Fic Rec: Time in the Light

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Title: Time in the Light
Author: scullyseviltwin
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 7317
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: None
Verse: Sherlock BBC

Author's summary: One warm palm in the middle of John’s chest and he goes back willingly against Sherlock’s duvet. “We managed just fine last night.”

“We did,” John grins stupidly. “Didn’t we?”


Reccer's comments: As per the author's notes, this is a second time fic, with emphasis not so much on the sex itself as on the emotional connection that is developing, and has developed, between Sherlock and John. It's hot, and also full of feels. Both of them come to the same conclusion on how they feel about the other, but of course neither one of them can come right out and say it. Somehow, they manage to communicate the truth to each other anyway.

The story takes place in the immediate aftermath of The Hounds of Baskerville. The author does a brilliant job of incorporating and intertwining canon events into the story that she wants to tell. Sherlock is especially lovely in this, while never veering out of character. The sex scene is not only hot, but packs a big emotional wallop.

Don't be fooled by the tone of the excerpt; there is angst, but it mostly takes place in the beginning of the fic, then moves on into a bit more fluffy, light-hearted story-telling, although emphasis on feels and emotion continues to the end.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again. Never, Sherlock.” John finally looks up and the set of his face causes all of the breath to leave Sherlock’s body. His jaw is set in a hard line, eyes somehow both lit by anger and pleading; he looks aged and weathered, as though it’s been fifteen years since Sherlock’s laid eyes on him.

John finishes off his whiskey and sets the glass down with more force than necessary. His hands ball into fists at his side as he stares into the dying flames. When he rounds on Sherlock it’s with a sudden determination that speaks to overcoming nerves. “I’ll be as plain as I can: I couldn’t bear it, Sherlock. I couldn’t. I know it’s... that I shouldn’t... but there you have it. I couldn’t bear it.”

He nods after a moment, saying all that he’s meant to and turns on his heel. “I’m... good night.”

Sherlock watches him go, fists clenched at his sides as he rounds the doorway and disappears up the stairs to their room. He blinks twice and drops his hand, fingers skimming the cap of the whiskey bottle. It dawns on him suddenly, just like that.

Just like that.

Before the light of the fire and in John’s absence, he understands.

Sherlock blinks again, finally able to categorize the leaden feeling in his stomach, the way his fingers have itched to touch. It’s so simple; he fears he’s understood it all along but hasn’t believed the emotion to apply to himself. Upper teeth sink into his bottom lip as he considers.

This could be detrimental to the work. It would be absolutely detrimental to John. He’s always been under the assumption that sentiment sullies the work but has he ever truly put that to the test? No, he supposes not. He also supposes this is brilliant and new and so, so terrifying. His thoughts run together; he shakes his head briskly in an attempt to sort them out.

But then when has Sherlock Holmes even considered what could terrify him and walked away? Sherlock stands and primly tugs at the bottom of his jacket, bending to retrieve the bottle and their two glasses. He deposits them on the bar and rounds the door to the stairs, mounting each one with care.