When In Doubt, Blog

Fic - "Parts of Yesterday" - Sherlock/John - PG-13

noonwise — Sun, 01 May 2011 15:14:09 GMT

Title: Parts of Yesterday
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~3300
Warnings: Swearing, heavy themes
Disclaimer: Not owned by me. Just a bit of fun, no harm intended.
Note: Written for this prompt on the sherlockbbc_fic kink meme.
Summary: Post Reichenbach, John copes by keeping a document of things he thinks Sherlock should know about.

John finds himself becoming increasingly thankful for weekends. It’s not uncommon for five o’clock on a Friday to be accompanied by the feeling of complete exhaustion. He knows it’s not because of his workload. His days at the surgery keep him mildly occupied at best. Working nine to five as a GP was never what he had imagined when he entered medical school but it’s certainly the best he can manage at the moment.

It’s something else entirely that’s causing the exhaustion. Something else that for the most part, John is reluctant to consider at all. These days there’s always too much time for considering.

Very occasionally, John will go for a pint with his colleagues on a Friday evening. Not today though. Today he wants nothing more than to be back in the relative comfort of his flat. The trip back to Baker Street seems all the longer because of it.

He stops for groceries along the way and is torn between the unpredictability of the self serve checkout and having to make small talk with the cashier. The automated machine wins out in the end. John decides he’s done talking for the day.

The wave of relief John feels when he enters the flat is predictable and welcome. It's not until the shopping's away and the kettle is on that he enters the living room and receives the shock of his life.

Sitting calmly on the sofa is Sherlock Holmes.

John closes his eyes. When he opens them Sherlock is still there. He’s standing now, but he’s definitely still there.

“Hello John.”

“Hello,” is all John can say in reply.   “How did you get in?”

“Picked the lock,” Sherlock responds in that isn’t it obvious tone that John has heard time and time before.

There’s a long pause.

“Sherlock you can’t be here,” John says at last.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re dead.”

“No,” says Sherlock. “No I’m not.”

I’m actually going to faint is the last thought John has before his world fades to black.

When John comes to he finds himself seated on the sofa. A concerned looking Sherlock is sitting on the table opposite him. It’s not enough. John stretches out a hand and grips Sherlock’s shoulder, seeking some physical input to reassure himself that Sherlock is real. Sherlock brings a hand up to cover his own. John feels numb.

“I don’t understand,” John says at last, pulling his hand away.

“It was the best way to ensure our safety John.”

The numbness starts to fade to be replaced by the stirrings of anger. “By ‘it’ I assume you mean your pretending to be dead?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies flatly.

John can’t help himself. He laughs. “So tell me this, did you ever, just for one moment stop to think what that might do to me?”

“Tracking down the remainder of Moriarty’s operatives was dangerous John. I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t risk exposing you to a risk that constant.”

“And you decided that making me go back to what life was like before I met you was better?” John yells.

“John, I’m sorry-”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John stands and walks over to the desk. He picks up his laptop and turns it on.

“John, I -”

“Just be quiet for a moment okay?”

Sherlock is silent.

John navigates his laptop. It doesn’t take him long to pull up the document he’s looking for. He takes a steadying breath before he passes the laptop to Sherlock.

“Finding out someone you care about is dead isn’t easy, Sherlock,” he manages in a quieter, more controlled voice. “I’m going out.”

As Sherlock begins to read John leaves, slamming the door behind him.

[10 October, 2011]

Today I ate toast for breakfast. I let four slices of bread turn (not too) brown. I put butter on two slices, jam on three and honey on one. I sat at the kitchen table with the morning paper while I ate.

I was honestly surprised to find that no one attempted to steal toast off my plate.

[13 October, 2011]

I walked into a trap. And you let me do it. Why?

[11 November, 2011]

There’s a sentiment that’s common amongst soldiers. Remembering hurts and we would do much better to let our minds settle on those still beside us. The here and now.

Neither option is working so well for me at the moment.

There’s only a small window of time that I’d like to look back on and if I were to look beside me, there’s only one person that I would want to see.


[November 15, 2011]

For the record, I have a firm grip on my sanity. I recognise that these entries are not being written with some transient, all knowing entity as their target audience. They are being written as direct address to a dead bastard who whilst lacking in the practical arts was in most other respects, a genius.

Obviously.

