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part 1A triangle with shifting angles, its lines changing length as the energies between its three points waxed and waned… the three lines that made up the triangle, the vectors of energy all flowing down toward one point. One of the lines was weakened; it collapsed; the whole thing fell apart.
Lestrade came for a case, and stayed for John's tea.
Listening to Lestrade's heart; John’s hands a warm touch.
So many conversations they hadn’t yet had: “It's fine. I'm fine.”
In the join between Sherlock and John is there space
Lestrade wonders. Holmes hadn't a buggering clue how
impossible human hearts are. A crisp equation in his mind:1J + 1S → 1S 1J ↑L1* t1/2 = L01J + 1L + 1S → J1L1 + 1S
If doctors are attracted to damaged and broken things not fine,
“You’ve got Lestrade for your sexual touch,”
Sherlock says. “Have Lestrade round here.”
John still in first flush, in love with the mad rush. How
could Lestrade compete? It’s thrilling, caught up in the space
of Sherlock’s mad wake; his extraordinary mind.
Lestrade the thundercloud: I don't need a bloody mind-
er. John thinks otherwise, bringing him a steaming cup of tea.I meant him for you too, says Sherlock, as if he'd created John, how
he’d built him out of parts he'd scavenged from Bart's. “The touch
of sex I don't need,” Sherlock adds. “I just want John in my space.”
Lestrade tells John: “I’ve always known I’d have to share you, it’s fine.”1L + J1S1 → 1LJ + J1S11L + (1J + 1S) → J1L1 + (1J + 1S)L(J + S) = L*J + (J + S)
Sherlock, carved from marble, cold eyes, cold mind
calculating, “You don't have a private life. Not in my space.
When’s Lestrade coming back round here?”
“Come round to our place,” says John, “it'll be good, it'll be fine.
To have Sherlock without involving his physical touch,
Lestrade’s an extension of Sherlock's world, John’s way how.
John’s silences held tones; he faded into furniture, quiet and brown and fine.
Sherlock is the sun, all blinding and burning and brilliant mind.
John stretched across the sofa, breathless and shaky; Lestrade undoing space
between them. A whisper: wild-haired Sherlock, dull-eyed: “I need tea.”
“Not parents, but a five-year-old, coming in suddenly,” interrupting our touch.
“I’ll get the tea,” John rises. “The state you’re in you’ll hardly know how.”
John assures Lestrade: “In bed is not how
I want to be with Sherlock.” In Lestrade’s mind
a white-hot flash: Sherlock Holmes in bed here,
marble and ink, hands and mouths and touch.
No keeping Sherlock out of the bed space;
he might as well been critiquing them: not at all fine.
Lestrade fumes: “I’m saddled with Sherlock for eternity how?”(1S + 1L)t = ∞
“Sherlock is shamming,” he says to John. “You’ll be fine.”
Sherlock sleeps: one thin hand clutching John’s wrist, a secure touch.
John in the middle, Lestrade lies down too, here with Sherlock of one mind.
Rising alone, John envisions shifting angles as he makes the tea.
When they awake, a John-shaped no-man’s-land in the bed: empty space.
“I hate dealing with him like this. It’s not fine.
Sherlock doesn’t need me to coddle him here;
He’s got John’s comforting touch.
I’ve no time for his prima donna sham of mind.
From the train wreck that is the how
of Sherlock Holmes I’ve been making space.”
When you are done canoodling,I have a box of ears
Human ears in salt,Romance can wait.
NB: These four lines occur in two couplets along the right side of the graphic
part 2Lines, points, vectors and graphs… pages of notes with rough geometrical designs sketched out, notated in neat, minute handwriting… sketches and equations… numbers and angles and degrees, isoscelesand scalene, sine and cosine and tangent… J=90, S=190, G=150. “It’s soothing to put it in those terms… itwas at first. Until all the angles started going wrong. Now it’s nothing but a nightmare and a headache. Itdoesn’t work,” Sherlock said. “It’s an impossible shape.”
“John likes conflict in proximity, his space.
He’s had trauma of all kinds, there and here;
he doesn’t need you to tell him how.”John doesn’t want to be the broken one: “I’m fine.”
“Caring for me is good for John. Take his mind
off himself. He loathes a coddling touch.”
