docwithablog

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ With the murder of Amanda Pittsford solved to everybody's satisfaction - everybody, meaning the grieving brother, the Met and the British government - Sherlock's content to sit back in the cab and simply watch London flash by outside the windows. His mind is going two hundred miles a minute, still, running through the facts of the case and comparing them, categorising, deleting all irrelevant information. It's a process he's chosen to call clean-up, something he began doing after Peru, in particular. It's not strictly necessary any longer but after two years, it's a habit and his mind simply likes doing it, for reasons he's chosen not to examine too closely.

He's very conscious of John in the seat next to him, the rustling of his clothes, the proximity of his body. John, who did very well today, even if he didn't realise it and not just by leaning to speak Pigeon. He smiles to himself very briefly, one foot tapping lightly against the floor of the cab. God, he likes finishing cases. Wrapping them up. Even if he didn't share the big fish with Lestrade this time around, there's something deeply satisfying about knowing that Ian Pittsford won't be collecting any more women in his little digital scrapbook.

He glances sideways at John. Wondering, perhaps a bit hopefully, whether John's figured it out. That the grand reveal was lacking a few key elements, including any and all mentions of a certain Sibyl. ]

[ They're on their way back from the Met, sitting next to each other on the backseat of a classic London cab, because that's their classic method of getting from A to B, isn't it? London flashing by on the other side of the window, neon colours in the descending dusk, traffic lights and road signs and billboards on top of buildings, all of it. Sherlock, too. Home. John glances at the other man out the corner of his eye, noticing how he still seems fidgety, although he's just delivered a very grand grand reveal that's put Lestrade's people to work for a good couple months, at the least. Normally, he'll be spinning like a bloody spinning top for some twenty minutes after such a finish and then, some time later, keel over, completely. Doesn't seem to be happening this time around and John frowns, looks outside, pursing his lips slightly.

There's a small stretch of backseat between them, but not enough to quench the sensation of the other man's body heat across the small distance, the kind of noticeable warmth that indicates elevated heart rhythm and venous systems doing overtime, but then again -- Sherlock does get off on these cases, gets off on solving his puzzles and his riddles and -- yeah. John turns his head a little, looking sideways at the other man. His own skin is tingling slightly, could (objectively) be from spending 5+ hours at Finsbury Park earlier in a lovely drizzle, too, but more likely he's responding to the obvious excitement that Sherlock's exhibiting, because -- Why? Case is done, it's over, they should be discussing dinner, really.

There was no mention of Sybil in today's grand reveal. Either it was a dead end, didn't mean anything, didn't lead anywhere or something's not been accounted for which, obviously, if you know Sherlock Holmes, could very well be the case. Come on. John clears his throat. ] Got to admit, I'm kind of disappointed that I learned Pigeon for nothing. [ A pause. Turning his head fully, he catches Sherlock's gaze through the semi-darkness of the cab's backseat. Except, I didn't, did I, it asks. ]

[ Though he's often scolding John for being un-observant, the man's always been sharper than most average people and he's proving it now, too, by asking exactly the right question, even if he's chosen to frame it as a comment. Sherlock looks him over for a moment, one eyebrow raised very slightly and leans forward in the cab, hands jittery against his thighs. Then, he reaches out and pulls the partition window shut, lowering his voice and leaning in closer to John. Peripherally, he registers the scent of the other man (residual dampness from the drizzle earlier along with the smell of wet grass and fresh air) and his brain, naturally, categorises it all as relevant John!data while he tries not to pay attention. ]

Ian Pittsford lost more than his wife today. Sibyl Pittsford neé Autin, is his mother - a woman with whom he has a very strained relationship, characterised in equal parts by need and anger. I've been running my own little investigation on him from the very beginning and when you told me he'd mentioned her name on the phone, you gave me a vital bit of information that helped me gain access to this. [ He picks a small, black USB flash drive out of his trouser pocket and tosses it into the air between them, catching it with his right hand. ] His very own, very private collection of girlfriends and lovers. He's had a few, you see, and none of them lived beyond their twenties.

