AN: So, yeah. I know. It's been a while - no excuses. Hope there's still some interest. I should mention that this will not become Johnlock (I suppose you could read it as pre-slash if you choose to do so). Sorry if that disappoints anyone. Also this is a healing/comfort section (always harder for me to write) but more angst will be coming.
First line is taken for a 1980 publication of Gray's Anatomy
* * *
The laminae are two broad plates of bone which complete the neural arch…
He hears his name being called from downstairs. He looks at the closed door, annoyed at whatever has interrupted his reading.
Well, reading isn’t really quite the right term. The words are popping into his head before he has a chance to see them on the page. Recalling. Recalling would be the best way to describe it in English. He knows there’s a better term for it in German. But it doesn’t come to him immediately, and he’s too tired to bother searching for it.
The voice drifts through the door again.
“Mrs. Hudson brought some meatloaf if you want to come down and join us.”
No. He doesn’t want to join them, and he doesn’t want the meatloaf. But he can hear the hope in John’s voice. More importantly, he knows that if he doesn’t come down, John will come up with his sympathetic eyes and soft voice, and he especially doesn’t want that.
Sighing, he puts away his forty year old copy of Gray’s Anatomy and makes the slow trek towards the kitchen.
In the hallway, he hears the loud and seemingly aimless bustle of John moving around the kitchen. It becomes clear that John is setting out plates and cups with a frenzied and unnatural vigor. Worst of all, it does nothing to deter him from overhearing John’s rushed whisper. “He does better if we’re not staring”. The thought (reality) annoys him.
His eyes narrow as he enters. There’s no reason for John to be like this…like he may break at any moment. It’s irritating and absurd (and necessary). He’s fine, for Christ’s sake. And if he must prove it with a mind numbingly dull dinner of ground beef and cooked ketchup then so be it.
He barely glances at John as he enters, instead looking at…at…
“Oh, Sherlock, it’s so nice to see you.”
The voice high and has an amateur musical quality to it. Its familiarity fills him with comfort and warmth. The word ‘maternal’ floats through his mind before he chases it away. It’s true, but not quite. The Germans probably have a better word for that too.
“Come now, have a seat,” she says, ushering him into the closest chair. From her proximity and the lingering scent, he can tell she recently coloured her hair. L’Oreal Rich Honey, he would presume. He glances over her dated jewelry (clearly sentimental) and purple frock, though she would have an absurd name for it, like eggplant or palatinate.
He briefly closes his eyes and a baritone voice fills his thoughts.
Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall.
Ah, yes. Mrs. Hudson.
See, John, he’s fine.
* * *
He hears John’s hushed whispers from the hallway. It’s clear by his tone John doesn’t want to be overheard. So, the conversation is about him and/or at least minutely interesting.
He leans closer against the wall.
“I just…I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”
Intriguing.
“I know. You can never tell with him. Who knows what he needs.”
He scowls at that. He doesn’t need anything.
“Even if we did come, there’s no way he could possibly be of any help. He still hasn’t said a word since…” John pauses and trails off into an uncomfortable cough.
So John’s noticed. Well, of course he’s noticed. John’s not that dense. He had (foolishly) hoped it was explained away with his prior quirkiness. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.
No matter. There’s a case. Finally. Something to do before he jammed his violin bow into his brain to save himself from the monotony. He quickly walks back to his bedroom.
Within minutes, John’s remark is out of his head and he’s walking (strutting) past the living room. He hears John sigh as he descends the staircase.
“Nevermind. He’s already got his coat on. See you in a few.”
The Lockless Door (3a/4)
First line is taken for a 1980 publication of Gray's Anatomy
* * *
The laminae are two broad plates of bone which complete the neural arch…
He hears his name being called from downstairs. He looks at the closed door, annoyed at whatever has interrupted his reading.
Well, reading isn’t really quite the right term. The words are popping into his head before he has a chance to see them on the page. Recalling. Recalling would be the best way to describe it in English. He knows there’s a better term for it in German. But it doesn’t come to him immediately, and he’s too tired to bother searching for it.
The voice drifts through the door again.
“Mrs. Hudson brought some meatloaf if you want to come down and join us.”
No. He doesn’t want to join them, and he doesn’t want the meatloaf. But he can hear the hope in John’s voice. More importantly, he knows that if he doesn’t come down, John will come up with his sympathetic eyes and soft voice, and he especially doesn’t want that.
Sighing, he puts away his forty year old copy of Gray’s Anatomy and makes the slow trek towards the kitchen.
In the hallway, he hears the loud and seemingly aimless bustle of John moving around the kitchen. It becomes clear that John is setting out plates and cups with a frenzied and unnatural vigor. Worst of all, it does nothing to deter him from overhearing John’s rushed whisper. “He does better if we’re not staring”. The thought (reality) annoys him.
His eyes narrow as he enters. There’s no reason for John to be like this…like he may break at any moment. It’s irritating and absurd (and necessary). He’s fine, for Christ’s sake. And if he must prove it with a mind numbingly dull dinner of ground beef and cooked ketchup then so be it.
He barely glances at John as he enters, instead looking at…at…
“Oh, Sherlock, it’s so nice to see you.”
The voice high and has an amateur musical quality to it. Its familiarity fills him with comfort and warmth. The word ‘maternal’ floats through his mind before he chases it away. It’s true, but not quite. The Germans probably have a better word for that too.
“Come now, have a seat,” she says, ushering him into the closest chair. From her proximity and the lingering scent, he can tell she recently coloured her hair. L’Oreal Rich Honey, he would presume. He glances over her dated jewelry (clearly sentimental) and purple frock, though she would have an absurd name for it, like eggplant or palatinate.
He briefly closes his eyes and a baritone voice fills his thoughts.
Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall.
Ah, yes. Mrs. Hudson.
See, John, he’s fine.
* * *
He hears John’s hushed whispers from the hallway. It’s clear by his tone John doesn’t want to be overheard. So, the conversation is about him and/or at least minutely interesting.
He leans closer against the wall.
“I just…I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”
Intriguing.
“I know. You can never tell with him. Who knows what he needs.”
He scowls at that. He doesn’t need anything.
“Even if we did come, there’s no way he could possibly be of any help. He still hasn’t said a word since…” John pauses and trails off into an uncomfortable cough.
So John’s noticed. Well, of course he’s noticed. John’s not that dense. He had (foolishly) hoped it was explained away with his prior quirkiness. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.
No matter. There’s a case. Finally. Something to do before he jammed his violin bow into his brain to save himself from the monotony. He quickly walks back to his bedroom.
Within minutes, John’s remark is out of his head and he’s walking (strutting) past the living room. He hears John sigh as he descends the staircase.
“Nevermind. He’s already got his coat on. See you in a few.”