Untitled

Fic: Fighting Fit (X-Men First Class)

2011-06-15T08:32:13Z

Title: Fighting Fit
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Characters: Charles Xavier, Erik Lensherr
Rating: Teen
Summary: Charles fights people about his disability every day. Except the odd occasion when he doesn’t.
Written for this prompt on the X-Men Kink Meme.
Warnings: Mild language, violence, spoilers for the movie, two adults in bed.

Charles was not a man prone to pity, for himself or others.

Empathy. Sympathy. Shared grief. But not pity. It simply wasn’t really his nature to pity.

But right now, lying sprawled on his bedroom floor, his chair out of reach and nothing nearby that he could use to haul himself onto his bed, Charles felt something terribly akin to self pity.

Help was just a telepathic call away. Hank was just down the hallway, his mind bubbling with numbers and chemical formulas. It would take nothing to nudge his mind and ask for a hand up. Hank was more than capable of picking him up and putting him in his chair as he desired.

But he wasn’t going to.

Nor was he going to fight to drag himself over the floor.

He was going to lie here, staring at his ceiling and feeling tears trickling down the sides of his face and into his hair line.

Because it wasn’t fair.

All he’d done was tried to stop a war, tried to stop one friend from killing another, got up at the exact wrong second and now he was here, trapped with legs that would never feel, never move, never do anything but be useless, be dead weight that he had to drag about and it wasn’t fair.

Moira fired the bullet, but she walked away.

Erik deflected the bullet, but he walked away. Floated away and got to walk and fly and all those wonderful things.

And Charles, who had tried to stop everyone being insane, Charles got a bullet to the spine.

He slammed his fists into the carpet, trying to force back the sobs, to control his emotions again.

“No amount of pity will change a thing,” he whispered to himself.

“It isn’t fair,” he agreed.

“I didn’t deserve this,” he told himself.

“It was a horrible accident. I wouldn’t wish this on either of them,” he almost countered.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t feel sorry for yourself. It wasn’t a them or you. It just was,” he sighed.

“It’s hard. It’s so hard. Every day is a fight and it’s too hard to do it all on my own,” he almost sobbed.

“Nothing’s too hard,” he finally whispered. “Nothing is too hard, Charles Xavier. Especially not for you.”

“Professor,” Hank called through the door. “Are you okay?”

He sat himself up with a fight, wiping his face and looking to the door. “I’m fine, Hank. Thank you.”

“Do you need a hand?”

“No.” He looked at his chair with renewed determination. “I can do this on my own, thank you.”

It might have taken him another hour to get down to breakfast, washed and dressed, but he had done it entirely on his own.

And would from that day on.

*~*~*

The problem with the military is that they tended to have a lot of ignorant yobs in their numbers.

Their higher ups could sometimes be reasoned with. Fresh faced recruits were yet to have their individuality beaten from their hides. It was the soldiers that Charles found hard to cope with. The reminded him of the jocks he’d known all his life, the boys who were bigger and meaner and so scared of themselves and not being man enough that it hurt Charles’ head to keep them out.

And now he was trying to get a squad of them to listen to him as he talked to them about the practical applications of genetic research and variation and the possibility of genetically coded weaponry that could not be fired by anyone but the owner.

And they weren’t listening. Most of them were just wondering why they had to listen to an egg head cripple.

He wheels himself away from the podium. “Gentlemen, if I may speak frankly?”

He got a bit more of their attention.

“I’m a professor, yes. And yes, I am in wheelchair. That does not make me some object of ridicule or contempt. I can’t bench press like most of you, but there is probably not a single one of you that I couldn’t beat for chin up or weight lifting reps and I can complete a marathon in this chair.” He took off his jacket and moved himself down closer to them, letting them see how strong his arms actually were. “You might not respect my intelligence, but you will respect the fact that I took a bullet and still live a normal life, because any, one, of, you could be here, in this chair. God willing, you won’t, but any one of you could be me.”

They were silent.

“Good.” He wheeled himself back to his podium and parked his chair. “Now, as I was saying, your weapons could in fact be customised not only in the grips, but in circuitry that will respond only to your unique genetic code...”

And they paid attention for the rest of the talk and subsequent discussion section.

*~*~*

Charles preferred to come on mission when he could. He might’ve been stuck in the chair, but his mind was powerful and he could spread it far without needing to leave the plane.

He had never expected it to come to this.

The team were incapacitated, trapped inside the mind and games of Cadenski, a hitman turned torturer.

And Charles couldn’t risk using his telepathy. He was trying to keep his own mind protected from the constant battering it was getting as Cadenski watched him closely.

Finally, he stood up, blinking. “Well then, I might just leave you in here for now. I don’t need line of sight to keep feeling, Professor. You drop those shields, try to sleep, try to reach your team and I’ll have you.” He grinned widely. “Have fun.”

And he left.

Left without locking the door, clearly trusting that Charles without his chair would be helpless.

Charles kept his mind safely tucked away and started looking around him.

He tore up the rest of his shirt, using it to bind his legs together, to make moving them easier and keep the joints locked. Then he set about systematically dismantling the bed to make crude crutches.

It was difficult. Even with his legs bound tight to force them to take his weight, it was difficult to move. He had to check each time that his body was tilted right, would hold for the few precious seconds needed to swing the crutches around again.

Sanity won out and he broke down the crutches and tied his legs into a crouch. His knees would just have to take the punishment of being dragged and rested on until they got out of here. Like that he could move about better, hefting on his arms and dragging his legs behind him, ignoring the trail of blood that he slowly started to leave behind him as he managed to drag himself across the gravel to the hut where he knew Cadenski was resting up, tormenting his team.

He could hear the whimpering as he got closer, quieting his movements as best he could. Slowing down, however much strain it caused his arms to hold himself up for torturously long minutes, moving quiet to the door and settling himself down by it.

He looked about and then hefted one of the crutches, hurling it against the truck parked off to the side. The noise was loud in the silence of the forest and Cadenski came running.

The crutch smashed into his leg as he stepped by and as he fell Charles raised it up and brought it down on his head, once, twice, until he stopped trying to get up and instead lay silent and bleeding, still breathing but unconscious.

And then he loosed his powers, locking down all that malicious, delusional power, holding it tight and freeing it from his team’s minds.

