Benedict Cumberbatch ♒ To The Ends of The Earth

Hahaha, this makes me think of a thing I’m working on. 😀

The first time, when it started, John was sat with Sherlock in his chambers, keeping the prince company while he caught up on what he called the ‘boring task’ of answering correspondence.

How it could be boring, John couldn’t fathom.  He sat by the diamond-paned window and listened to Sherlock mutter as he worked, little epiphanies and observations on the texts and the people behind them.  Sometimes he read passages aloud, his low voice thrumming in the shadowed corners of the room, and John held his breath at the sound of another man’s words being spilled out leagues away from the place they’d been composed.

The pen scritched across the pages, quill bobbing gently and leaving elegant loops and lines in its wake.  Sherlock had let John try a pen, once, on a scrap of paper he’d spoiled with a spill of wine.  It had felt clumsy, strangely unnatural in fingers strong enough to make a sword do his bidding.  It had felt harsh and ugly in his hand, and John was fairly sure he’d ruined the nib.

Sherlock’s fingers commanded this pen with thoughtless, arcane expertise.  John sat in the fading afternoon light and watched those fingers grow slowly stained with ink, as though the magic of the art were seeping onto his skin.  Though he could remember looking at nothing else for hours, he somehow found himself caught completely off guard when Sherlock reached over, took John by the chin with one spattered hand, and kissed him.