“Lestrade thinks you need space. Or we need space. Or he needs space.”
Only John could take Sherlock’s intensity, and Lestrade had no idea how.
“I’d stay even if you became a bloody florist. Can I make tea? I would like tea.”
“Fine, yes, I’m fine,” John snaps. Lestrade: “You’re allowed not to be fine”
“We're all in this relationship.” “You are not, Sherlock.” Not in John’s mind.1J + 1L + 1S → J1L1 + 1S ↑
You’ve a head of razor blades; you'll shred him; you'll lose him, with your sharp touch.
“You have the best hands,” Sherlock arching into John’s touch.
“Why is it a huge thing? I like you; you feel fine.”
“You’re case-sexual.” “I hate labels,” Sherlock huffed. “Never mind.
We do need Lestrade. With just us it gets too...” how
to describe, a fluttery grasp at empty space.
“Lestrade hates me like this; he won’t come here.”
We're weapons, we three. When no one’s in danger, it’s hurtful, our touch.
Sherlock burrows into John’s body, his hold tightening, “I don’t need space.”1J + 1S = 1JS
Was John falling apart; he couldn’t know while being paid so much mind.
“Three-way!” Sherlock bursting in. “The perfect solution. That’s how.”1J + 1L + 1S → J1L1S1
I’m ridiculously jealous; I’m not even sure who of--but I’m fine. It’ll be fine.
An odd normality: takeaway, arguing, wrestling for the remote. And tea.
John says, “I just want you to be here. He likes you here.”
Sherlock’s all cool-skinned angles to the touch,
yet still comforting to sleep beside, a filled space.
John loves his city, loves his fucked-up life. It’s all fine.
Sherlock’s head in Lestrade’s lap, feet in John’s, no mind
for either of them; they fit somehow.
Three weapon-people, a messy touch: angles at odds, so how:
Lestrade’s silky slide in John’s space; Sherlock watching, no need for tea.
John sees the others kiss, unstuck in mind. Fuck that’s hot. "Beautiful,” says Sherlock, “I’m fine.”
John comes with a damned orchestra; untangle him how.
“I'm nothing but nerve endings and skin: don't touch.”
says sullen Sherlock, plucking his violin fine,
meditative arpeggios until John found rest from mind.
From Sherlock’s hands Lestrade takes the violin, here
lays his head in John’s lap, and wedges himself a space.
“I'll be your dog, fine;
domesticate me with touch.
You wear your jumper here
and blend in somehow.”
NB: These four lines are placed in the center of the graphic
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Lestrade came for a case, and stayed for John's tea.
Listening to Lestrade's heart; John’s hands a warm touch.
So many conversations they hadn’t yet had: “It's fine. I'm fine.”
In the join between Sherlock and John is there space
Lestrade wonders. Holmes hadn't a buggering clue how
impossible human hearts are. A crisp equation in his mind:1J + 1S → 1S 1J ↑L1* t1/2 = L01J + 1L + 1S → J1L1 + 1S
Lestrade the thundercloud: I don't need a bloody mind-
er. John thinks otherwise, bringing him a steaming cup of tea.I meant him for you too, says Sherlock, as if he'd created John, how
he’d built him out of parts he'd scavenged from Bart's. “The touch
of sex I don't need,” Sherlock adds. “I just want John in my space.”
Lestrade tells John: “I’ve always known I’d have to share you, it’s fine.”1L + J1S1 → 1LJ + J1S11L + (1J + 1S) → J1L1 + (1J + 1S)L(J + S) = L*J + (J + S)
John’s silences held tones; he faded into furniture, quiet and brown and fine.
Sherlock is the sun, all blinding and burning and brilliant mind.
John stretched across the sofa, breathless and shaky; Lestrade undoing space
between them. A whisper: wild-haired Sherlock, dull-eyed: “I need tea.”
“Not parents, but a five-year-old, coming in suddenly,” interrupting our touch.
“I’ll get the tea,” John rises. “The state you’re in you’ll hardly know how.”
Lestrade fumes: “I’m saddled with Sherlock for eternity how?”(1S + 1L)t = ∞
“Sherlock is shamming,” he says to John. “You’ll be fine.”
