Gifts from the Sea
“A few weeks ago I would have thought you were impossible,” Sherlock begins, walking into the kitchen in his blue robe, and John – not quite catching on – wants to scoff and argue, No, actually, you are impossible, but then Sherlock continues: “But now I’d say you are improbable.”
John thinks this might be flattering, if he could wrap his head around it, but he can’t – Sherlock is standing near, steaming his sun-baked-clean-sand smell, like the beach after rain, an alive smell, an other smell. It’s intoxicating, and John has been studiously avoiding it, but he can’t shift away now it’s so near. Now Sherlock’s so near.
And then Sherlock ruins the probable-loveliness of his words and the definite-beauty of his presence by saying: “And by ‘improbable’ I mean ‘not yet scientifically acknowledged.’”
- Part 1 of Gifts from the Sea
“John – John? Wake up.”
John peels his eyelids apart and lifts his head from where it had settled between the car’s headrest and the rattling window with a groan. It takes him a moment to realise that the window isn’t rattling anymore, and then he nearly pitches out headfirst when Sherlock opens his door without warning.
“John, come on!”
When had they pulled over? When had Sherlock gotten out of the car?
“Urhhhh,” John says, rather eloquently, he feels, undoing his seatbelt. After two botched attempts, he manages to make his hands coordinate to push the release button and pull the strap in a useful way, and then he’s finally stumbling out of the car, his feet sinking – sinking? – into –
- Part 2 of Gifts from the Sea