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flawedamythystTitle: Tension And Relaxation
Rating: PG
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word Count: 1,272 words.
Summary: May 2012: John returns home after a visit to his sister's, seven months after his marriage to Sherlock. Horse And Carriage 'verse. Masterlist is here.
A/N: Prompted by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bookletting
John was clearly exhausted when he came in, even though it wasn't yet lunchtime. He dropped his bag to the floor, slumped down on the sofa and let out a long sigh.
“Remind me to never to do that again.”
Sherlock looked him over. He'd only been gone for twenty-two hours and yet he looked at least three years older. The lines on his forehead were so deeply engraved that Sherlock suspected he'd been frowning the whole time he'd been away, and he was holding the whole of his upper body as if he'd forgotten how to relax.
“Was she drunk?” he asked, setting his pipette down and pulling off his safety glasses so that he could observe better.
“No,” said John. “That might actually have been better – at least she'd have sobered up by this morning.”
Yesterday had been the fifth anniversary of John's mother's death, so he had gone back to Chelmsford to pay his respects at the garden of remembrance where her ashes had been scattered. It seemed ridiculous to Sherlock, but he'd worked out that the sentimentality surrounding dead relatives was not worth challenging unless he was interested in a really good argument.
Going to Chelmsford meant John had felt he should stay the night with his sister, which Sherlock could have told him was asking for trouble. For once, he was not pleased to have been proved right.
“What was it then?” he asked. John only rarely saw his sister, which meant that Sherlock had very little data about what she and John might choose to fight about.
John just groaned. “It was ridiculous,” he said. He reached up and rubbed at his shoulder, wincing. “God, feels like I've been tense the whole time I was away. Her spare bed is like sleeping on rocks.”
Sherlock's eyes darted over the stiff lines of John's neck and shoulders. This could be the perfect chance to indulge his inexplicable desire to touch John, without pushing any of the boundaries that he hadn't yet fully mapped.
“Do you want a back massage?” he asked.
John's eyes flew to his face and then narrowed suspiciously. “Part of an experiment?”
Sherlock let out a sigh. “No.”
“Someone once murdered someone else with a massage, and you want to see if you can work out how?”
Sherlock let out a longer sigh. “No,” he repeated. “I just thought you looked tense, that's all. If you don't want one, I'll go back to my precipitate.” He picked up his pipette again, feeling oddly slighted. John really didn't have any reason to trust him given that Sherlock had taken advantage of him for the sake of an experiment more than once before, but it still stung.
“No,” said John quickly. “No, it's- That would be great, thank you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock regarded him for a moment, then nodded and stood up. How best to do this? Ideally, he'd have John sprawled out on a soft, flat surface – a bed would be best – but that came with all the wrong kinds of connections. John made the decision for him by pulling off his coat and jumper, then turning to brace himself on the arm of the sofa. Right, that was probably the manly, blokeish way to do it. If there was a manly, blokeish way to give your husband a back massage.
Sherlock knelt on the sofa behind him, eyeing up the configuration of his muscles. Should he mention he'd never done this before? Probably not, that might make John change his mind. Besides, it wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't studied the anatomy in detail. What could go wrong?
He started gently, running his fingers over the worst of the knotted muscles. How on earth was he meant to relax those? It felt like John's back was strung with steel cables. “You really did have an awful time,” he said, daring to press harder and start to properly dig in.
“Yeah,” agreed John, dropping his head to expose more of his neck. “I mean, I figured it was going to be a bit shit, what with Mum's anniversary, but-” Sherlock hit what must have been a particularly tricky spot, and he cut himself off in favour of a grunting sigh. Muscles softened under Sherlock's fingers and he felt a surge of pride. He'd done that – he'd made John feel better with just his hands. So much easier than trying to find the right words to say.
There was silence for a few minutes as Sherlock got used to what he was doing, listening to the changes in John's breathing to tell him what worked and what didn't. Getting to touch John like this was even more of a treat than he'd thought it would be.
“I told her about our marriage,” said John into the silence. Ah, that explained a lot. “Well, no, she spotted my ring and asked about it. And then was furious she hadn't been invited.”
“No one was invited,” Sherlock pointed out.
“Except Mrs. Hudson,” agreed John. “Of course, Harry didn't accept that. Especially not when she found out Mycroft was there. 'Oh, so his sibling gets to go, and yours doesn't even find out for seven months?' Bloody nightmare.”
John was getting tense again just talking about it. Sherlock frowned with annoyance and redoubled his efforts.
