sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Note: I've never used a weighted blanket, though I would like to! So this may not be a completely accurate description.

*

The window's half open. Summer rain, and traffic, and the smell of petrol, chips, coffee. The street is busy: Sherlock can't hear people talking over the noise of the cars, but, at random intervals, someone shouts, or laughs. A dog whines, high, and then barks, again, and again.

In the kitchen, John is chopping carrots. The sound of the knife is irregular, too, dull thumps against the board. Sherlock feels each chop against his arms, in the hollow of his stomach. His hair is itchy, ants clinging to the back of his neck. He drums his fingers against his knee.

The blanket's been hanging over the back of the armchair for two weeks: he hasn't need it. Sherlock flexes his fingers back and forth, fingernails digging into his thigh. His trousers get in the way, his fingers don't feel right. The seams bite his skin, hard and itchy.

He pulls the blanket over himself, closes his eyes. It's uncomfortable for a second, and then the relief comes, the weight anchoring him to the sofa, soothing his stinging skin. The rain is still falling, a patter against the window, and a dog barks again, unexpected. John drops the carrots into a saucepan, and the tap runs.

It's all so disjointed. He wants to press the heels of his hands to his eyes, to hum, to plug his ears. He tugs the blanket further up his body, feeling the weight settle against his collarbones. For a moment he's drifting, losing himself in the heaviness, the ache leaving his limbs.

Then the thud thud thud of John's footsteps, and John's voice, “Aren't you hot?”

Sherlock doesn't answer. He doesn't open his eyes. He hears John swallow, the saliva in his throat. His own throat pricks at the sound. Then the weight shifting on the sofa, and John is beside him. An alarm somewhere outside, the white-hot whine. He hunches his shoulders, brings his hands out from under the blanket, presses them against his cheekbones, his temples.

He hears John shift. Is John going to touch him? Not now, not now, not now John. His muscles are tense, waiting.

A shriek of wood against wood. A burst of sound, and then the window is closed. The bright noise is suddenly dimmer, dulled. Sherlock hears the irregular patter of rain against glass.

“You could close it yourself, you know.” John says.

Sherlock keeps his hands against his face, waiting for the ants on his skin to go away. John sits back down. A familiar, electronic whine as the laptop starts up. A slow tap as John types in his password. Then the faint clicking of the mouse.

Click, click.

He brings his hands down, slides them back under the blanket. The weight changes, then settles against him. A few slow breaths. When he opens his eyes, John is looking over at him, fingers motionless on the keyboard. “Bad day?” John says.

But Sherlock's tongue isn't working. He just stays still, under the blanket. His skin is beginning to stop hurting.

It keeps raining. Sherlock breathes, listens to John's fingers moving on the laptop. The sounds are settling. He watches the rain licking down the glass.

He doesn't know how much time passes. He could gauge it by looking at John, at his posture, at how far he's sunk into the couch, but he doesn't want to. He keeps his eyes on the window.

“Look at this,” John says. The words grate against his skin, but he turns his head. John moves closer, showing him an article on the laptop. Unsolved murder in Dumfries. His eyes flick over the words. John doesn't scroll down fast enough, but he can't move his hands from under the blanket.

“We could go to Scotland,” John says. Sherlock wonders, suddenly, why he can't hear the carrots boiling.

Sherlock's tongue moves. “It was the uncle. Had an affair with the niece. Needed to keep her quiet.”

“How can you...” John swallows. “Well, maybe you should tell the police that.”

“You tell them. It's not even a four.”

There's an alarm suddenly, a scream down the length of the street. Sherlock's skin twitches in sympathy. He shuts his eyes, and when he opens them, John is still looking at him. Gaze digging into Sherlock's face.

“Can I touch you?” John says.

Yes. No. Touching is better than staring.

He nods.

John's hand on his shoulder, a sudden weight. John moves slightly nearer, his weight on top of the blanket pulling it closer to Sherlock's skin. John's fingers squeeze once, twice, and then pull away. John's back on the laptop, fingers gliding over the mouse-pad.

Sherlock can feel his warmth now, his close weight. He looks at the weave of John's jumper, the curling cables. How can John stand all that wool so close to his skin?

He lets his body drift closer to John. John is so solid. He watches John's hands, his slow typing. He can smell John: soap and lanolin and tea. He lets his chin rest against John's shoulder. John's checking his blog stats.

John shifts, and pulls the blanket out from where he's sitting on it. He puts the laptop on the arm of the sofa, and lets the blanket fall on his knee. Sherlock bridges the space between them, pressing against John's side.

John's fingers roam over the blanket, curiously. They gauge its thickness. He stretches his legs out under it, feeling its resistance. Sherlock lets his head fall against John's shoulder, feels the scratchy wool against his cheek. Worth it for the way John sighs, for the warm smell of him.

“Does it help?” John asks.

Sherlock nods. Finds his tongue again. “A bit.”

“Good.”

“It feels... different,” John says, flexing his muscles under the weight.

“You'll get used to it.”

“Hm.” John raises his arm, about to put it around Sherlock, and then pauses, fingers flexing on empty air.

“You can touch me,” Sherlock says. He rests his head on John's chest, nose in John's jumper. The rain is still loud. “Touch my head.”

His skin is still humming with sound. The blanket helps. John's fingers against his scalp will help: firm, calm, dislodging the itches, the ants.

John snorts. “Not at all demanding, are you?” But his fingers are already there, pressing firmly against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock sighs, focusing on John's fingers soothing his scalp, and John's smell, and the blanket, holding him.

Not the OP, but I very much enjoyed your fill. Thank you.

Also no OP. But, I really enjoyed this as well. Nice dialogue! :) Liked the third to last paragraph the best. Thank you.

Not the OP, but this is perfect. :)

I am OP and this was a million times better and more than i was expecting, excellent, thank you!
Need to find me a John... <3

Prompting Part XXXIV

Summer Rain (1/2)

Re: Summer Rain (2/2)

Re: Summer Rain (2/2)

Re: Summer Rain (2/2)

Re: Summer Rain (2/2)

Re: Summer Rain (2/2)