AN - GUESS WHO'S ORGANISING HER LIFE AND HAS FINALLY STARTED WRITING AGAIN? IF YOU GUESSED ME THEN WHOO WELL DONE YOU GET A FICLET! Anyway, I am so, so, so sorry I let these drop. But I've started writing again. And the way I'm doing prompts has changed, so please see my post here (godblessintheflesh . tumblr post/96086371043/ficlets) before you submit anything. Anyway, on with the ficlet. I've kind of taken a couple of approaches to the word, hope you think it's alright. Thanks to guitarriffsandamazingships2 (what a url) for the words - enjoy!
Comfort ~guitarriffsandamazingships2
To anyone who saw him, there were a few prominent features about Sherlock Holmes. Most prominently, perhaps, was that Sherlock Holmes was a series of sharp lines and edges; clean, crisp suits and razor-sharp movements. His fingers were long and precise, his cheekbones could cut glass, even his hair - though it may have seemed like the one messy part of Sherlock Holmes - was perfectly ruffled, curls always curly, never frizzy or out of place. He seemed almost out of reach. He almost always wore gloves when dealing with evidence or people, his belstaff coat was thick and always in place, like some sort of armour against the world when Sherlock left the confines of 221B. He was unreachable. Untouchable. Set apart from the rest of the world.
Well, set apart from the rest of the world save one man. A man who all saw as the one person who got past the invisible barrier between humanity and Sherlock Holmes. He lived under the same roof as the aloof detective, he must see him on sluggish, messy mornings and bank-holiday week-ends. He must know the man beneath the sharp lines and edges. Or at the very least, he must know if there's a man beneath the sharp lines and edges. Of course, there was quite a lot of discussion amongst the squealing fans, and the casual fans, and the people who pretended not to be fans, about that very question. Was there a man beneath the sharp lines and edges? Did anyone know? There were always ongoing discussions of whether or not there was, and whether or not anyone knew, and whether or not these people who would know the answers to these questions knew the answer to these questions because they'd seen Sherlock Holmes in every part of life. And whether or not Sherlock Holmes was interested in certain parts of life.
The answer to these unnecessarily complicated and often strangely vague (unless the ones asking the questions were the squealing fans, of course) questions was a simple one. Well, simple in the most complicated way simple things can be.
John Watson was not set apart from the world. He'd seen a lot of it, and he was just about as approachable as people come. So when people saw him seeming to breach the barrier that surrounded Sherlock Holmes, it came as somewhat of a surprise. The person most surprised about the friendship of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson was probably John Watson himself. Of course, John Watson was an anyone. To him as to everyone else, Sherlock Holmes was a series of sharp lines and edges, untouchable, unreachable, and entirely unknown. Of course, as with living with anybody, John Watson saw sides of Sherlock no one else knew after the pair moved in together. He did indeed see him on sluggish, messy mornings and bank-holiday weekends, but even Sherlock's crumples seemed to be constructed with care and precision. Even first thing in the morning, Sherlock's voice was clear and sharp, his yawns were measured and escaped his lips in the same way a sonata would escape his violin - cleanly, and somehow perfectly. In fact, the only time John had seen Sherlock anything other than flawlessly sharp and incredibly clean-cut, was when he'd been drugged. The drugs seemed not only to affect him the way they should, but they seemed to make him somehow more… human.
People found it all too easy to forget that Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, human.
Because the thing was, the machine-like part of Sherlock Holmes - the only part people ever saw - was as idealistic and manufactured as it seemed. Sherlock Holmes himself was not this cold, untouchable man, even if everyone, John Watson included, thought he was. It was generally agreed that the person who knew the most about Sherlock Holmes of anyone in the world was John Watson. However, that wasn't, in fact, the case. No, the one person who knew the most about Sherlock Holmes was the same person who knew the most about anyone and everyone - himself. Sherlock Holmes knew that the clean-cut image of him the world saw was a false one, a projection to, in all honesty, keep people away. So, when John Watson breached that barrier he'd so carefully put in place, Sherlock Holmes was as surprised as anyone. And he was even more surprised when he found himself desperately glad that John Watson had breached that barrier. He knew it went against everything he'd grown up knowing, he knew it was probably a bad idea, but Sherlock stopped caring about that. And he started caring about John Watson.
However, that one entirely strange occurrence that was the warm and constant presence of John Watson in Sherlock's life didn't stop Sherlock from keeping up that barrier. Even to John. Just in case he left. Just in case he let himself care too much.
But John didn't leave. And Sherlock found himself caring too much.
