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Jan. 24th, 2011 06:56 amI wrote this for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
brewsternorth and I like it so I repost.
It is just as well that Sherlock never claimed to be normal. It is just as well that he never tried to fit his enthusiasms in line with other people's, because he suspects that even Mycroft might find it somewhat less than savoury that the first time Sherlock truly notices John - physically, as more than an amorphous bundle of peculiar annoyances - it is when John's hands are practically inside him.
He does deplore those that state the obvious, thinks 'ow' to be on about the same conversational level as mindless comments about the weather and enquiries after children. He can't quite hold in a grunt, though, as John pulls out the splinter -
"It is not a splinter, Sherlock, it's practically the size of my finger. Your finger. Will you bloody hold still?"
- and pushes the handkerchief a little more tightly against the wound.
John's fingers are messy with Sherlock's blood, tacky in the creases; Sherlock tugs at the hand that's not busy with handkerchiefs and holds his own up against it.
"Must you?" John asks, with an exasperation that suggests he has the situation at least marginally under control.
Must you? Sherlock thinks. The information is useless and ought to make way for far more pertinent things, but Sherlock is almost certain he will never quite forget the precise length of John's fingers against his, the way he can curl his fingers just over the tops as though in possession. It is aggravating, and he ought to berate John for it, but he's not sure John wouldn't find it somehow less than savoury.
"Ow," he says instead.
brewsternorth and I like it so I repost.It is just as well that Sherlock never claimed to be normal. It is just as well that he never tried to fit his enthusiasms in line with other people's, because he suspects that even Mycroft might find it somewhat less than savoury that the first time Sherlock truly notices John - physically, as more than an amorphous bundle of peculiar annoyances - it is when John's hands are practically inside him.
He does deplore those that state the obvious, thinks 'ow' to be on about the same conversational level as mindless comments about the weather and enquiries after children. He can't quite hold in a grunt, though, as John pulls out the splinter -
"It is not a splinter, Sherlock, it's practically the size of my finger. Your finger. Will you bloody hold still?"
- and pushes the handkerchief a little more tightly against the wound.
John's fingers are messy with Sherlock's blood, tacky in the creases; Sherlock tugs at the hand that's not busy with handkerchiefs and holds his own up against it.
"Must you?" John asks, with an exasperation that suggests he has the situation at least marginally under control.
Must you? Sherlock thinks. The information is useless and ought to make way for far more pertinent things, but Sherlock is almost certain he will never quite forget the precise length of John's fingers against his, the way he can curl his fingers just over the tops as though in possession. It is aggravating, and he ought to berate John for it, but he's not sure John wouldn't find it somehow less than savoury.
"Ow," he says instead.
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