The effect of John’s reaction on Sherlock was like that of a tranquilizer; he stopped weeping and stilled, breathing shallowly, distracted. He was unaware in his distraught state that he was submitting to a dominant alpha’s commands but John noted it and marveled at the powerful forces entwining them both.
“Breathe, small one. Breathe,” John urged. He splayed a hand over Sherlock’s chest and prompted deeper breaths until they had both relaxed.
After a minute of slow breathing, Sherlock drew a shuddering sigh and said, “Iċ i geáreorden. I would go around the mountain and join them on the other side.”
“That was a courageous decision, heartsweet…”
“I knew I could find the way; iċ i scholasticus.” Sherlock turned his head to look at John to confirm that he understood the Latin word. “Iċ physicist primae, aquaedisciplinae, iċ … inventum...” he struggled to translate a word for John, “graphimatis sé lacu? I am the… scientiae optumus of my people,” he added with solemn dignity.
Sherlock didn’t see John’s delighted smile behind him. John touched the top of Sherlock’s head reverently. His precious omega was obviously brilliant as well as courageous. Sherlock’s knowledge of languages was impressive − he was picking up John’s modern English at an astonishing rate and his Latin was flawless. Of course he would also be the best hydrographer that existed! John’s heart swelled with pride.
“I found the way easily enough, but…” Sherlock’s voice became small again, “After a few days of travel I became… ill…” he faltered, too shy to speak of his heat to John, “and needed water… that’s when the heremenn, the soldiers and the dogs, found me and chased me…” he shuddered.
John hugged him and nuzzled his neck in comfort, “But you have me now, Ælfscíene, and so you are safe.” He stroked Sherlock’s smooth cheek. “I think you should eat something, my heartsweet. Warm soup will calm you, help you to sleep. Will you have some?”
“Yése, Ælfric.”
“Good. I am going to the next room, just for a few moments. I will be right back. You will still hear and see me, alright?”
“Nō, Ælfric.”
John stopped, surprised and then grinned. “I must take you with me, Ælfscíene? He chuckled as he saw Sherlock’s sober nod. “Alright.” Turning on the night-table light, he wrapped an arm around Sherlock in the sleeping bag and lifted him to carry him to the anteroom. Here, with Sherlock still held firmly in one arm, he pulled a Hotpack of rations from his kit and returned to the bedroom. He re-settled Sherlock, whose bright eyes had followed every movement and set the soup to heat.
That done John turned to study Sherlock’s face. Seeing no sign of readiness for sleep, he suggested, “Tell me about the Dúnælf, the Mountain Elves, leifling. The Simarine have a special relationship with them?”
Sherlock nodded. “Pæt ælfcynn are our allies. We are the guardians of the lakes and the Dúnælf are our guardians. It is a cooperative arrangement. We are few in number and must devote the majority of our time to science; the lakes are fragile and require constant monitoring. We have a skilled defence force, the Dúnælf train them, but it is a small group. The Dúnælf stand with us when needed. They are fierce fighters; like you Ælfric, although not so strong.” Sherlock reached with a shy hand to touch one of John’s muscular arms.
Sherlock’s touch, as soft as a night moth’s, set John’s entire body abuzz with pleasure. He smiled at Sherlock, “I’m glad I please you, little one. You are no longer frightened of me?”
Sherlock’s cheeks pinkened and he lowered his eyes. “Nō, Ælfric.”
John, watching this, was enraptured. “How beautiful you are, Ælfscíene.” He added softly, “That means you please me also.”
Sherlock’s blush deepened.
He hated to break the spell, but to ease Sherlock’s self-consciousness, John said, “I think your soup is ready. Would you eat some now?”
Sherlock nodded so John scooped a spoonful from the foil packet and, holding a hand under it to catch drips, he offered it to him.
Looking up at him uncertainly, Sherlock asked, “Do your people not feed themselves, Ælfric?”
John grinned. “Sometimes not. For example, at times like this.”
Sherlock accepted the soup with delicate grace, gifting John with the pleasure of watching the spoon slide between his perfect lips to be licked clean and returned.
“It is… ah… different,” Sherlock said, then added quickly, “But I thank you for it.”
John chuckled in amusement, “I feel the same way about army rations, leifling. But please don’t think all of my peoples’ food tastes as bad!”
They repeated the action until Sherlock had finished about half of the soup. As John had predicted, before long, the warm food had relaxed him enough to feel sleepy. He had just swallowed a spoonful when he closed his eyes and leaned into John, asleep before John could lower him to his pillow.
John watched him for a long moment as he slept. Then, when he’d drunk his fill, he bent to press his lips lightly to Sherlock’s hair before turning off the light and stretching out himself. He drew Sherlock close and rested, listening to the night sounds of the camp, alert for anything that might indicate a threat.