Nope, no delusions here. And by acknowledging this there is no doubt that I will remain psychologically A1. Is a mad man still a mad man if he recognises that he is a mad man? Let’s hope not.

Here’s something I’d think you’d understand. It’s either finding something to fill the gap (even if it is meaningless typing) or resorting to quite literally pulling my hair out. Pulling my hair out sounds like a perfect idea when moments become too quiet and so impossibly loud all at once. I wonder if that’s what it was like inside your head at times? I’d happily shoot many a cabbie for the chance to find out.

[November 29, 2011]

I’ve become that guy. The one that everyone extends invites to out of pity. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and your brother (that’s right, your brother) have all requested my company on Christmas Day.

I politely declined all offers.

Mrs Hudson actually started to cry. After much consoling and reassurance as to my own health, I conceded to her providing me with a plate of food for the evening. Saves me the trouble of cooking I guess.

I wouldn’t remind a repeat of last year. Last year was good.

There’d be a lie in for me and plenty of bemoaning the lack of criminal activity during the festive season from you... Nervously exchanging gifts... A semi-seasonal lunch consisting of leftover Chinese and Christmas pudding... Trying to figure out how much of the Queen’s Christmas Message was written by Mycroft.

Later there would be endless cups of tea on the sofa as we watched the traditional telemovies and Christmas Specials. You would find holes in the plot and I’d beg you to suspend your disbelief for a little while longer.

And then possibly, we could end the day by snogging on the sofa until our lips turned numb. That was one experiment you were always willing to repeat.

[25 December, 2011]

If I had the chance to write you another Christmas card I’d find something more to say than “thank you.” It seemed like enough at the time.

[January 3, 2012]

I finally found the nerve to sort out some of your belongings. A new year, a new start and all.

How long has your cassette collection been stored under your bed and why haven’t I seen it before? I’m guessing it’s because it contains evidence which would throw doubt onto your “I’m above the conventions of society and all it deems popular” facade.

Oasis? Really? Did their lyrics speak directly to the younger you?

Whatever the appeal, I’m glad. I haven’t laughed so hard in months.

[28 January, 2012]

Your brother has a very tangible way of showing concern. He’s been paying for private rehab and has now offered to cover the rent on the flat until I’m cleared to return to work. I put up an argument against it at first but to be honest, I didn’t need much convincing. Turns out my supply of pride has diminished more than I thought.

[21 February, 2012]

Funny. I think I miss the quiet moments the most.

Don’t get me wrong. The running, the antagonising Scotland Yard, you and your brilliant deductions and occasionally getting shot at were all good. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. But late night restaurants, the times we walked back to Baker Street instead of taking a taxi and nights in improving your knowledge of popular culture were highlights too.

[7 March, 2012]

I’ve managed it. I can walk unaided again. Only for short distances and on even surfaces but that’s enough for now. I’ve managed it. It took seven months of rehab but I managed it.

For all the pain and mindless repetition, there was a strange comfort to physiotherapy. It was nice to be able to work through measurable, achievable goals.

I think I may even invite Mrs Hudson to dinner in order to celebrate.

[March 24, 2012]

Lestrade and I still go out for our semi-regular pint at the local over a football match. He’s a good man and properly liked you, you know. I enjoy his company. We have a small array of common topics which provide points of discussion for a couple of hours at least and football is a convenient fallback for other nights when words are few.

We don’t talk about you.

[18 April, 2012]

I’m cleared to start work again, which is a relief. Turns out there’s only so much daytime TV you can watch.

For the past fortnight, I’ve been working part time as a GP. I’m hoping to work up to full time within the next month.

You’d think it painfully dull. It is nice having something meaningful to do again. Hopefully it helps to take my mind off things.

[1 May, 2012]

I’m thinking that having a routine is helping. I’ll admit, the water was very stagnant for a while there. Maybe things are improving. I don’t quite know how to tell.

I have drinks after work with my colleagues sometimes. They’re good people and seem to intuitively know not to ask too many questions. So I indulge in small talk. It’s something. It’s another way to pass the time.

[14 May, 2012]
You can call me and ‘idiot.’ Having a routine has provided more time for thinking, which I’m not enjoying at all.

[1 June, 2012]

Harry came by yesterday. I still don’t see her very often. Turns out tragedy that’s not mutual does little to bring a family closer together. Still, I don’t need to tell you about the joys of older siblings.

