back around, because Sherlock willingly talking to children who aren't witnesses to, victims of, or suspects in a crime deserves extra attention. "The bullet went all the way through his shoulder. That's where it came out."
"Wow," the boy says, impressed. "Can I touch it?"
John blinks. "All right."
Suddenly there are fingers against the rough edge of the scar. "Why did they shoot you?"
"I was in the Army."
"He hesitated between two injured men," Sherlock says, "and stayed in the open too long."
John's hand clenches into a fist. He hadn't told Sherlock that, though he's not surprised Sherlock knows.
"Fred!" a woman's voice calls. An instant later the fingers disappear from John's shoulder. He turns and sees a tall brunette gripping the boy's hand tightly. "I'm so sorry," she says. "We didn't mean to disturb you."
"It's fine," John says, and she smiles tensely at him before walking off, dragging her son.
John looks at Sherlock, but he's gone back to his book. "You might want to finish with the sun cream or you'll have some interesting stripes," he says without looking up.
It's not an apology, but John will take it. Sherlock's right, no point in sitting around in swim trunks if he's going to look like a lobster. Though hopefully the next person who notices will have an age in the double digits.
crossover with pushing daisies, 250 words:
It has been two years, one month, fourteen days, seven hours, and twenty-six minutes since Sherlock Holmes jumped off a building and lived.
John doesn't know how, yet. He doesn't know where Sherlock is, what he's doing, if he thinks John thinks he's dead or hopes John knows the truth; but John is sure, deep in the core of him, that Sherlock is alive. It took him a while to reach this point--months of guilt that the one time he needed it, his gift had deserted him--but eventually the truth forced its way to the surface. His touch hadn't resurrected Sherlock because Sherlock hadn't been dead.
Even so, the grief is a raw wound, fed by those endless seconds when John had stumbled towards Sherlock, not caring which of the clustered passersby would die so Sherlock could live. Even if it meant he could never touch Sherlock the way he'd dreamed of, meant a life of careful watching because a second touch would return him to death--that was better than no Sherlock at all.
Tonight, it's closer than it usually is, that sense of loss that Sherlock didn't trust him enough to tell him, didn't think about what John would go through, years and years alone. Guilt, too, that Sherlock wasn't the only one holding things back. Somewhere, in a place far away from John, Sherlock is about to turn thirty-eight years old. John drinks a shot of whisky and dreams about telling Sherlock all his secrets.
For the
sherlockmas Friday drabble days, prompt: 54. John; swimming at the lake and somebody notices his scar. 250 words."What happened to your shoulder?"
John twists; there's a child standing behind him.
"John was shot by a bad man." John turns back around, because Sherlock willingly talking to children who aren't witnesses to, victims of, or suspects in a crime deserves extra attention. "The bullet went all the way through his shoulder. That's where it came out."
"Wow," the boy says, impressed. "Can I touch it?"
John blinks. "All right."
Suddenly there are fingers against the rough edge of the scar. "Why did they shoot you?"
"I was in the Army."
"He hesitated between two injured men," Sherlock says, "and stayed in the open too long."
John's hand clenches into a fist. He hadn't told Sherlock that, though he's not surprised Sherlock knows.
"Fred!" a woman's voice calls. An instant later the fingers disappear from John's shoulder. He turns and sees a tall brunette gripping the boy's hand tightly. "I'm so sorry," she says. "We didn't mean to disturb you."
"It's fine," John says, and she smiles tensely at him before walking off, dragging her son.
John looks at Sherlock, but he's gone back to his book. "You might want to finish with the sun cream or you'll have some interesting stripes," he says without looking up.
It's not an apology, but John will take it. Sherlock's right, no point in sitting around in swim trunks if he's going to look like a lobster. Though hopefully the next person who notices will have an age in the double digits.