Sherlock looks up from the microscope, stalling his examination of a peculiar fungus. John's stance is rigid, and the deductive reasoning of the world's only consulting detective is far from necessary to read the lines of distress on his face and the creases of his clothing. Regardless, Sherlock examines each tell, adding up the sum total of each to come to his conclusion: not good, not good, not good.
The quiet anguish written in the lines of his face causes a sharp pang in his heart. He never did like seeing John in pain. In this moment, Sherlock is almost ashamed of the other emotions that wash over him at the news. He knows he ought to say something, something to show that he cares about John, and he knows that it certainly isn’t ‘good riddance’ or ‘she should have never insinuated herself into your life.’
But Sherlock has never been . . . good with people, and he hasn’t the foggiest what the appropriate response is. He swallows and asks, ‘tea?’
For once in his life, Sherlock makes the tea, and he doesn’t poison it.
He clears the table of some of the paraphernalia associated with his experimentation (or rather, a small surface of the table), and John sits with a harsh sigh, placing his elbows on the wood and his head in his hands. He looks even smaller like that, the overwhelming sense of hopelessness acting like a magnifying glass in reverse. Something intangible in him has crumpled, his visage that of a beanbag popped, the stuffing draining out, and with it, all that his marriage to the woman of his dreams had imbued him with.
Seeing John so small, so down, . . . Sherlock finds he doesn’t much like it. He wants to make sure John never feels that way again, wants to protect him like he did when he walked, no, jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, wants to bring him back to life like he did when they first met.
But—
Over. It's over, finally over, and Sherlock wouldn’t have to share John with anyone any longer. But that wasn’t a good thought, was it? John is hurting, John has lost his wife, and here Sherlock is thinking about how he would benefit from the unfortunate situation.
He tamps down on the thoughts, and pushes them away. Sherlock knows he is a selfish person, but he would do anything for John Watson. He would die for him (and he has), he would kill for him (and he has), and he could certainly pretend he didn’t feel the slightest relief or happiness in the face of the situation.
Because Sherlock Holmes is John Watson’s best friend, and he would try his best to keep that title. It may not be the sum total of what he wishes to be, but it would have to be enough because he could not lose John Watson.
TBC
AN: My apologies the repost -- I noticed some verb shifts.
Fill: Tangible (1/?)
Sherlock looks up from the microscope, stalling his examination of a peculiar fungus. John's stance is rigid, and the deductive reasoning of the world's only consulting detective is far from necessary to read the lines of distress on his face and the creases of his clothing. Regardless, Sherlock examines each tell, adding up the sum total of each to come to his conclusion: not good, not good, not good.
The quiet anguish written in the lines of his face causes a sharp pang in his heart. He never did like seeing John in pain. In this moment, Sherlock is almost ashamed of the other emotions that wash over him at the news. He knows he ought to say something, something to show that he cares about John, and he knows that it certainly isn’t ‘good riddance’ or ‘she should have never insinuated herself into your life.’
But Sherlock has never been . . . good with people, and he hasn’t the foggiest what the appropriate response is. He swallows and asks, ‘tea?’
For once in his life, Sherlock makes the tea, and he doesn’t poison it.
He clears the table of some of the paraphernalia associated with his experimentation (or rather, a small surface of the table), and John sits with a harsh sigh, placing his elbows on the wood and his head in his hands. He looks even smaller like that, the overwhelming sense of hopelessness acting like a magnifying glass in reverse. Something intangible in him has crumpled, his visage that of a beanbag popped, the stuffing draining out, and with it, all that his marriage to the woman of his dreams had imbued him with.
Seeing John so small, so down, . . . Sherlock finds he doesn’t much like it. He wants to make sure John never feels that way again, wants to protect him like he did when he walked, no, jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, wants to bring him back to life like he did when they first met.
But—
Over. It's over, finally over, and Sherlock wouldn’t have to share John with anyone any longer. But that wasn’t a good thought, was it? John is hurting, John has lost his wife, and here Sherlock is thinking about how he would benefit from the unfortunate situation.
He tamps down on the thoughts, and pushes them away. Sherlock knows he is a selfish person, but he would do anything for John Watson. He would die for him (and he has), he would kill for him (and he has), and he could certainly pretend he didn’t feel the slightest relief or happiness in the face of the situation.
Because Sherlock Holmes is John Watson’s best friend, and he would try his best to keep that title. It may not be the sum total of what he wishes to be, but it would have to be enough because he could not lose John Watson.
TBC
AN: My apologies the repost -- I noticed some verb shifts.