[ His lip curls in distaste. Ever since dismantling Moriarty's network, he's cultivated his skepticism towards the political elite. There's always someone higher up, controlling and maintaining the cash flow and whilst he wouldn't normally care (politics, dull, dull), he's realised that the puzzles often grow both larger and more intricate, the farther up the system you travel. Hard not to be curious. ]

[ Here we go, John thinks to himself -- partly in response to the way Sherlock pulls the partition window shut, cutting the driver effectively off from the conversation which means there's something he's basically dying to tell him, yes -- and partly in response to the way Sherlock leans in closer, lowering his voice slightly, the pitch of it dropping and all John can think about, suddenly, is the way he'd sounded, moaning his name that night. Lovely, just -- very lovely. He tries desperately not to hyper-focus on the shape of the man's mouth while he speaks, listening almost too intently as a result, his mind buzzing from concentration, while Sherlock tells him about Ian Pittsford and his dead wife (an ordered hit, he'd said earlier) and -- oh. Ah. The women who'd gone before the poor girl whose case they wrapped up today, because Ian Pittsford is a sick bastard, probably with a sick relationship to his mother, too. Sibyl. Sibyl. Password? No... Don't they all tell you never to pick your mother's maiden name for security reasons? This might be the reason: Sherlock exists. ]

Ian Pittsford likes to date dead girls, I see. [ Some of the girls John slept with during those hellish first months were probably way, way too young for him, but they were still very much alive and he much preferred it that way, too, shit. What a twisted -- He turns his head towards Sherlock a bit, forgetting for a second (in the returning rush of adrenaline) how close they're sitting, getting an eyeful of the man's unfairly huge hand catching the memory stick and then, much, much closer, the outline of his lips curling in distaste, the lines growing slightly uneven, but definitely not hiding the predominant, soft curve of his lower lip. At all. Actually. Um. John frowns. Looks away again. Looks back. Looks straight ahead, very straight, very -- Fuck. ] Any reason none of this was meant for Lestrade's ears?

[ Blink, blink. He straightens up slightly, turns his head slowly to look at Sherlock, really look. ]

[ Sherlock watches John's reaction play across his features, going from realisation over repulsion and finally, to curiosity, catching on with his usual ease. They're very close like this, John's face (lips, nose, the slight roundness of his chin, the darkness around his eyes) inches from his own. Sitting together like this, huddling amidst the shadows, Sherlock's forcibly thrown back to several instances, all of them separate and all of them hauntingly similar from his travels abroad. John hadn't been there, of course. But he is, now. Blinking hard, Sherlock tries to draw back a fraction, just enough to keep things firmly grounded in the present, except he can't really make himself. It's too nice. It's... nice. ]

He got the murderer. [ A shrug. Then, finally, he leans back a little in his seat, the distance between them growing by at least a couple of inches. ] And Mycroft got Pittsford.

[ Ever since coming back, he's taken on a greater amount of cases from Mycroft than ever before, not out of any (wholly misbegotten) courtesy towards his older brother but simply for the sake of... complexity. The cases. When there's a challenge worth chasing and a vacuum in need of filling, Sherlock's never been difficult to tempt. If anyone knows, it's Mycroft. Perhaps he should resent the man a little for taking advantage but on the other hand, he is the British government. If that doesn't tell you anything about his priorities, you're dumber than a brick. ]

[ It takes only a second to connect the pieces. Sherlock's solved two cases in one, hasn't he? Left the actual killer for the police to deal with and Ian Pittsford -- has been kindly directed towards the attention of his brother and with that kind of scrutiny (we're talking the British government here, on a large scale), no one will survive very long, unless Mycroft Holmes thinks they should, thank you, John bloody well knows. Even then, you might at some point rather wish you were dead. If nothing else, then once the man opens his mouth.

