“Listen. There’s plenty of research saying this type of stimulus can work to relax tension,” John told him. Sherlock glared. John was under the apprehension that Sherlock was tense. Sherlock wasn’t tense. Sherlock was just fine, thank you very much, it was all John who had the issue.
John, who had recently bought a pack of six new white vests and had decided that stripping off his overshirt and wearing nothing but his vest and jeans in the flat was acceptable, like some James-Dean type American. Tight vests. White. Practically translucent.
Anyway, the point was, Sherlock wasn’t tense. “I hardly think listening to the sound of someone chopping through non-newtonian fluids is going to add to my mental health,” he said, and John sighed.
“Fine! Try some other sound. There must be one that will make your brain relax a bit,” he grumbled, and Sherlock frowned.
“I doubt it,” was all he said, before flopping over on the sofa so his back was to John’s white-vested person.
——
John was snoring.
It wasn’t loud, persay, but it was enough that it could be heard through the thin ceiling of the sitting room in the still hush of two am Baker Street. Sherlock glared at the ceiling, bow in hand. John’s rhythm was all off; he couldn’t play when the sounds clashed.
He set the violin down, still frowning as he headed upstairs, but paused when he opened John’s bedroom door.
John, as it happened, slept with no shirt or vest on whatsoever, Sherlock discovered. The scar was on full display in the light of the outside street lamp, the ray drifting through the window like an errant and unknowing spotlight. Sherlock crept closer, making out the different lines of it, and sat on the edge of the bed.
It raised and fell with the next snore, and Sherlock watched as the taut skin expanded and tightened again with the movement. And again, and again.
An odd tingling went down his spine. It was right. A satisfying thing, this, the sound of John breathing, the sight of his skin, knit-together and healing, proof of survival, moving with each breath.
It was several hours before Sherlock crept back downstairs, oddly lethargic, and went to bed, sleeping easily for once.
——
“You found it,” John said, several days later, “Or you must have found something, because you’re much less crabby now.” He smiled at Sherlock.
Sherlock paused, and smiled back.
——
It was a very bad case. One that left both of them upset: Sherlock because he’d been too late, John because he knew it couldn’t have been helped but he couldn’t reassure Sherlock.
Sherlock hung up his coat with a huff, and turned to screech on his violin while John made tea. John sat, drinking it while Sherlock’s sounds grew more and more irritable and higher and higher pitches, then set his cup down.
“Come on,” he said, “We’re going to bed.”
“You’re going to bed,” Sherlock snapped, but John shook his head.
”We’re going to bed. You’ll calm down.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, and John planted his feet, lifting his chin.
“Upstairs, Sherlock Holmes, now.”
Sherlock didn’t drop the violin, but he did drop his jaw, and John smirked.
“I figured it out on day three. Your ASMR,” he said, and Sherlock took half a minute to be upset before realising what John had offered, and only taking the time to carefully wipe the rosin off the violin before bounding upstairs.
My personal theory is that the vests were a gift from one longsuffering, exasperated Gregory Lestrade, who said that he accidentally bought a size too small, but in reality is just done with the sexual tension hovering around his crime scenes.
I think John would be curious but not necessarily dismissive. Placebos can do a lot, and if sound works as a placebo to bring calmness and peace, who is he to disagree? Or maybe it's lighting up parts of our brains we don't understand yet. He's a trauma surgeon, Jim, not a neurosurgeon. (He's also not Bones, but that's how I thought that sentence.)
But yeah, in this case he's definitely grasping at straws, because please settle down Sherlock for the love of Ghandi hoolahooping on a hippo.
The cab clattered up to the brownstone, and Holmes flung himself out into the rain and up the steps of 221B without a backwards glance, leaving Watson behind to clamber out into the deluge with a wince. By the time he paid the cabbie and limped up the stairs, Holmes was out of his wet coat and muddy shoes, and smoking furiously by the fireplace with his shirtsleeves rolled up, long fingers clenched tightly around the pipe.
Watson ignored him in favor of divesting his own outerwear, heavy with water, before heading to the lavatory for a towel.
“You should dry your hair,” he called, vigorously rubbing his own head. “Would be a fright if you caught ill.” He was unsurprised by the lack of reply. After a day like theirs, it was only with great resolve that he would not join in his friend’s black mood. He was determined that a few hours of the evening could still be salvaged into something pleasant, despite the strong cloud of tobacco that threatened to choke the air.