They slowly staggered up and out, stopping as they looked down at Cadenski and Charles himself, leaning against the wall of the shack.

“I hate to impose,” he said with a terse smile. “But I feel rather shaken right now. Would someone give me a hand back to my chair?”

*~*~*

Three years without someone you love is a long time.

Charles sat by the window, watching as the car pulled up slowly and the lean figure got out, looking about.

He still wore the helmet, of course, but it didn’t stop Charles from recognising the look on his face, reading his emotions in the way he moved.

Hank, I need to borrow you before Erik comes up here.

He felt Hank’s attention and assent before moving himself to his armchair, setting up things as best he could.

“Come in, Hank.”

Hank stepped in. “What can I help with?”

“Drag the other chair over, would you, and then tuck that in the closet, would you?” He nodded at his wheel chair. “I don’t know what Erik knows, but I don’t want to have a conversation of guilt and grief with him until I know where we stand with each other and that won’t happen if he’s immediately aware of disability.”

Hank nodded, obliging in moving things around quickly and hiding the wheelchair away before letting himself out. Just in time, in fact, to meet Erik as he stepped in, their gazes meeting and Hank frowning.

“We’ll be fine, Hank, thank you.”

The young man stepped out, shutting the door behind him. Erik stepped in. “He becomes more magnificent each time we see each other.”

“Should I be worried about you stealing away my prize colleague, Magneto?” Never Erik in the helmet, Erik existed outside the cage of metal that shielded him from the world.

“No, Charles, you know nothing would steal Hank away.” He nodded to the chair. “May I sit?”

“Of course.” He gestured the board. “I thought we might play. Hank inevitably beats me unless I’m using telepathy and the only other student who plays is going through a discouragement period of tactical games to learn to have fun.” He turns the board. “I’ll even let you pick which side to play.”

“Black.” Erik moved to the liquor cabinet with old ease and familiarity, pouring them both a drink and bringing them over. It drew a small smile to Charles’ face, and made Erik pause when he realised he had presumed.

“I don’t mind,” Charles said before he could comment. “I’ve missed this. And thank you.” He took his snifter and made his first move on the board.

“You’re wondering why I’m here.” Erik shifted a pawn.

“Naturally. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. Since the beach.”

The last time they saw one another. The day this new life started where Charles fought constantly against two prejudices, not just one.

Erik leaned forwards, elbows on his knees and eyes glittering from the shadows of the metal. “I would do anything to undo hurting you, Charles. You must know that.”

“I always knew it, my friend.” He did. “That is not why you’re here.” He made a move, shifting his weight with his arms.

“No, it is not.” Erik toyed with a chess piece, watching it. “Last week, a young mutant tried to kill me.”

Charles stayed quiet. It was hardly the first time someone had tried to kill one of them. It didn’t stop his heart skipping a beat though.

“It seems I killed his father and brother. His father was a mutant police officer who had never told anyone about his ability. His brother was also in the force, not a mutant, but the father of a mutant.” He looked troubled. “It skips generations. Some mutants don’t know they are, some humans think they are but aren’t...”

Charles understood. The complexity of it was starting to finally catch up, past Erik’s anger and resentment.

“I didn’t kill him. I could’ve, but I didn’t. I had Azazel return him home and told him to look after his brother’s children and make sure they grew up proud. If they want their revenge... I will accept that.” Erik watched the board. “I didn’t mean to kill them.”

“Yes, you did,” Charles said softly. “You didn’t intend the outcome of those deaths.” Death was meaningless to Erik. The consequences of death something he’d been trained and programmed to forget and ignore. “Your mother was human,” he said softly.

“She was,” Erik agreed. “I, my God, I don’t think she’d like me very much, Charles.”

“She would love you still.”

“But she would not like me.” He finally looked up. “Do you like me, Charles?”

He wanted to say no. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to slap him hard and kiss him and never let him go. “Most of the time. I don’t like things you do, I don’t like some parts of you, but inside? Yes, I mostly like you.”

I still love you.

“I’m tired of fighting.”

“But you’re not willing to stop.”

“No,” Erik agreed. “Not until I know we’re safe.”

“There is no safe, Erik. And we’re not a marginalised, powerless people. If they turn on us, do you think I intend to sit here and watch them take my children? Do you think those children will be powerless to fight back? I have a pair of brothers who can tear apart tanks and buildings with just a gesture. I have minds that have already developed computers small enough to fit on a desk.” He reached forwards and touched Erik’s hand. “We could have a man who could stop any bullet, any missile, just with a thought. And our powers don’t run out. Their ammunition does. I’m prepared to fight, but not if I don’t have to.”

He could feel Erik’s hand trembling.

“Take off that helmet and come home, Erik.”

He couldn’t do it for him. He wanted to. Wanted to rip it off and throw it away and use it for Hank’s experiments. But Erik had to take that step himself.

He gestured and the helmet came off. Erik’s mind flooded the room and Charles didn’t realise how intensely he’d been focusing on him until they clicked back together like they’d barely been apart.

Three years of thoughts and feelings and impressions flooded between them, nothing concrete or distinct, just impressions and sensations and Erik shoved the chess board aside and let it fall as he hit the floor on his knees, hands cupping Charles’ face and kissing him.

Charles wrapped his arms around Erik’s waist and hauled him closer, using the movement to part his own knees and tuck Erik in close, where he could kissing him and breathing him in. Erik was murmuring in German against his lips and Charles knew they were both crying and clinging and kissing just for the feel of being close again, of having missed someone like a physical pain.

The kisses finally trailed off, not that Charles let go of Erik, but he rested against him, eyes closed and holding tightly onto him, just breathing and reassuring himself that this wasn’t insanity or delusion but a real moment.

I won’t stop encouraging them to be proud and open, Erik murmured against his mind.

Don’t expect you to. He leaned in, their cheeks and temples resting against one another. “I’ve learned a little about fighting against and exploiting bigotry since we last spent time together.”

“Have you now,” Erik asked.

“I just said I have,” Charles sniped back with a warm smile. “I did take it for granted that I could so easily hide my differences before.”

“And now,” Erik asked, but Charles could feel the concern starting to prickle over them both, crawling down Erik’s shoulders and spine.