We drank. A lot.

Points to Harry, she managed to not make this whole damn atrocity about her. And she was more than content to drink herself into a state of blissful oblivion with me. We talked, but I can’t much remember what about. I think there may have been more than a bit of self pity on my part.

I know alcohol was hardly your drug of choice (too pedestrian?) but I think there may really be something in drinking until you lose awareness of most of your faculties. Everything became warmer and softer around the edges. My mind was a more pleasant place to be. Drink enough and you really will find relief at the bottom of each empty glass.

I’m paying for it now though. A mouth of sandpaper and splitting headache didn’t factor into the equation at the time but they’re definitely making their presence felt now. It’s not something I’m aiming to repeat again.

[1 July, 2012]

A month. I lasted a month without adding to this.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that I went a month without thinking of you. I think the longest I’ve managed (not thinking of you) is a day and a half. It’s happened a few times. Then, one of two things will follow. Something will either trigger a memory of a specific incident, or I’ll actually think ‘I’ve not though of you in a while’ and the timer will reset itself.

I don’t know what this says about me. I do know that I won’t be asking anyone else for their opinion of it.

[25 July, 2012]

Did you ever stop to think how differently things may have gone if I hadn’t followed through on that moment? It’s a damn miracle that anything even happened between us at all.

We were in the flat and I was making tea. The clutter you insisted on keeping in the kitchen lead to shared personal space.

And then there was eye contact. Somehow our lips became only inches apart. The seconds seemed to stretch for so long that entire wars could have been fought and won in their duration.

You looked terrified. No, seriously I thought you were going to be sick. I sure as hell felt sick when I realised that if anything were to happen at all it was going to have to be because of me.

So I kissed you. Nothing fancy, just a press of lips to lips. Nothing I hadn’t done before. Only it was like nothing I had done before because it was you. It was good though. Yeah. Really good.

When you began to kiss back it became even better. You have to believe me when I say that it’s a memory I never hope to lose.

[26 July, 2012]

I hate how sentimental the above sounded.

[7 August, 2012]

It’s been a year since the incident. It took me an age to figure out an appropriate way to commemorate it.

In the end I decided to fire another bullet into the wall of the flat.

Just one.

It’s not enough.

I hope you would have liked it.

[10 August]

Your brother called to inquire as to my health. I told him I’m fine.

It wasn’t until later I realised that he’s probably well aware of everything written here. What’s the use of privacy settings when you have to contend with a Holmes brother?

[2 September, 2012]

This document could be wrapped up gifted to med students nation wide:

Discuss the validity of the Kübler-Ross Stages of Grief Model in relevance to the above document.

Then go and rote learn some comforting phrases which can be easily utilised in times of need.

Funnily, there’s not a lot of overt anger here. There should be. Anger is a very underrated emotion. It’s a great comfort too when everything else takes too much effort to understand.

As a bonus, anger is very easy to redirect. I’m adept at aiming it at news coverage, snow which falls too early in the year, the toaster which has decided to stop working, you, tourists blocking the entrance to tube stations, people who don’t pick up after their dogs, Wayne Rooney, you, broken change machines at the laundromat, take away coffee which consists of mostly of a cup of foam, you, me, the world at large...

John H. Watson. Nobel Laureate in anger. That’s me.

And why shouldn’t it be? I mean, didn’t anyone ever tell you were allowed to ask for help? How many times in the past has running off on your own ended badly? Couldn’t you have stopped for half a moment to consider that maybe, like time and time before I could have been of use? Or on this particular occasion were you feeling so high on your own intellect that you decided that blundering into the abyss on your own was a good idea?

Turns out you were wrong on this occasion. Sherlock Holmes was fucking wrong and now I get to pay the price for it.

Thanks for that. Very kind of you.

Perhaps I should have ignored Mike that day in the park. Then we could have continued existing in two very different versions of London. I never imagined this at all possible, but I’m beginning to think I may have been all the better for it.

[14 December, 2012]

I managed three months without this. I think I’m proud of that effort. I’m not sure.

Truth is, I’m not doing so well. You see I look at people now. Really look.

I see them going about their daily lives, blissfully unaware of anything outside their own orbit and happily daydreaming about things past and what the future may be. The most complex problem they have to deal with is a tube timetable.

