The walls were still ringing with the sound of every single goddamn thing on Mycroft’s desk hitting the floor at once. Greg was particularly worried whether the red telephone had fallen off the hook; he didn’t think whoever was at the other end was bound to appreciate their manner of celebration. He was also concerned that Mycroft hadn’t secured the door.
“You really don’t care if we get caught.”
“We are seven stories underground and my staff are meticulously trained. No one is going to come in here, Gregory.”
“Ngh. Well.” Hands. Everywhere. And a mouth that was doing marvellous things to his throat. “I wouldn’t say that.”
It was obvious when Mycroft finally got the joke, because he stopped. He stared. He sighed. “Must you?”
Greg tried to look innocent in spite of the thud of his heart and the state of his trousers. “Of course I must.” He tsked. “It’s like you don’t even know me.”
“I could know you a lot better if you’d focus instead of making jokes.”
“And I could focus a lot better if I knew you’d locked the door.”
“I’m hurt that you don’t trust me.”
“I trust that you get off on being seen. But I do not. Indulge me. Lock the door.”
After a moment, a smile tinted Mycroft’s face: subtle, inexorable, the edge of a watercolour bloom. It looked delicious against the flush creeping up past his collar. “Fine. If you must know, the door is already locked.”
Greg would have to check that the red phone wasn’t going to catch anything more salacious than state secrets. And then they could get back to the business of celebration. “I suppose you do know me after all.”
“Maybe I just know how to get what I want.”
Biting down the rise of affection, Greg began to work on Mycroft’s tie. “I would never accuse you otherwise.”
“That,” Mycroft said, ducking in to work more of those marvels against Greg’s throat, “is because you know me.”
Which was all the conversation they had breath for, because with that undid Greg’s zip and lit the fuse to a fireworks show the likes of which that bunker-of an-office had never seen. As Greg lay shoulder-to-shoulder with him fifteen minutes later, tired and sore and blinking away the stars dancing in his eyes, he had to laugh at them both.
It’s just habit, picked up in the Army. The minute the first streaks of light appear in the sky, he’s awake.
So he gets up, puts on the pajama pants discarded on the floor from last night’s romp, and putters around the flat. Gets things ready for breakfast and tea. Clears up the stack of newspapers by Sherlock’s chair. Tries NOT to disturb that experiment…whatever it is.
But then he hears Sherlock stirring and he returns, climbing on the bed and sitting up on his knees while Sherlock rolls over on his back and smiles at him, sleep-hooded eyes and morning-mussed curls making him look even younger than he already does. And John’s there every morning to kiss him, first thing, and Sherlock tells him bad jokes every morning that he looks up on the internet. Horrible, pun-riddled jokes that are terrible, but they make John laugh and Sherlock likes to watch the way his eyes crinkle in the morning sunlight.
And some days, when they don’t have anything planned and nowhere to be, they end up staying in bed ‘til afternoon, cracking jokes and kissing and touching and making love until they finally roll out of bed and John puts away the breakfast things he readied, because they’ll just get takeaway instead.
***
AND THEN… conversely, John’s the first one who starts yawning at night. Sherlock’s the night owl – he could stay up all night if there wasn’t anyone around to remind him to sleep. But he notices John blinking and yawning while he’s in his chair, trying to watch telly. His head dips, then straightens, while John tries desperately to keep himself awake. Until finally, Sherlock takes pity on the poor man and goes up behind him, snaking his arms around for a hug and a kiss.
“Go to bed, old man.” He’ll whisper, which makes John laugh. Sherlock always knows how to make him laugh.
“Only if you come with me.”
For John, only for John, Sherlock will postpone whatever ridiculous experiment he’s working on and go to bed. And surprisingly, even though he never feels tired, he always falls asleep when John’s behind him, arm draped over his waist, face at the perfect position so John can kiss the small curl at the base of Sherlock’s neck. They murmur back and forth to each other, sometimes stories, sometimes what they need at the grocery store, until Sherlock’s words get all muddy because he’s about to fall asleep. They lull each other together every night, with their steady breaths and the beat of their heart. John knows he’d never sleep again if he couldn’t fall asleep with Sherlock beside him. He doesn’t know how he ever slept without him.
After the vows had been exchanged, they had all sat down to dinner
under a sky painted rose and heather and tangerine by the setting sun, the
faintest flecks of stars beginning to peek through. Now that the food has been
eaten, the happy couple toasted, the champagne drunk, and the dancing begun,
Sherlock finds himself alone at a table, looking around at nothing in
particular. John has excused himself to give his regards to the newlyweds, and
everyone else has made their way to the patio-turned-dance floor. Sherlock lets
his eyes linger for a moment on the guests dancing there and wishes, for the
millionth or so time in his life, that he were a different kind of man–perhaps
the kind who feels comfortable asking a stranger to dance, or, better yet,
asking the one person he really wants to hold in his arms as they spin
gracefully around the floor, eyes locked on one another, the world around them
melting away. But Sherlock isn’t that kind of man.