“And now, I’ve worn my obvious difference.”

He’s aware of Erik’s hand, sliding down his body to his knee where he squeezes hard, hard enough to make a man flinch, but he’s only aware because he can feel Erik’s intentions, feel his fear and then the rush of sickening guilt as he realises.

“The bullet,” Erik whispered.

“Both legs.” He drops his hand down to Erik’s. “I have a little feeling up in my hips. I was lucky enough to keep enough nerves to manage myself.”

“You never told me.”

“Why would I? You left. I wasn’t going to guilt you back here. I don’t want you here out of misplaced guilt,” he pointed out. “I’ve lived my life fine for three years since this happened. I want you here because you want to be here, not because you feel you have something to make up to me.”

“Misplaced guilt?” Erik tilted Charles face to look at him, despite the fact he could hardly hold his gaze. “Make up to you? Charles, that bullet was my fault. I put that piece of metal into your spine and left you... left you half a man.”

Charles straightened up, feeling the familiar bubble of anger. “Don’t. You. Dare,” he spat.

Erik looked surprised. “Charles-”

“Don’t you Charles me, Erik Lensherr! Don’t you dare sit there and so much as insinuate that losing the use of my legs has made me any less of a man!” He shoved Erik in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards. “I don’t want or need your pity, or your guilt, or your ignorance. My legs don’t make me a man, or a person, any more or less than you!”

Staring down at Erik, sprawled back onto his hands from the hard shove, Charles felt the tension and then the stray thought.

God he’s sexy like this.

Charles’ eyes went wide as he realised what Erik meant, that it was his refusal to let anyone demean him, even by accident, that Erik was finding such a turn on, but Erik’s thoughts snapped away as soon as he realised Charles had heard him.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” he blurted out. “I shouldn’t find you like this such-”

“I will hit you,” Charles warned him. “Don’t think I won’t. If you continue on this stupidity about how because I’m paraplegic, I’m somehow less a man, less sexual, less anything, I will flatten you. Do you understand me?”

Erik nodded slowly. Charles nodded back, lowering himself to the floor and Erik’s lap. “Good. Now, would you like to find out just how much this hasn’t affected me being a whole man or a while sexual being? Every time you swallow down being guilty, I’ll reward you with a bit more... information.”

Erik watched him, lips slightly flushed and parted. “Yes. I think I’d greatly like that.”

*~*~*

Charles woke up sprawled in his bed, Erik settled in against him like he had slept there every night for years.

He smiled tiredly and brushed his fingers through Erik’s hair, rolling onto his side with a bit of fidgeting to watch his lover.

Not ex-lover. Lover. Last night had certainly proved that.

“Morning,” Erik mumbled into his arm.

“Morning,” he murmured back. “I had almost forgotten how wonderfully rumpled you are in the morning.”

Erik grunted and rolled onto his back, stretching luxuriously and then rolling back into Charles’ side, wrapping his legs around Charles’ own. Charles chuckled and hugged him briefly before taping his back. “Come on, let go. I need to get up.”

“No, you don’t. You need to stay in bed with me.” Erik buried his face against Charles’ shoulder, pressing kisses to his skin.

“Erik...”

“Have I mentioned how incredibly sexy your arms are? Your hands are so strong and your arms...”

There was a brief flicker of regret, or guilt about why they were so but to his credit, Erik didn’t focus on it.

Charles rewarded it by rolling over and onto Erik, kissing him soundly while Erik sorted out their legs, wriggling to get them pressed together, all naked skin and warmth.

“I really do need to get up,” he murmured into the next kiss. “This place doesn’t run itself.”

“It will for a day. Let Hank manage the children.”

“Hank can manage complex chemical arrangements but can’t organise to get his fur brushed out.”

“Someone else will do it.” Erik’s hands slid suggestively down Charles’ back, to where he was only slightly aware of the pressure and then down to grip him and move them against one another.

And yes, he was a paraplegic, but some things were fairly autonomous and he was very grateful for that.

“You’re a tease, Erik Lensherr.”

“No, teasing would imply I won’t go fulfill my promises and we both know I always do.” He tugged on Charles’ lower lip with his teeth, drawing a groan.

“Erik...”

“Don’t whine, Charles, it’s not attractive,” Erik laughed. “There’s no rush to get today moving.”

And it was very tempting to just go with it, especially when Erik rolled them over and pinned him down with his body and hands and more kisses.

“Well... Maybe just this morning,” Charles agreed when the kiss ended. “Just this once.”

Erik grinned at him and Charles pulled him down into another kiss.

Fic: Sharing Space

2011-04-05T02:29:11Z

Fandom: Inception
Characters: Arthur, Dom Cobb, Cobblets.
Rating: Gen
Summary: After Inception, Phillipa calls Arthur with some worries. So Arthur comes to fix them.
Warnings: None.

Sharing Space

Fic: By Any Other Name (Inception)

2011-01-05T05:24:47Z

Title: By Any Other Name
Fandom: Inception
Characters: Eames, Arthur
Rating: M
Summary: A horrific car crash leads Eames to meeting a young man and changing his life.
Warnings: Descriptions of injuries from bad car crash.

The car hit the ground.

The front crumpled on impact. The driver was thrown forwards violently, head smashing into the steering wheel (airbag failing to deploy) and back into his seat again. The car kept going, flipping over to bounce and roll and then the world sped up again as it tumbled out of sight with the screeching of metal.

For a long moment he stood frozen to the spot.

Then reality kicked back in and he started scrambling down the slope towards the wreckage, pulling out his phone as he went, dialling for emergency services.

“Nine one one, what’s you emergency?”

“Christ, there’s been a car crash. Bathelby road, Cherry Picker’s Corner, a convertible, I need, fuck, I need an ambulance.” He moved cautiously around the car. “There’s petrol all over the place, I can smell it.”

“Sir?”

“Gas, bloody hell, the car’s leaking gas, what the fuck do I do, the driver’s in there?!” He could see the kid, twenty if he was a day, blood soaking his face and white...

He turned around, throwing up and dropping the phone. He could see bone poking out of the skin.

“Sir? Sir?”

He picked up the phone with a trembling hand. “There’s bones. Jesus Christ, I can see fucking bones poking out of him.”

