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BBC Sherlock fanart & fic

4/10/'10: Added english translation. Thank you SO much Phoebeagle , aka il mio caro sulfo she's the best.

--

John walked in the living room, breathless. Needless to say, when he had received Sherlock’s text, he was on the other side of town. On the display, a single line- “I need you.”
He hadn’t worried too much. Like usual. In that, he hadn’t worried too much wondering why he was needed. Yet his legs had sprung, and they had done so quickly. The only thing he knew was that he had to go. That he wanted to go. Like usual.

The flat was silent, the reddish late afternoon light filtered in from the window. Outside, the sounds of London were barely audible. He took one step, then another. And he saw him.
Completely still on the sofa, he was sleeping.
John opened his mouth, speechless. Then his lips widened slowly, and he found himself smiling.
A long minute went by. This was the first time John saw him sleep, since they had met. He was surprised and fascinated: it felt like he was staring at some mythological creature, an all too rare and fleeting animal, caught in a moment of rare beauty. His arm was lying over the cushions, the open palm facing upwards. And there it was, his mobile phone, most likely still open on the umpteenth web page used in whatever research on one of their last cases.

The thought that Sherlock could actually get tired had never crossed his mind. Perhaps because, at times, he found it hard to think of him as a normal human being. It wasn’t easy to stand next to a man that was both fascinating and terribly brilliant, and yet wore an armour of deep-rooted sociopathy. Nonaffective, cerebral, egocentric. This was Sherlock, to everyone. And to him as well, most of the time. And yet there was a different Sherlock, hidden deep beneath, and he had managed to catch sight of him.
When this man turned up, it wasn’t easy to make him stay. He’d slip from his fingers the moment he’d try to take hold of him. The deepest nature of that rare animal would show itself for a split second, the mere blink of an eye, only to vanish. But in that moment… In that moment, John was lucky enough to have that man right in front of him for more than a fleeting instant. In all of his human vulnerability.

He sat in his armchair, paying attention not to emit the faintest sound. And in doing that, he never tore his eyes off him, ever.
He listened to his steady breathing. He observed his chest rise and lower slowly. He spent entire minutes like this. And John felt close to Sherlock Holmes like he had never felt before.

--

John entrò in salotto, trafelato. Naturalmente, quando aveva ricevuto il messaggio di Sherlock, era dall'altra parte della città. Sul display era comparsa solo una frase. "Ho bisogno di te".
Non si era particolarmente preoccupato. Come sempre. Cioè, non si era particolarmente preoccupato di chiedersi perchè Sherlock avesse bisogno di lui. Ma le sue gambe si erano mosse, in fretta. Sapeva solo che doveva andare. Che voleva andare. Come sempre.

La casa era silenziosa, e la luce rossastra del tardo pomeriggio filtrava dalla finestra. Fuori, i rumori di Londra si percepivano appena. Fece un passo, poi un altro. E lo vide.
Immobile sul divano, Sherlock dormiva.
John schiuse la bocca, senza parole. Poi, piano, allungò le labbra, e si ritrovò a sorridere.
Trascorse un lungo minuto. Per la prima volta da quando si erano conosciuti, John lo vedeva dormire. Era stupito, e affascinato: si sentiva come se stesse guardando una creatura mitologica, un animale raro e fuggevole, colto in un momento di rara bellezza. Il braccio giaceva abbandonato sui cuscini, il palmo rivolto verso l'alto, aperto. Il cellulare era lì, probabilmente ancora collegato all'ennesima pagina internet per chissà quale ricerca dedicata ad uno degli ultimi casi.

Non aveva mai pensato che Sherlock potesse davvero stancarsi. Forse perchè, a volte, stentava a vederlo come un normale essere umano. Non era affatto facile stando accanto ad un uomo affascinante e terribilmente geniale ma corazzato da strati di profonda, radicata sociopatia. Anaffettivo, cerebrale, egocentrico. Questo era Sherlock, per tutti. E per lui, il più delle volte. Ma uno Sherlock diverso, più nascosto, esisteva, e lui era riuscito a scorgerlo.
Quando compariva, non era facile farlo restare. Gli sfuggiva dalle dita non appena cercava di afferrarlo. La natura più segreta dell'animale raro si mostrava per un battito di ciglia, poi svaniva. Ma in quel momento... in quel momento, John stava avendo l'incredibile fortuna di poterlo avere davanti per più di un fugace momento. In tutta la sua vulnerabilità di essere umano.

Si sedette sulla poltrona, facendo attenzione a non emettere il benché minimo rumore. E nel farlo non smise di guardarlo, mai.
Ascoltò il suo respiro regolare. Osservò il suo petto alzarsi e abbassarsi lentamente. Trascorse minuti interi, così. E John si sentì vicino a Sherlock Holmes come mai, prima di allora, si era sentito.

--

A little, inspired experiment. From the drawing to the fic, or from the fic to the drawing. I don't know exactly what came first, lol...

--

Piccolo esperimento ispirato. Dal disegno alla fic, o dalla fic al disegno. non so cosa sia venuto prima, eheh...

-

Pencil, Photoshop, Cintiq tablet, photo-compositing.

Sherlock (c) BBC.

