FIC: Cold Feet in the Hydrangea Room
Mar. 22nd, 2014 09:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: Cold Feet in the Hydrangea Room
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Summary: For the prompt on the BBC Sherlock kink meme: "Sherlock and John are not in London and discover that the small inn they are staying in only has one bed available. Cue cliche/awkward bed sharing NOT ending in sex! Bromance or pre-slash is fine and sleep-cuddling is most definitely fine."
Word Count: 2000
The bedstead creaked and squeaked as Sherlock Holmes rolled over, one long arm flopping across the bed and nearly hitting John Watson in the face before he got out of the way. John glared at the arm draped across his pillow, then grabbed it and pushed it back over its owner's body. Sherlock grumbled something and his arm dropped back before John could lie down. It was rather like wrestling a rag doll, John thought irritably, glaring at Sherlock's face washed in a square of silvery moonlight, the planes and angles of it surreally young.
He lay propped up on one elbow for a while, waiting for Sherlock to roll back over. The bed was far too small, and they kept banging elbows and knees in the darkness. Apparently this wasn't enough to keep Sherlock Holmes awake.
It was enough to keep John Watson awake.
His shoulder was starting to get stiff and sore enough to match the other one on its bad days. He counted the curls scattered across the pillowcase like others might count sheep and waited. Sherlock didn't budge. He was even smiling slightly, which John would have taken as mocking him except that it was such a small smile, such a private one. No, Sherlock was fast asleep, and the fact that he was only inches away from a pajama-clad flatmate didn't seem to perturb his sleep one single iota.
None of this ever seemed to bother him at all.
None of--of this.
"I've got just the perfect room for you," the cheerful owner of the inn had said as they checked in. The case was over, the crime solved, and Sherlock had announced he was not driving back to London this late, they would simply have to find a place to stay. "It's the Hydrangea Room."
"Ah, thank you," John had said. Then he had picked up the key--the single key--and realized that the "you" had been the plural and not the singular. "Look, we're not--I mean, we're not exactly--"
He glanced over at Sherlock, who was examining the potted geranium on a side table as if he were about to deduce all the secrets of the universe. At this point John would not have been entirely surprised if he had been able to, if he had looked up from the profusion of scarlet petals and announced that this geranium had revealed to him the purpose of all existence. He watched as Sherlock plucked one petal and held it up, gazing at it narrow-eyed. Then he realized the innkeeper was still waiting for his response, watching him watching Sherlock, and the moment to protest had most definitely passed.
"We'll take it," he said with a resigned sigh.
"Now, not everyone likes the Hydrangea Room, I'll warn you," said the innkeeper. "You see, there was a murder there."
"Did someone say murder?" Sherlock dropped the geranium petal, whisked around, and propped his elbows on the counter, smiling at her.
"Yes indeed!" She seemed delighted to have an audience, dropping her voice into the dramatic tones of a well-rehearsed spiel. "A serving maid was strangled to death in that room a hundred and fifty years ago. A local lord was found guilty of it and hanged, and ever since her spirit has haunted the room, seeking--"
"--Oh, not an unsolved murder. Pity," said Sherlock, the smile vanishing as he turned his back on her.
"Thank you," John said with the habitual hint of apology, picking up the key and their luggage and heading up the narrow stairs.
The room was well-named at least, John thought as they dropped their bags on the chair. The wallpaper, the chair cushions, the curtains were all thickly-patterned with bright blue and purple hydrangeas, with diagonal lines of ivy running behind them. Even the lamps had balls of porcelain blossoms as their bases, and the bed--the sole bed, of course--was festooned with embroidered bunches of the flowers.
"I can see why people might object at this room," said John, looking around. "And it's not because of the ghost, it's because it might be hard to sleep in such garish surroundings."
"I think it's rather appropriate, actually," said Sherlock. He was prowling about the room, running long fingers over the base of the lamp, down the chintz curtains, across the walnut end table.
"Appropriate?" John hated when he knew he looked mystified, but he couldn't help it. The purple in the flowers didn't even match Sherlock's shirt, that might have made an iota of sense.