“Were you in the car?”

“No. No, I saw the crash. There’s just one guy in the car.” He looked back, swallowing down another bout of nausea. “Shit.” He looked awful. Maybe he was already dead.

The car creaked. So did the tree it had come to a stop against.

“Sweet fuck, the tree’s going to give. The car, the car’s against a tree and the tree’s starting to come loose.”

“Calm down sir, an ambulance is on the way, I’m dispatching emergency services to your location, they’ll be there withing ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?!” That tree wouldn’t hold ten minutes. That tree was easing out of the ground by the second, buckling under the weight of the car.

He decided. “I have to get him out. Tell me how to not break his spinal column doing this.”

“Sir, just stay put, emergency services will be there-”

“He is going to die, lady!” He moved closer to the car, leaning over the crumpled door and smelling blood and something kind of like vomit, only fresher and he had a horribly feeling it was bile from open injuries. “Fuck, fuck, I do not want to kill him, he’s a bloody kid.”

“Sir, try to move him as little as possible.”

The wood creaked again.

“I wish that was an option, sweetheart.” He took a deep breath and leaned over, undoing the kid’s seat belt and easing it back off him. “I have to move him. What do I do?”

“Move his neck as little as possible,” she eventually said. “Smooth movements, try not to jerk him.”

“Right, right. Hang on.” He tossed his phone a safe distance back and tried to pull open the door, but it was firmly twisted wreckage. “Shit. I’m so sorry if I cripple you or something.”

The kid didn’t respond, slumped in the seat still. He took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around the battered and mangled chest and lifted.

The boy screamed. It was the most agonised sound that he had ever heard, the pain ripping through him as it was carried by that tortured sound. He could feel things moving under his hands, bones grinding and blood spurting up in a morbid fountain.

The car slid a bit more. It forced him into action, pushing with his legs and dragging them backwards as the chassis shuddered and creaked and the tree jerked down further.

His feet slid on the metal; his hands slipped, slicked with blood. He almost tumbled but managed to keep his footing, giving a last kick backwards as the tree gave and the whole mess of metal and wood and glass tumbled further down the hill.

He landed on his back, the driver safely cushioned against his body and going limp again.

Lying there, panting for breath, he listened to the grinding around of shrubs and rocks perishing and the wet wheeze of the ragged breathing of the boy.

“Sir? Are you there?”

He reached blindly above his head for the tinny sound, pulling the phone back to his ear. “He’s still breathing.”

“Are you alright?”

“No. Not by a long shot. But I’m in a better state than the other guy.” He looked down at the blood soaked head and slowly wriggled his way out from under him. “I’m going to try to get him conscious.”

He ignored anything else she said, putting down the phone and softly tapping one bloodied cheek. “Hey. Come on, mate. Wake up. Show me there’s someone still alive in there.”

When he got no response, he kept talking anyway, checking pockets quickly for identification. “I can understand why you don’t want to be awake. You’re fairly messed up there, I can see bones and shit, let’s not think about that too hard, but you should wake up before I feel obliged to start taking drastic action.”

He could feel where a wallet sat, but he wasn’t going to risk moving him and twisting his spine more than he had already. “Come on, kid.”

There was another wheezing breath, barely audible past the sirens starting to draw closer.

“Come on, what’s your name, at least? Wake up give me a name so I can stop calling you kid or jail bait in my head.”

“Art.”

His voice was a gurgle, but he knew he had heard the word. “Art? Your name’s Art?”

Art didn’t reply. It didn’t really matter because the ambulance was pulling off the road, along the track into the quarry.

Then paramedics were there, pushing him back, asking him if he was injured because he was drenched with blood but it was all the kid’s - Art’s - and not his.

It was only after they bundled Art off in the ambulance that he thought to recover his phone and disconnect it.

*~*~*

He went to the hospital the next day.

He knew there was no point going sooner, no way that they were going to share information when the poor guy was still in surgery having bits of him put back inside, where they belonged.

No, yesterday, he had gone home, burned the shirt that was never going to have the blood removed from it, showered twice and then got blind drunk at a local bar on the story of the heroic rescue he had staged.

Now that he was actually at the hospital, cleaned up and sober and not really hung over anymore, he realised he hadn’t thought this through. Which wasn’t too worrying in and of itself, he had improvised before and arguably did his best work on the fly.

But all he had was a nickname and a good story that happened to be true.

“Can I help you?”

He smiled at the receptionist and decided to go with the honest truth and hope it worked. “Morning. I’m going to make a mighty strange request and I would be in your debt if you would hear me out before telling me to leave the hospital, okay?”

She gave him an amused and still doubtful look. “Okay,” she agreed. “What is this strange request?”

“Yesterday, there was an emergency brought in. Car crash, off Cherry picker’s corner. Young driver, name of Art.” He paused to see if she was following.

She nodded. “Go on.”

“I pulled him out of the car before it went down the hill. I just want to know how he is.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re not next of kin...”

He gave her the puppy eyes, pouting ever so slightly and clasping his hands in front of him. “I’m not even asking for a room number or a surname. I just...” He dropped his gaze and sighed softly. “I was so scared I’d cripple him or something dragging him out of the car and his breathing was all wet-”

She gave a defeated sigh. He didn’t look up, held the defeated, lost pose for a moment longer.

“Beauchamp, Arthur... He’s stable and out of intensive care,” she said quietly.

He looked up, smiling at her. “He’s okay?”

“He’s stable and resting,” she clarified.

“You are an angel,” he sighed. “An angel sent to alleviate the worries of one heroic rescuer.”

“If he wakes up, do you want to leave contact details? He’ll probably want to see the man who saved him.”

He grinned and grabbed a piece of paper, scribbling down his phone number and name.

“Just ‘Eames’,” she asked.

“Yup. Just Eames. You are a sweetheart.” He gave her a last smile and pressed his hands together in prayer once more just to make her giggle into her hands.

Then, he waited.

He killed time in the town, gambling, fleecing a few college students with more money than sense, waiting until the change of shift at the hospital and he could step in again, up to the reception desk and the new girl who smiled at him. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Art Beauchamp, Arthur. Can you give me a room number?” The use of a casual nickname was calculated, it suggested familiarity.