They’re taunting me Sherlock. With all their normalcy and their ability to get from A to B and have a future clearly mapped out for them. Go to work, have drinks with friends, go on dates, get married, have kids, worry about decent schools, see kids off to uni, retire, die. I want to want that, God knows I do. But the thought is as unappealing as turning up at a crime scene to find that Anderson is working forensics.

That version of normal could never possibly be enough.

I’d like you and your normal back now if that’s okay.

This is too much... There’s always too much to try and make sense of and I just want it all to stop.

[15 December, 2012]
Is this how difficult it always was for you?

**

John arrives back at the flat a couple of hours later. His anger has mostly dissolved into a sobering mixture of shame and fear. The wreck of a man portrayed in the words of that document isn’t who Sherlock knows. A small part of John is expecting to return to an empty flat.

What he does return to is Sherlock, palms pressed together, fingers resting on his bottom lip. His thinking pose. John’s missed that. It’s almost enough to undo him completely.

“Sherlock,” John starts. The name is enough to bring Sherlock back to the here and now. He’s immediately on his feet and facing John. “Sorry about earlier,” John continues, looking everywhere except Sherlock’s eyes. “I probably could have handled that better.”

Sherlock moves a little closer to John. “I’m not the expert in this area but I don’t think it’s you who has anything to be sorry for,” he pauses. “How are you, John?”

“I’m okay, Sherlock, really. Well alright so I’m not okay, you’ve read the document so you know just how not okay I’ve been and I don’t think that your being back will immediately make everything better,” John manages in a mostly incoherent babble. “But now that you’re here again, I want it to be for good.”

“It is,” Sherlock says quickly, desperation creeping into his voice.

It’s very quickly becoming too much for John. Drained, he makes his way over to the sofa. Sherlock joins him.

“I thought I was going to be sick too,” Sherlock says at last .

“What?” John’ says, annoyed. He’s not in the mood for Sherlock’s need to be so damn cryptic.

“What you wrote... our first kiss... I thought I was going to be sick too,” Sherlock pauses. “I imagine that would have quite spoiled the moment.”

John registers the sound of laughter before he realises it’s coming from him. Once he’s started it becomes very difficult to stop. Before long Sherlock’s joining in and this is fantastic. It’s as though no time has passed at all. Although in the past these moments didn’t cause John’s face to become quite so wet.

John quickly finds Sherlock’s forehead pressed against his own. There are thumbs pressing at his cheeks, trying to wipe the tears away.

“It was for you John,” Sherlock says. “Believe me, it was all for you.”

“I know,” John replies shakily. “I don’t think I quite understand yet, but I know.”

“I can try to explain. To make you understand,” Sherlock offers.

“Good. That’s good Sherlock.”

“I’ve missed you,” Sherlock says quietly. “More than I think I could ever make you know.”

“I may not have given the impression of it before,” John closes his eyes. “But I really am so glad to see you.”

When John opens his eyes he sees his own smile mirrored on Sherlock face. It stirs in him a feeling that he hasn’t experienced in a long time. It’s one that he doesn’t need words for.

Fic - "Existing" - Sherlock/John - PG13

noonwise — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 16:28:24 GMT

Title: Existing
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1200
Warnings: Mentions of drug use
Disclaimer: Not owned by me. Just a bit of fun, no harm intended.
Notes: Inspired by this prompt on the sherlockbbc_fic kink meme.
Summary: Sherlock feels blurred. Drugs are one solution. John Watson is another.

Sherlock Holmes is busy existing.

For Sherlock, existing is not just a state of being, but a feeling. It’s one of his favourites but also one which time and functioning do not often allow him to accommodate. He’s currently sprawled on the sofa with a certain ex-army doctor’s sleeping head rested on his chest.

The case has been solved. Sherlock is existing. John is sleeping. The world (allegedly) is continuing to rotate on its axis whilst orbiting the sun. All is fine.

Eventually, Sherlock will remember that John will not be happy if he’s left to sleep through the night in an awkward position which will play hell on his shoulder the following morning. When this happens Sherlock will wake John up, suggest that John doesn’t fuss about clearing away empty take-away containers until morning and lead John up to their bedroom. They’ll strip to their pants and get into bed. John will kiss him goodnight and attempt conversation before promptly falling asleep. Sherlock will keeping experiencing existing while he taps his fingers in time to John’s breathing pattern before falling asleep himself.

