FIC: Don't Leave Me (Sherlock, John)
Sep. 28th, 2010 12:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thewlisian_aferTitle: Don't Leave Me
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, mention of Mycroft Holmes
Word Count: 700
Rating: G
Disclaimer/Notes: Not my original characters. I'm not making any profit from this (or anything else) so please don't sue me. Heard "Don't leave me," in my head in Sherlock's voice and spit this out in about an hour. Unbeta'd.
On the surface, it's nothing new. They've bickered since day one. This argument doesn't even seem that bad. In the past, there have been instances of screaming and slammed doors and -- only once -- physical blows. This one is just deliberately hurtful words and slightly raised voices. Not that big a deal in the grand scheme of things. But something is different this time. Sherlock feels it when John grabs his jacket and heads for the door.
"John," he says. But John ignores him. Suddenly, Sherlock is terrified. "John," he repeats, fear and desperation creeping into his voice.
That tone stops John in his tracks and he turns to face Sherlock again.
"Don't leave me," Sherlock all but begs, sounding like little more than a child to his own ears.
John looks absolutely stunned. "What do y-- We're not--"
"No, I know, I don't mean like that. It's just..."
He's seven years old again, and Mycroft is fourteen, heading off to uni ridiculously early because he's just that brilliant and amazing. Sherlock begs him not to go because he's going to be so bored without him and who will nick sweets for Mycroft and how will Sherlock be able to climb to the top shelves for the books he's not allowed to see if he hasn't anyone to serve as lookout? But Mycroft snorts his derision, gives Sherlock a little shove, and tells him to stop being such an infant.
Now, standing here across the room from John, Sherlock is nearly paralyzed by the fear that history is going to repeat itself. He's spent his whole life keeping people at arm's length, hiding his terror of abandonment by not allowing anyone close enough that he would actually feel abandoned when they leave. Because they do always leave. Everyone. Even when he doesn't actively try to distance himself from them. But for some reason, he's let John in. At least as much as he's even capable of that anymore. And now it's all about to blow up in his face.
Sherlock just stands there, eyes locked with John's, reading in the other man's face what he must look like. Barefoot, in his pajamas, disheveled hair, a wide-eyed expression of fear, looking completely lost. He hates himself for it. He constantly craves John's praise -- those little exclamations of "Fantastic!" or "Remarkable!" or "Extraordinary!" -- and here he is, looking pathetic and weak in front of him... It's revolting.
Realizing that John is still waiting for him to continue, Sherlock clears his throat. "It's just..." He coughs and tries to pitch his voice a little lower, a little less childlike, but his throat is uncomfortably tight and there's nothing he can do about it. "I need you. To stay. Please. I need you to stay."
John's expression has been wavering between stony and sympathetic since he turned back around but now something new creeps into it. Skepticism. Sherlock feels a pang of regret in his chest. John has watched him playacting to get his way too many times to count and this behavior is so out of the ordinary for Sherlock that John clearly suspects he's being played.
"I'm not manipulating you, John, you're my ... the... I can't..." Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, shakily. "Just ... stay. Please. Don't leave me."
"All right, relax," John says, putting his jacket down again and dropping back into the chair he'd occupied while they were fighting. "I was only going for some milk."
Sherlock does relax a little. Just enough for one corner of his mouth to tug upward as he flops onto the sofa. "No, you weren't."
"No," John admits after a pause. "I wasn't." Sherlock isn't looking but he can tell by the rustle of clothing and the change in the quality of his voice that John has turned to look at him. "You okay? I've never seen you act anything like that. At least not without the immediate threat of death. Why--"
"John," Sherlock cuts him off, "many things, when left open for too long, begin to go off."
John grunts faintly. "Another day, then?"
"Perhaps."
Sherlock can tell by John's defeated sigh that he knows that was a 'No.'
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, mention of Mycroft Holmes
Word Count: 700
Rating: G
Disclaimer/Notes: Not my original characters. I'm not making any profit from this (or anything else) so please don't sue me. Heard "Don't leave me," in my head in Sherlock's voice and spit this out in about an hour. Unbeta'd.
On the surface, it's nothing new. They've bickered since day one. This argument doesn't even seem that bad. In the past, there have been instances of screaming and slammed doors and -- only once -- physical blows. This one is just deliberately hurtful words and slightly raised voices. Not that big a deal in the grand scheme of things. But something is different this time. Sherlock feels it when John grabs his jacket and heads for the door.
"John," he says. But John ignores him. Suddenly, Sherlock is terrified. "John," he repeats, fear and desperation creeping into his voice.
That tone stops John in his tracks and he turns to face Sherlock again.
"Don't leave me," Sherlock all but begs, sounding like little more than a child to his own ears.
John looks absolutely stunned. "What do y-- We're not--"
"No, I know, I don't mean like that. It's just..."
He's seven years old again, and Mycroft is fourteen, heading off to uni ridiculously early because he's just that brilliant and amazing. Sherlock begs him not to go because he's going to be so bored without him and who will nick sweets for Mycroft and how will Sherlock be able to climb to the top shelves for the books he's not allowed to see if he hasn't anyone to serve as lookout? But Mycroft snorts his derision, gives Sherlock a little shove, and tells him to stop being such an infant.
Now, standing here across the room from John, Sherlock is nearly paralyzed by the fear that history is going to repeat itself. He's spent his whole life keeping people at arm's length, hiding his terror of abandonment by not allowing anyone close enough that he would actually feel abandoned when they leave. Because they do always leave. Everyone. Even when he doesn't actively try to distance himself from them. But for some reason, he's let John in. At least as much as he's even capable of that anymore. And now it's all about to blow up in his face.
Sherlock just stands there, eyes locked with John's, reading in the other man's face what he must look like. Barefoot, in his pajamas, disheveled hair, a wide-eyed expression of fear, looking completely lost. He hates himself for it. He constantly craves John's praise -- those little exclamations of "Fantastic!" or "Remarkable!" or "Extraordinary!" -- and here he is, looking pathetic and weak in front of him... It's revolting.
Realizing that John is still waiting for him to continue, Sherlock clears his throat. "It's just..." He coughs and tries to pitch his voice a little lower, a little less childlike, but his throat is uncomfortably tight and there's nothing he can do about it. "I need you. To stay. Please. I need you to stay."
John's expression has been wavering between stony and sympathetic since he turned back around but now something new creeps into it. Skepticism. Sherlock feels a pang of regret in his chest. John has watched him playacting to get his way too many times to count and this behavior is so out of the ordinary for Sherlock that John clearly suspects he's being played.
"I'm not manipulating you, John, you're my ... the... I can't..." Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, shakily. "Just ... stay. Please. Don't leave me."
"All right, relax," John says, putting his jacket down again and dropping back into the chair he'd occupied while they were fighting. "I was only going for some milk."
Sherlock does relax a little. Just enough for one corner of his mouth to tug upward as he flops onto the sofa. "No, you weren't."
"No," John admits after a pause. "I wasn't." Sherlock isn't looking but he can tell by the rustle of clothing and the change in the quality of his voice that John has turned to look at him. "You okay? I've never seen you act anything like that. At least not without the immediate threat of death. Why--"
"John," Sherlock cuts him off, "many things, when left open for too long, begin to go off."
John grunts faintly. "Another day, then?"
"Perhaps."
Sherlock can tell by John's defeated sigh that he knows that was a 'No.'
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Date: 2010-09-28 05:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-28 08:37 pm (UTC)