‘Yes, thank you,’ he insists, speaking quickly and raising his voice preemptively against John’s undrawn breath, against the increasing whinge of rotor blades, ‘because it could have been much, much worse, and you were careful and you were, you were patient with me, more than I deserved, and you did something distasteful, so Magnussen wouldn’t do something even more so. Of course, thank you.’ Gloves finished with, Sherlock loops his scarf around his neck briskly.
‘Just transport,’ he reminds John, or maybe himself, with the hint of a self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Though Sherlock’s not certain either of them really believe that, not with the unspoken tension that has existed between them since Sherlock’s return, and which has only increased since John’s marriage. That very tension which stretches between them now, made brittle and aching sweetly beneath Sherlock’s sternum in the wake of John’s touch, in the wake of John’s words whispered into his skin and John’s ejaculate slowly seeping from between his legs.
The circumstances certainly aren’t what Sherlock would have chosen (not least of all because of that pointless guilt in which John will insist indulging), but, as Mycroft had taken great pleasure in snidely informing Sherlock on several occasions during their youth, beggars did not have the luxury of being choosers.
Sherlock abruptly jerks his head in the direction of the patio doors. ‘We should get out there.’ Sherlock has his witnesses, and his dear John has his gun tucked thoughtlessly at the small of his back, where it will be within easy reach, out of sight until too late. Sherlock will finish this, and Appledore’s “vaults” will be destroyed.
John reaches out and grasps Sherlock’s sleeve. ‘Sherlock. You can’t possibly... We need to talk about this,’ John insists, adamant. He shoots a glare toward Magnussen, outside. ‘Not now, obviously, but this is seriously—’
‘Later,’ he assures John blithely, intending nothing of the sort. Once he kills Magnussen, Sherlock is aware there very well may be no “later.” Not for him, anyway, but there will be one for John, and that is what’s important. That is what the point of all this has been.
Sherlock gently shakes John off and makes for the open door. He can feel John’s stare, John’s displeasure, burning into the center of his back like a tangible touch but, crisis passed, their natural dynamic has been regained, and John remains silent. Sherlock steps through the doorway.
Magnussen peers over his shoulder with a cheerfully mocking grin, raises his voice to be heard above the roar of the helicopter.
‘Here we go, Mr. Holmes!’
~ ~ ~
OP, I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, and thanks so much for the fantastic prompt that got me writing again for the first time in five years. :D
I was also thinking I'd like to put this up on my (brand new) AO3 account, but I know it's a bit rough, and as an American my attempts at "proper" spellings and turns of phrase are kind of all over the place, so if anyone is interested in being a beta and "Brit-pick" for me, please email me at soliandxpyne@gmail.com, thanks!
FILL: Take What We're Given (Just Because You've Forgotten Doesn't Mean You're Forgiven) Part 6f
‘Just transport,’ he reminds John, or maybe himself, with the hint of a self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Though Sherlock’s not certain either of them really believe that, not with the unspoken tension that has existed between them since Sherlock’s return, and which has only increased since John’s marriage. That very tension which stretches between them now, made brittle and aching sweetly beneath Sherlock’s sternum in the wake of John’s touch, in the wake of John’s words whispered into his skin and John’s ejaculate slowly seeping from between his legs.
The circumstances certainly aren’t what Sherlock would have chosen (not least of all because of that pointless guilt in which John will insist indulging), but, as Mycroft had taken great pleasure in snidely informing Sherlock on several occasions during their youth, beggars did not have the luxury of being choosers.
Sherlock abruptly jerks his head in the direction of the patio doors. ‘We should get out there.’ Sherlock has his witnesses, and his dear John has his gun tucked thoughtlessly at the small of his back, where it will be within easy reach, out of sight until too late. Sherlock will finish this, and Appledore’s “vaults” will be destroyed.
John reaches out and grasps Sherlock’s sleeve. ‘Sherlock. You can’t possibly... We need to talk about this,’ John insists, adamant. He shoots a glare toward Magnussen, outside. ‘Not now, obviously, but this is seriously—’
‘Later,’ he assures John blithely, intending nothing of the sort. Once he kills Magnussen, Sherlock is aware there very well may be no “later.” Not for him, anyway, but there will be one for John, and that is what’s important. That is what the point of all this has been.
Sherlock gently shakes John off and makes for the open door. He can feel John’s stare, John’s displeasure, burning into the center of his back like a tangible touch but, crisis passed, their natural dynamic has been regained, and John remains silent. Sherlock steps through the doorway.
Magnussen peers over his shoulder with a cheerfully mocking grin, raises his voice to be heard above the roar of the helicopter.
‘Here we go, Mr. Holmes!’
~ ~ ~
OP, I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, and thanks so much for the fantastic prompt that got me writing again for the first time in five years. :D
I was also thinking I'd like to put this up on my (brand new) AO3 account, but I know it's a bit rough, and as an American my attempts at "proper" spellings and turns of phrase are kind of all over the place, so if anyone is interested in being a beta and "Brit-pick" for me, please email me at soliandxpyne@gmail.com, thanks!