“And that was just the start of it,” continued John, letting out a sigh as Sherlock worked his thumbs into his neck. “Then she got on to 'and since when have you been gay anyway?' and 'you told me you and Sherlock were just friends!'”
“You're not, and we are,” said Sherlock, although there didn't feel anything 'just' about his and John's friendship.
“Yeah, telling her that entirely failed to help,” said John. “Shockingly. It's not as if there's any easy way to explain this to people.”
Sherlock pressed his palms into John's shoulder blades. “What's the point in bothering with explanations?” he asked. “It's not as if their opinions matter.”
John let out a gentle chuckle and Sherlock felt more tension slip from his shoulders. “I knew you'd say that,” he said. “And I don't usually bother, really, it's just – she's my sister.”
Sherlock tried to imagine having to explain anything to Mycroft just because he was his brother, and drew a blank. Either he already knew and probably had done before Sherlock, or it wasn't important enough for Sherlock to bother about. Or he'd prefer it if he didn't know.
John let out another long sigh. “God, you're good at this.”
Sherlock allowed himself a smug feeling. He'd known it couldn't be that hard.
John rolled his shoulders back, then turned so he could collapse against the sofa and give Sherlock a weary smile. “Thanks,” he said.
“Not a problem,” said Sherlock, shifting so that he was leaning next to John, their arms resting against each other. “Just avoid getting tense again and ruining my good work.”
John let out a quiet laugh. “I'll do my best. Don't suppose Harry is going to be talking to me much for a bit, so that's one source of stress eradicated.”
“Her loss,” said Sherlock.
“Yeah,” agreed John, and his head tipped to fall onto Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock almost flinched from surprise but schooled himself to relax into him instead. John didn't initiate this kind of thing very often and he needed to encourage him, not make it awkward.
They stayed like that for a while, the last fragments of tension seeping from John's body while Sherlock sat and watched his experiment spoil. It didn't matter, it would be easy enough to replicate later, unlike this moment.
****
Next fic in the 'verse here: Wine Stains And Waistcoats.
*
Rating: PG
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Word Count: 1,272 words.
Summary: May 2012: John returns home after a visit to his sister's, seven months after his marriage to Sherlock. Horse And Carriage 'verse. Masterlist is here.
A/N: Prompted by
booklettingJohn was clearly exhausted when he came in, even though it wasn't yet lunchtime. He dropped his bag to the floor, slumped down on the sofa and let out a long sigh.
“Remind me to never to do that again.”
Sherlock looked him over. He'd only been gone for twenty-two hours and yet he looked at least three years older. The lines on his forehead were so deeply engraved that Sherlock suspected he'd been frowning the whole time he'd been away, and he was holding the whole of his upper body as if he'd forgotten how to relax.
“Was she drunk?” he asked, setting his pipette down and pulling off his safety glasses so that he could observe better.
“No,” said John. “That might actually have been better – at least she'd have sobered up by this morning.”
Yesterday had been the fifth anniversary of John's mother's death, so he had gone back to Chelmsford to pay his respects at the garden of remembrance where her ashes had been scattered. It seemed ridiculous to Sherlock, but he'd worked out that the sentimentality surrounding dead relatives was not worth challenging unless he was interested in a really good argument.
Going to Chelmsford meant John had felt he should stay the night with his sister, which Sherlock could have told him was asking for trouble. For once, he was not pleased to have been proved right.
“What was it then?” he asked. John only rarely saw his sister, which meant that Sherlock had very little data about what she and John might choose to fight about.
John just groaned. “It was ridiculous,” he said. He reached up and rubbed at his shoulder, wincing. “God, feels like I've been tense the whole time I was away. Her spare bed is like sleeping on rocks.”
Sherlock's eyes darted over the stiff lines of John's neck and shoulders. This could be the perfect chance to indulge his inexplicable desire to touch John, without pushing any of the boundaries that he hadn't yet fully mapped.
“Do you want a back massage?” he asked.
John's eyes flew to his face and then narrowed suspiciously. “Part of an experiment?”
Sherlock let out a sigh. “No.”
“Someone once murdered someone else with a massage, and you want to see if you can work out how?”
Sherlock let out a longer sigh. “No,” he repeated. “I just thought you looked tense, that's all. If you don't want one, I'll go back to my precipitate.” He picked up his pipette again, feeling oddly slighted. John really didn't have any reason to trust him given that Sherlock had taken advantage of him for the sake of an experiment more than once before, but it still stung.
