 |
Four
Times John Watson Used a Pet Name and One Time He Didn’t
| Title: |
Four Times John Watson Used a Pet Name and One Time He
Didn’t |
| Author: |
Goddess
Michele |
| Date |
February 2011
|
| Fandom: |
Top Gear |
| Pairing: |
John/Sherlock |
| Spoilers: |
If you haven’t watched Sherlock, then go away! |
| Rating: |
post-Watershed |
| Beta: |
I am my own worst beta! |
| Disclaimer: |
Not mine, no money made, all hail BBC. |
| Feedback: |
Yes, please! starshine24mc@yahoo.com |
| Archive: |
put it wherever you like, including any zines, just
leave my name on it. |
| Summary: |
see title.
Author’s Note: http://www.800florals.com/care/meaning.asp
Author’s Note 2: Blame this one on Jeremy Clarkson,
Gareth David-Lloyd and John Barrowman, who showed me that in the U.K.,
Rs and Zs are interchangeable.
Author's Note 3: OMG, I'm lame! No, wait, I'm not!
As Sherlock would say, "Oh hell, what does it matter?! So we go round
the sun - if we went round the moon or... round and round the garden
like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference. And neither does
how many chapters you have, as long as you wind up with five!" Thanks,
Joelle, for the math! *L* |
1.
John Watson thought they had done rather
well, considering.
His experience in Afghanistan had taught him a few simple
rules that seemed to have remained consistent even after his return
home. One:
guns are always much louder when they are fired than you expect, and
even a
simple single bullet from a service revolver can make your ears ring
for long
minutes after it’s fired. Two: water is the most vital thing there is,
whether
it’s a hot mouthful from a nearly empty canteen, the fountains at
Trafalgar
Square, or a swimming pool full of overly chlorinated H2O. Three: and
this was
the one he was absolutely certain of, when a building is blown up with
several
kilos of Semtex, everybody in said building dies.
Now it seemed he might have to re-evaluate his hard won
beliefs. Now it seemed that he might possibly have been wrong. Oh, not
about
the guns, or the water. On those points he was pleased, or relieved, or
horrified to discover that he was one hundred percent correct. Ringing
ears that
still held traces of pool water in them were evidence that his
assumptions had
been spot on in regards to those first two rules. He’d deduced these
things
quite easily, and he thought even the great Sherlock Holmes would have
been
impressed. On the other hand, he probably would have given him another
one of
those backhanded compliments he was so fond of: “Excellent, John, well
done!
Too bad you missed the most important clues…”
Not everybody dies.
Clue one: Lestrade’s insistence that the only bodies found
at the pool were two local men with sniper rifles, both crushed beneath
the
fallen balcony. Clue two: well, this one was multi part, really. Most
of John’s
sweater had been burnt away; John’s shirt was still damp and smelling
of smoke
and chlorine as they were tucked away into an evidence bag. John’s
denim pants
were missing most of the right leg. John was wearing none of these
things, of
course. Instead, he was shivering in a hospital gown and robe, with his
right
leg bandaged thickly enough to keep the blood that had been determined
to be
outside of his body firmly on the inside instead. Also, he was
breathing.
Pretty hard to miss that one. Not everybody dies in an explosion. So
far, so
obvious. There was a third clue, though, in case John turned out to be
as
ignorant as Sherlock claimed.
The third clue was lying motionless on the hospital bed
that
John was sat next to; this clue had pale skin and an even paler bandage
around
his head that made his dark hair even darker. This clue had an I.V.
buried in
one hand, gauze wrapping around the other and oxygen tubes up his nose.
This
clue had to be shocked back to life twice in the ambulance on the way
to the
hospital, but seemed to be sleeping peacefully now.
Not everybody dies.
John wiped at his wet eyes and murmured, “Oh,
Shezza…”
2.
The first time John Watson kissed Sherlock
Holmes, he was
asleep in the hospital and didn’t even know it.
The second time John Watson kissed Sherlock Holmes, he
was
asleep on the sofa and didn’t even know it.
The third time John Watson kissed Sherlock
Holmes, he was
awake and didn’t know what to do.
Well, in theory, obviously, he did know what
to do. He’d
seen movies, read books, watched television. Observing was as much a
part of
him as breathing, so it wasn’t like he’d never seen a kiss before. He’d
even
been able to deduce the murderer of a semi-famous television presenter
based on
the way her lipstick had been smeared about by an amorous fan. He
understood
why John Watson would want to be kissing someone.
What he didn’t understand was why John Watson would
want to
kiss him.
This wasn’t the kiss on the forehead or hair that Mummy had
given him occasionally as a child, usually when he had found himself
fighting
with Mycroft or being bullied at school.
This wasn’t the polite kiss on the cheek that he’d
occasionally and stiffly accepted from clients or family friends, but
only
really appreciated from Mrs. Hudson.
This was in fact a bit like the kisses he’d engaged in with
Clarence Gable in university. Clarence was a handsome journalism
student that
Sherlock had believed was just as bored and lonely as he himself was.