Another blink, two, three and he manages a small scoff, along with a headshake, looking out the window on his side of the car for a moment when Sherlock leans back, increasing the distance between them once more and it should be a relief, no more weird -- butterflies in his stomach or whatever this is, but it isn't. It's no relief at all. It's unbearable, to say the least. He watches the outline of Sherlock's upper body (shoulders, broad shoulders, long neck) and his face in the window glass, licking his lips and trying to tell himself to be patient, not to rush it, not to ruin it, mind you, but it's really not -- working very well.

Usually, at this point, he'd tell the other man how incredible he is, amazing, fantastic... John's a walking thesaurus in this regard, right. He clears his throat, turns towards Sherlock fully and lets his eyes run up his front, very obviously, too. Stomach, chest, neck, face, too-long hair and consequently, no stupid coat collar. Although the cheekbones are perfectly present nonetheless. ] For God's sake, Sherlock -- [ His name is mostly a long exhalation, John inching closer, reaching up and curling his fingers in the thick fabric of the other man's windcheater before tilting his head to the side, just enough, just enough to have -- their lips -- touching -- as he leans in -- pressing together -- oh, okay.

Apparently kissing is the new synonymous. ]

[ For a long moment, John doesn't answer and Sherlock's halfway wondering if he disapproves, somehow, perhaps of Mycroft's involvement. Would be a very sensible reservation in any case. About to let his mind wander once more, he registers John clearing his throat and turning towards him and he looks back, expression blank as he finds himself... completely, uncharacteristically stumped. Why is John looking at him like that, what is he - why -

For God's sake, he says and - leans in, curling his fingers in Sherlock's jacket and -- and --

Everything stops.

For a long, panicky second, Sherlock's almost convinced that he's finally mixed up reality and fantasy beyond all reason and repair. He blinks and blinks and blinks as John presses their lips together, just, it's -- he forgets to breathe, his body tensing up as he tries, in vain, to rationalise what's happening. John's kissing him. John's. John who's sleeping in his bed, who's come back and moved back despite Sherlock more or less pushing him off the roof when he took the jump, leaving them both sprawling and bleeding in different ways. He stares at the other man for another long, torturous second before he finally reaches up slowly and curls his fingers gently into John's hair, fingertips brushing over his scalp. He tries to inhale. Then, he presses back, eyes falling shut, heart hammering like he's in the middle of a great escape.

John's lips are so soft. ]

Edited 2019-09-29 18:50 (UTC)

[ A brief moment follows in which Sherlock tenses up in response and John is wavering between a cold-dread fear that he might have overstepped his boundaries, that he's got it wrong (God knows how often that happens, after all, around the other man) and a more insistent feeling of -- oh no, you don't, Sherlock Holmes, you don't get to have wet dreams about him, setting this entire -- thing into motion and then recoil when he finally works up the courage to -- do what he should probably have done to Andrew Beck first, some thirty years earlier or that Sholto should definitely have done to him back then, in Afghanistan. Oh no, you don't. His fingers tighten in Sherlock's windbreaker, the sheer overwhelming onslaught of sensations, having the man this close, basically flooding him. His scent in John's nostrils, the curve of his stupid bottom lip (biteable), the first heated puff of breath --

Then, finally, finally, Sherlock seems to relax into it, raising his hand, curling his fingers gently into John's hair, fingertips brushing over his scalp and that's -- nice, that's touch and it's nice and Sherlock's pressing back now, his lips feeling warm and somehow familiar, despite how they've by no stretch (except of his imagination) done this before. This -- kissing -- thing.

He's kissing Sherlock. No, really. He's kissing Sherlock.

