![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vulgarweedTitle: Decoration Day
Fandom: Sherlock (Appalachian AU)
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 442 (double 221B format)
Warnings: None really, except offstage long-ago NPC death and reminders of graveyard sex.
Summary: What has Sherlock done now? Is it a gift? An apology? A thank-you? Whatever it is, it's a little bit sweet and a little bit morbid.
My skills are slipping, John thought. At first, he'd known the twists and turns of road, the specific sounds of gravel in certain places, the rush of wind moving through walls of trees sounding so different from the patches of open fields. The dips of valleys, the steep rises of hills, the stomach-twist of switchbacks and the little inner ear-pops of changing altitude. But now, he was lost, well and truly, and the world was dark.
“Do you know where we are, John?” Sherlock asked as the hearse came to a halt.
“Not yet. Can I take the blindfold off?”
“Now, yes.”
John looked around, squinting, at the spring-wakening woods. It looked familiar, but he couldn't place it yet. Sherlock reached in the big bag between them on the front seat, and to John's surprise, pulled out bunches of flowers. He handed one to John and led them down the overgrown forest path.
The vista opened a little, and then John remembered this place: tiny family graveyard, overgrown and half-forgotten, surrounded by encroaching woods. He caught a glimpse of Sherlock's seductive, sidelong smile, and blushed at the memory. The digging. The broken casket and snapping twigs. The bear. The fear.
There'd been more to Sherlock's game that night than finding a match for the fiddle of bone.
***
Quickly and adeptly as before, Sherlock leaped the rotting chestnut log and brought John back to the spot they'd excavated months earlier. Now he had more information, and he was spilling it quickly, like automatic gunfire. “Edie Saltire, nee Bedsaul, born January 12, 1900 – died August 27, 1922. Cause of death was postpartum infection following the birth of her second son Virgil. Virgil Saltire is buried two plots down. Died April 4, 1943. Killed in action in the European theatre of World War II. He was Kelly Milligan's fiancé, and it was here, on his grave, that her body was found. Approximately. The graves were not well-marked at the time.”
While he talked, John just stood there boggling, because that last time they'd been here, there hadn't been two new professionally-made gravestones standing there; small and tasteful, fitting the surroundings.
“You're prone to sentiment. I thought you might like it,” Sherlock said.
“Guess we owed her an apology,” John said, looking at the fresh bright flag on Virgil's grave.
Big break in the case. First taste of Sherlock's mouth. First grasp of his cock, first cries of his lust. Inappropriate reactions appeared, now as then. John's knees and heart felt soft.
“And a thanks,” Sherlock said, tasting John's mouth again before they laid down their bouquets.
Note: "Decoration Day" is the original name of Memorial Day. Many Southerners still call it that, and observe it in the traditional way.
Fandom: Sherlock (Appalachian AU)
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 442 (double 221B format)
Warnings: None really, except offstage long-ago NPC death and reminders of graveyard sex.
Summary: What has Sherlock done now? Is it a gift? An apology? A thank-you? Whatever it is, it's a little bit sweet and a little bit morbid.
My skills are slipping, John thought. At first, he'd known the twists and turns of road, the specific sounds of gravel in certain places, the rush of wind moving through walls of trees sounding so different from the patches of open fields. The dips of valleys, the steep rises of hills, the stomach-twist of switchbacks and the little inner ear-pops of changing altitude. But now, he was lost, well and truly, and the world was dark.
“Do you know where we are, John?” Sherlock asked as the hearse came to a halt.
“Not yet. Can I take the blindfold off?”
“Now, yes.”
John looked around, squinting, at the spring-wakening woods. It looked familiar, but he couldn't place it yet. Sherlock reached in the big bag between them on the front seat, and to John's surprise, pulled out bunches of flowers. He handed one to John and led them down the overgrown forest path.
The vista opened a little, and then John remembered this place: tiny family graveyard, overgrown and half-forgotten, surrounded by encroaching woods. He caught a glimpse of Sherlock's seductive, sidelong smile, and blushed at the memory. The digging. The broken casket and snapping twigs. The bear. The fear.
There'd been more to Sherlock's game that night than finding a match for the fiddle of bone.
***
Quickly and adeptly as before, Sherlock leaped the rotting chestnut log and brought John back to the spot they'd excavated months earlier. Now he had more information, and he was spilling it quickly, like automatic gunfire. “Edie Saltire, nee Bedsaul, born January 12, 1900 – died August 27, 1922. Cause of death was postpartum infection following the birth of her second son Virgil. Virgil Saltire is buried two plots down. Died April 4, 1943. Killed in action in the European theatre of World War II. He was Kelly Milligan's fiancé, and it was here, on his grave, that her body was found. Approximately. The graves were not well-marked at the time.”
While he talked, John just stood there boggling, because that last time they'd been here, there hadn't been two new professionally-made gravestones standing there; small and tasteful, fitting the surroundings.
“You're prone to sentiment. I thought you might like it,” Sherlock said.
“Guess we owed her an apology,” John said, looking at the fresh bright flag on Virgil's grave.
Big break in the case. First taste of Sherlock's mouth. First grasp of his cock, first cries of his lust. Inappropriate reactions appeared, now as then. John's knees and heart felt soft.
“And a thanks,” Sherlock said, tasting John's mouth again before they laid down their bouquets.
Note: "Decoration Day" is the original name of Memorial Day. Many Southerners still call it that, and observe it in the traditional way.