The memory of the last time he had wanted to dance at a wedding needles
him, and Sherlock has to fight to tamp down the regret and sadness he still
feels about that entire situation. Yes, John is back at Baker Street now and
Mary is long gone, but part of Sherlock still hates that he hadn’t been more
vocal about his desires, that he hadn’t tried harder to stop John from marrying
her. He knows it’s selfish–though he tells himself it would have saved both of
them a lot of pain and suffering in the long run. The whole thing fills him
with self-loathing. He hadn’t been good enough to peg Mary as the liar she
really was from the start. He hadn’t been brave enough to tell John how he
felt. And in the end he hadn’t been quick enough to prevent Mary from
absconding with John’s daughter, both of them disappearing into the night like
phantoms. The guilt eats at Sherlock until he pushes himself away from the
table and slips into the darkness. He follows the low garden wall to the
farthest corner, well outside the warm sphere of light cast by the lanterns
surrounding the patio. Sherlock lifts his long legs carefully up and over
before taking a seat on the wall, facing out at the surrounding hills looming
nearly invisible in the darkness. He could really use a cigarette. Instead he
watches the stars emerge as his vision adjusts, and when the slight autumn
breeze ruffles his hair, he wishes he had thought to bring his coat.
Soft footsteps behind him. An all-too-familiar cadence. John.
“There you are. I was wondering where you’d got off to.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock hums noncommittally. John stops just behind him,
close enough that Sherlock could lean his head back against John’s chest if he
wanted to. And he does want to. But he doesn’t move. Since John has come home,
they seem to have found their rhythm again, and Sherlock doesn’t want to screw that
up. Sometimes though, there are little touches–John’s arm glancing off
Sherlock’s as they walk, John’s fingers brushing across his as John hands him a
cup of tea, John’s hand gently squeezing Sherlock’s bicep in an occasional
gesture of… friendship? understanding? support? Sherlock isn’t sure. He also
isn’t sure if they actually happen more often now or if he just notices them
more often now that he is more attuned to the effect that John has on him.
Either way, he doesn’t think that his head resting on John’s chest would be
welcome. It’s too… intimate. And so he restrains the desire that pulses through
him with every beat of his heart.
John clambers over the wall, his shorter legs making the movement
far less graceful than Sherlock’s had been, and takes a seat next to him.
Sherlock can feel the fabric of John’s suit jacket catch ever so slightly on
his own where their arms graze against each other. They sit in companionable
silence, the strains of a recent pop hit floating gently away from the cottage,
past where they’re huddled on the wall, and out into the open night.
John eventually breaks the silence with a quiet sigh. “I never
should have gotten married.”
Sherlock never accounted for the fact that John could have moved on during his absence. Sherlock certainly hasn’t.
No, Sherlock had spent years alone with the memory of wire and silk hair, stupid jumpers and sharp blue eyes; the taste of tea and the slow sound of words being pecked out two-fingered with painful care painted his mind in the colors of comfort he would not find in his hell outside of London.
Coming home he thought he’d have left that hell behind but instead he walked right out of the damn frying pan convinced he was saved and boy did he get burned for that sentimental hope.
Now Sherlock sits at the fire in an empty flat with and empty glass stinking of juniper and rubbing alcohol and he folds back into the memories of the tap tap tap of keys and warm-honey-home taste of tea, imagining that he could pick up where they left off dancing around the prospect of something so beyond friends and flatmates and fair-weather lovers.
In his little palace stuffed full of memories and facts all categorized and placed in rooms with neat labels and cool colors, he stands in the only one with any heat. The one that has his clay-furred childhood friend curled at the fire while he dances with his soldier, his doctor, his compass across the threadbare carpet, legs shifting and stepping in perfect disharmony. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. Their bodies are close and hot and melted like old wax, slumped into each other with contentment and safety and all the other things that make people write terrible poems and sing warbling songs beneath a back-lit window.
Here Sherlock remembers to say I love you.
Here he hears it back.
Outside the world moves on and he will correct purple to lilac and fold the Sydney Opera House out of cotton.
But inside, inside he can pretend he remembered. He can pretend things are fine, that he didn’t miss his chance. Inside, it’s his name on heavy paper beside his doctor and not on the placard reading best man.
Yes, inside everything moves like the smoothest brandy through his veins, flowing in bright curls and he dips his partner and he kisses him and he warms him on the couch with long fingers and deft tongue and he remembers to say I love you over and over and over again because he will never ever say it outside.
reclusiveq: heheh. I could just see them deciding to spar one day and the Avengers Tower ends up with a few new “windows” and “doors”
~~~~~
“It’s for the aesthetic! And also more efficient!” Bucky shouted down the hall at Tony, who couldn’t stop gawking at the ‘door’ into the main room that hadn’t been there before.
“You’re paying to fix this, Barnes!” Tony shouted back.
Bucky let out a squawk and stalked down the hall towards Tony. “Wanna tell me why? You didn’t make Thor pay to fix it when he went through the sparring room wall. Why me?”
Tony turned a withering glare on Bucky. “Maybe because Thor ended up fixing it with his bare hands? Can you do that, Robocop?”
“My ass, he fixed it! I saw the contractor!”