“No,” said John quickly. “No, it's- That would be great, thank you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock regarded him for a moment, then nodded and stood up. How best to do this? Ideally, he'd have John sprawled out on a soft, flat surface – a bed would be best – but that came with all the wrong kinds of connections. John made the decision for him by pulling off his coat and jumper, then turning to brace himself on the arm of the sofa. Right, that was probably the manly, blokeish way to do it. If there was a manly, blokeish way to give your husband a back massage.
Sherlock knelt on the sofa behind him, eyeing up the configuration of his muscles. Should he mention he'd never done this before? Probably not, that might make John change his mind. Besides, it wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't studied the anatomy in detail. What could go wrong?
He started gently, running his fingers over the worst of the knotted muscles. How on earth was he meant to relax those? It felt like John's back was strung with steel cables. “You really did have an awful time,” he said, daring to press harder and start to properly dig in.
“Yeah,” agreed John, dropping his head to expose more of his neck. “I mean, I figured it was going to be a bit shit, what with Mum's anniversary, but-” Sherlock hit what must have been a particularly tricky spot, and he cut himself off in favour of a grunting sigh. Muscles softened under Sherlock's fingers and he felt a surge of pride. He'd done that – he'd made John feel better with just his hands. So much easier than trying to find the right words to say.
There was silence for a few minutes as Sherlock got used to what he was doing, listening to the changes in John's breathing to tell him what worked and what didn't. Getting to touch John like this was even more of a treat than he'd thought it would be.
“I told her about our marriage,” said John into the silence. Ah, that explained a lot. “Well, no, she spotted my ring and asked about it. And then was furious she hadn't been invited.”
“No one was invited,” Sherlock pointed out.
“Except Mrs. Hudson,” agreed John. “Of course, Harry didn't accept that. Especially not when she found out Mycroft was there. 'Oh, so his sibling gets to go, and yours doesn't even find out for seven months?' Bloody nightmare.”
John was getting tense again just talking about it. Sherlock frowned with annoyance and redoubled his efforts.
“And that was just the start of it,” continued John, letting out a sigh as Sherlock worked his thumbs into his neck. “Then she got on to 'and since when have you been gay anyway?' and 'you told me you and Sherlock were just friends!'”
“You're not, and we are,” said Sherlock, although there didn't feel anything 'just' about his and John's friendship.
“Yeah, telling her that entirely failed to help,” said John. “Shockingly. It's not as if there's any easy way to explain this to people.”
Sherlock pressed his palms into John's shoulder blades. “What's the point in bothering with explanations?” he asked. “It's not as if their opinions matter.”
John let out a gentle chuckle and Sherlock felt more tension slip from his shoulders. “I knew you'd say that,” he said. “And I don't usually bother, really, it's just – she's my sister.”
Sherlock tried to imagine having to explain anything to Mycroft just because he was his brother, and drew a blank. Either he already knew and probably had done before Sherlock, or it wasn't important enough for Sherlock to bother about. Or he'd prefer it if he didn't know.
John let out another long sigh. “God, you're good at this.”
Sherlock allowed himself a smug feeling. He'd known it couldn't be that hard.
John rolled his shoulders back, then turned so he could collapse against the sofa and give Sherlock a weary smile. “Thanks,” he said.
“Not a problem,” said Sherlock, shifting so that he was leaning next to John, their arms resting against each other. “Just avoid getting tense again and ruining my good work.”
John let out a quiet laugh. “I'll do my best. Don't suppose Harry is going to be talking to me much for a bit, so that's one source of stress eradicated.”
“Her loss,” said Sherlock.
“Yeah,” agreed John, and his head tipped to fall onto Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock almost flinched from surprise but schooled himself to relax into him instead. John didn't initiate this kind of thing very often and he needed to encourage him, not make it awkward.
They stayed like that for a while, the last fragments of tension seeping from John's body while Sherlock sat and watched his experiment spoil. It didn't matter, it would be easy enough to replicate later, unlike this moment.
Next fic in the 'verse here: Wine Stains And Waistcoats.
*
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Date: 2013-01-22 09:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-30 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-22 10:35 pm (UTC)And So much easier than trying to find the right words to say sums Sherlock up very well.
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Date: 2013-01-30 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-22 11:41 pm (UTC)He'd done that – he'd made John feel better with just his hands. So much easier than trying to find the right words to say.
no subject
Date: 2013-01-30 09:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-22 11:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-30 09:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-23 06:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-30 09:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-17 06:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-02-17 01:44 pm (UTC)