That Scent Must Sustain (1): My Brain is Haunted
#1 of That Scent Must Sustain
Sherlock cannot get enough of the scent of John; he relishes it, drinking it in. It consumes him.
This is part of a series I'm working on; I have six chapters so far. I'll post them all, and update as I finish more. This is an AU based on Patrick Süskind's 'Perfume'- there will be sex, and violence, and death. You know. All the good stuff. Each chapter is brief, 500-1900 words, to make reading it less of a task. It's also up on AO3, FanFiction.net, and DA.
Sherlock was thinking. That was how he spent most of his time, to be sure, but this mental study had engaged him for several days. He hadn't eaten, he hadn't slept, he simply reclined on the couch, eyes open, fingers steepled against the bow of his lips, and thought. John was worried; he was always worrying over Sherlock, but this was new- it was a little scary. His eyes were gleaming in the yellow light of the lamps, vacant and foreign to the doctor, but if he looked into them they seemed to pierce into his very soul.
After the fourth day, John could take no more. He knelt beside Sherlock and took his pulse. Strong, but slow. Measured. He breathed deeply, slowly... it was like a trance. John sighed, his breath stirring the detective's curly brown locks.
"Sherlock, you need to stop this. You need to come back now, alright? We have cases, you need food, you need a shower... and I... dammit, Sherlock, I MISS you."
He moved to brush a stray curl from Sherlock's brow when a slender white hand locked around his wrist. Sherlock pulled him close and inhaled deeply. He drank in John's scent- tea and jam and cotton and sweat and iron and something purely John. He flicked his blue eyes over John's lined face intently, as if studying the man.
John gulped and tried to pull away.
"I love the way you smell, John. I'd bottle it if I could, keeping it near me forever. I'd never be without you."
The doctor flushed to the tips of his ears. Sherlock's eyes had found his, and they stayed there. Blue on hazel, and sparks flew. John averted his gaze first, but he could feel Sherlock's lingering on him. He cleared his throat and attempted to pull back. Sherlock's grip loosened, and John practically crawled away.
"Y-yes, well, thank- thank you, Sherlock. It's good to have you back among the living."
He tried to stand, but his legs failed him. He knew Sherlock noticed. Embarrassment flooded him beneath his partner's scrutiny. He gathered himself and rose, turning his back to the prone detective on the sofa.
"John."
Deep, almost a growl, rumbling through John's chest as it filled the apartment. Sherlock had a voice like black silk, and he knew how to use it. It was said calmly, but it was an imperative statement. It was a command. John stopped in his tracks and turned back to Sherlock, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. His entire mouth had gone dry.
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"I missed you too."
John snorted.
"Heard that, did you? I didn't think reality could reach you in your mental catalogue."
"It can't. I came back when you paused."
John's features softened, and he walked back to Sherlock with a sigh.
"What were you thinking about? Some of the cases? New leads, assessing evidence, planning ways to kill Anderson?"
Sherlock turned his face toward John. He studied him, again, and John felt himself break out in gooseflesh. They sat in silence for what seemed like ages, staring intently at one another, until Sherlock finally spoke.
"You."