Ficlet: The Alchemy of We
May. 21st, 2013 08:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: The Alchemy of We
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Warnings/Spoilers: Series 1 & 2, Angst
Rating: G
Word Count: 510
Summary: Sherlock Holmes muses on the phenomenon of laughter.
People sometimes say, "I couldn't help laughing." Sherlock Holmes has never understood this. Laughter is not something that happens to him, it is a tool that he uses: a derisive snort, a pointed chuckle. Sometimes--quite rarely--even a well-crafted, cheery sound that disarms and distracts. Whatever the sentimental and romantic might say, laughter is not some magical force that sweeps upon you like a wind and catches you up. It's something within one's control, and anyone who says otherwise is simply lying, or deluding themselves.
He knows that this is true, and he knows it until the day that he meets John Watson.
The first time it happens, it startles him: this physical reaction, this convulsion, the diaphragm contracting unbidden, the larynx stuttering. The sound of John's nervous giggle seems to have been the stimulus, he thinks, putting a hand to his traitorous chest and leaning against the wall beside his new flatmate. He feels breathless, caught unprepared.
Even more alarming, he feels good. Endorphins, yes. A scientific reason. But he wants to feel that way again, which is--not scientific at all. Being out of control of one's body is not acceptable, no matter how many endorphins one gets out of it.
And yet he finds himself waiting for the sound of John's laughter, for the strange unscientific alchemy it sets off within him.
He does research on it, surreptitiously, poring over studies of primate evolution and early hominid development. The results are inconclusive and unsatisfactory.
It is like an orgasm, he thinks, this betrayal of the body into reaction. Yet an orgasm is, for all its vaunted "connection," an essentially solitary event, a closing-off of the mind into the body. This is different: an opening-up, a shared warmth. In that moment the I and the you collapse into a we. This strange we. We laugh together.
Intoxicating.
He finds himself courting it, taking risks to evoke that giggle. Stealing royal ashtrays is hardly rational behavior, yet it makes John laugh, and there it is again, that low explosion that shakes him, that shudders his certainties for an instant.
He observes a new certainty: that he wants to laugh with John again.
He wants to laugh with John--his mind supplies the word "forever," but he rejects it impatiently as cliche, vapid, and worst, imprecise. Say "as long as possible," instead.
Say "as long as he draws breath."
Quite precise, that.
: : :
He looks down at John now from the roof of St. Bartholomew's. "Nobody could be that clever," he says, bitter and cynical, willing him to believe it, waiting for the confusion, the uncertainty.
There is none. "You could," says John, and impossibly, impossibly, it happens once more, even here, even now: the warmth that blossoms beneath his breastbone, pulled from his heart into a shaking exhalation of incredulous joy at this stubborn, faithful man.
A final gift, he supposes: even through tears, even on the threshold of goodbye, John Watson makes him laugh.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Warnings/Spoilers: Series 1 & 2, Angst
Rating: G
Word Count: 510
Summary: Sherlock Holmes muses on the phenomenon of laughter.
People sometimes say, "I couldn't help laughing." Sherlock Holmes has never understood this. Laughter is not something that happens to him, it is a tool that he uses: a derisive snort, a pointed chuckle. Sometimes--quite rarely--even a well-crafted, cheery sound that disarms and distracts. Whatever the sentimental and romantic might say, laughter is not some magical force that sweeps upon you like a wind and catches you up. It's something within one's control, and anyone who says otherwise is simply lying, or deluding themselves.
He knows that this is true, and he knows it until the day that he meets John Watson.
The first time it happens, it startles him: this physical reaction, this convulsion, the diaphragm contracting unbidden, the larynx stuttering. The sound of John's nervous giggle seems to have been the stimulus, he thinks, putting a hand to his traitorous chest and leaning against the wall beside his new flatmate. He feels breathless, caught unprepared.
Even more alarming, he feels good. Endorphins, yes. A scientific reason. But he wants to feel that way again, which is--not scientific at all. Being out of control of one's body is not acceptable, no matter how many endorphins one gets out of it.
And yet he finds himself waiting for the sound of John's laughter, for the strange unscientific alchemy it sets off within him.
He does research on it, surreptitiously, poring over studies of primate evolution and early hominid development. The results are inconclusive and unsatisfactory.
It is like an orgasm, he thinks, this betrayal of the body into reaction. Yet an orgasm is, for all its vaunted "connection," an essentially solitary event, a closing-off of the mind into the body. This is different: an opening-up, a shared warmth. In that moment the I and the you collapse into a we. This strange we. We laugh together.
Intoxicating.
He finds himself courting it, taking risks to evoke that giggle. Stealing royal ashtrays is hardly rational behavior, yet it makes John laugh, and there it is again, that low explosion that shakes him, that shudders his certainties for an instant.
He observes a new certainty: that he wants to laugh with John again.
He wants to laugh with John--his mind supplies the word "forever," but he rejects it impatiently as cliche, vapid, and worst, imprecise. Say "as long as possible," instead.
Say "as long as he draws breath."
Quite precise, that.
: : :
He looks down at John now from the roof of St. Bartholomew's. "Nobody could be that clever," he says, bitter and cynical, willing him to believe it, waiting for the confusion, the uncertainty.
There is none. "You could," says John, and impossibly, impossibly, it happens once more, even here, even now: the warmth that blossoms beneath his breastbone, pulled from his heart into a shaking exhalation of incredulous joy at this stubborn, faithful man.
A final gift, he supposes: even through tears, even on the threshold of goodbye, John Watson makes him laugh.
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Date: 2013-05-23 09:50 am (UTC)