It’s a familiar routine and one that Sherlock is always happy to indulge in.

Periods of existing used to come few and far between. Typically, Sherlock buzzes which is a feeling he readily welcomes. Buzzing coincides with cases, deductions, running and all the times when Sherlock knows his brain must be operating faster than what should be humanly possible. When Sherlock is buzzing, there is no time for conscious thought. Synapses spark, sending ideas and logic cascading throughout his being. Hypothesis are tested, solutions are formed and it’s all so obvious that Sherlock shouldn’t need to use words or a pen and paper to show his adding up. When Sherlock is clever, Sherlock feels buzzing which is equal parts intense and beautiful.

When Sherlock no longer feels buzzing, the gears in his mind grind to a halt.

He catches boredom.

Everything descends into blurred and it’s all Sherlock can do to make sense of the sounds and sights aimed in his direction. The density of the atmosphere increases and people become intolerable. Sherlock will lean against walls or the sofa, allowing his head to support most of his weight in an attempt to drive the blurred feeling away. It’s a method that’s become less effective over time and on many occasion, cocaine has been the only way to make the gears begin once more.

Cocaine had not ended well for Sherlock. He may have been a junkie, but Sherlock still had his pride. He would never do anything as common as snort the substance. He preferred the elegance of the needle and the intensity of the high as a very happy union was formed in his blood stream.

There had been days when people had tried to reason with him. Shouldn’t he know better, what about the affect on his health and mightn’t he stop for a moment to consider who he may be upsetting? were all common (and for the most part ignored) pleas.

Waking up in Intensive Care had been unsettling. The forceful withdrawal of the one thing which was guaranteed to make him feel buzzed was hell.

But Sherlock got clean.

Now there are cases instead of cocaine. Now there is John who is ever vigilant for signs of darker days and changing moods.

John helps Sherlock to move beyond buzzing and feel existing. Most people would say that Sherlock got lucky. Not only did Sherlock manage to find someone who tolerates his spin on a personality, he’s found someone who will actively seek out more of his company. Sherlock thinks that describing what he and John have as ‘luck’ is an unforgivable slur on the character of John H. Watson.

“Will they ever find anything?” John had asked after another attempt at getting Sherlock to cooperate had taken the form of a drugs bust.

“You shouldn’t worry John. What’s left is hidden well enough that Lestrade and his team couldn’t find it for all the clues in the world,” he’d replied.

John blinked incredulously at him. “That... is so far from what I actually meant.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched between them. At last John was the one to break it.

“You know I’ve had experience with addiction before,” John had paused. “It took such a long time realise that there was only so much I could do if Harry couldn’t accept what help I was able to offer.”

Sherlock hadn’t been able to look him in the eye. “It couldn’t have been easy for you,” Sherlock had managed at last.

“No. It’s still not.” Another pause had followed. “I just think that you should know that if you ever feel like you need to use again you should know... you don’t have to be alone. I can help.”

That had been it. There were no threats, ultimatums or requests for promises to stay clean. But even then, Sherlock had known that John would never make him say words which formed promises he might not be able to keep.

Many months had past since then. There were cases, the pool, Moriarty.

Sherlock had discovered that kissing John was a rare activity that was actually improved with his eyes closed.

John was true to his word in his offer of help. He was also able to recognise when Sherlock was unable to find the words to ask for it. For the moment, at times when even John’s efforts couldn’t stop the blurred feeling taking over, knowing that John was trying for him was enough to keep him away from the needle.

Sherlock could only hope it would last.

Before long, Sherlock remembers that if John spends the night in this position on the sofa he will be in considerable pain in the morning. Sherlock’s existing will have to continue elsewhere.

“John,” he murmurs, gently shaking him awake. “If we don’t move to bed your shoulder will be sorry in the morning.”

“Right,” replies John as he allows Sherlock to pull him to his feet. “Wait a moment, we really should get to the-”

“In the morning John. Sleep first, cleaning to the point of excess later.”

Sherlock leads John towards their bedroom, stopping only once so they can clean their teeth. When they reach their room they strip down, climb into bed and John gives Sherlock a chaste kiss before settling his head down on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s arm automatically tightens around John who’s already well on his way back to sleep. Sherlock commences tapping his fingers rhythmically against John’s side.