“He’s in room two oh three, East Wing. He’s still sedated though.”

“Can I go up and just see him, see that he’s alive? The head knows but the stomach keeps churning every time I think about it.”

“Sure.” She nodded to the elevator. “Second floor.”

“Thank you.” He headed off, calm and every bit entitled to be going where he was.

He navigated around until he found the room. It was a room with three other beds, two of which were occupied by people, both of whom were currently asleep.

Bed three, by the window, had Art.

He was pale and looked like shit. His face was bruised, his hair greasy looking where the blood had been washed out but little more. He had tape stitches across his hair line. There was bandaging over his chest and neck where the collarbone had decided to escape and his arm was in a removable cast to let them get to the stitches currently wrapped up in bandaging.

Moving to the bedside, he looked down at Art’s battered form. “Hey. Me again. I’m not staying long, given how you’re sedated and vaguely lousy company like this, but who knows, maybe you can hear me. Just wanted to see how you’re doing after our adventure yesterday.”

The oxygen line helping Art breathe fogged slightly as he heaved a breath and made a small sound of discomfort.

“Well, guess I better get out of here. I’ll visit you tomorrow, you might be awake by then and you can tell me what the hell happened that you ended up wrecking such a nice convertible.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and left quickly.

There wasn’t much else to say to an unconscious man, really.

*~*~*

When Eames came by the next day, he just slipped past the front desk and headed straight up to the ward.

Bed one was empty, bed two had the privacy curtain drawn and bed four was still abandoned but bed three was propped up and the young man reclining in it and staring out of the window seemed to be alive.

“Morning,” he said cheerfully. “You look better.”

It took a moment for Art to react, shifting his whole body carefully to look over at Eames. His eyes were dark, one horrifically red stained by blood but the other was fairly nice and very sharp. “Are you talking to me,” he breathed out softly.

“Yep.” He sauntered over, hands in his pockets. “You don’t remember me, darling?”

Art’s brows pinched together, the expression older and sharper than the face making it. “Should I?”

“Well, maybe not. You weren’t really in much of a state for remembering, but believe me, I’m never going to forget you. First impressions and all.” He dragged over a chair and made himself at home. “Collarbone all back together?”

He took in the small details. The shallow breathing, he probably had bruised ribs, or maybe broken from the way he had wetly gasped at the crash site. The fact his hair was still lank but showed hints of curls at the very end. Frowning hurt, but he did it anyway.

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“I’m Eames.” He went to stick out his hand and reconsidered. “Maybe not with your hand like that.”

“And why should I know you... Eames?”

He grinned, liking the spark of fire in his gaze as his annoyance grew. “Well, we’ve been pretty close, you swooning in my arms, bleeding out all over my shirt...”

“You pulled me out.”

And that was interesting. A little shock, but not gratitude, no softening of his expression. If anything, he shuttered off even more, face cold and dispassionate. It made Eames want to pick until he understood why. “Don’t jump to say thank you,” he grumbled.

“I wasn’t going to,” he snapped, only snapping didn’t work when you were breathless and gasping slightly. It was more just endearing.

“Any reason why not? Since I did pull you out of the wreck of your car after you crashed it, just before it tumbled down the hill to your inevitable demise. And I let you bleed on me.”

“You won’t get anything from my blood,” Art huffed, then reached to his chest, wincing. He clicked the button on the railing, slowly relaxing again.

“Didn’t think I would. Baby face like yours?” He chuckled at the glower. “That’d work better if you weren’t getting high off your painkillers.”

“Screw you,” Art breathed out. His eyes were falling shut. It was horribly, sickeningly endearing. Like a kitten trying to hiss and puff up.

“Not now, darling. You’re not in any fit state for that sort of activity.” He smiled again at Art’s heavy lidded scowl. “I’ll drop by tomorrow, you might be feeling more sociable when the pain’s down and the drugs are up.”

He suspected Art wanted to retort, but instead his eyes closed and then his head sank back into the pillows further. Eames stayed for a moment to see if he was really asleep and then headed out.

He went back to Cherry picker’s corner.

It was a notorious black spot for accidents. Cars going too fast, not expecting the hairpin turn, steep drop, it was a death trap even when the railing was in.

There hadn’t been a railing in the five years Eames had lived here.

He sat in the same spot and smoked a cigarette, staring at the bloodstains in the dirt, the tape marking off the area are under investigation and the bright spray paint highlighting where the car had bounced, had skidded, had ended up.

Art had been really lucky not to be killed at the speeds he had to be going at.

He stubbed out his cigarette and flicked it onto the stain of blood. He didn’t want to sit here staring at it any longer. It was chilling, to think that someone had nearly died there, in his arms.

He decided to go back the next day and annoy Art some more. Maybe he’d be in a better mood for more morphine, food and a sleep.

Mind you, thinking on hospital food, he wasn’t so sure about that...

*~*~*

Which was why, the next day, he was there with some fruit and a single sunflower.

Art just raised an eyebrow at him, the gesture speaking volumes. “You brought me flowers.”

“A flower.” He set the bag on the visitor’s chair and stole an empty vase from bed four (still empty) to put the sunflower in. “Everyone likes sunflowers. They’re cheerful and you seem to need the cheer.”

“I don’t want to be cheerful,” he protested breathlessly, but Eames could see the slightly dimpling in his cheeks where he was trying not to smile.

“Come on, you’re alive, you’ve got drugs on demand, pretty nurses and a sunflower. That seems pretty sweet to me.” He set the sunflower where it could still get some light on its petals and leaves.

Art was quiet for a moment, just watching him. “I don’t remember your name.”

“Eames,” he said cheerfully. “You weren’t in a good state yesterday, I didn’t expect you to remember.”

“Just Eames?”

“Yep. Just Eames.” He grinned at Art.

Art smiled back slightly, looking horribly young.

Eames hoped like hell he wasn’t a minor, because he’d feel incredibly guilty about that.

“Thank you.”

“It’s just a sunflower,” he pointed out.

“No.” He shook his head slightly, wincing and laying back into the pillows. “Not for that. For dragging me out of the car. I must have sounded pretty ungrateful before. Yesterday, I didn’t feel very lucky.”