Description
BBC Sherlock fanart & fic

4/10/'10: Added english translation. Thank you SO much Phoebeagle , aka il mio caro sulfo she's the best.

--

John walked in the living room, breathless. Needless to say, when he had received Sherlock’s text, he was on the other side of town. On the display, a single line- “I need you.”
He hadn’t worried too much. Like usual. In that, he hadn’t worried too much wondering why he was needed. Yet his legs had sprung, and they had done so quickly. The only thing he knew was that he had to go. That he wanted to go. Like usual.

The flat was silent, the reddish late afternoon light filtered in from the window. Outside, the sounds of London were barely audible. He took one step, then another. And he saw him.
Completely still on the sofa, he was sleeping.
John opened his mouth, speechless. Then his lips widened slowly, and he found himself smiling.
A long minute went by. This was the first time John saw him sleep, since they had met. He was surprised and fascinated: it felt like he was staring at some mythological creature, an all too rare and fleeting animal, caught in a moment of rare beauty. His arm was lying over the cushions, the open palm facing upwards. And there it was, his mobile phone, most likely still open on the umpteenth web page used in whatever research on one of their last cases.

The thought that Sherlock could actually get tired had never crossed his mind. Perhaps because, at times, he found it hard to think of him as a normal human being. It wasn’t easy to stand next to a man that was both fascinating and terribly brilliant, and yet wore an armour of deep-rooted sociopathy. Nonaffective, cerebral, egocentric. This was Sherlock, to everyone. And to him as well, most of the time. And yet there was a different Sherlock, hidden deep beneath, and he had managed to catch sight of him.
When this man turned up, it wasn’t easy to make him stay. He’d slip from his fingers the moment he’d try to take hold of him. The deepest nature of that rare animal would show itself for a split second, the mere blink of an eye, only to vanish. But in that moment… In that moment, John was lucky enough to have that man right in front of him for more than a fleeting instant. In all of his human vulnerability.

He sat in his armchair, paying attention not to emit the faintest sound. And in doing that, he never tore his eyes off him, ever.
He listened to his steady breathing. He observed his chest rise and lower slowly. He spent entire minutes like this. And John felt close to Sherlock Holmes like he had never felt before.

--

John entrò in salotto, trafelato. Naturalmente, quando aveva ricevuto il messaggio di Sherlock, era dall'altra parte della città. Sul display era comparsa solo una frase. "Ho bisogno di te".
Non si era particolarmente preoccupato. Come sempre. Cioè, non si era particolarmente preoccupato di chiedersi perchè Sherlock avesse bisogno di lui. Ma le sue gambe si erano mosse, in fretta. Sapeva solo che doveva andare. Che voleva andare. Come sempre.

La casa era silenziosa, e la luce rossastra del tardo pomeriggio filtrava dalla finestra. Fuori, i rumori di Londra si percepivano appena. Fece un passo, poi un altro. E lo vide.
Immobile sul divano, Sherlock dormiva.
John schiuse la bocca, senza parole. Poi, piano, allungò le labbra, e si ritrovò a sorridere.
Trascorse un lungo minuto. Per la prima volta da quando si erano conosciuti, John lo vedeva dormire. Era stupito, e affascinato: si sentiva come se stesse guardando una creatura mitologica, un animale raro e fuggevole, colto in un momento di rara bellezza. Il braccio giaceva abbandonato sui cuscini, il palmo rivolto verso l'alto, aperto. Il cellulare era lì, probabilmente ancora collegato all'ennesima pagina internet per chissà quale ricerca dedicata ad uno degli ultimi casi.

Non aveva mai pensato che Sherlock potesse davvero stancarsi. Forse perchè, a volte, stentava a vederlo come un normale essere umano. Non era affatto facile stando accanto ad un uomo affascinante e terribilmente geniale ma corazzato da strati di profonda, radicata sociopatia. Anaffettivo, cerebrale, egocentrico. Questo era Sherlock, per tutti. E per lui, il più delle volte. Ma uno Sherlock diverso, più nascosto, esisteva, e lui era riuscito a scorgerlo.
Quando compariva, non era facile farlo restare. Gli sfuggiva dalle dita non appena cercava di afferrarlo. La natura più segreta dell'animale raro si mostrava per un battito di ciglia, poi svaniva. Ma in quel momento... in quel momento, John stava avendo l'incredibile fortuna di poterlo avere davanti per più di un fugace momento. In tutta la sua vulnerabilità di essere umano.

Si sedette sulla poltrona, facendo attenzione a non emettere il benché minimo rumore. E nel farlo non smise di guardarlo, mai.
Ascoltò il suo respiro regolare. Osservò il suo petto alzarsi e abbassarsi lentamente. Trascorse minuti interi, così. E John si sentì vicino a Sherlock Holmes come mai, prima di allora, si era sentito.

--

A little, inspired experiment. From the drawing to the fic, or from the fic to the drawing. I don't know exactly what came first, lol...

--

Piccolo esperimento ispirato. Dal disegno alla fic, o dalla fic al disegno. non so cosa sia venuto prima, eheh...

-

Pencil, Photoshop, Cintiq tablet, photo-compositing.

Sherlock (c) BBC.