There was no point in suggesting they crack a window, as the storm outside continued to howl unrelentingly.
There was a rough draft of one of their earlier cases on the table, so he gathered a pen and sat down stiffly with it. And oh, it felt good to get off his feet! Reading aloud always helped him when editing, so he did so softly, feeling the shape of the words and noting where a word might be missing, or the rhythm wrong.
“Don’t do that!” Holmes burst out loudly, causing Watson to nearly knock the inkwell over in surprise.
“What?” he cried angrily, his own frustrations bubbling to the surface. Holmes had dragged him roughshod through the mud, pelted with cold rain, and… for God’s sake, he was too tired for this fight.
“You were muttering,” Holmes said sharply.
“You could have mentioned,” Watson said tightly, and made to stand. “I’ll take it up to my room if it bothers you so.” His mind couldn’t help but argue that Holmes could just as easily relocated himself to his own rooms, if it bothered him so.
“No!” Holmes moved to block the stairway. “Stay. Just not… that. Not now, not when things are like this. Please.”
And it was in the please that John heard what Holmes didn’t say aloud, which was Not with three small bodies and their parents missing and a day of clues washed away in the rain and not enough information, it’s not enough, I’m not enough -
“Sherlock-” he began, but his gentle tone only made his friend spin away and begin to pace.
“There must be something… some clue, some connection. It must... why can I not see it! I need clarity, Watson! If you would only let me-”
Watson inhaled sharply as both their minds flew to the small black case hidden somewhere in the flat, with it’s glass vial and long, thin needle...
“You’ve done all you can,” he said firmly. “Lestrade will have more to-morrow.”
Holmes gave an anguished cry, and there was a wildness in his eyes that made Watson ache in sympathy. “But I cannot bear the waiting!”
This would not do.
“The both of us have had a cold, wet day. Light us a fire,” Watson ordered, drawing himself up. “I shall make us some tea with a bit of brandy, and then you shall play me something.”
To his relief, Holmes did not argue, but bent before the fireplace as Watson made his way to the kitchen and set the kettle on. Once the tea was ready, Watson carefully bore just one cup at a time - in delivering the first to Holmes, the fire was beginning to crackle, and by the time he returned with his own, Holmes had opened the violin case and was tightening the bow.
The first piece was tight and frenetic, and the next one shrill and piercing, but under the steady warmth of the fire and Watson’s regard, Holmes’s playing gradually softened. With the last notes of a waltz, he set the violin aside as Watson clapped and showered him in praise.
“Quite unnecessary,” he protested modestly, gently packing the instrument back into its case with the utmost care.
After that, Watson took up a book to read, and Sherlock returned to his thoughts and the pipe. Despite his insistence that he was not tired, Holmes even managed to doze off, his long limbs sunk into his chair with graceful abandon.
In the morning, Holmes leapt up to the arrival of a telegram from the Yard. Watson took the clear skies as a good omen, and left his limp behind as they rushed down the steps and back into the fray.
--
The case, sad as it was, was finally resolved by the following evening, and it was with great relief that both Watson and Holmes collapsed into their beds. The next morning was a languid affair, tea with eggs and bacon and toast for breakfast. Holmes even ate half the plate Watson placed before him, before wandering away to poke at something he had shoved under the microscope.
After setting the dishes aside, Watson eyed the rough draft on the table, unsure.
“It won’t bother me,” Holmes said, somehow noticing his hesitation despite having both eyes on the device in front of him.
“Yesterday…”
“A matter of bad timing. I ought to apologize, but that would imply such outbursts won’t happen again, and we both know the truth of that.” There was a small click as he slid a new slide into place. “I would quite like it if you were to continue now.”
Well. Holmes rarely offered polite requests for anything reasonable.
Watson settled into his chair, took up the manuscript, and began to read.
However, his curiosity was piqued, and so he did not fail to notice when Holmes set his third slide before simply closing his eyes, and listening.
“What do you like about it?” Watson finally asked, pausing the in the middle of a paragraph.
Holmes opened his eyes slowly, and met his curious gaze. For a moment, they simply looked at each other.
“It’s… very strange,” Holmes admitted.
At this, Watson chuckled. “Were I prejudiced against the strange, I could hardly account for my choice of lodgings and the company I keep, don’t you think?” And at Holmes’ continued reticence, he added, “Come now. I’m a medical man - I am sure I have encountered stranger.”
