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gayalondiel_bakFandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Title: Love That Is True Love (Youth of the Heart 1/4+epilogue)
Character/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: c.1000 words
Rating: G
Spoilers: Reichenbach, non-specific
Warnings: n/a
Disclaimer: The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
Summary: Sherlock returns after three years of being ‘dead’ thinking that he knows what he will find. He doesn’t have all the information... (Angsty).
Youth of the Heart
1: Love That is True Love
2: Never Be Sung
3: The Wisdom of Winter is Madness in May
4: Saved for My Darling
Epilogue: Will Not Fade Away
Crossposted to:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
221b_slash, johnsherlock, dispatch_box, sherlockbbc, cox_and_co, watsons_woes
Master Fanfic List
AN: This is sort of a songfic in that I was describing Donald Swann’s The Youth Of the Heart to a friend and the fic idea sort of clicked into my head. I do recommend listening to the song which is on Flanders & Swann: At the Drop of Another Hat.
“No, don’t say it.”
“Oh. I...”
“I know. It’s not a passing folly, I promise you.”
“Then what is it?”
***
Sherlock hurried through the suburban streets towards the large stone building, a thrill of foreboding running through him. Three long years; three years alone, with only Mycroft’s coded messages for company and the threat of pursuit ever on his back. Three years he had been dancing with Moran in an intricate waltz leading through Europe, America and Asia, and only now was he close enough to the end to reveal everything to John.
It was scripted in his mind: he would arrive at John’s clinic in disguise, reveal himself under the security of doctor-patient confidentiality where no-one would disturb them. John’s knees would weaken and Sherlock would be there to catch him. Then they would be in each other’s arms, holding like they would never be parted again, until John caught his breath and Sherlock could explain the plan.
They would outsmart Moran, hand him over to Lestrade and then...
And then.
***
”It’s what you think. Just what you think, but don’t say it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too dangerous.”
***
Everything they hadn’t said before could be said. He was so close now. Just get him - get them - through this night, and then they could be together, could begin again what they had put on hold before it started, when John was bleeding and bruised and Sherlock was terrified for the first time in his life, and the weight of fear and pain brought them crashing down into the longing that had been gathering around them.
Now his mission was to find Mycroft, who would arrange the final details. He had given Mycroft’s assistant what seemed to be a minor heart attack by arriving back from the dead in his office, demanding audience. She had directed him to a church in North London and had been about to say more when he brushed her off impatiently and whirled out. He did not care a bit what Mycroft was doing, only that he needed to speak to him immediately.
Mycroft would get things in motion. And then Sherlock would head for the surgery, where John would welcome him with disbelief and open arms.
***
“You mean Moriarty.”
“Yes.”
“It’s dangerous enough, Sherlock.”
“Even more if they know. They’ll use it against us, and I...”
“You have to do what you have to do.”
“Yes.”
***
Mycroft had immediately given Sherlock’s plan his seal of approval, and had performed his role perfectly. The messages he had sent after Sherlock’s ‘death’ had been succinct and sufficient, save that the details of John were tissue-thin. Sherlock always pressed for more in the brief lines he sent back, and always heard the same from Mycroft. John remained living at Baker Street, working at the surgery, and consulting now as a forensic medical examiner for the Met. He was mostly well, except for the bout of swine flu he suffered last winter, and he remained alone.
Sherlock always asked, and Mycroft always answered. John was alone.
As though he was waiting for someone.
As he rounded the corner to the church, a peal of bells began to ring out and he saw people in bright spring colours pouring from the side doors. A wedding, then. In the very back of his mind he wondered whose wedding Mycroft cared to attend. Political machinations, no doubt. Dull.
***
“I know you have to.”
“I do, though, John, I...”
“I know that, too.”
“We will have this.”
“When?”
***
There was Mycroft, resplendent in a pin-striped three piece suit, his customary silver-tipped umbrella clutched at his side. Sherlock wove his way through the gravestones, keeping to the edge of the church yard, until his brother’s sharp eyes swept the horizon like a search light and locked onto him. A ripple of shock crossed his face, and he made his apologies to the woman he was standing with and hurried into the shadows of the trees. Sherlock followed, but not before glancing at the woman.
Mrs. Hudson.
Why was Mrs. Hudson here?
Mycroft reached him and began to speak before Sherlock could open his mouth.
“You must understand,” he said in a low but urgent voice, “it was for the best. It was too soon for you to return, the risk was too great....”
“Mycroft...” Sherlock’s voice faltered into a breathless whisper, as he realised where they were.
“And I knew you would return, if you were told...”
The crowd now milling outside the western doors of the church gave a sudden happy shout, drowning out Mycroft’s voice. A lump of ice settled in Sherlock’s stomach as he turned, knowing what he would see, unable to stop himself, willing his eyes to close even as they burned to see for themselves.
There was a man in a grey suit, Greg Lestrade, looking every inch the best man. He was smiling at the woman next to him - apparently he had reconciled with his wife recently - and then the happy couple moved past them into the sunlight.
John, in his dress uniform, a beautiful and spirited woman in a white gown and a sparkling veil clinging to his arm. They paused, kissed passionately, and the crowed shouted approval.
Sherlock was numb. As if from miles away he heard Mycroft talking again.
“Her name is Mary. You were dead, and John is now happy. Do not take that from him.”
Sherlock closed his eyes, pressed back the tears that threatened suddenly. He could not hear, could not feel, could barely see. He turned to go, but at the last second he looked back at his friend, his once and future and now never lover.
Right then John looked round, his face alight with happiness. Their eyes met as if drawn to one another. Sherlock saw the moment John saw him, and knew. When he realised what had been, and what had not; what would be and what would not be.
***
“When it’s safe. For you, for me, for you because of me, when Moriarty’s out of the picture. I’ve no right to ask, but...”
“Of course I can wait. If you can.”
“I would wait forever.”
“Then so will I.”
Continued in Never Be Sung.
Title: Love That Is True Love (Youth of the Heart 1/4+epilogue)
Character/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: c.1000 words
Rating: G
Spoilers: Reichenbach, non-specific
Warnings: n/a
Disclaimer: The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.
Summary: Sherlock returns after three years of being ‘dead’ thinking that he knows what he will find. He doesn’t have all the information... (Angsty).
Youth of the Heart
1: Love That is True Love
2: Never Be Sung
3: The Wisdom of Winter is Madness in May
4: Saved for My Darling
Epilogue: Will Not Fade Away
Crossposted to:
221b_slash, johnsherlock, dispatch_box, sherlockbbc, cox_and_co, watsons_woesMaster Fanfic List
AN: This is sort of a songfic in that I was describing Donald Swann’s The Youth Of the Heart to a friend and the fic idea sort of clicked into my head. I do recommend listening to the song which is on Flanders & Swann: At the Drop of Another Hat.
“No, don’t say it.”
“Oh. I...”
“I know. It’s not a passing folly, I promise you.”
“Then what is it?”
***
Sherlock hurried through the suburban streets towards the large stone building, a thrill of foreboding running through him. Three long years; three years alone, with only Mycroft’s coded messages for company and the threat of pursuit ever on his back. Three years he had been dancing with Moran in an intricate waltz leading through Europe, America and Asia, and only now was he close enough to the end to reveal everything to John.
It was scripted in his mind: he would arrive at John’s clinic in disguise, reveal himself under the security of doctor-patient confidentiality where no-one would disturb them. John’s knees would weaken and Sherlock would be there to catch him. Then they would be in each other’s arms, holding like they would never be parted again, until John caught his breath and Sherlock could explain the plan.
They would outsmart Moran, hand him over to Lestrade and then...
And then.
***
”It’s what you think. Just what you think, but don’t say it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too dangerous.”
***
Everything they hadn’t said before could be said. He was so close now. Just get him - get them - through this night, and then they could be together, could begin again what they had put on hold before it started, when John was bleeding and bruised and Sherlock was terrified for the first time in his life, and the weight of fear and pain brought them crashing down into the longing that had been gathering around them.
Now his mission was to find Mycroft, who would arrange the final details. He had given Mycroft’s assistant what seemed to be a minor heart attack by arriving back from the dead in his office, demanding audience. She had directed him to a church in North London and had been about to say more when he brushed her off impatiently and whirled out. He did not care a bit what Mycroft was doing, only that he needed to speak to him immediately.
Mycroft would get things in motion. And then Sherlock would head for the surgery, where John would welcome him with disbelief and open arms.
***
“You mean Moriarty.”
“Yes.”
“It’s dangerous enough, Sherlock.”
“Even more if they know. They’ll use it against us, and I...”
“You have to do what you have to do.”
“Yes.”
***
Mycroft had immediately given Sherlock’s plan his seal of approval, and had performed his role perfectly. The messages he had sent after Sherlock’s ‘death’ had been succinct and sufficient, save that the details of John were tissue-thin. Sherlock always pressed for more in the brief lines he sent back, and always heard the same from Mycroft. John remained living at Baker Street, working at the surgery, and consulting now as a forensic medical examiner for the Met. He was mostly well, except for the bout of swine flu he suffered last winter, and he remained alone.
Sherlock always asked, and Mycroft always answered. John was alone.
As though he was waiting for someone.
As he rounded the corner to the church, a peal of bells began to ring out and he saw people in bright spring colours pouring from the side doors. A wedding, then. In the very back of his mind he wondered whose wedding Mycroft cared to attend. Political machinations, no doubt. Dull.
***
“I know you have to.”
“I do, though, John, I...”
“I know that, too.”
“We will have this.”
“When?”
***
There was Mycroft, resplendent in a pin-striped three piece suit, his customary silver-tipped umbrella clutched at his side. Sherlock wove his way through the gravestones, keeping to the edge of the church yard, until his brother’s sharp eyes swept the horizon like a search light and locked onto him. A ripple of shock crossed his face, and he made his apologies to the woman he was standing with and hurried into the shadows of the trees. Sherlock followed, but not before glancing at the woman.
Mrs. Hudson.
Why was Mrs. Hudson here?
Mycroft reached him and began to speak before Sherlock could open his mouth.
“You must understand,” he said in a low but urgent voice, “it was for the best. It was too soon for you to return, the risk was too great....”
“Mycroft...” Sherlock’s voice faltered into a breathless whisper, as he realised where they were.
“And I knew you would return, if you were told...”
The crowd now milling outside the western doors of the church gave a sudden happy shout, drowning out Mycroft’s voice. A lump of ice settled in Sherlock’s stomach as he turned, knowing what he would see, unable to stop himself, willing his eyes to close even as they burned to see for themselves.
There was a man in a grey suit, Greg Lestrade, looking every inch the best man. He was smiling at the woman next to him - apparently he had reconciled with his wife recently - and then the happy couple moved past them into the sunlight.
John, in his dress uniform, a beautiful and spirited woman in a white gown and a sparkling veil clinging to his arm. They paused, kissed passionately, and the crowed shouted approval.
Sherlock was numb. As if from miles away he heard Mycroft talking again.
“Her name is Mary. You were dead, and John is now happy. Do not take that from him.”
Sherlock closed his eyes, pressed back the tears that threatened suddenly. He could not hear, could not feel, could barely see. He turned to go, but at the last second he looked back at his friend, his once and future and now never lover.
Right then John looked round, his face alight with happiness. Their eyes met as if drawn to one another. Sherlock saw the moment John saw him, and knew. When he realised what had been, and what had not; what would be and what would not be.
***
“When it’s safe. For you, for me, for you because of me, when Moriarty’s out of the picture. I’ve no right to ask, but...”
“Of course I can wait. If you can.”
“I would wait forever.”
“Then so will I.”
Continued in Never Be Sung.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-08-06 01:17 am (UTC)glad to see stories from you again. :)
so much angst? :(
no worries, if it weren't effective i'd not care, and that would be worse. :)
no subject
Date: 2011-08-10 05:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-06 04:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-10 05:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-06 10:14 am (UTC)Oh god, the hurt.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-10 05:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-06 01:48 pm (UTC)(But at least we know that Mary eventually leaves the picture... *hopes*)
no subject
Date: 2011-08-10 05:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-06 02:15 pm (UTC)Heart wrenching!
no subject
Date: 2011-08-10 05:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-06 05:26 pm (UTC)Very well written.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-10 05:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-07 11:10 am (UTC)Very nice idea.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-10 05:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-10 04:36 pm (UTC)(Sad, yes, but lovely.)
no subject
Date: 2011-08-10 05:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 01:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-14 08:05 pm (UTC)