Sherlock sleeps: one thin hand clutching John’s wrist, a secure touch.
John in the middle, Lestrade lies down too, here with Sherlock of one mind.
Rising alone, John envisions shifting angles as he makes the tea.
When they awake, a John-shaped no-man’s-land in the bed: empty space.
“Lestrade thinks you need space. Or we need space. Or he needs space.”
Only John could take Sherlock’s intensity, and Lestrade had no idea how.
“I’d stay even if you became a bloody florist. Can I make tea? I would like tea.”
“Fine, yes, I’m fine,” John snaps. Lestrade: “You’re allowed not to be fine”
“We're all in this relationship.” “You are not, Sherlock.” Not in John’s mind.1J + 1L + 1S → J1L1 + 1S ↑
You’ve a head of razor blades; you'll shred him; you'll lose him, with your sharp touch.
We're weapons, we three. When no one’s in danger, it’s hurtful, our touch.
Sherlock burrows into John’s body, his hold tightening, “I don’t need space.”1J + 1S = 1JS
Was John falling apart; he couldn’t know while being paid so much mind.
“Three-way!” Sherlock bursting in. “The perfect solution. That’s how.”1J + 1L + 1S → J1L1S1
I’m ridiculously jealous; I’m not even sure who of--but I’m fine. It’ll be fine.
An odd normality: takeaway, arguing, wrestling for the remote. And tea.
Three weapon-people, a messy touch: angles at odds, so how:
Lestrade’s silky slide in John’s space; Sherlock watching, no need for tea.
John sees the others kiss, unstuck in mind. Fuck that’s hot. "Beautiful,” says Sherlock, “I’m fine.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
If doctors are attracted to damaged and broken things not fine,“You’ve got Lestrade for your sexual touch,”Sherlock says. “Have Lestrade round here.”John still in first flush, in love with the mad rush. How could Lestrade compete? It’s thrilling, caught up in the spaceof Sherlock’s mad wake; his extraordinary mind.
Sherlock, carved from marble, cold eyes, cold mindcalculating, “You don't have a private life. Not in my space.When’s Lestrade coming back round here?”“Come round to our place,” says John, “it'll be good, it'll be fine.To have Sherlock without involving his physical touch,Lestrade’s an extension of Sherlock's world, John’s way how.
John assures Lestrade: “In bed is not howI want to be with Sherlock.” In Lestrade’s minda white-hot flash: Sherlock Holmes in bed here, marble and ink, hands and mouths and touch.No keeping Sherlock out of the bed space;he might as well been critiquing them: not at all fine.
“I hate dealing with him like this. It’s not fine.Sherlock doesn’t need me to coddle him here; He’s got John’s comforting touch.I’ve no time for his prima donna sham of mind. From the train wreck that is the howof Sherlock Holmes I’ve been making space.”
“John likes conflict in proximity, his space. He’s had trauma of all kinds, there and here; he doesn’t need you to tell him how.”John doesn’t want to be the broken one: “I’m fine.”“Caring for me is good for John. Take his mind off himself. He loathes a coddling touch.”
“You have the best hands,” Sherlock arching into John’s touch. “Why is it a huge thing? I like you; you feel fine.”“You’re case-sexual.” “I hate labels,” Sherlock huffed. “Never mind.We do need Lestrade. With just us it gets too...” howto describe, a fluttery grasp at empty space.“Lestrade hates me like this; he won’t come here.”
John says, “I just want you to be here. He likes you here.”Sherlock’s all cool-skinned angles to the touch,yet still comforting to sleep beside, a filled space.John loves his city, loves his fucked-up life. It’s all fine.Sherlock’s head in Lestrade’s lap, feet in John’s, no mind for either of them; they fit somehow.
John comes with a damned orchestra; untangle him how.“I'm nothing but nerve endings and skin: don't touch.”says sullen Sherlock, plucking his violin fine, meditative arpeggios until John found rest from mind.From Sherlock’s hands Lestrade takes the violin, herelays his head in John’s lap, and wedges himself a space.
“I'll be your dog, fine; domesticate me with touch. You wear your jumper here and blend in somehow.”
When you are done canoodling,
I have a box of ears
Human ears in salt,
Romance can wait.