“Very well,” Holmes said, and stood quite abruptly, leaving his slides to stride across the room and into his chair. “There are certain… circumstances,” he began, his fingers tapping at his lips. “Like listening to you speaking softly at length, or the sound of soft rain, that trigger a sensation in my head or the back of my neck. Almost like…” he paused, searching for an appropriate expression. “Like champagne bubbles, but inside of me. It’s very relaxing. It makes me quite content.”
He looked sidelong at Watson, as if to gauge his reaction.
John tried to think of anything similar that had come across him while he was in practise, but nothing came to mind. Granted, it seemed like a trivial topic to raise with a physician, even more so during his service as an army doctor. “How curious. But your reaction last night was quite the opposite.”
Holmes frowned. “There is a time and a place for pleasant things, Watson. Would you pet something soft with dirty hands? No. It would quite ruin the experience.”
“Well, I suppose I am flattered, that I might invoke such a response.” And then, because his friend looked quite serious, he tried to lighten the mood with a joke. “This is what you keep me around, then?”
“There are many reasons, Watson,” Holmes replied, quite gravely.
“Put them down to a list then,” Watson declared with good humor, waving a hand in what he imagined a grandiose fashion. “And I shall read them to you softly when I haven’t any of my own writing to work on.”
That earned him a smile, one of the special ones that started small and grew until it crinkled the corners of Holmes’ eyes.
“Perhaps I shall,” Holmes said, before turning his face away towards the window.
Watson stared, perhaps a moment too long, before turning back to his patiently waiting manuscript. It really was quite flattering, to think of that clever, relentless brain gentled by nothing more than a voice. His voice.
I did do a cursory look-about, but didn't find much. Since it didn't seem like something Watson would have encountered, I decided to let it go.
Now I feel like I should write a follow-up where Watson does some research and tells Holmes about his findings, because Holmes would haaaaaaaate that proposed name. Inaccurate in scope and sensationalist.
...also “Were I prejudiced against the strange, I could hardly account for my choice of lodgings and the company I keep, don’t you think?” out-Doyles ACD. You've captured the Victorian register so well.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2019-01-18 01:53 am (UTC)John, who had recently bought a pack of six new white vests and had decided that stripping off his overshirt and wearing nothing but his vest and jeans in the flat was acceptable, like some James-Dean type American. Tight vests. White. Practically translucent.
Anyway, the point was, Sherlock wasn’t tense. “I hardly think listening to the sound of someone chopping through non-newtonian fluids is going to add to my mental health,” he said, and John sighed.
“Fine! Try some other sound. There must be one that will make your brain relax a bit,” he grumbled, and Sherlock frowned.
“I doubt it,” was all he said, before flopping over on the sofa so his back was to John’s white-vested person.
——
John was snoring.
It wasn’t loud, persay, but it was enough that it could be heard through the thin ceiling of the sitting room in the still hush of two am Baker Street. Sherlock glared at the ceiling, bow in hand. John’s rhythm was all off; he couldn’t play when the sounds clashed.
He set the violin down, still frowning as he headed upstairs, but paused when he opened John’s bedroom door.
John, as it happened, slept with no shirt or vest on whatsoever, Sherlock discovered. The scar was on full display in the light of the outside street lamp, the ray drifting through the window like an errant and unknowing spotlight. Sherlock crept closer, making out the different lines of it, and sat on the edge of the bed.
It raised and fell with the next snore, and Sherlock watched as the taut skin expanded and tightened again with the movement. And again, and again.
An odd tingling went down his spine. It was right. A satisfying thing, this, the sound of John breathing, the sight of his skin, knit-together and healing, proof of survival, moving with each breath.
It was several hours before Sherlock crept back downstairs, oddly lethargic, and went to bed, sleeping easily for once.
——
“You found it,” John said, several days later, “Or you must have found something, because you’re much less crabby now.” He smiled at Sherlock.
Sherlock paused, and smiled back.
——
It was a very bad case. One that left both of them upset: Sherlock because he’d been too late, John because he knew it couldn’t have been helped but he couldn’t reassure Sherlock.
Sherlock hung up his coat with a huff, and turned to screech on his violin while John made tea. John sat, drinking it while Sherlock’s sounds grew more and more irritable and higher and higher pitches, then set his cup down.
“Come on,” he said, “We’re going to bed.”
“You’re going to bed,” Sherlock snapped, but John shook his head.
”We’re going to bed. You’ll calm down.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, and John planted his feet, lifting his chin.