And so Sherlock and John stayed together, John caring enough for all the word to see, Sherlock hiding how much he cared enough so that John didn't see (the rest of the world noticed, however), and they went through hell and back and loved and died and changed and loved a little more. It was only after their caring had been put through everything that could have broken it - pain and loss and distance and time and even the constant security of each other's company - and had come out even stronger, did they finally find a moment of peace. And in that moment, they named their caring love.
John had found, after they finally concluded that their place in this world was together, that the whole straight lines and edges thing Sherlock always kept in place was a façade. And John fell in love all over again with the man underneath.
In the mornings, Sherlock wasn't even a ghost of the man he was during the day. In the mornings Sherlock was all bed-hair and crumples and long limbs tangling in the duvet and hanging over the bed and curled around John. His kisses were soft and drowsy, his mind was slow and content to be so, and John watched him and loved him and thought that the only thing that ever stayed the same about Sherlock was that, even if only to John, was that he was always amazing. Sherlock was always changing, day to day, morning to evening, second to second, but that always remained the same. Even when John was exasperated and felt just a little bit like ripping those bloody curls off that idiot's head, if he stopped to think, he would still find Sherlock amazing. And it was wonderful. And it was comforting.
"Up, John."
John found himself awake, much to his distaste. It was even more to his distaste that Sherlock's side of the bed was far colder than it should have been first thing in the morning.
"Come on, we don't have that much time. Up."
Moaning, John rolled over, pulling the duvet over his head. "Turn the light off."
"Case, John."
Of course it was a case. John had worked out that much for himself.
"Sleep, Sherlock."
"This is important. I made you tea, you're clothes are on your chair, now get up."
John sighed, and opened his eyes. He'd learnt by now that when Sherlock made him tea, it was something worth taking advantage of - it was something that occurred exclusively on case mornings before sunrise, and when Sherlock had made John angry or upset. John pushed himself to a sitting position, the duvet slipping down. The last few days had been sunny and warm, but the early morning air bit into his skin as soon as it got the chance. John shivered.
"You know, the one thing I was really happy to be leaving behind when I left the army was the freezing, impossibly early mornings, you know that?"
"Of course. But you know that cold early mornings are a part of life with me. And we both know that you wouldn't give that up for a couple more hours in bed."
John smiled to himself and took the tea. By God, he wouldn't. No, he wouldn't give Sherlock up for the world, even if every minute spent with Sherlock had to be a cold early morning. John smiled at his Sherlock - who, although fully dressed, was still equipped with that wonderful bed-hair of his - and took his tea. Tea was always good in the mornings - a warm welcoming to another, most likely very tiring day. Sort of like comfort for whatever it was you would go through in advance. Time for another ridiculous day with this ridiculous man. John had to admit, just to himself - he was looking forward to it.
"If you nearly die again, I swear, I will kill you," John sighed, finishing wrapping the bandage around Sherlock's hand.
"That rather defeats the point, don't you think?" Sherlock remarked. John was most certainly not amused to find the snarky comment came with a smirk to match.
"Shut up." John took the cloth again and dipped it back in the warm water, then raised it to Sherlock's face.
"Ow."
"It hurts because you're an idiot."
"That doesn't follow."
"You don't follow."
"That doesn't follow either."
"Oh, God, shut up."
Sherlock fell silent, and watched as John continued to clean the cut on his cheek, only wincing a little. John's jaw was clenched, his eyes flashing a little. But Sherlock could see relief behind the anger. But still, there was anger. And it was kind of his fault.
"I'm sorry, okay? But I had to stop him."
"He had a knife," John said coldly, eyes fixed on Sherlock's wound. "He had a fucking knife, Sherlock. You don't face a guy with a knife with your bare hands when you know he will kill you if he gets the chance."
"I didn't give him that chance."
"Yes, you did. I took it away."
"He wasn't going to kill me."
"Did you notice how many times he got you? For God's sake, Sherlock, I'm nearly out of bandages. I should have just taken you to the fucking hospital."
"I knew you'd show up. He wasn't going to kill me."
"What if I'd been late? What if something happened and I could be there?"
"That wouldn't have-"
"It could have!"
John was almost yelling by now, eyes burning. But his touch was still gentle and caring as he cleaned the wound. Sherlock swallowed hard. John took the cloth away from Sherlock's face and dropped it in the water, before going to roll up the bits of bandages he had left.
"You don't ever put yourself in a position like that ever again, you understand?"
"I can't promise anything."
John looked up and met Sherlock's eyes.
"But I'll try my best."
John shook his head minutely, and went back to sorting out his first aid kit.
"That should clear up fine," he said after a few moments of quiet, voice straining with formality that twisted Sherlock's stomach. John closed the green box and made to get up.