There was a vase full of purple silk flowers amongst dark glossy foliage, and Sherlock ruffled the flowers with one nonchalant hand. "Hydrangea and ivy," he said as if explaining himself, with a small smile that seemed not quite to include John. Then he abruptly seemed to grow bored of investigating and stretched, his back arching as he yawned.
"Tedious," he announced. "All the fun is over. I'm going to bed," he said without preamble, and started unbuttoning his shirt.
John took this opportunity to duck into the bathroom and not emerge until he was in his flannel pajamas. By then Sherlock was already in bed, his eyes closed and his breaths coming slow and steady. He always fell asleep instantly when he was in the early stages of a case, as if eager to get to the next day and the next part of the adventure. One hand, curled up on the pale green pillow next to his face, twitched restlessly. Dreaming of clues, most likely.
A clock downstairs chimed quietly, and John realized he'd been standing by the bed watching Sherlock sleep for almost twenty minutes. He glanced at the chair--too hard, he'd never get any sleep, and he knew from hard experience that dealing with Sherlock when sleep-deprived was not a wise idea. Lifting the covers gingerly, he slid into bed, relieved to note that Sherlock had decided--this time--against sleeping in the nude and was at least wearing pajama pants.
Sherlock's bare back was to him, and John lay there, looking at the arch of his shoulderblades, the scattering of freckles across the pale skin, the curving line of his spine--less knobby than when they had first started living together, but still so sharply defined. He felt a random impulse to slide his finger down that sinuous line, tracing the curve of Sherlock's back, and curled his fingers into fists. Get some sleep, he chastised himself. Sherlock's back rose and fell gently, and he could hear Sherlock's soft breath in the silence of the room. He matched the sound with his own breath, letting them ebb and flow together. It was soothing, actually. His eyes fluttered closed…
And that was when Sherlock rolled over and kneed him without waking up.
The first time.
"Sherlock," he hissed angrily as Sherlock's legs twitched in some dream, his heels drumming up against John's shins. It was no good, the world's only consulting detective was not going to wake up for anything as paltry as an annoyed flatmate. John was getting increasingly cranky from keeping his body a socially comfortable distance from Sherlock's without actually falling off the bed. He couldn't relax, couldn't nod off with Sherlock so close all the time.
Finally he threw off the covers, threw on a pair of slippers and a bathrobe, and padded downstairs in the silvery darkness, grumbling.
"Coffee doesn't generally help with insomnia," said a voice behind him, and John turned from the inn's coffee machine to see the clerk who had checked them in.
"I'd be able to sleep if my friend would stop tossing around," John said, rubbing at his eyes.
"My husband's the same way sometimes," she said knowingly, sitting down next to him at the little wooden table. "How long have you two been together?"
John hesitated, considered his options. Since he hadn't corrected her earlier, it seemed odd to do it now. Besides, there was something about the silent, moonlit inn that felt...outside of the real world, the world where he had to be careful of such things. He was woozy and tired and it just...seemed easier to go along with it for the moment. "We met about two years ago," he said.
"Oh," she said with a smile. "Love at first sight, was it?"
"I--" He remembered that moment once again, the sharp weight of Sherlock's gaze on him, the intensity of it. "I suppose so. In a way. I knew he was something special right away. And he seemed to think I was special too. For some reason."
"That's sweet," she murmured. "He's very handsome. You're cute together."
John laughed softly into his coffee mug. "Thank you." There was a feeling of utter unreality to the conversation, and yet he couldn't quite bring himself to break it off. It was--it was almost nice not to have to protest and defend and put off. Just for a little while.
She sighed and kicked at the floor. "My husband and I had a bit of a spat tonight. I needed to get away for a bit. You know how it is."
John nodded sympathetically.
She shrugged. "I'll go back and apologize soon, and he'll apologize too and say he was being stupid. I don't even know exactly what we were arguing about. Does that happen with you?"
John shook his head ruefully. "All the time."
"But you weren't arguing tonight," she said.
"No, I just couldn't sleep well. He tends to hog the bed. No sense of boundaries." John couldn't help a wry chuckle. "In bed and in life, I suppose."
"He does seem a bit...high-maintenance," she said. "But worth it!"
"He is at that," John said, and realized he meant it. He put down his coffee mug. "I should get back to him."
