Title: Meditations
Rating: G
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word Count: 930
Summary: John returns home from the surgery to find that Sherlock has taken up yoga.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
When John comes home from the surgery he expects Sherlock to be up to his usual business of microwaving body parts and setting fire to the rug. Of course, this is not the case because Sherlock is prone to breaking pattern when you least suspect it. Really though, he thinks, I should have more foresight by now, when he walks into the flat and nearly trips over Sherlock, who is lying on the floor, arms lying parallel to his lean body, long legs stretched far over his head with his toes pressed into the carpet.
"Christ, Sherlock! What on earth are you doing?"
Sherlock doesn't stir. John takes off his shoes and hangs up his coat. He puts the kettle on and sits down to wait and stare at his friend, who hasn't moved a muscle since he came home. Growing bored after calling his name a few times and prodding him in the thigh, John decides to take his chances and pushes firmly at Sherlock's waist. The human sculpture topples just as his eyes shoot open and then he's lying in a heap on the floor, looking at John who is practically vibrating with mirth as he stares at him. "I really wish you hadn't done that, John," he says, without moving. John laughs louder then, and holds out a hand. Sherlock grasps it and hauls himself off the floor. John goes over to pour the tea, and Sherlock brushes himself down.
"Yoga," he says, begrudgingly.
John blinks, setting the tea down. "Sorry, what?"
"You asked what I was doing. Yoga, John. A Hindu spiritual and ascetic discipline, a part of which-"
"Yes, Sherlock. I know what yoga is. Mum used to take classes."
"Well, then. I'm glad we had this conversation," Sherlock says, seizing the mug of tea and beginning to retreat. John jumps in front of him, shaking his head. "Oh, no, no, no, no. You don't get to do this."
"Do what?"
"Spring something like this on me and not give a proper explanation."
"I'm certain yoga is not so extraordinary a practice that it needs an explanation."
John raises his eyebrows. "For you it is."
Sherlock doesn't bother hoping that John will let it go. "It quiets them, John."
"Them?"
"The thoughts," he hisses. "The constant buzzing in my head, the endless spin of words upon images of-" John places a hand on his arm.
"It's okay, Sherlock. I just didn't think that the whole yoga business was your thing."
Sherlock nods, jerkily. He sits down on the couch facing the window with his tea, taking a careful sip. John comes to sit as well, back to back with Sherlock putting up his socked feet on the cushions. He sighs contentedly, gulping his hot tea.
"It makes me extraordinarily aware of this," Sherlock says after a moment, gesturing down at himself even though John can't see him doing it.
"Sherlock?"
"My body. I never thought-"
"Good God. The world must be ending." Sherlock rolls his eyes and John giggles, a funny, pleasant sound.
"You rolled your eyes. I could feel it in your spine."
Sherlock snorts but his mouth curves upwards a little.
"As I was saying. My mind is usually moving so quickly all the time I rarely take true notice of my body."
"I've noticed. You mostly just use it to cart about your consciousness so you don't get bored."
Sherlock inclines his head. "Indeed. And I usually prefer it that way; stops it from getting in the way of thinking. But I find that the part of yoga in which one focuses on concentrating their consciousness in different parts of the body seems to settle my mind. Renders it unexpectedly empty." He takes a deep draught of tea, and breathes out slowly. "I find surprising control in the stagnancy."
John finishes his tea and places the mug on the table. Sherlock feels him relaxing, leaning back into his shoulder blades. Sherlock tilts his head back, until it is resting on top of John's head. He stares at the ceiling and listens to John's soft breathing.
"You're thinking very loudly," says John. Sherlock's mouth twitches.
"You're wrong."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
Sherlock swallows the rest of his tea and rests the mug on the floor.
"I found something else too, in all that quiet."
"What's that?"
"With the usual clamour of my mind silenced, I found time to examine certain... things."
John doesn't speak, and for once Sherlock is struggling to articulate his thoughts.
"Certain... feelings. Emotions. I have them."
John laughs then, and Sherlock feels the rumble it causes inside John's chest send vibrations through his back.
"Yes, I know, Sherlock. Can't seem to get rid of the bloody things, eh?"
Sherlock doesn't reply, and John goes quiet again. Sherlock begins, "John I-" But then John reaches awkwardly behind and presses his palm to Sherlock's cheek. John slides his fingers down Sherlock's face, who shivers, dark curls trembling. He reaches up, curling his fingers around John's wrist and brings the sturdy palm to press against the middle of his chest. They sit and feel it together and when John says, "Me too," Sherlock thinks the volume of the pounding in his chest he is perceiving is unrealistic but the beat of the blood is loud in his ears and when John tugs him around to face him and kisses him, the thoughts flow away. Except that this is not emptiness of the mind, but a fullness that swells him to the brim. John, he thinks, and that is all.