“What are you doing Sherlock?” John manages to slur out.

“Just feeling existing,” Sherlock replies, planting a kiss on his forehead.

“That’s nice. It’s good when you feel that.”

“It’s mostly thanks to you.”

“Kind of me,” John manages. His speech is getting less and less intelligible.

“It really is John...” Sherlock receives no reply. But that’s okay. Sherlock is existing, John is here and maybe it is all fine.

Fic - "Three People Who Hated and Loved Sherlock" - Sherlock/John - PG13

noonwise — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 23:29:29 GMT

Title Three People Who Hated and Loved Sherlock
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John, Mycroft, Mummy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1600
Disclaimer: Not owned by me. Just a bit of fun, no harm intended.
Notes: Inspired by this prompt on the sherlockbbc_fic kink meme. First time writing fic (it was always going to be this fandom that did it to me). Feedback welcome and appreciated.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is as easy to hate as he is to love.

1 Mycroft

Baby Sherlock is constantly crying. His wails echo through their old house, bouncing off the high ceilings and polished floors before drifting down to Mycroft’s bedroom. Mycroft knows that no one in their house will be getting much sleep tonight which will make everyone cross in the morning. At least Father’s not home. Sherlock’s crying makes Father angry and when Father’s angry he doesn’t like to talk to Mummy or Mycroft so much. Stupid Sherlock, he thinks.

Mycroft isn’t stupid. He is very clever at school and knows how to mind himself when in company. He was very excited about the idea of having a baby brother - someone he could teach the rules to and who could help him with his experiments. He knows that Sherlock is still too young to play, but he is beginning to wonder if waiting for Sherlock to grow up is worth all the fuss. He thinks he may have even liked it better when it was just Father, Mummy and Mycroft and everything was quiet and ordered.

It’s not fair, thinks Mycroft. Sherlock needs to stop making me hate him. Mycroft buries his head under the pillows and begs sleep to find him.

**
Mycroft is fast moving towards exasperation. His little brother is very clever on his own terms, but already has cheeky streak in him a mile wide. For all his complaining, Mycroft wouldn’t change this for the world.

“Sherlock now you’re just being silly,” Mycroft sighs. He receives a delighted giggle from a two-and-a-half year old Sherlock in response. When Mycroft is not at school, Sherlock is near constant in demanding his attention. Mycroft has become quite adept at finding ways to amuse and challenge his brother. They’re currently playing a game which involves sorting little wooden blocks by colour and size using tweezers from Mycroft’s chemistry set.

“I know that you can do this Sherlock. Put the blue circle in the blue bowl.” Sherlock picks up a blue circle and holds it over the blue bowl. He looks up and meets Mycroft’s eyes before moving his arm and dropping the circle into the red bowl instead. At the pained expression that crosses Mycroft’s face, Sherlock shrieks in delight and collapses into further giggles.

“Sherlock you’re my brother. You’re allowed to be clever like me.” Mycroft is still in Prep School but already has advanced skills in such a diverse range of areas that he will be guaranteed entrance into the Public School of Mummy’s choice. Sherlock fails to find lure of being like his brother motivating and continues sort the shapes as he sees fit. Mycroft decides it’s time for negotiation. The patience of a nine year old only extends so far.

“Sherlock, if you finish this properly I’ll push you on the swing. How does that sound?”

“Swing!” Sherlock cries and makes to stand up.

“Finish first, then swing.”

Sherlock completes the game with great haste and takes hold of Mycroft’s hand. “Swing!”

“You’re what people call ‘a funny one’ Sherlock,” Mycroft tells him as they walk towards the swing. “I think you should try to be less funny. Maybe you could try talking more. Then we could have discussions and conversations which are much more interesting than just giggling and being quiet.”

“Swing! Swing!”

Mycroft smiles and lifts Sherlock onto the swing. “Funny or not I still love you Sherlock. Hold on tight now,” he warns as he begins to push. His smile only widens as Sherlock’s delighted giggles begin anew.

2. Mummy

It is far too easy for Mrs Holmes to worry about her youngest son. She loves Sherlock dearly but is a pragmatic woman at heart and knows that a mother’s love won’t be enough to keep her boy safe.

There’s a knock at her door and Sherlock enters. “I’m all packed Mummy,” he says.