The innkeeper looked slightly sheepish. "I hope you don't find the Hydrangea Room too...well...garish."
"Oh, not at all," he reassured her reflexively, his earlier judgment put hastily aside.
"They redid it after the murder and I guess they decided hydrangeas were appropriate. My husband and I have talked about remodeling, replacing it with something less…" She waved a hand in the air vaguely.
"I know what you mean. Why haven't you?"
"Oh, it's vintage wallpaper, for starters. And some guests, the history buffs, love the symbolism of it. Language of flowers and all that," she said. "They were mad about flower symbolism back then."
"Oh?" John paused at the door. "What do hydrangeas stand for?"
"They're supposed to mean heartlessness," she said.
Appropriate, whispered Sherlock's voice in his memory.
"But they have two meanings, actually," she said. "The second is 'gratitude at being understood.' I doubt that's the one they meant when they decorated the room, though."
"Probably not," said John, remembering Sherlock's small, private smile. Nonsense. He would have deleted some musty Victorian symbolism long ago. Wouldn't he? "And the ivy?"
"Oh, ivy's obvious, though I don't think they meant it there," she said. "Friendship and fidelity, of course."
"Of course," said John. "Well." It was funny how the moonlight cast everything into new lights, the familiar was strange and the strange familiar. "Good night," he said, and went back upstairs.
Sherlock was still taking up most of the bed; John nudged him aside and he rolled over with a querulous whine, his back to John. "Feet're cold," he mumbled as John's feet collided with his. John waited for further complaints, but instead Sherlock hooked his ankle around John's and dragged his feet to rest between his own warm calves. "Stupid cold feet," Sherlock observed fuzzily.
"I suppose they are," John said, but Sherlock was already asleep again, his breath slow and heavy. John lay there and felt Sherlock's warmth against his skin, chasing away the chill.
Then he sighed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close and resting his head between those sharp clean shoulderblades. Sherlock made a happy blurry humming noise, and John felt a confused welter of feelings, the foremost being contentment. As if he were finally where he should be.
Sleep came quickly this time for him as he leaned on Sherlock's shoulder, twined around him in the moonlight.
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Summary: For the prompt on the BBC Sherlock kink meme: "Sherlock and John are not in London and discover that the small inn they are staying in only has one bed available. Cue cliche/awkward bed sharing NOT ending in sex! Bromance or pre-slash is fine and sleep-cuddling is most definitely fine."
Word Count: 2000
The bedstead creaked and squeaked as Sherlock Holmes rolled over, one long arm flopping across the bed and nearly hitting John Watson in the face before he got out of the way. John glared at the arm draped across his pillow, then grabbed it and pushed it back over its owner's body. Sherlock grumbled something and his arm dropped back before John could lie down. It was rather like wrestling a rag doll, John thought irritably, glaring at Sherlock's face washed in a square of silvery moonlight, the planes and angles of it surreally young.
He lay propped up on one elbow for a while, waiting for Sherlock to roll back over. The bed was far too small, and they kept banging elbows and knees in the darkness. Apparently this wasn't enough to keep Sherlock Holmes awake.
It was enough to keep John Watson awake.
His shoulder was starting to get stiff and sore enough to match the other one on its bad days. He counted the curls scattered across the pillowcase like others might count sheep and waited. Sherlock didn't budge. He was even smiling slightly, which John would have taken as mocking him except that it was such a small smile, such a private one. No, Sherlock was fast asleep, and the fact that he was only inches away from a pajama-clad flatmate didn't seem to perturb his sleep one single iota.
None of this ever seemed to bother him at all.
None of--of this.
"I've got just the perfect room for you," the cheerful owner of the inn had said as they checked in. The case was over, the crime solved, and Sherlock had announced he was not driving back to London this late, they would simply have to find a place to stay. "It's the Hydrangea Room."
