Sherlock hesitates at the door of John’s office of the surgery. It’s past dusk now, and the sky outside has grown a deep, dusty pink and fills the room with an amber glow and Sherlock is frozen, staring at John for the first time in nearly 2 years.
John’s bent over a pile of paperwork that will never seem to end. He’s buried himself in his work, these last few months, staying late at the surgery, long past it’s regular hours, poring over patient records and prescriptions and medical journals. Sherlock knows this by the now lived-in feel of the space, the number of personal affects on the desk, the television off to the side of the room. It’s not muted, but the sound of it is only barely audible. Enough to keep a lonely man company in an empty room.
But Sherlock also sees the glasses, sees the way that John squints at the paperwork in front of him despite the lenses, and though he may have caused some deterioration of his eyesight by sitting in a dark office reading too-small print, Sherlock knows that the glasses aren’t real.
John is utterly immersed in his work, thumbing through sheets of paper, cross referencing from a number of files spread before him, and Sherlock continues to relish in the opportunity to once more observe John, quietly, and without interruption. He scarcely dares to breath, and his heart seems to have gotten the memo because it too seems to stop beating in his chest.
John is stunning. Dressed far too nicely for an evening shut in his office and something yanks on Sherlock’s heart as he thinks “he was supposed to have a date tonight…” because of course that’s what it is, and why John is practically glowing in the light of the rapidly setting sun and why the scent of him surrounds Sherlock and makes him positively dizzy until his legs go a bit funny and he’s not sure if he’s going to fall forward or march across the room until he’s actually moving.
And now John looks up and his eyes are impossibly large behind those useless glasses and he’s shaking but Sherlock is upon him now and even though John is saying something, the rush of adrenaline, of pure relief and rightness is buzzing through Sherlock’s head, through his ears.
Because this is what he should have done ages ago.
(Fuente: freemanist)
Mode Sarcastic!