John exhales slowly, evenly through his nose and inclines his head a bit, because the angle's sort of off, it would be better if -- he runs his hand up Sherlock's chest, wind jacket smooth and cool beneath his palm, the contrast between the fabric and Sherlock's skin, as his fingertips make contact with the side of the other man's neck, stark. He follows the slope of it slowly, very unashamedly feeling him out, his fingers connecting with the line of the man's jaw, strong, very -- strong. Okay, that's good, that's -- good.

Pressing closer and parting his lips a bit, mostly to feel the slide of his own bottom lip over Sherlock's, soft, he tries to curb the hunger of it, because they're not in a hurry, he's not going to rush it, he's going to bloody well indulge until Sherlock at some point gets tired of waiting which will probably happen, let's be real, first things first. Until then, this is great, it's fine.

Yeah, it's going to be fine. ]

[ Naturally, his mind chooses this moment to zoom out. Though he doesn't open his eyes, he can't help but imagine the two of them from an outside perspective - John, with his fingers running up the slope of his neck (soft fingers, warm, gentle, oh), Sherlock cradling the back of his head, the kiss altogether gentle, in a way people would never expect from them. The idea of it, of them, of this exact moment, makes his whole body tingle, skin prickling and heating up and he's flushing slightly, he can feel it along and across the bridge of his nose. He sighs into the kiss, parting his lips when John does, mostly because he doesn't quite know what he's doing and following suit seems the thing to do.

He couldn't imagine kissing John, back during his time away. He couldn't. He could picture the man touching him with relative ease - considering their day-to-day activities back in London, it was merely a matter of sufficient extrapolation - but this? Not this. Leaning in just a bit, he takes another second, then another, then another, just to be certain. To leave it memorized, in case... well. In case.

Then, eyelashes fluttering open, he finally looks at John, gaze tracking the shadows currently painted across his features. Though every instinct in him is screaming not to, to prolong, he draws away slowly, hand falling away from John's head with what has to be very, very obvious reluctance. He doesn't know what to say and consequently, doesn't. Instead, he settles back in his seat once again, running his fingertips very gently across his lips, feeling out the slight wetness there and marveling at it inwardly. ]

[ The fact that Sherlock follows is an interesting contrast to how they usually -- well, work. Usually Sherlock's the one to take the lead and it's John who's struggling (panting, stumbling, running, always running) to keep up, come along as the other man tells him often enough. Now, Sherlock sighs into the kiss, parting his lips in response to John doing so first and it's nice, like this, it's good it -- works, definitely works. John's thumb runs along the prominent jut of the other man's jawline, acquainting himself with the texture of his skin, because all he knew until this moment, let's be real, was how pale he tends to be, how he can look absolutely pasty and malnourished at his worst, not that he's in any way engaging Doctor Watson right now.

John's allowed a couple of seconds more, then -- as predicted, Sherlock draws back (yeah, first, this time) and lets his hand drop (rather reluctantly, he gets it, sentiment) from the back of John's head, really, a shame, a crying shame, John's skin feeling all tingly and overheated in the wake of it, where Sherlock touched him. Bloody burning fingerprints along his scalp, thank you. Sherlock settles back in his seat, touching his mouth softly and John leans back as well, hands resting in his lap while he just watches the other man. Fingers to his lips. A red flush spreading across the bridge of his nose and -- that's very endearing, actually, didn't know Sherlock had it in him, well done. Very well done.

Licking his lips, Sherlock's taste still unmistakably there, John looks out the window, then back at the other man, frowning slightly. They are going to talk about this, right? John clears his throat, settles back in his seat, looking at Sherlock out the corner of his eye. Licking his lips again, almost obsessively. ]

I think -- [ Lick. Lick. ] -- we should do that more often.

[ There's a moment of silence, broken only by John's more-than-occasional lip-licking and the peripheral sounds of London hurtling by outside the car windows. The taste of John feels vivid along the lines of his lips, transferred to his fingertips where it lingers. He can't remember feeling this light-hearted for... months. Years.

There's just something about kissing John Watson that makes him inexplicably happy.