"John?"
John sighed slightly, and moistened his lips.
"Yes, Sherlock?"
Sherlock looked John in the eye, any trace of smirk gone from his face.
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you."
John sat still for another moment, then stood up heavily.
"John?"
John looked back to Sherlock.
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"I love you."
John sighed, and looked down.
"I love you, too."
Sherlock sat stiffly on the sofa for a couple of minutes as John put the box away. He listened to him move about the kitchen, put the kettle on, have a look in the fridge for whatever they might have, and so on. Today had looked so promising. The case was a chase through London, searching, working things out all day - a rather nice reprieve, in Sherlock's mind at least, from solving little cases brought to their flat without so much as taking five minutes over them. But it had all gone horribly wrong. The whole thing was rather wonderful to start off with - twists and solutions that really worked Sherlock's brain, deductions that weren't obvious to anyone who might look for a little longer than normal people do. And then he'd spotted the man they were after while John was talking to Lestrade, reviewing bits and pieces, and Sherlock had gone after him. Which had led to a scene on a rooftop where Sherlock had nearly died that, now Sherlock stopped to think about it, probably brought back some bad memories for John.
John's voice cut through Sherlock's thoughts.
"We haven't got anything in - I'm ordering a takeaway. What do you want?"
Sherlock bit his lip a little.
"John?"
"What?"
"Can you come in here for a second?"
Sherlock heard John sigh, and watched him as he came through to the living room. John stood by the doorway, and blinked at him. Sighing slightly, Sherlock outstretched his hand a little, eyes on John's face. The look on John's face wasn't exactly one of love or forgiveness or anything that so much as came near it, but his eyes had softened a little. John walked over to the sofa, and as soon as Sherlock had his hand in his partner's, he tugged on John's arm and pulled him onto the sofa. Sherlock silently shifted his position so he was lying back against the armrests, John rather painfully lying against his chest, and Sherlock curled his arms around him.
"I am sorry," he said quietly, planting a kiss to the top of John's greying hair.
"I love you so damn much, Sherlock. I can't lose you."
Sherlock nodded slightly.
"I love you too," he breathed.
"Come on then," John began after a few moments. "Let's get some food sorted."
"In a minute," Sherlock murmured.
His eyes were closed, his lips against the top of John's head.
"Hey, it's okay."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay. I love you, Sherlock. I was scared, alright? It's okay."
"It's okay?"
"Yeah." John shifted a little and turned his face to see Sherlock. "Yeah, of course. It's okay."
Sherlock offered John a slight smile that shone as relief in his eyes, and pressed a soft kiss to John's lips.
"Hungry?"
"Starving."
"Come on, then."
John sat up, and smiled at Sherlock. Sighing, Sherlock pushed himself up, then to his feet. He was a little wobbly, probably owing to a gash in his stomach, but he maintained the slight smile. Just before they went to the kitchen, John took Sherlock's hand and gently, carefully, kissed the cut on his cheek.
"It's okay."
The next morning, John awoke to find the daylight filtering slightly through the gap in the curtains, and a very warm and rather mussed Sherlock Holmes sleeping soundly, limbs tangled in John's, curly head against his chest. The cut on his cheek had diminished considerably during the night. As always, Sherlock was all drowsy, messy crumples that morning. John made the tea and got Sherlock to eat breakfast with considerable ease. The doorbell rang mercifully few times, and when it did, they got Mrs Hudson to inform the possible client that they were unavailable today, and they should come back tomorrow. Sherlock and John spent the day outstretched on the sofa watching the telly or films - John had managed to get Sherlock to stop announcing his deductions of the endings some time ago - and John read and Sherlock played his violin and they were generally content just to share each other's company.
In fact, they were generally content to just share each other's company for as long as they both lived. Of course, it didn't work out like that. There were crimes and cases and incidents and lots of things that upset the peace they'd been able to create in 221B. But that was fine. That was good, at times. But each knew that if they had to spend eternity doing basically nothing, they would be content to do so in each other's company. Indeed, if they had to spend eternity doing anything, the comfort they would find would be in each other's company.
To anyone who saw him, one of the most prominent features about Sherlock Holmes was that he was a series of sharp lines and edges, whether that referred to his clean, crisp suit or his cold, calculating attitude. Well, to anyone save one man. John Watson would tell you, if you were his friend and you asked about his Sherlock, that Sherlock Holmes was messy and warm and basically amazing. On seeing Sherlock Holmes, you probably wouldn't believe him. But then, neither would John believe he'd say that, at the start of his friendship with Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes certainly wouldn't believe he'd say that. But he would. And it would be the truth.