19. Silent Night
Dec. 19th, 2018 03:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsalwaysyou_jwJohn's eyes were wide in the darkness, his eyes seeking to drink in details of his ceiling they couldn't possibly observe. Lying down in a futile attempt to embrace sleep, the room was frozen around him while his mind spun out of control. Every few minutes, he would abruptly throw his mind from its train of thought out of fear.
“No, go to sleep,” he ordered himself, forcing his eyes closed. It felt like sandpaper and keeping them closed felt unnatural, uncomfortable. With an angry huff of air, his eyes snapped open once more and his hands worked in knots over his stomach.
He strained his ears for any audible hint that the events of today were keeping Sherlock up, but it was a silent night at 221B. He imagined he could hear the snowflakes hit his bedroom window one by one, building on top of other, more resilient snowflakes. He imagined hearing footsteps pacing in tight circles, a physical manifestation that somehow helped Sherlock process the frantic activity of his own mind. He imagined a crackling fire being built in the sitting room, a source of warmth to accompany Sherlock as he sat awake.
But it was a silent night at 221B.
No. No, it wasn’t okay. Without realizing he’d made the decision, he was on his feet and throwing open his bedroom door. He felt as though he were floating toward his destination rather than stomping like a maniac in a manner that would surely offend the floorboards. Rounding the corner with his eyes on the prize, he spotted the light come to life under the doorway and a wave of newfound anger mounted in him. So Sherlock was awake. The brilliant, clever man definitely knew what this was about, too.
That is how he came to storm in without knocking to see his friend standing strangely in the centre of his room, arms behind his back, chin jutted out expectantly in his nightgown. Hand still on the doorknob and eyes manically attempting to adjust to the sudden light of the room, his words scrambled out as though they were desperate for life.
“Why did you kiss me?”
The shouted accusatory question hung in the air, desperate for a home, a realization, an explanation. Sherlock showed no reaction, not even the slight tightening of his eyes, the drumming of his fingers, or a nervous swallow.
“I told you, John,” his words were cold and distant. Mechanical. “There was mistletoe. We were undercover, it needed to look convincing.”
Ah, this bullshit.
“That’s bullshit,” he spat, furious that he would deflect with such poor execution.
“It is not!”
“It was holly!” roared John with complete and utter bewilderment at just how stupid Sherlock thought he was. “Even I know it was holly!
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“No, go to sleep,” he ordered himself, forcing his eyes closed. It felt like sandpaper and keeping them closed felt unnatural, uncomfortable. With an angry huff of air, his eyes snapped open once more and his hands worked in knots over his stomach.
He strained his ears for any audible hint that the events of today were keeping Sherlock up, but it was a silent night at 221B. He imagined he could hear the snowflakes hit his bedroom window one by one, building on top of other, more resilient snowflakes. He imagined hearing footsteps pacing in tight circles, a physical manifestation that somehow helped Sherlock process the frantic activity of his own mind. He imagined a crackling fire being built in the sitting room, a source of warmth to accompany Sherlock as he sat awake.
But it was a silent night at 221B.
No. No, it wasn’t okay. Without realizing he’d made the decision, he was on his feet and throwing open his bedroom door. He felt as though he were floating toward his destination rather than stomping like a maniac in a manner that would surely offend the floorboards. Rounding the corner with his eyes on the prize, he spotted the light come to life under the doorway and a wave of newfound anger mounted in him. So Sherlock was awake. The brilliant, clever man definitely knew what this was about, too.
That is how he came to storm in without knocking to see his friend standing strangely in the centre of his room, arms behind his back, chin jutted out expectantly in his nightgown. Hand still on the doorknob and eyes manically attempting to adjust to the sudden light of the room, his words scrambled out as though they were desperate for life.
“Why did you kiss me?”
The shouted accusatory question hung in the air, desperate for a home, a realization, an explanation. Sherlock showed no reaction, not even the slight tightening of his eyes, the drumming of his fingers, or a nervous swallow.
“I told you, John,” his words were cold and distant. Mechanical. “There was mistletoe. We were undercover, it needed to look convincing.”
Ah, this bullshit.
“That’s bullshit,” he spat, furious that he would deflect with such poor execution.
“It is not!”
“It was holly!” roared John with complete and utter bewilderment at just how stupid Sherlock thought he was. “Even I know it was holly!
Continue reading on AO3
