"Sherlock, I am attempting to write a letter of thanks to the Parks Department in hopes they will not press charges for trespassing in an restricted area. The least you could do is stop thrashing around on the sofa like some... deranged tuna."
"I wasn't as if I had deliberately set out to land there."
"I'm well aware of that, but a crash landing is still a landing. I am hoping that some compliments and a nice write up in the blog will convince them we--or should I say, you-- had some greater purpose in hang gliding off that cliff."
"Wind sheers. Couldn't account for them. Must have been an exceptionally clear day when Collins made his escape."
"Must have been. But wind sheer aside, you are lucky they didn't arrest you the moment they cut you down."
"Hmmph."
Sherlock flailed again, this time not just frustrated at the physical inability to find a comfortable angle with injuries sustained to his shoulder blades and upper back, but with the additional mental component of not being able to calm himself down as well. He closed his eyes and attempted to realign his brain.
The case had been simple enough, but he had felt the need to recreate the escape itself, even though he knew it had occurred in precisely the way he had envisioned it. Had to have. Still, he couldn't stand the thought of not having everything link precisely. Whether the glider was fashioned on the spot or whether one was stashed there the night before was key to deciding if there was one burglar or two. He simply needed to know if it could be done.
Nothing broken, acceptable level of risk, and he had proven that, on a less windy day, it was indeed possible to steer out of sight. The draft, the trees, that was unaccounted for, and he ended up dangling from a makeshift shoulder harness some 40 feet up, dazed.
"I can get you painkillers."
"Narcotics are not necessary, just muscle relaxation. Achievable naturally."
"Well what else do you need to relax? Cup of tea? Bedtime story? Lestrade summarising a case? As wound up as you are you might need all three."
Well then. The hot bath had been helpful to ease the sore muscles , but his mind still spun. Violin playing was out. The natural lull (John called it a stupor) which seized him after solving a case was unattainable at the moment, though it was almost as good as done. Tomorrow he would visit the house itself, instead of just sneak into the park bordering it, and get a good look at the carpet and all would be revealed. In the meantime, his available relaxation methods were dwindling. Except...
Tactile sensation. Sometimes if he was able to put all his energies on a single focal point it would prove meditative... create almost a trance state. When his hair was dry, shaking it out a bit with his fingers sometimes helped, but after the bath,damp curls just weren't the right sort of texture, and unwrapping his head would just make John complain about the consequences to leather on the sofa. He never did understand why he cared. Leather is made to be distressed. It is, after all, flesh. And besides, it was his sofa. But then again, what was his was John's. Everything had become theirs by this point.
FILL 1/? asexual!sherlock/hetero!john, ass play
"I wasn't as if I had deliberately set out to land there."
"I'm well aware of that, but a crash landing is still a landing. I am hoping that some compliments and a nice write up in the blog will convince them we--or should I say, you-- had some greater purpose in hang gliding off that cliff."
"Wind sheers. Couldn't account for them. Must have been an exceptionally clear day when Collins made his escape."
"Must have been. But wind sheer aside, you are lucky they didn't arrest you the moment they cut you down."
"Hmmph."
Sherlock flailed again, this time not just frustrated at the physical inability to find a comfortable angle with injuries sustained to his shoulder blades and upper back, but with the additional mental component of not being able to calm himself down as well. He closed his eyes and attempted to realign his brain.
The case had been simple enough, but he had felt the need to recreate the escape itself, even though he knew it had occurred in precisely the way he had envisioned it. Had to have. Still, he couldn't stand the thought of not having everything link precisely. Whether the glider was fashioned on the spot or whether one was stashed there the night before was key to deciding if there was one burglar or two. He simply needed to know if it could be done.
Nothing broken, acceptable level of risk, and he had proven that, on a less windy day, it was indeed possible to steer out of sight. The draft, the trees, that was unaccounted for, and he ended up dangling from a makeshift shoulder harness some 40 feet up, dazed.
"I can get you painkillers."
"Narcotics are not necessary, just muscle relaxation. Achievable naturally."
"Well what else do you need to relax? Cup of tea? Bedtime story? Lestrade summarising a case? As wound up as you are you might need all three."
Well then. The hot bath had been helpful to ease the sore muscles , but his mind still spun. Violin playing was out. The natural lull (John called it a stupor) which seized him after solving a case was unattainable at the moment, though it was almost as good as done. Tomorrow he would visit the house itself, instead of just sneak into the park bordering it, and get a good look at the carpet and all would be revealed. In the meantime, his available relaxation methods were dwindling. Except...
Tactile sensation. Sometimes if he was able to put all his energies on a single focal point it would prove meditative... create almost a trance state. When his hair was dry, shaking it out a bit with his fingers sometimes helped, but after the bath,damp curls just weren't the right sort of texture, and unwrapping his head would just make John complain about the consequences to leather on the sofa. He never did understand why he cared. Leather is made to be distressed. It is, after all, flesh. And besides, it was his sofa. But then again, what was his was John's. Everything had become theirs by this point.