|Fic: "Brave New World" - John/Sherlock - R
||[Feb. 1st, 2011|12:08 pm]
(lives between pages)
Title: Brave New World
Notes: Now that we've all de-anoned for this round over at thegameison_sh, I'm posting this here for archival purposes, just like I've done with all of my previous ones. The challenge theme this time around was New.
Summary: It's in the little things that change creeps up unbidden.
It blooms in Sherlock unbidden: a weed, albeit one of curious beauty.
He finds himself craving things he would never have thought to want. John at home again, this instant, never mind that he's got to remain in hospital for at least another week. The peace and quiet ought to have been a relief, but instead, less than ten minutes home from the last dregs of visiting hours, Sherlock paces the living room, scowls at the skull, and throws on his coat.
Slipping past hospital security isn't difficult, and John's room is private. He's asleep when Sherlock enters soundlessly. Sherlock crosses to the bed, finding that the nurse hasn't even bothered to move his chair.
He wakes with his head against the mattress and John's fingers in his hair.
John's phone had survived both the soaking and the blast, but Sherlock's hadn't.
He comes home to Sherlock furious that he hadn't been notified that it was time to go and collect him (Mycroft had sent a car) and cursing at what appears to be the same model of BlackBerry that Anthea uses. Sherlock puts it down and rushes to John's side, even though John has managed the stairs on his own. Sherlock's arm around his waist is strange and comfortable all at once, like something distantly remembered.
Once they're settled on the sofa, Sherlock resumes cursing at the BlackBerry.
“What's wrong?” John asks, realizing they're the first words he's spoken.
“It's stuck in silent mode,” Sherlock mutters. “I don't want silent.”
“Give it here,” says John, smiling at him, and, oh, it's good to be home.
In the past month, John has brought home no fewer than five types of honey. He puts it on his porridge, in Sherlock's tea, and on anything that can stand sweetening. This list of things is longer according to Sherlock than it is according to John.
Rosemary honey is dark and sharp, bites at the back of Sherlock's tongue like regret. Acacia is gentle and soothing, entirely agreeable (All-purpose, John calls it). Lavender is less disgusting than it sounds, although Sherlock is not fond. Yorkshire wildflower is candy, addictive, well worth stealing covert spoonfuls (Sherlock! John shouts).
Sherlock tastes borage honey for the first time this way, falls head over heels.
They're motionless in the aftermath, somehow, save for the fact that Sherlock's heartbeat rattles in both their ribcages like a restless bird. John's is too knackered to join in, already slowing. He splays one hand over each of Sherlock's shoulder blades, can't keep himself from imagining wings.
“Penny for your thoughts?” John asks softly, fearing the answer.
Sherlock breathes in abruptly, as if startled, and kisses John's forehead.
“Again,” he says, and then adds, yawning, “later.”
There will be more hours like all of these: bitter and sweet, frantic and still.
Sherlock will fight for his life, and John will be there to welcome him home. John's mobile will die, Harry will buy him a replacement, and he'll chew his lip in frustration until Sherlock shows him how to use it. Sherlock will bring home an endless string of exotic consumables, and John will taste them one by one, make faces at the ones he dislikes, until ecstasy finally closes his eyes.
They will leave this city behind in the end, but, for now—