At John's comment, he glances sideways. Drops his hand into his lap, though he can't quite help rubbing his fingertips together, thinking about John's molecules, spreading against his skin. ]

Do you? [ Pause. Re-wind. That sounded doubtful which - no, not in the least. Sherlock looks away, the red flush around his nose spreading slightly down the sides of his cheeks. ] Then, we should. Yes. Do that.

[ It's a surreal situation, sitting here, talking about kissing John again, as a repeat, because they've just bloody well done it and he can't, it's absurd. So, he killed himself in front of John, left him to grieve for two years, got himself captured and interrogated quite unnecessarily and returns, as he is (what is left), and now... He frowns. Clasps his fingers together a bit convulsively, then starts cracking the joints on his left. Noisily. Belatedly, he realises that this will probably break the romantic air very efficiently and this, in turn, confuses him because 1) there's a romantic air? and 2) what if there isn't? and 3) did he just ruin something or merely reveal its flaws? Crack, goes his little finger. ]

[ Then, we should, says Sherlock, ever so perceptive, supposedly. For fuck's sake.

The other man adds to the altogether unromantic atmosphere by clasping his hands and -- yes, good, wonderful, starting to crack his joints very noisily and very annoyingly, but what the hell did you expect, it's Sherlock, Sherlock wouldn't know what romance was if it -- bit his bottom lip which, John can assure you, it was very, very close to doing, let's be real.

This is where it dawns on him. That although he just kissed Sherlock, nothing's -- absolutely nothing's changed, the man's still a first class idiot who makes stupid remarks and acts inappropriately (cold reading people and sniffing smoke by proxy, what have you) and the really, really interesting thing is, of course, that John honestly wouldn't have him any differently. Sherlock's come back from war and he's changed, the way soldiers do, but he hasn't changed beyond recognition which, perhaps, only becomes very evident at this moment, between them, like this.

How they're the same. Down to -- ]

Stop that, seriously.

[ John raises an eyebrow, a great, sweeping arch and scoffs, reaching out with his right hand blindly, but his aim was always excellent, yes, and grabbing Sherlock's left hand, closing his fingers around his wrist, brushing his fingertips up the palm of it before simply -- interlacing their fingers, like it's no big deal (because it shouldn't be) and like it's a everyday occurrence (as it should be, rightly) while looking out the window on his side of the car, London a light-scape, a neon jungle. Lots of crime, out there.

Though, crime's only half of it. Obviously. ]

[ He doesn't predict it, though potentially, one ought to be capable of foreseeing everything, down to the slightest little ripple through cosmos. As it is, however, Sherlock is wholly unprepared for the way John grabs onto his hand, the brush of his fingertips against his palm (softness, again, and a tingle of pleasure, rushing up his ulnar nerve) - and then, the lacing of their fingers, just. Like that. Take my hand, his own voice echoes in his head, and then, louder yet, John's rapid throwback (now people will definitely talk) and yet, here they are, in a cab, holding hands. It feels like ages ago, too. They were different people back then, weren't they.

Sherlock looks at his hand, interlaced with John's, the heat of the other man's skin seemingly slipping beneath his own and fusing with his very nerves. He feels warm through and through, shoulders devoid of tension and body lax in his seat, almost as if he could go to sleep like this. He can't, obviously. His mind couldn't possibly let him. But perhaps, once they get back to Baker Street and go to sleep (together), he'll be the one to reach out and clasp John's hand, to let them both rest.

With a soft smile, briefly there, quickly gone, he leaves his hand in John's dependable care, looks away and lets his mind wander as it wishes, dwelling on nothing in particular, the sensation of holding and being held overriding all other inputs. He shouldn't encourage sentiment - see where it left them last time! - but on the other hand, he's returned to John on the basis of nothing but sentiment, just as John's taken him back on that basis, too. It... is what it is. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

psl.

the eleventh.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject