Title: Ibid.
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~900
Author notes: For the fan_flashworks "five things" challenge.
Summary: Some places speak distinctly. Certain dank gardens cry aloud for a murder; certain old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are set apart for shipwrecks. - Robert Louis Stevenson



Ibid.

1. The mantelpiece: today, half nine, with all the usual things present and accounted for, one skull, one statuette. The Leatherman knife and the beetle collection and an empty matchbox. One mug of tea with milk, two days old.

One incomplete shopping list annotated with a rather delicious chemical formula.

The scrap reads as follows:

Milk
Jam (raspberry?)

And then:

HAM STEAK

NH2(CH2)4NH2

EST. TIME TO PRODUCE PUTRESCINE: 2 DAYS


2. When John isn't watching (which is most of the time, for all his lurking), Sherlock stands before the mirror and gives himself, oh, maybe thirty seconds' worth of once-over. It's sufficient.

He itemises.

He's gained a pound in the last two weeks -- not reason enough to take on a case, but worth noting. Again, he hasn't slept in fifty-one hours, and the tender skin about his eyes is tinged blue. His hair is still damp from showering, and stray curls cling to his ears. And there, at the right temple, he spots a grey.

Sherlock leans in, and with quick fingers, he nips it free.

And John, neatly encamped in his chair (he needn't even look up from his book), says, "They call that trichotillomania. Another one for your CV?"

Sherlock flicks the thing away. "You know how psychosomatic quandaries go: one must try it on to ensure a proper fit. We're ever in want of a good tailor."

Then he straightens his shirt, toying with the gap between the open buttons. The line of his neck ends in a shadowed pool at his throat, an accentuation of length: another thing he catches John not watching.


3. To begin: low on the mantel's left side, almost to the plinth, there is a small square of molding more worn than the rest. Sherlock hones in on the spot after a few minutes to himself in the flat, and yes, with a moment's prodding, the slim section of wood slides back to reveal an opening, scarcely larger than a fist.

It's empty, but Sherlock knows immediately from the wear to the grain that it once saw regular use. There's also an oily, ashen remnant caked to the bottom of the space -- a quick inspection of his fingertips confirms the suspicion that it's charcoal. And something else. Grittier, and dry. He sniffs.

Ah, interesting. Tobacco. Likely half a century old, or more ancient still. But from the moment Sherlock strolled in, he knew he'd felt an affinity for the place. Now there's just cause.


4. To begin, it's all so bloody ordinary. But then, even flint on steel will spark. One moment they're arguing over organic fibre found beneath a victim's fingernails, John going attractively red as Sherlock sighs, crosses his arms, leans against the mantel in the jaunty way he knows will raise John's hackles -- and the next. Well.

"Damn it all, Sherlock, you've no right--"

Yes. That sounds like a challenge.

Sherlock darts forward and takes John's face in his hands, his fingers cupping John's cheeks, then his jaw, easy as if they were made for it. John's jumper smells like the cedar liners that came with his chest of drawers, but beneath that, John's skin reveals itself in layers of city grime and sweat and soap. And John tastes dark and sweet, a murmur of the half-bottle of house red he downed at dinner.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, we can't--"

"The evidence says otherwise," Sherlock sniffs. He shouldn't have to explain this. His pulse is racing in the same lovely way it does when he cuts to the core of a thing and finds it's only been hiding exactly what he already knew. John's cock is straining at his zip already, so Sherlock sidles forward until John's groin is flush against Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock lowers his hands to John's shoulders, runs his fingers up and down John's clavicle, widens his grip.

Too, John's breathing heavily, almost panting, each lungful a hot puff against Sherlock's throat, and it's like drowning in honey, it's too slow, so Sherlock pushes John's hands away from where they're fumbling with Sherlock's belt. Sherlock finishes the job himself, brass from leather like water down a stone's back.

There's no time to make it to a bed. And anyway, Mrs Hudson came round with the broom only yesterday, so the floor's clean but for the splattered, red-orange residue of an earlier experiment gone exceptionally well.

John bucks up, gasping. "Sherlock! Christ. Am I lying on what used to be that Erlenmeyer you said you misplaced?"

Sherlock grins down at him. Then, between nips at John's mouth: "If you remain perfectly still, I'm certain you won't feel a thing."

"To hell with that," John grunts and flips them both over.

There's glass in Sherlock's hair, but at the moment, there's also fuck-all he's going to do about it.


5. The mantelpiece: now, well after dark, with all the usual things present and accounted for, one skull, one statuette. The Leatherman knife and the beetle collection and an empty matchbox. And two mugs of tea, both piping hot.