“Yeah, well.” Tony huffed and tentatively stepped through the opening. “I once saw your boyfriend rip a log in half with his bare hands. If he can do that, you two can fix this shit,” he finished, waving a hand back towards the opening.
“You make training really boring, you know that?”
Tony turned and pointed a finger at him. “Slicking up the shield and trying to surf down the hallway while playing ‘Eye of the Tiger’ at full blast, only to shout PARKOUR when Steve slips and goes through the wall does not count as training.”
Bucky shrugged. “It does if we were doing a volatility and pressure test of the shield, trying to determine a larger variety of uses -”
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Anderson/Greg Lestrade Characters: Philip Anderson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, A full supporting cast of plastic dinosaurs Additional Tags: Canon Anderson, Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Dinosaurs, Coffee Shops, Donuts Summary:
Philip Anderson wanted to be a Paleontologist, be Criminal Forensics was a better paying field, and he had a wife to support. He also has a secret admirer that loves to leave him little, neon colored plastic dinosaurs.
Okay look, I don’t usually read anything staring Anderson. But this is the fluffiest, cutest fic and your day can only be improved by reading it.
This was such a good request, award to the requester for thinking up such a brilliant idea.
You were pregnant and laying in the midst of your tears, sobbing loudly and uncontrollably as you kneeled down in the dirt, the end of your gown already covered in muck. You’d finally done it, you’d finally escaped your abusive husband, and though you knew that you should be happy you can’t help but feel like you’d brought yourself into more of a mess. The year is 1901 and you are cursed with being a female, and now you are a pregnant female. There is no chance in hell you’d be able to find work unless it was in the brothels, but you couldn’t see yourself doing that, not with a child… but then again, did you have a choice?
Your body began to shake violently as the sobbing just became louder. Suddenly a hand fell against your shoulder, like a rocket you shot up and jumped away from the stranger. It was so unsafe for a woman to be out this late, let alone out this late without a husband by her side. “I’m sorry,” an american voice soothed, you just blinked at the stranger with caution. He took another step forward, causing you to take another step back, and then he held his hand out, “the names Jack Harkness, I really didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to know what was wrong?”
At the thought tears fell out of your eyes once more, and you decided you might as well tell this Jack man your problems anyway. Either he will rape you and kill you, or actually be of use and maybe help you. Though thanks to the way you’d been treated so far by men, you didn’t feel very optimistic. And so you explained it as well as you could, telling the man about how you’d spent five years being abused and after finding out you’re pregnant you decided that you couldn’t allow a child to grow up in such an environment. But it seemed as though the world was against you because of your sex, and you worried deeply that your child might be born a woman.
He looked at you with sympathy, his eyes dropping to the floor before he looked up again, a metaphorical lightbulb going off in his head. “Let me show you something,” he put his hand out for you to take but instead you just stared down at it in confusion. “Follow me, and I can show you a world where women aren’t treated this way, you really want to see this.”
His words enticed you, and even though this place sounds more like heaven than an actual place, you knew that you had nothing left to lose. You didn’t want your child to grow up in this world, so if there was anything that could give you hope of a better one, then you would take that chance. When you grabbed a hold of Jack’s hand he swiftly pulled you closer to him, “close your eyes,” he warned and as you did you became surrounded by a weird feeling, like you were flying. But that’s not possible.
It seemed as though it was hours later when Jack told you that you could finally open your eyes and what you saw was amazing. Tall buildings that you’d never seen before stood high and the streets were busy, full of people, as you looked around you caught sight of women in weird looking suits, they had weird devices in their hands and also a briefcase. “Do they have a job?” You turned to look at Jack and he smiled, shaking his head ‘no’, enjoying the look of amazement in your eyes. “But what about the housework, and looking after the children?”
“They don’t have that sort of life, they are much more independent.” He explained, “I doubt half the women walking past us right now have husbands.”
As he said that a very rich looking woman with pearls around her neck walked past them, a child in her hand. Then you remembered what Jack had said, that woman could be a… “single parent?” You finished her question out loud, once again looking to Jack for confirmation. This time he saw tears in your eyes and he confirmed it again with simply another nod, allowing everything to sink in.
You felt like you’d been hit by hope, and that was the only violence you would ever condone.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A surprise birthday present of one Janto fic for merindab, one of the loveliest people to walk the earth. Teaser below the cut.
“You…I can’t believe you, Jack!” Ianto threw a mug against the wall, cold coffee and broken ceramics raining down onto the floor ashe stood in the center of the hub.
“Ianto, I always come back, you know that!” Jack smiled, rolling his eyes. He shrugged his jacket off, laying it across the back of hischair. Ianto turned away, and tipped his head up to the ceiling, swallowing hard. The rain was pouring down outside the hub,thundering down on the roof. “Please, go away. I have work to do.” Ianto said, voice and posture stiff.
“Ianto, come on.” Jack laughed, reaching for him. Ianto yanked his arm away, a snarl tearing from his lips. Jack jerked as if he hadbeen burned, and Ianto’s face fell.
“Don’t, Jack. Just…don’t.” Ianto pulled a chair out, and sat down, his entire body bleeding exhaustion.