Surely he’s too young to be leaving for boarding school. So quiet and serious she doesn’t know how he’ll cope keeping company with others for twenty-four hours a day.

“Are you sure you have everything?” Practicalities are not Sherlock’s strong suit.

“I followed your list Mummy,” he replies.

“Well done, dear.”

Sherlock smiles. “Would you like me to play my violin for you Mummy?”

Mrs Holmes returns his smile. It’s are rare occasion when she is able to follow Sherlock’s thought process, but now she can clearly see the gears ticking over in his mind. Tomorrow I am going to boarding school. Mycroft told me that this makes Mummy feel sad. Mummy likes it when I play the violin for her. If I play the violin for Mummy she will feel happy and not sad.

“I would like that very much dear,” she replies.

“I’d like that too Mummy,” Sherlock says and darts out to retrieve his violin.

Mrs Holmes closes her eyes as Sherlock begins to play. Each piece effortlessly conveys a personality and eloquence that rarely factor into other parts of Sherlock’s life. Sometimes, Mrs Holmes catches herself wishing that Sherlock would try a little harder to be more like others. This quickly leads to feelings of guilt that she should want the boy she loves so dearly to be anyone different to who he already is.

Guilt turns into a cold, grey hate - Sherlock is not who she imagined her second child would be. Many times she’s cast her mind back through the years, trying to pinpoint a moment that would account for Sherlock’s difference. Was it her fault? She hates this situation, hates Sherlock for making her question herself so.

Knowing Sherlock doesn’t set out to be difficult on purpose isn’t a comfort. She’s tried to talk to him, to find the words to explain the innate rules of society which Sherlock finds difficult to determine and follow. Sherlock always listens carefully and promises to try harder, but isolation and unintentional offences follow in his wake.

But then there will be quiet moments in which Sherlock transforms into a sweet boy, who wants to try his best and make his Mummy happy. It’s times like these when Mrs Holmes swells with love for her youngest son. A love coloured by hope and sadness.

Mrs Holmes knows that Sherlock is clever when he wants to be. Maybe he’ll work people out in time. Whether he chooses to change will be a different matter. You shouldn’t have to, she thinks fiercely. Someone else will learn to love you just the way you are.

3. John

John walks up the stairs to 221B allowing himself to be quietly optimistic. Sherlock’s not moved from the sofa for close to two days, but perhaps by now things will have changed. He’ll come home to find Sherlock free of his own mind, bursting to share his latest discovery or badger John into making him tea.

John enters to the living room to find Sherlock exactly where he’d left him. He’s awake, but his eyes do not move towards John at John’s greeting.

“Still not good then?” Silence.

John tries not to let sadness for Sherlock and anger towards himself creep into his features. It’s times like these which highlight his failings. Despite his best efforts, he’s unable to make Sherlock feel even marginally better. Logically, he knows there must be a deeper pathology at play. Being this down at semi-regular intervals is nowhere near typical behaviour, that Sherlock needs more help than John could give him. But as Sherlock would point out, emotion is quite capable of overriding logic. John is left feeling the very definition of useless.

Slipping off his shoes, John moves to lie next to Sherlock. He threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, stroking gently.

“I hate this you know. All of it. Seeing you like this, being able to nothing to help this pass. You have to believe me that I’d make it better if I could.”

John gets no response. Sherlock merely stares through him.

John doesn’t bother to try with words again. They won’t be of comfort to Sherlock now. Instead he continues to lie close, hoping that his presence will enough to convey a sense of calm and stability.

**

John awakes with Sherlock curled around him. Sherlock is looking at John through one eye before closing it and looking at him through the other. He’s back to normal. It’s all John can do not to sigh with relief.

“Sherlock, what exactly are you doing?”

At this Sherlock opens both eyes and lets his gaze fall down to John’s chest. “Examining you through limited means of visual input.”

“Okay... how are you feeling?”

“You’re hair’s a shade darker when I look at you through my right eye.” As always, they wouldn’t be talking about horror of the past three days. Perhaps it’s for the best.

“God you’re a funny one,” John replies.

“According to popular opinion.”

“Good thing we find popular opinion a bit dull.”

At this, Sherlock meets his eyes and smiles. “Experiencing familiar conditions using different sensory modalities is useful way of gathering data one wouldn’t typically consider important. You should try it John. You might learn something.”