“Upstairs, Sherlock Holmes, now.”
Sherlock didn’t drop the violin, but he did drop his jaw, and John smirked.
“I figured it out on day three. Your ASMR,” he said, and Sherlock took half a minute to be upset before realising what John had offered, and only taking the time to carefully wipe the rosin off the violin before bounding upstairs.
John shook his head fondly, and headed upstairs.
no subject
Date: 2019-01-18 03:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-01-18 03:48 am (UTC)Edit: Posted on Ao3 here.
no subject
Date: 2019-01-19 07:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-01-20 07:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-01-19 03:15 am (UTC)And I love how very not-bothered he is at John's tight, white shirts. Not bothered at all.
no subject
Date: 2019-01-19 03:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-01-19 03:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-01-19 04:01 am (UTC)Yay!
Date: 2019-01-25 10:07 pm (UTC)Re: Yay!
Date: 2019-01-27 04:05 am (UTC)But yeah, in this case he's definitely grasping at straws, because please settle down Sherlock for the love of Ghandi hoolahooping on a hippo.
Re: Yay!
Date: 2019-01-28 06:52 pm (UTC)I hope all doctors would bring this attitude. Sadly in my experience surgeons are the least likely to, even when their own speciality uses placebo.
no subject
Date: 2019-01-19 03:07 am (UTC)The cab clattered up to the brownstone, and Holmes flung himself out into the rain and up the steps of 221B without a backwards glance, leaving Watson behind to clamber out into the deluge with a wince. By the time he paid the cabbie and limped up the stairs, Holmes was out of his wet coat and muddy shoes, and smoking furiously by the fireplace with his shirtsleeves rolled up, long fingers clenched tightly around the pipe.
Watson ignored him in favor of divesting his own outerwear, heavy with water, before heading to the lavatory for a towel.
“You should dry your hair,” he called, vigorously rubbing his own head. “Would be a fright if you caught ill.”
He was unsurprised by the lack of reply. After a day like theirs, it was only with great resolve that he would not join in his friend’s black mood. He was determined that a few hours of the evening could still be salvaged into something pleasant, despite the strong cloud of tobacco that threatened to choke the air.
There was no point in suggesting they crack a window, as the storm outside continued to howl unrelentingly.
There was a rough draft of one of their earlier cases on the table, so he gathered a pen and sat down stiffly with it. And oh, it felt good to get off his feet! Reading aloud always helped him when editing, so he did so softly, feeling the shape of the words and noting where a word might be missing, or the rhythm wrong.
“Don’t do that!” Holmes burst out loudly, causing Watson to nearly knock the inkwell over in surprise.
“What?” he cried angrily, his own frustrations bubbling to the surface. Holmes had dragged him roughshod through the mud, pelted with cold rain, and… for God’s sake, he was too tired for this fight.
“You were muttering,” Holmes said sharply.
“You could have mentioned,” Watson said tightly, and made to stand. “I’ll take it up to my room if it bothers you so.” His mind couldn’t help but argue that Holmes could just as easily relocated himself to his own rooms, if it bothered him so.
“No!” Holmes moved to block the stairway. “Stay. Just not… that. Not now, not when things are like this. Please.”
And it was in the please that John heard what Holmes didn’t say aloud, which was Not with three small bodies and their parents missing and a day of clues washed away in the rain and not enough information, it’s not enough, I’m not enough -
“Sherlock-” he began, but his gentle tone only made his friend spin away and begin to pace.
“There must be something… some clue, some connection. It must... why can I not see it! I need clarity, Watson! If you would only let me-”
Watson inhaled sharply as both their minds flew to the small black case hidden somewhere in the flat, with it’s glass vial and long, thin needle...
“You’ve done all you can,” he said firmly. “Lestrade will have more to-morrow.”
Holmes gave an anguished cry, and there was a wildness in his eyes that made Watson ache in sympathy. “But I cannot bear the waiting!”
This would not do.
“The both of us have had a cold, wet day. Light us a fire,” Watson ordered, drawing himself up. “I shall make us some tea with a bit of brandy, and then you shall play me something.”
To his relief, Holmes did not argue, but bent before the fireplace as Watson made his way to the kitchen and set the kettle on. Once the tea was ready, Watson carefully bore just one cup at a time - in delivering the first to Holmes, the fire was beginning to crackle, and by the time he returned with his own, Holmes had opened the violin case and was tightening the bow.
