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Fic Rec: Bedtime Stories
May. 22nd, 2012 08:24 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
aprilleigh24.livejournal.comTitle: Bedtime Stories
Author: Liketheriver
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Length: 34,000
Rating: Mature
Warnings: none
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: John's POV during Season 2 and beyond when Sherlock takes up semi-permanent residence in his bed. A collection of codas and missing scenes wrapped up into one long fic and topped with a bow that takes the story beyond Reichenbach and into happy territory once more.
Reccer's comments: You know that feeling when you are reading a story and you find yourself slowing down and taking breaks because the awesome is so perfect you want to draw out the story just a bit more? If you don't know that feeling, then read this story and you will. Love this story. I love how it perfectly slides into cannon and fills in the gaps that I didn't even think to wonder about. The characterization is perfect, and it contains one of my favorite tropes of this fandom- John and Sherlock 'not quite platonically' sharing a bed.
Excerpt:
I ponder for a few seconds then ask the only thing I can, "Why are you acting this way?"
He goes back to staring at the ceiling, speaking between the tent of fingers over his lips. "There is only one explanation I can come up with."
Well, at least he does have an explanation, which means, hopefully this conversation will be over soon and I can get back to sleep. I’m already yawning, preparing to agree with him whatever he says, so I can shoo him out of my room to go scan forty websites simultaneously on my laptop, his laptop, and both our mobiles for his next case.
"I must be in love with you," he says quietly.
I speak dismissively around my yawn. "I knew you’d figure it… What? Sherlock, you are not in love with me." If my laugh is a little frayed, well, it’s been one of those nights.
He sighs in disappointment. "I suppose you’re right," he admits with absolutely no argument. "But it would have been a fairly simple problem to fix considering how easily women don’t seem to fall in love with you, or if they do, they quickly fall out of love with you. I just assumed it would be the same with me."
My eyes narrow and I open my mouth to argue, but I quickly decide it’s not worth it, especially since my track record has proven him correct. Instead, I roll over on my side with my back to him. "Time to go, Sherlock. Unlike some people, I rate sleep very highly, and I would like to get at least a little before the sun comes up. We can examine your feelings in the morning over a nice cup of tea if you still feel the need, but right now we’re going to suppress them down like the good little Queen’s subjects we are and get some sleep."
I tug the blankets up over my shoulder, at least as far as I can with Sherlock still lying on top of them beside me. I pull harder with a frustrated, "Sherlock…"
"Obviously, you’re right, John, I’m not in love with you."
"Cheers. Well done, you. Now off to bed." I yank once more, but he doesn’t budge.
"But if I ever could fall in love with someone, I believe it would be you."
I lie very still, considering what he just said. So many damn variables in that statement, and way too many to consider given my mental state. I hated seeing Sherlock at that pool. I hated Moriarty for using me on Sherlock like that, more even than threatening my life with a vest full of explosives. But, if I’m honest with myself, really honest, honest in a way I haven’t allowed myself to be since before I was shot, I’d admit I had never been more relieved to see anyone as I was when Sherlock walked into the pool. Because I knew if anyone could get me out of there alive, it would be him. It is bloody well terrifying how much I trust the man when it is obvious to anyone he cannot be trusted to do anything to remotely qualify as safe or rational. Sherlock Holmes is the antithesis of everything my therapist told me I should have in my life, but he is the very essence of everything I need to feel alive.
So, who am I to deprive him of the same thing?
I clear my throat and speak over my shoulder. "If you’re going to stay, at least get under the duvet so I don’t feel like I’m in a straightjacket." I mutter under my breath, "Although I bloody well may deserve one for agreeing to this."
Author: Liketheriver
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Length: 34,000
Rating: Mature
Warnings: none
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Author's summary: John's POV during Season 2 and beyond when Sherlock takes up semi-permanent residence in his bed. A collection of codas and missing scenes wrapped up into one long fic and topped with a bow that takes the story beyond Reichenbach and into happy territory once more.
Reccer's comments: You know that feeling when you are reading a story and you find yourself slowing down and taking breaks because the awesome is so perfect you want to draw out the story just a bit more? If you don't know that feeling, then read this story and you will. Love this story. I love how it perfectly slides into cannon and fills in the gaps that I didn't even think to wonder about. The characterization is perfect, and it contains one of my favorite tropes of this fandom- John and Sherlock 'not quite platonically' sharing a bed.
Excerpt:
I ponder for a few seconds then ask the only thing I can, "Why are you acting this way?"
He goes back to staring at the ceiling, speaking between the tent of fingers over his lips. "There is only one explanation I can come up with."
Well, at least he does have an explanation, which means, hopefully this conversation will be over soon and I can get back to sleep. I’m already yawning, preparing to agree with him whatever he says, so I can shoo him out of my room to go scan forty websites simultaneously on my laptop, his laptop, and both our mobiles for his next case.
"I must be in love with you," he says quietly.
I speak dismissively around my yawn. "I knew you’d figure it… What? Sherlock, you are not in love with me." If my laugh is a little frayed, well, it’s been one of those nights.
He sighs in disappointment. "I suppose you’re right," he admits with absolutely no argument. "But it would have been a fairly simple problem to fix considering how easily women don’t seem to fall in love with you, or if they do, they quickly fall out of love with you. I just assumed it would be the same with me."
My eyes narrow and I open my mouth to argue, but I quickly decide it’s not worth it, especially since my track record has proven him correct. Instead, I roll over on my side with my back to him. "Time to go, Sherlock. Unlike some people, I rate sleep very highly, and I would like to get at least a little before the sun comes up. We can examine your feelings in the morning over a nice cup of tea if you still feel the need, but right now we’re going to suppress them down like the good little Queen’s subjects we are and get some sleep."
I tug the blankets up over my shoulder, at least as far as I can with Sherlock still lying on top of them beside me. I pull harder with a frustrated, "Sherlock…"
"Obviously, you’re right, John, I’m not in love with you."
"Cheers. Well done, you. Now off to bed." I yank once more, but he doesn’t budge.
"But if I ever could fall in love with someone, I believe it would be you."
I lie very still, considering what he just said. So many damn variables in that statement, and way too many to consider given my mental state. I hated seeing Sherlock at that pool. I hated Moriarty for using me on Sherlock like that, more even than threatening my life with a vest full of explosives. But, if I’m honest with myself, really honest, honest in a way I haven’t allowed myself to be since before I was shot, I’d admit I had never been more relieved to see anyone as I was when Sherlock walked into the pool. Because I knew if anyone could get me out of there alive, it would be him. It is bloody well terrifying how much I trust the man when it is obvious to anyone he cannot be trusted to do anything to remotely qualify as safe or rational. Sherlock Holmes is the antithesis of everything my therapist told me I should have in my life, but he is the very essence of everything I need to feel alive.
So, who am I to deprive him of the same thing?
I clear my throat and speak over my shoulder. "If you’re going to stay, at least get under the duvet so I don’t feel like I’m in a straightjacket." I mutter under my breath, "Although I bloody well may deserve one for agreeing to this."
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