John thinks for a moment. “I don’t think I would.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you’d still be Sherlock, wouldn’t you? No matter how I looked at you. I like that... that you’re Sherlock. Love it, even. I don’t need to know anything else,” he presses a brief kiss to Sherlock’s lips and pulls back to let Sherlock process this information. “Tea?”

A smile slowly creeps onto Sherlock’s features. “Thank you, John.”

John knows that it's not the offer of tea Sherlock's thanking him for.

Rory Williams/Arthur Darvill Love

noonwise — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 12:08:12 GMT

There's fun to be had here!

Picspam: M/A Series 1 needs no words

noonwise — Sat, 27 Jun 2009 14:06:49 GMT

Highlighting the path of Merlin/Arthur throughout series 1 and moments that may shape what's to come.

We don't need Uther's reassurance. It struck me from the start how just how 'special' ~~pretty, amusing,~~ this relationship was going to be. Props to Colin and Bradley. Enjoy the ride.

Yup. It definitely looks like this could be fun.
To me, this episode showed qualities in the boys that were a constant throughout the season - Merlin's loyalty and determination, Arthur's need to be the best.

"...Arthur is the other." In case we hadn't clicked yet.
Big magical dragon or no, you don't continue to go above and beyond for someone you don't deem worthy. How long before Merlin realises that his 'destiny' is actually more of a choice?

When Merlin's magic is revealed, I feel that "why" may be the hardest part for Arthur to come to terms with. The less self-assured part of him is surely going to wonder why Merlin bothred to stay in his employ. The answer is surely the same to the question "why does Arthur retain such an incompetent manservant?"  Their relationship goes beyond servant, master and duty.

The first significant moment where talking in code and around the point wasn't enough, a direct acknowlegement of appreciation was needed on both parts. Gaius too points out that Arthur exceeded expectation.

Destiny is starting to come under Merlin's consious control. He's no longer on Arthur's side because he's been told he will be a great king, but because he knows it.  Merlin also knows Arthur the person who is separate from Arthur the Prince.

Should Arthur find out? Before or after he finds out about Merlin? What will the repercussions be?
Tangent time: Uther unknowningly sacrificed his personal world for the birth of a son. However, Arthur is perfect. He's not just a good night, he's the best. Arthur commands respects, cares for his people and (with a little help from Merlin) is beginning to be able to shape other qualities that will make him the people's King. And so Uther is torn between hatred towards himself and love for his son.  Does he ever think the 'life for a life' trade was worth it?

If this isn't the episode that keeps on giving. Even before it's acknowleged, you know it was Arthur who got Hunith the audience with the King. The 'good luck' conversation. Arthur following Merlin. 'Why'd you leave?' Foot!face. Arthur needing Merlin. Merlin needing Arthur.
I can pick a favourite - Arthur helping Merlin with his armour and without words knowing the enormity of the act. Arthur's well and truly here for him.
It's easy to feel for Merlin during this episode. He's feeling like the biggest fraud and yet he has to listen to everyone weigh-in with their oppinion on his and Arthur's relationship. Luckily Hunith is there to provide the voice of reassurance. One day Merlin will be able to tell Arthur his secret and they will be all the stronger for it.

Could this episode just be retitled 'Oh, Arthur?'
This scene on the beach is a firm favourite of mine. Arthur's obvious concern but aversion of Merlin's eyes upon stating "I'm glad you're here." He must have an inner monologue that spins 'Crown Princes do not admit need to mere servants.' Glad that Arthur is able to override this logic. He's not just a 'mere servant.' He's Merlin.
Also a strong episode in terms of depicting Arthur's love for Camelot and its people.

Another instance where something needs to be addressed and words need to be said. Lovely callback to the first episode ("you're a prat and a royal one.") Arthur tries for their usual banter but Merlin's having none of it. He's had to take a more direct approach to "teaching" Arthur as this may be the last lesson he'll ever impart. Watch the eyes speak volumes to compliment the words. Some things are not easily said out loud.

So that's my abridged take on Merlin/Arthur in series 1. I love everyone on this show a ridiculous amount and always have fun seeing how they've shaped this story to the amplitudes of source material. Looking forward to see where series 2 leads!

Comments? Discussion? More than welcome and very encouraged.