There had
been tongue then, and a hand in his hair and an exhilarating sense of
adventure
that had inexplicably turned him into someone eager and fumbling and
stupid.
And while there wasn’t currently any sloppy open mouthed sharing of
saliva, John’s
hand was stroking gently through his hair, and Sherlock could feel the
beginning of that excitement again, that sort of fizzing in the base of
his
spine that was quickly spreading throughout his body.
Sherlock had shared kisses with Clarence for three
consecutive
nights, and had been considering with a new sense of self and purpose
what the
next step would be when he instead found himself stunned by an article
in the
school paper on the fourth morning describing with malicious glee how
easy it
was to pull a shag if the victim was a queer virgin with low self
esteem and a
jar of sheep’s eyes in his flat. Not mentioning any names hadn’t really
helped,
and he’d transferred to Cambridge mid-term.
So when John tentatively swiped his tongue across
Sherlock’s
surprised lips, Sherlock jumped up from the sofa where he’d been
sitting when
this sudden insanity had started, and ran out of the flat.
John found him some time later, shivering on a bench near
Dorset Square, and handed him his coat and scarf without a word. Once
he was
dressed and warming his hands in the deep pockets of his coat, they sat
in
awkward silence for a bit, both staring out at the darkness. He
startled when
John put a hand on his arm and said his name.
“Not good?” John’s voice was soft and hesitant, and
Sherlock
had to look at him then. There was fear in John’s eyes, and a hint of
sadness,
but determination too, and something that Sherlock had never seen
directed at
himself before. A sort of exasperated fondness that shone truthful in
the
streetlamp’s glow.
“Bit not good, yeah,” he replied with a pained smile.
John started to rise and Sherlock caught the hand on his
arm
in one of his own and pulled John back down beside him.
Without looking at him, but without releasing his hand
either, Sherlock recited the story of Clarence and the kissing in that
dry
bored monotone he usually reserved for the most banal cases, as if
declaring
the whole sordid tale beneath him.
And when he was done, John wiped away his tears and pulled
him into a bone-crushing embrace, one arm tight around his waist, the
other in
his hair, guiding his head to rest on John’s shoulder.
“Aw, Shezza….” he murmured over and over.
3.
Sherlock was arguing with Donovan. This was
absolutely
nothing new to John, and he was tempted to ignore it. There was a sort
of
timetable or a recipe or a set of instructions that Sherlock used for
investigating crime scenes that John had noticed quite quickly, and if
he were
to note it down, it might look something like this:
a. Greet Donovan at crime
scene
b.
Accept cheap shot about “the Freak” from Donovan
c.
Return cheap shot with light banter about Donovan’s love
life
d.
Find Lestrade (or maybe Dimmock)
e.
Ignore Anderson; address Anderson’s idiocy only if
necessary
f.
Dazzle John Watson with brilliant deduction
g.
Accept John Watson’s praise with a small, shy smile
h.
Sweep dramatically away from crime scene
John liked G
the best, as much
for its rarity as its
sincerity.
So, since they were only on step B, John was mostly thinking
ahead to step F and then
wondering if he could somehow persuade Sherlock to add
one additional point to the list.
i. Take John Watson
home and shag him senseless
He hadn’t been paying attention to what Sally had said to
Sherlock, but knowing her, it was probably nothing outstanding. She
really
lacked much in the way of imagination, John thought, a little unkindly,
and
then he silently berated himself for it. Sure, he’d occasionally
laughed at
Sherlock’s deductions on her affair with Anderson, but a thinly veiled
comment
about blowjobs didn’t seem to be that big a deal, and it certainly
hadn’t put
her off in any way. And really, at the end of the day, despite her digs
at
Sherlock, she seemed competent and not really malicious.
Maybe she was just jealous, John thought. He’d certainly
had
moments where he wished he could see (not see, he reminded himself,
observe)
things the way Sherlock did. He made it all seem as effortless as
breathing,
and John was sure if he wanted to, Sherlock could be running Scotland
Yard
within a month.
“I’m sure this misguided affair is simply your way of
trying
to find the love that your alcoholic father never gave you, although he
definitely thought about it, as your mother well knew,” Sherlock told
Sally,
and John gave him a startled look. “Of course, your mother undoubtedly
told you
that you weren’t good enough for any man, what with your weight, your
features,
your utter stupidity.”
John gaped. This wasn’t smiling sexual innuendo. This
wasn’t
joshing, or bantering, or trading insults. John knew Sherlock could be
harsh,
but this was just cruel. In the revolving coloured lights of the police
cruisers, John saw Sally’s eyes grow suddenly shiny.
“And since you appear to not understand that Anderson will
never, ever leave his wife for you, her assessment of you seems to have
been quite
correct. In fact—“
John took hold of Sherlock’s arm and leaned in close. His
voice was a furious whispered growl.
“Shezza…”
Sherlock froze mid-sentence. Sally turned and fled.