The first piece was tight and frenetic, and the next one shrill and piercing, but under the steady warmth of the fire and Watson’s regard, Holmes’s playing gradually softened. With the last notes of a waltz, he set the violin aside as Watson clapped and showered him in praise.
“Quite unnecessary,” he protested modestly, gently packing the instrument back into its case with the utmost care.
After that, Watson took up a book to read, and Sherlock returned to his thoughts and the pipe. Despite his insistence that he was not tired, Holmes even managed to doze off, his long limbs sunk into his chair with graceful abandon.
In the morning, Holmes leapt up to the arrival of a telegram from the Yard. Watson took the clear skies as a good omen, and left his limp behind as they rushed down the steps and back into the fray.
--
The case, sad as it was, was finally resolved by the following evening, and it was with great relief that both Watson and Holmes collapsed into their beds. The next morning was a languid affair, tea with eggs and bacon and toast for breakfast. Holmes even ate half the plate Watson placed before him, before wandering away to poke at something he had shoved under the microscope.
After setting the dishes aside, Watson eyed the rough draft on the table, unsure.
“It won’t bother me,” Holmes said, somehow noticing his hesitation despite having both eyes on the device in front of him.
“Yesterday…”
“A matter of bad timing. I ought to apologize, but that would imply such outbursts won’t happen again, and we both know the truth of that.” There was a small click as he slid a new slide into place. “I would quite like it if you were to continue now.”
Well. Holmes rarely offered polite requests for anything reasonable.
Watson settled into his chair, took up the manuscript, and began to read.
However, his curiosity was piqued, and so he did not fail to notice when Holmes set his third slide before simply closing his eyes, and listening.
“What do you like about it?” Watson finally asked, pausing the in the middle of a paragraph.
Holmes opened his eyes slowly, and met his curious gaze. For a moment, they simply looked at each other.
“It’s… very strange,” Holmes admitted.
At this, Watson chuckled. “Were I prejudiced against the strange, I could hardly account for my choice of lodgings and the company I keep, don’t you think?” And at Holmes’ continued reticence, he added, “Come now. I’m a medical man - I am sure I have encountered stranger.”
“Very well,” Holmes said, and stood quite abruptly, leaving his slides to stride across the room and into his chair. “There are certain… circumstances,” he began, his fingers tapping at his lips. “Like listening to you speaking softly at length, or the sound of soft rain, that trigger a sensation in my head or the back of my neck. Almost like…” he paused, searching for an appropriate expression. “Like champagne bubbles, but inside of me. It’s very relaxing. It makes me quite content.”
He looked sidelong at Watson, as if to gauge his reaction.
John tried to think of anything similar that had come across him while he was in practise, but nothing came to mind. Granted, it seemed like a trivial topic to raise with a physician, even more so during his service as an army doctor. “How curious. But your reaction last night was quite the opposite.”
Holmes frowned. “There is a time and a place for pleasant things, Watson. Would you pet something soft with dirty hands? No. It would quite ruin the experience.”
“Well, I suppose I am flattered, that I might invoke such a response.” And then, because his friend looked quite serious, he tried to lighten the mood with a joke. “This is what you keep me around, then?”
“There are many reasons, Watson,” Holmes replied, quite gravely.
“Put them down to a list then,” Watson declared with good humor, waving a hand in what he imagined a grandiose fashion. “And I shall read them to you softly when I haven’t any of my own writing to work on.”
That earned him a smile, one of the special ones that started small and grew until it crinkled the corners of Holmes’ eyes.
“Perhaps I shall,” Holmes said, before turning his face away towards the window.
Watson stared, perhaps a moment too long, before turning back to his patiently waiting manuscript. It really was quite flattering, to think of that clever, relentless brain gentled by nothing more than a voice. His voice.
Holmes closed his eyes.
Clearing his throat, Watson resumed his reading.
no subject
Date: 2019-01-19 03:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-01-19 06:56 am (UTC)"Other names were proposed for ASMR (...) Proposed formal names included 'auditory induced head orgasm'."
no subject
Date: 2019-01-19 04:16 pm (UTC)Now I feel like I should write a follow-up where Watson does some research and tells Holmes about his findings, because Holmes would haaaaaaaate that proposed name. Inaccurate in scope and sensationalist.
Lovely
Date: 2019-01-28 06:55 pm (UTC)Re: Lovely
Date: 2019-02-13 02:44 am (UTC)