"Ah, thank you," John had said. Then he had picked up the key--the single key--and realized that the "you" had been the plural and not the singular. "Look, we're not--I mean, we're not exactly--"
He glanced over at Sherlock, who was examining the potted geranium on a side table as if he were about to deduce all the secrets of the universe. At this point John would not have been entirely surprised if he had been able to, if he had looked up from the profusion of scarlet petals and announced that this geranium had revealed to him the purpose of all existence. He watched as Sherlock plucked one petal and held it up, gazing at it narrow-eyed. Then he realized the innkeeper was still waiting for his response, watching him watching Sherlock, and the moment to protest had most definitely passed.
"We'll take it," he said with a resigned sigh.
"Now, not everyone likes the Hydrangea Room, I'll warn you," said the innkeeper. "You see, there was a murder there."
"Did someone say murder?" Sherlock dropped the geranium petal, whisked around, and propped his elbows on the counter, smiling at her.
"Yes indeed!" She seemed delighted to have an audience, dropping her voice into the dramatic tones of a well-rehearsed spiel. "A serving maid was strangled to death in that room a hundred and fifty years ago. A local lord was found guilty of it and hanged, and ever since her spirit has haunted the room, seeking--"
"--Oh, not an unsolved murder. Pity," said Sherlock, the smile vanishing as he turned his back on her.
"Thank you," John said with the habitual hint of apology, picking up the key and their luggage and heading up the narrow stairs.
The room was well-named at least, John thought as they dropped their bags on the chair. The wallpaper, the chair cushions, the curtains were all thickly-patterned with bright blue and purple hydrangeas, with diagonal lines of ivy running behind them. Even the lamps had balls of porcelain blossoms as their bases, and the bed--the sole bed, of course--was festooned with embroidered bunches of the flowers.
"I can see why people might object at this room," said John, looking around. "And it's not because of the ghost, it's because it might be hard to sleep in such garish surroundings."
"I think it's rather appropriate, actually," said Sherlock. He was prowling about the room, running long fingers over the base of the lamp, down the chintz curtains, across the walnut end table.
"Appropriate?" John hated when he knew he looked mystified, but he couldn't help it. The purple in the flowers didn't even match Sherlock's shirt, that might have made an iota of sense.
There was a vase full of purple silk flowers amongst dark glossy foliage, and Sherlock ruffled the flowers with one nonchalant hand. "Hydrangea and ivy," he said as if explaining himself, with a small smile that seemed not quite to include John. Then he abruptly seemed to grow bored of investigating and stretched, his back arching as he yawned.
"Tedious," he announced. "All the fun is over. I'm going to bed," he said without preamble, and started unbuttoning his shirt.
John took this opportunity to duck into the bathroom and not emerge until he was in his flannel pajamas. By then Sherlock was already in bed, his eyes closed and his breaths coming slow and steady. He always fell asleep instantly when he was in the early stages of a case, as if eager to get to the next day and the next part of the adventure. One hand, curled up on the pale green pillow next to his face, twitched restlessly. Dreaming of clues, most likely.
A clock downstairs chimed quietly, and John realized he'd been standing by the bed watching Sherlock sleep for almost twenty minutes. He glanced at the chair--too hard, he'd never get any sleep, and he knew from hard experience that dealing with Sherlock when sleep-deprived was not a wise idea. Lifting the covers gingerly, he slid into bed, relieved to note that Sherlock had decided--this time--against sleeping in the nude and was at least wearing pajama pants.
Sherlock's bare back was to him, and John lay there, looking at the arch of his shoulderblades, the scattering of freckles across the pale skin, the curving line of his spine--less knobby than when they had first started living together, but still so sharply defined. He felt a random impulse to slide his finger down that sinuous line, tracing the curve of Sherlock's back, and curled his fingers into fists. Get some sleep, he chastised himself. Sherlock's back rose and fell gently, and he could hear Sherlock's soft breath in the silence of the room. He matched the sound with his own breath, letting them ebb and flow together. It was soothing, actually. His eyes fluttered closed…
And that was when Sherlock rolled over and kneed him without waking up.
The first time.
"Sherlock," he hissed angrily as Sherlock's legs twitched in some dream, his heels drumming up against John's shins. It was no good, the world's only consulting detective was not going to wake up for anything as paltry as an annoyed flatmate. John was getting increasingly cranky from keeping his body a socially comfortable distance from Sherlock's without actually falling off the bed. He couldn't relax, couldn't nod off with Sherlock so close all the time.