Sherlock
didn’t look at John.
“Not good?” he tried, voice low and shaky.
“Not good,” John agreed, and walked away.
The next day, an enormous bouquet of purple hyacinths
arrived at the Yard for Sally Donovan, with no card attached. Anderson
took
full credit for them, but Sally still refused to stay over that
weekend.
At the next crime scene, John greeted Sally with a smile
and
wished her a good evening. She didn’t call Sherlock any names, although
she did
drop her gaze to their clasped hands for just a moment before lifting
the crime
scene tape for them both.
Sherlock ignored her.
4.
The hydrangea needs watering. The major
language used in
Afghanistan is Pashtu. The
phalanges
in the hand are the proximal, middle and distal. Anderson in a sequined
posing
pouch and—
And then
Sherlock did
that apple-polishing thing again with his hand, and that
cat-lapping-cream
thing with his tongue, and all the dry desperate thoughts John Watson
had been thinking
to keep from cumming too soon vanished in a second.
“Oh,
Christ—Shezza—damnit!”
John pulled
Sherlock off of his chest and up to his face where he could kiss him
proper. He
trapped Sherlock there with one hand buried in his curly dark hair, and
then
reached between them to grab hold of Sherlock and do a little apple
polishing
of his own.
“John, yes. Yes,
John, just there, oh, oh, yes! John….please…” The last word was huffed
out in a
breathless whimper with just the softest touch of a childish lisp, and
John
growled and tipped over the edge, dragging Sherlock with him into
gasping,
shuddering oblivion.
Several minutes
later, John opened his eyes and saw Sherlock looking back at him. He
realized
he was still clutching Sherlock’s hair and he loosened his grip,
turning it
into something less greedy. Stroking through the hopelessly mussed mop
brought
his heartbeat back to something less than cardiac arrest levels, but
when
Sherlock shifted on top of him, the wet heat between their sweat-slick
bodies
made him shiver.
“Mmm, Shezza….”
John murmured. Sherlock kissed him for a minute, considering.
“John?”
John opened his
eyes, surprised to find he’d closed them in the first place.
“Hmmm?”
“It’s Sherlock.”
John frowned at
him, confused. “Well, yes. I do have some powers of observation,
despite what
you think.”
This made Sherlock
smile and kiss him again, very softly on the corner of John’s answering
grin.
“I mean my name.
Sherlock. Not…not….” He made a sort of flapping motion in the air and
tried on
John’s confused frown from the moment before.
“Hmm? Oh—oh, that!
Well, it’s just a—you know, like a—well, no, maybe you wouldn’t
know—but it’s
not—it’s just---“ John’s words stumbled to a halt and he gave Sherlock
a
nervous look.
“Not good?”
Sherlock’s eyes
narrowed briefly. He studied John’s face, and then took a minute to
stare at
his left hand. Then he turned his attention to the center of John’s
chest for
several minutes. After a brief glimpse at John’s left shoulder, he
looked back
at John’s face again. He silently mouthed the word, then John’s name,
then did
it again. John could almost see the calculations going on in that
ridiculous,
brilliant brain. Sherlock’s eyes opened wide for a moment, like he’d
just
solved a three-patch problem, and then he gave John another one of
those
strange corner-of-the-mouth kisses and that warm smile that no one else
on
earth had ever seen, or deserved.
“Dinner?” he
asked.
“Starving.” John
replied.
5.
John was still half-asleep when he wandered
into the
kitchen, sidestepping chairs and table mostly by luck and filling the
kettle
with water mostly by instinct. A late night search through Scotland
Yard’s
extensive files, followed by a later night chase across Hampstead Heath
and
finally a latest night arrest and John had been dead on his feet. He’d
told
Sherlock as much, and oddly enough, the other man had agreed that they
should
both get some decent rest before tackling another day.
Apparently, decent rest equaled approximately 45
minutes in
Sherlock’s world. John was sure he had just closed his eyes when
Sherlock had
shook him hard, kissed him soundly, advised him to be ready to go in
half an
hour and bounced out of the room. The shower had started up a moment
later, and
John had reluctantly dragged himself out of bed.
Tea was imperative, followed by gallons of coffee, he
decided. Luckily it was an easy decision, since most of his mind was
still
upstairs sleeping. A little bit of his mind was in the shower with a
naked
Sherlock, but mostly, still sleeping.
His favorite mug was already on the counter, so he dropped
a
teabag into it and added hot water, then shut his eyes for a couple of
minutes
while it brewed. He briefly wondered what it would take to keep
Sherlock from
getting bored long enough for him to actually get a full night’s sleep,
but
couldn’t come up with anything without some caffeine. So he pulled the
teabag
from his mug, tossed it carelessly in the direction of the sink, and
leaned in
to take a huge sip, knowing he was going to burn his mouth and really
not
caring at this point.
Two eyeballs floated gently up from the bottom of his cup
and gazed serenely at him.
“SHERLOCK!”
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