Facilitateur
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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep
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Chapter Six: Scintillement
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By far, Sherlock's most unusual and disturbing addiction was not only so very odd, it was also entirely his own fault. For once, he couldn't blame John, even if he'd wanted to.
It had been a simple experiment to either confirm or disprove the alibi of a suspect. Certainly, Sherlock had not expected the balloon to explode so violently. Neither had he expected John to barrel into the room so suddenly that he plowed into the shocked detective, bringing them both tumbling to the floor in a tangle of limbs and curses.
Sherlock pretended he wasn't savoring the feel of John's jumper against his fisted hands (when had he wrapped them around John's shoulders?) and that John's hair didn't smell of strawberries (why was he pressing his face to Sherlock's neck?). He had only a moment to wonder at the strength of his various addictions before John was pulling away and oh.
Glitter, glinting silver-gold against the warm light of the kitchen, was drifting around them in a cloud, settling in their hair and against their cheeks and fingers. It caught in John's eyelashes and stuck to his lips as he smiled ruefully.
"Do I want to know why you're exploding glitter in our kitchen?"
Sherlock didn't answer. He watched the whirlwind of shimmergleampretty settle everywhere, coating their drab world and making it something else, something extraordinary. He watched it as John ran a hand over his shoulder, sending a little flurry of it curling into the air to settle on the pale stretch of Sherlock's throat.
John paused, tilting his head briefly and seeming to contemplate something, and Sherlock was entranced by the play of the artificial light against the glitter and tanned skin and deep blue eyes. Then John was reaching out, fingers flicking through Sherlock's hair, making new little swirls of glitter in the air.
It looks like wonderful.
Later, in the privacy of his own room, Sherlock would stare at the traces of glitter his fingers left on John's stolen jumper and he would sigh violently through his nose and shake his head at that inane thought. It wasn't even grammatically correct. Obviously his sinking back into an addict's headspace was affecting his cognitive processes adversely.
The next day John had dragged him into some obscenely overpriced shop that was frequented by far too many teenagers with badly-dyed hair and more piercings than skin and a thirst to prove their individuality in amusingly conformed ways, and Sherlock had protested mightily.
"Harry likes that sort of thing, and I need to get her a gift for her birthday," John had explained, though it didn't let Sherlock in on why his presence was necessary.
He was unprepared for the craving that hit him like a punch in the gut when he saw the necklace display. Dozens of delicate silver chains shifted minutely beneath the air duct. Hanging from the chains were tiny bottle after tiny bottle of glitter, in every color imaginable, clinking against each other enticingly.
He didn't even have to think about it when he gathered every last one up and handed his card to the startled girl with far too many earrings that was standing awkwardly behind the counter.
He paid John's raised eyebrows no mind. He couldn't begin to explain this new obsession. It was illogical, it served no purpose and had no practical applications whatsoever. And yet, as he fixed one of the chains around his neck and ran one finger over the bottle of dark blue glitter, he could only remember the conviction with which he had believed that it looked like wonderful.
John didn't protest when he woke up to find the bathroom inundated with shiny specks of deep violet and emerald green. In fact, Sherlock had seen his lips slip into a tired smile more than once as he'd brushed bits of metallic red off his armchair. When he'd ended up having to shake out his jacket just outside a crime scene when he found pink residue in his pockets, he had only sighed and regarded Sherlock sternly before shrugging the jacket back on and continuing towards the flame-gutted building they were investigating.
"What is it about the glitter," he asked softly one evening as they meandered through the gardens of Hyde Park hunting down a particular kind of rose that would cinch the whole case.
Sherlock stopped and looked over at John, not certain how to answer. He thought instead about how warm the sky looked, the sun just finishing it's slow dip below the horizon, the clouds still glowing peach and pink and purple. John's hair was kissed with gold and his eyes seemed brighter and larger than normal.
Taking the tiny bottle of silvery glitter from around his neck, Sherlock emptied its contents into his hands and threw it into the air over their heads. John watched it dance around them, little eddies and whorls painted against the sky by a slight breeze. Sherlock sighed a little in satisfaction as his desires were once again sated, his eyes tracking the shimmery mist as it settled over his companion.
John grinned wryly at the detective, reaching up to brush a bit of glitter from Sherlock's lapel, and Sherlock knew he understood. They watched the glitter settle onto the roses, and when all was still again they continued on.
As they trailed glitter through the gardens, Sherlock smiled to himself.
It really did look like wonderful.
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To Be Continued...
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A/N - Glitter looks like wonderful.
If you haven't already learned that, you must not have read this chapter right.
This is the fourth or fifth chapter I've written in the last 24 hours, and it's time for bed. Sorry, readers, you'll have to wait another 9 hours or so for another chapter. I'm sure you'll survive.
To anyone who has never actually thrown a fistful of glitter in the air, I say you are missing out. It's fun, even when you get kicked out of the local botanical garden for polluting the area. =3
Song for this chapter: 'Glitter In The Air' (P!nk)
Reviews glitter brighter than gold!
Peace.
Akiko