He hummed and took a seat. “World of hurt will do that.”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes. “Yeah, it will.”

Eames put his feet on the bed railing and starting peeling an orange. “Hungry?”

“Not really. The food in here isn’t great.” He didn’t open his eyes, staying where he was in the pillows.

“Like oranges?”

Art finally opened his eyes to look. Eames grinned at him and presented him with a segment. “Since your hand is going to be stuck for a while. No peeling oranges until it heals.”

“Thank you.” He took the piece, nibbling it carefully, mouth bruised but at least not split. Because that would have really sucked.

Eames ate the next segment himself, savouring the sweetness.

“I’m going to recover, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. But I have a vested interest in seeing you do it. You were sort of bleeding out in my arms a couple of days ago.”

The reminder made Art flinch slightly, looking away.

Eames kept breaking the orange into segments. “Your family on the way down here?”

“No.” Art didn’t open his eyes. “I don’t have any family to contact.”

“Bugger. Sorry to hear it.” He waved another orange segment under Art’s nose, making him peek out from his lashes and bruises.

“Thanks.” He took the piece to eat.

Eames smiled and let him have his silence for now. Tomorrow, he’d work on him again tomorrow.

*~*~*

The next day, Eames killed the morning by wandering along Bathelby road and then the park, thinking to himself about life, the universe and Art Beauchamp.

When he came in, he brought two oranges and another sunflower to join the first in the vase. Art wasn’t really any more open than he had been the day before, but they shared the oranges and Eames talked about the town and how treacherous the corner was that Art had managed to crash off.

The next day, just to liven things up, he brought raspberries with his sunflower and they shared the punnet resting in Art’s lap while they talked about England. Eames had moved over here four years ago, but his accent wasn’t inclined to make the move with him and the Americans found it charming.

Art didn’t find it charming. Art thought it was amusing that Eames wasn’t adapting and blending in with the new situation. Eames didn’t correct him on it

And somehow, a week had passed and seven sunflowers filled the vase and Art was starting to look healthier. He was still pale and slight, but Eames had come to accept that was just what he looked like. The bruises were still vivid, but the puffiness was going down and the surgery wounds were starting to close up.

On day ten, the stitches on his collarbone were taken out and the area closed up with some liquid stuff. Eames probably should’ve been made to go, but Art hadn’t said anything and the doctor didn’t make him go.

On day fourteen, Eames arrived at the hospital with a sunflower and raspberries and found Art’s bed made with bags on top of it.

He sat in his usual chair and waited.

Finally, a hand touched his shoulder. “Eames?”

Art was dressed. He wore slightly too big jeans and tee, his trainers quiet on the lino.

“Hello, darling,” Eames said softly. “They sending you home, then?”

“I’m being discharged. I have to check in with a doctor in two weeks to have my hand reviewed.”

“You’re not going to stay in town for that, are you?”

Eames couldn’t say exactly what had clued him in on it, but he had known that Art wouldn’t stay any longer than he had to, meaning as soon as he was out of hospital, he was going to vanish into the big wide unknown out there.

“No,” Art agreed eventually. “I’m not.”

“Then I better be a gentleman and help you down to the bus station to get your ticket. Or at least to reception to get discharged.” He stood, hefting Art’s bag over one shoulder. “Here.” He held out the sunflower to him.

“Why sunflowers?”

Eames shrugged as they headed out for reception, to get him discharged. “I dunno. Everyone likes sunflowers, right? They’re cheerful.”

“Like you.”

“Like me,” he agreed. “Except I’m not all cheerful, I just like to smile a lot. I notice things.”

“Do you,” Art asked absently.

“Like the fact that your licence is forged.”

Silence hung heavily between them.

“And that you didn’t crash by accident,” Eames continued after a moment. “You accelerated into that corner, I heard the engine before you went overhead. You were trying to crash.” He opened the door for Art.

Art just stared at him, looking torn between anger and fear. “How-”

“You were too angry at being saved. You weren’t expecting to get away from that crash. You planned on dying.” He let the door close, walking closer to Art.

“What do you want,” Art whispered. “If you say anything...”

“You’ll be busted for the stolen identity and probably locked up until you’re deemed not to be a danger to yourself anymore. Yeah. I worked that out.” He looked down at the smaller boy, still wondering what demons had driven him to what he did.

“What will your silence cost? I have money, I can pay you-”

“I don’t want your money, Art.” He felt slightly hurt that the boy thought that. “I didn’t spend this time with you to get your money. I want you to promise me that you’ll never do it again. Whatever it was that seemed so goddamn terrible, it wasn’t. You won’t do that again.”

“That’s... it? Just a promise?” Art seemed stunned.

Honestly, Eames was a tiny bit shocked at himself as well. He had half thought of at least extracting an awkward kiss and blustering upset for his silence. “Just a promise, darling.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, really.” He grinned. “Though if you keep pushing I might think of something else I might ask from you...”

“Okay, no, good, I... It was a dumb thing to do. I know that.” He looked away. “How long have you known?”

“First time I visited you.” He playfully flicked some loose curls back from his face. “Come on, smile, Art. You got a second chance at your dreams.”

“I don’t have dreams,” Art said softly, jaw snapping shut the next moment.

“Everyone has dreams, darling. Even if they’re a little hazy and incomplete. Go out and find them.” Eames wrapped an arm around Art’s shoulders and started guiding him out. “And if things get on top of you... Go out, drink a lot and be outrageous. Don’t drive your car off a cliff. I might not be able to get there in time to haul you out again.”

Art smiled slightly. “My knight in paisley and corduroy, huh?”

“Lighter than armour plating,” Eames quipped. “Though I wouldn’t mind a bit of jousting with you, if you get my drift.”

“Mister Eames, I’m not that sort of boy,” Art replied dryly.

“Ah well. Worth a try.” He paused next to the desk, letting his arm slip down. “I hate good byes.”

“Me too,” Art said.

“Don’t forget your promise, right?” He set Art’s bag down. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves me with a lot of options, I suspect.”

“Should do.” He grinned. “Stay safe, Art.” He turned and headed for the door before he thought of one last thing. “Is Art really your name?”

He nodded, smiling finally. “Yeah. It is.”

“Huh.” He grinned and gave a small salute. “Good luck.”