Fill Night Song 10b
“Breathe, small one. Breathe,” John urged. He splayed a hand over Sherlock’s chest and prompted deeper breaths until they had both relaxed.
After a minute of slow breathing, Sherlock drew a shuddering sigh and said, “Iċ i geáreorden. I would go around the mountain and join them on the other side.”
“That was a courageous decision, heartsweet…”
“I knew I could find the way; iċ i scholasticus.” Sherlock turned his head to look at John to confirm that he understood the Latin word. “Iċ physicist primae, aquaedisciplinae, iċ … inventum...” he struggled to translate a word for John, “graphimatis sé lacu? I am the… scientiae optumus of my people,” he added with solemn dignity.
Sherlock didn’t see John’s delighted smile behind him. John touched the top of Sherlock’s head reverently. His precious omega was obviously brilliant as well as courageous. Sherlock’s knowledge of languages was impressive − he was picking up John’s modern English at an astonishing rate and his Latin was flawless. Of course he would also be the best hydrographer that existed! John’s heart swelled with pride.
“I found the way easily enough, but…” Sherlock’s voice became small again, “After a few days of travel I became… ill…” he faltered, too shy to speak of his heat to John, “and needed water… that’s when the heremenn, the soldiers and the dogs, found me and chased me…” he shuddered.
John hugged him and nuzzled his neck in comfort, “But you have me now, Ælfscíene, and so you are safe.” He stroked Sherlock’s smooth cheek. “I think you should eat something, my heartsweet. Warm soup will calm you, help you to sleep. Will you have some?”
“Yése, Ælfric.”
“Good. I am going to the next room, just for a few moments. I will be right back. You will still hear and see me, alright?”
“Nō, Ælfric.”
John stopped, surprised and then grinned. “I must take you with me, Ælfscíene? He chuckled as he saw Sherlock’s sober nod. “Alright.” Turning on the night-table light, he wrapped an arm around Sherlock in the sleeping bag and lifted him to carry him to the anteroom. Here, with Sherlock still held firmly in one arm, he pulled a Hotpack of rations from his kit and returned to the bedroom. He re-settled Sherlock, whose bright eyes had followed every movement and set the soup to heat.
That done John turned to study Sherlock’s face. Seeing no sign of readiness for sleep, he suggested, “Tell me about the Dúnælf, the Mountain Elves, leifling. The Simarine have a special relationship with them?”
Sherlock nodded. “Pæt ælfcynn are our allies. We are the guardians of the lakes and the Dúnælf are our guardians. It is a cooperative arrangement. We are few in number and must devote the majority of our time to science; the lakes are fragile and require constant monitoring. We have a skilled defence force, the Dúnælf train them, but it is a small group. The Dúnælf stand with us when needed. They are fierce fighters; like you Ælfric, although not so strong.” Sherlock reached with a shy hand to touch one of John’s muscular arms.
Sherlock’s touch, as soft as a night moth’s, set John’s entire body abuzz with pleasure. He smiled at Sherlock, “I’m glad I please you, little one. You are no longer frightened of me?”
Sherlock’s cheeks pinkened and he lowered his eyes. “Nō, Ælfric.”
John, watching this, was enraptured. “How beautiful you are, Ælfscíene.” He added softly, “That means you please me also.”
Sherlock’s blush deepened.
He hated to break the spell, but to ease Sherlock’s self-consciousness, John said, “I think your soup is ready. Would you eat some now?”
Sherlock nodded so John scooped a spoonful from the foil packet and, holding a hand under it to catch drips, he offered it to him.
Looking up at him uncertainly, Sherlock asked, “Do your people not feed themselves, Ælfric?”
John grinned. “Sometimes not. For example, at times like this.”
Sherlock accepted the soup with delicate grace, gifting John with the pleasure of watching the spoon slide between his perfect lips to be licked clean and returned.
“It is… ah… different,” Sherlock said, then added quickly, “But I thank you for it.”
John chuckled in amusement, “I feel the same way about army rations, leifling. But please don’t think all of my peoples’ food tastes as bad!”
They repeated the action until Sherlock had finished about half of the soup. As John had predicted, before long, the warm food had relaxed him enough to feel sleepy. He had just swallowed a spoonful when he closed his eyes and leaned into John, asleep before John could lower him to his pillow.
John watched him for a long moment as he slept. Then, when he’d drunk his fill, he bent to press his lips lightly to Sherlock’s hair before turning off the light and stretching out himself. He drew Sherlock close and rested, listening to the night sounds of the camp, alert for anything that might indicate a threat.