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Drabble: Little Random Details (Sherlock BBC)
Title: Little Random Details
Relationship: Sherlock/John
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 280
Summary: A reunion vignette on a rooftop in London.
John Watson stepped forward, his fists clenched, and Sherlock took a breath and held his arms out to his sides, waiting. He meant to close his eyes, but discovered, somewhat to his chagrin, that he was unwilling to cut off the sight of John's face, even twisted with righteous rage. If that meant having to see the blow coming, well--
John staggered forward and threw his arms around him.
Unexpected. Sherlock froze, arms still held out slightly, as John clutched his coat and buried his face in the collar. "I rather presumed you would punch me," he said cautiously.
"Oh," said John, his voice muffled, "That's coming right after the hug, don't worry."
"Ah." After a moment, Sherlock slowly closed his arms around John's trembling body. Random details kept intruding: the texture of John's coat under his fingers, the scent of John's hair, the unbearable sounds John was making. They didn't add up to anything that made any sense at all. His arms tightened and John made a choking noise, shaking his head, face still pressed to Sherlock's coat.
"Don't--" John made a small sound, nearly a sigh, "Don't think for one minute--not for one minute--that you're going to get out of that punch," he mumbled. "This hug has to end eventually."
"I suppose it does," said Sherlock. Beyond John's shoulder, there were birds stitching the sky: geese in tight formation, a spring migration home. The mortar faithfully holding the crumbling bricks of that wall together was at least a century old. He was happy nearly beyond bearing. Lime mortar, thick and solid to compensate for the uneven bricks. Strange what the mind noticed.
Relationship: Sherlock/John
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 280
Summary: A reunion vignette on a rooftop in London.
John Watson stepped forward, his fists clenched, and Sherlock took a breath and held his arms out to his sides, waiting. He meant to close his eyes, but discovered, somewhat to his chagrin, that he was unwilling to cut off the sight of John's face, even twisted with righteous rage. If that meant having to see the blow coming, well--
John staggered forward and threw his arms around him.
Unexpected. Sherlock froze, arms still held out slightly, as John clutched his coat and buried his face in the collar. "I rather presumed you would punch me," he said cautiously.
"Oh," said John, his voice muffled, "That's coming right after the hug, don't worry."
"Ah." After a moment, Sherlock slowly closed his arms around John's trembling body. Random details kept intruding: the texture of John's coat under his fingers, the scent of John's hair, the unbearable sounds John was making. They didn't add up to anything that made any sense at all. His arms tightened and John made a choking noise, shaking his head, face still pressed to Sherlock's coat.
"Don't--" John made a small sound, nearly a sigh, "Don't think for one minute--not for one minute--that you're going to get out of that punch," he mumbled. "This hug has to end eventually."
"I suppose it does," said Sherlock. Beyond John's shoulder, there were birds stitching the sky: geese in tight formation, a spring migration home. The mortar faithfully holding the crumbling bricks of that wall together was at least a century old. He was happy nearly beyond bearing. Lime mortar, thick and solid to compensate for the uneven bricks. Strange what the mind noticed.