Finally he threw off the covers, threw on a pair of slippers and a bathrobe, and padded downstairs in the silvery darkness, grumbling.
"Coffee doesn't generally help with insomnia," said a voice behind him, and John turned from the inn's coffee machine to see the clerk who had checked them in.
"I'd be able to sleep if my friend would stop tossing around," John said, rubbing at his eyes.
"My husband's the same way sometimes," she said knowingly, sitting down next to him at the little wooden table. "How long have you two been together?"
John hesitated, considered his options. Since he hadn't corrected her earlier, it seemed odd to do it now. Besides, there was something about the silent, moonlit inn that felt...outside of the real world, the world where he had to be careful of such things. He was woozy and tired and it just...seemed easier to go along with it for the moment. "We met about two years ago," he said.
"Oh," she said with a smile. "Love at first sight, was it?"
"I--" He remembered that moment once again, the sharp weight of Sherlock's gaze on him, the intensity of it. "I suppose so. In a way. I knew he was something special right away. And he seemed to think I was special too. For some reason."
"That's sweet," she murmured. "He's very handsome. You're cute together."
John laughed softly into his coffee mug. "Thank you." There was a feeling of utter unreality to the conversation, and yet he couldn't quite bring himself to break it off. It was--it was almost nice not to have to protest and defend and put off. Just for a little while.
She sighed and kicked at the floor. "My husband and I had a bit of a spat tonight. I needed to get away for a bit. You know how it is."
John nodded sympathetically.
She shrugged. "I'll go back and apologize soon, and he'll apologize too and say he was being stupid. I don't even know exactly what we were arguing about. Does that happen with you?"
John shook his head ruefully. "All the time."
"But you weren't arguing tonight," she said.
"No, I just couldn't sleep well. He tends to hog the bed. No sense of boundaries." John couldn't help a wry chuckle. "In bed and in life, I suppose."
"He does seem a bit...high-maintenance," she said. "But worth it!"
"He is at that," John said, and realized he meant it. He put down his coffee mug. "I should get back to him."
The innkeeper looked slightly sheepish. "I hope you don't find the Hydrangea Room too...well...garish."
"Oh, not at all," he reassured her reflexively, his earlier judgment put hastily aside.
"They redid it after the murder and I guess they decided hydrangeas were appropriate. My husband and I have talked about remodeling, replacing it with something less…" She waved a hand in the air vaguely.
"I know what you mean. Why haven't you?"
"Oh, it's vintage wallpaper, for starters. And some guests, the history buffs, love the symbolism of it. Language of flowers and all that," she said. "They were mad about flower symbolism back then."
"Oh?" John paused at the door. "What do hydrangeas stand for?"
"They're supposed to mean heartlessness," she said.
Appropriate, whispered Sherlock's voice in his memory.
"But they have two meanings, actually," she said. "The second is 'gratitude at being understood.' I doubt that's the one they meant when they decorated the room, though."
"Probably not," said John, remembering Sherlock's small, private smile. Nonsense. He would have deleted some musty Victorian symbolism long ago. Wouldn't he? "And the ivy?"
"Oh, ivy's obvious, though I don't think they meant it there," she said. "Friendship and fidelity, of course."
"Of course," said John. "Well." It was funny how the moonlight cast everything into new lights, the familiar was strange and the strange familiar. "Good night," he said, and went back upstairs.
Sherlock was still taking up most of the bed; John nudged him aside and he rolled over with a querulous whine, his back to John. "Feet're cold," he mumbled as John's feet collided with his. John waited for further complaints, but instead Sherlock hooked his ankle around John's and dragged his feet to rest between his own warm calves. "Stupid cold feet," Sherlock observed fuzzily.
"I suppose they are," John said, but Sherlock was already asleep again, his breath slow and heavy. John lay there and felt Sherlock's warmth against his skin, chasing away the chill.
Then he sighed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close and resting his head between those sharp clean shoulderblades. Sherlock made a happy blurry humming noise, and John felt a confused welter of feelings, the foremost being contentment. As if he were finally where he should be.
Sleep came quickly this time for him as he leaned on Sherlock's shoulder, twined around him in the moonlight.