He turned and left and thought that would be the last he would ever see of Art.

*~*~*

But it wasn’t.

It was eight years later when he was contacted about a job where they needed a forger of a different kind, of the kind he had learned to specialise in.

He was in Venezuela, in a hotel lobby where he waited for his contact.

It was not his contact that he saw, but the pale, drawn face with huge dark eyes and the tiny scars at his hairline and over his hand.

The suit was new, sure. All polished perfection and neatness, even in the heat. His hair was slicked back, hiding what Eames knew was unruly curls under a layer of gel. He was older and sharper but he was still the same.

And clearly, Eames himself was similar enough, because those dark eyes were going wide with shock as he found himself smiling widely.

“You must be Eames, then.” He forced his attention to the other man, a tall and broad blond man with pale eyes. “Nash said you had an interesting taste in shirts. I’m Dominic Cobb, this is my partner-”

“Dom...” The young man whispered, almost trying to stop his partner.

“Arthur Darling.”

“Darling?!” Eames looked to Art, his smile growing impossibly wider.

Arthur said nothing, but the pink on his cheeks said it all for Eames.

Fic: First Meeting

2010-12-18T05:48:24Z

Title: First Meeting
Original fiction: Inspired by my Sunday Transylvania Chronicles/Vampire: Dark Ages Game.
Kolya is mine. Koray is not.

The city of Constantinople had seen better days.

The once great city had been the victim of the latest Crusade and even now, twenty years on, she was struggling to reclaim her former glory with her treasures pillaged and destroyed by the ignorant French bastards who had taken down the walls.

The visit was meant to be brief. As a newly installed Prince, Kolya couldn’t really justify the time away from Balgrad, but he had craved returning here ever since he had been released by Dominik. And now, with knowledge of the ivory tablets, he was hoping to find either a lead on the tablets or on the mysterious codex inscribed in the centre of the gold disc.

But the once beautiful libraries were near empty. The books and scrolls were gone, many destroyed by the liberators of the the city. It seemed like little liberation and victory for the church if the enemy alone cared for the precious knowledge held here.

He was walking from another fruitless attempt to visit an old contact when he heard the fuss. Yelling in Latin and French, yelling about the little bastard, pretty little boy, sweet mouth...

He could ignore it. But he could hear a child, a young one. And he was a monster, but he would not leave a child to brutality. He strode down the alley, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

There were two of them, trying to bull, intimidate and coax a small Mediterranean child out from a small alcove. One was making obscene gestures to his groin, the other reaching in try and grab the small form.

“You should leave,” he said in a steady voice.

They both paused, looking back to him, relaxed against the alley wall and watching them.

“Or try your lewd activities with a man, not a child.” He straightened up. “You are nothing. You are animals scrabbling in the dirt, slaking your base desires on the helpless, preparing yourselves for an eternity of screaming at the hooves of demons, endlessly dying and forever denied the relief of death.” The exertion of Presence was effortless, crawling terror over the two of them, the fear of God himself pushed into their minds and over their skin.

One fouled himself and then passed out. The other cowered on the spot as Kolya kept advancing.

“It’s not so fun when it’s you, is it, little Frenchman? When you are the one in terror, when you are staring at damnation and hellfire and know you are helpless in the face of what you see.” He leaned down, hand curling in the man’s shirt to pull him close. “If you do this again, I will know. I will know, and I will find you and I will see that you burn in hell.” And he let the Beast show, flashing up through his eyes and face, screaming to kill and devour.

The man fled. Kolya straightened up and dusted off his hands, moving to the alcove. “Do you speak Latin, little one,” he asked in the tongue.

“Latin,” the child repeated. “Latin little. Greek.”

Kolya changed mental gears to Ancient Greek. It was closer than anything else he knew. “They are gone. They won’t hurt you. You can come out now.” He offered out his hand, weaving Presence into his words, calm, relax, the projection that all was well.

The child came willingly, taking his hand and pulling himself out of his hidey hole. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, bowing low.

“You’re out very late on your own.” He knelt down to eye level, knowing Pasha had always preferred when he did that to talk to her.

“I saw one of those men take Mother’s coins,” he said. Kolya was fairly certain it was a boy; but he wasn’t good at judging with children. Especially not tousle headed Greek children. “We need those.”

“Ah.” He went to the unconscious man and kicked him over, spying a coin purse. He pulled it free and held it out to the boy. “Here.”

His eyes went almost comically wide, shaking his head and bowing again. “I-I can’t. It’s too much. Y-you should-”

“I don’t need his money. He took from you and your mother, it’s only right that you be paid back for your trouble and bravery in chasing them down.” He pressed the purse into the small hands. “Where are you staying? I will walk you back, for safety.”

“You... you are too kind, my lord,” he whispered, bobbing his head again.

Kolya held out his hand to the child, so he didn’t lose him. He saw other adults escort children by holding their hands. “What is your name?”

“Koray,” he said. He walked slowly, favouring his left foot. “Koray Giovanni.”

An Italian name. Interesting. “My name is-”

“Lord Arpad,” the child interrupted, then blushed and looked down. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“How did you know my name,” he asked carefully.

“Your crest,” he said in a small voice. “Black falcon on red and silver stripes, House Arpad, ruling family of Hungary.”

“You’re... a very well educated child, Koray Giovanni.” He let Koray indicate where they were going once they got to the end of the alley. This was going to take a long time at this rate. “Yes, I am Lord Arpad.”

“You are a long way from home. Are you here to see the libraries?”

“Yes, yes I am.” He picked the boy up, making him squeak. “You’re injured and trying to hide it.” He swept his cloak around them both, protecting the child from the cold night.

Even with Presence, the child was ridiculously trusting, relaxing into his arms. “You’re stronger than you look, my lord.”

“Yes, I am,” he agreed. “Must be all the fencing lessons I took as a child.” He side stepped a drunk, rearranging the boy in his arms onto his hip to carry him.

“Have you ever had to fight with that sword?”

“Yes. I have.” He had fought and killed with it, more times than he really cared to remember. “And before you ask, I have killed as well.”

“Can you read my mind,” the boy breathed out.

“No,” he smiled tightly. “It’s what people always ask next. This street?”

“Yes, my lord.” He wrapped an arm up around Kolya’s neck. “You’ve been very kind to me.”

“Adults should be kind to children. We have more power, so we have a duty to protect.”

“Like the Lord with the serfs?”

“Yes, just like that.” He walked down to the inn Koray pointed at, setting him down and knocking on the door. Luckily, this city stayed open late and didn’t question pale strangers in the night.

The door was opened by the innkeeper, but he was pushed aside by a woman who came rushing out, slender and elegant. “Koray! Where were you?!”

The boy hugged his mother tightly. “They took your money, I went to get it and they were so-” He sobbed into his mother’s shoulder.

The woman looked up to him. “Thank you for bringing him back. Thank you, I don’t know what I could do in return...”

“No need. You have a wonderfully intelligent child. It’s a rare, bright gift in this world.” He stepped back. “Remember to give your mother the money, Koray, and be a good boy.”

“Yes, Lord Arpad.” He looked out. “Thank you.”

Kolya turned and left, smiling slightly to himself as he heard the mother say “Lord? Koray Giovanni, what have you been up to...?”

jemisard @ 2010-12-04T16:10:00

2010-12-04T05:40:35Z

There is more fic coming. I've just done myself a fairly painful back injury and writing is problematic when you're out of your head on sleep deprivation and pain killers.

Bear with me, I will be back. With Sherlock fic and quite probably Inception fic. Possibly cross overs.

Fic: Rewriting the Game: Check and Mate (Sherlock)

2010-11-28T23:50:37Z

Title: Rewriting the Game: Check and Mate
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade, Molly
Rating: 15+
Summary: Moriarty has made a decisive move in their game. Now Sherlock must decide what to do with the hand left to him.
Sequel to Rewriting the Game
Companion piece/Other side of the coin to Dead Man’s Hand
Warnings: Angst. Character death. Language.

“Sherlock... I made you a promise at the pool. Remember? I said I was going to burn your heart out. And I am. This is the kicker, you’ll like this twist. I’m going to give you exactly sixty seconds, exactly, during which time John can say anything he wants to.

“Then, I’m going to blow him up anyway.”

“NO!” Sherlock was on his feet, hand slamming the desk. “No, that’s not how the game works, Moriarty, I solve the puzzle and you give him back to me in one piece!”

“Sherlock,” John said quietly.

“No!”

“Sherlock, be quiet,” John said, his voice shaking. “I’ve only got fifty one seconds. Less. I’m not spending them with you hurling abuse at him.”

“Tell me where you are. Tell me, we’ll...”

“Sherlock. It’s not your fault. You did what you had to, catching.... catching Harry. If she hit that girl, she needs to face the law. I don’t blame you.”

“John.” He held the phone, cradling it to his ear.

“This isn’t your fault either. Him being too gutless to finish me off himself, refusing to set me free, it’s not your fault. Promise me you’ll get him, Sherlock. Don’t let him keep killing.” His voice cracked with a sob. “No one else can. Get him for me.”

“No, no, John, I can’t... I can’t do this. This is.. I care.” The words were barely a whisper. “I care.”

“That’s why you’ll get him...” Breath. “I care too, Sherlock.”

There was a crack and the line went dead.

“John?!” He knew he wasn’t there and he couldn’t stop himself. “John?!”

The whole incidents’ room was silent, watching as Sherlock clung to the phone and kept whispering John’s name over and over.

Phones started ringing. Donovan was shaken to action, grabbing one and listening to the other end before hanging up. “Sir...?”

Lestrade blinked and looked up at her.

“An explosion has been reported... under 221b Baker street.”

Horrific understanding trickled into Sherlock’s mind. John had been in the basement apartment, 221c. He’d been right there the entire time, at home and now it was all gone.

Photos. Clothes. Papers. Laptops. Everything John owned was in that apartment and Moriarty had taken even the memories of him in that one action.

Home is where the heart is.

Sherlock stared at the phone in his hands, then started as it began to ring again. His lips twisted and he angrily pulled out the battery, shoving it in one pocket, the phone in the other and took off without a word for the door.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!” Lestrade called after him, but Sherlock didn’t even pause, forcing Lestrade to run to catch up with him. “Sherlock! Where are you going?”

It was patently obvious where Sherlock was going. He didn’t dignify the man with a response, just swept out towards the street, gaze flicking up to where he could see smoke billowing up into the sky from the explosion.

“You can’t go,” Lestrade said and he grabbed Sherlock’s elbow.

Sherlock drove the elbow back to dislodge Lestrade’s grip, spinning sharply on his heel to drive his other elbow into the DI’s shoulder to send him off balance. He smacked both hands sharply over his ears to stun him and then used a double handed shove to send him to the pavement.

Then he was off, hailing down a taxi before anyone could get out and stop him for having just assaulted a police officer.

Lestrade should have known better than to try and stop him.

It was his own damn fault, really, Sherlock thought coldly as the taxi sped towards Baker Street.

Ambulances sped past them, squad cars racing to reach the scene, to close it off before journalists got them and got into it. Sherlock could vividly picture it; closing his eyes, all he saw was the way that a suicide bomber was torn apart and how sickeningly unfair it was that John had survived that in Afghanistan only to be put in a vest himself.

I care too, Sherlock.

The taxi came to an idle, but there was no traffic lights before their next turn.

“I think they’re here for you, sir,” the cabbie called back.

Sherlock looked up.

A black car was parked in front of them, filling the road. One had pulled up behind them.

“Yes. Yes, they are. A lady will sort out the cost and a fee for the inconvenience.” He opened the door and stepped out, standing there as the door on the front car opened and Lenore stepped out, followed by the man himself.

“Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s expression was somber, an excellent impression of empathy and condolence. “Sherlock, I’m sorry-”

“For what? That you didn’t have surveillance on him? That another part of your city was blown up and you can’t find him? What are you sorry for, exactly?” A cold wind hit them, whipping Sherlock’s coat to the side, still open, his hands in his pants pockets. “Because I know you’re not sorry about the good Doctor. You don’t care about people.”

I care too, Sherlock.

He closed his eyes, trying to block the echo of those last words.

“Sherlock.”

He growled slightly at his brother’s interruption.

“I am sorry about John. He made you... he was your friend and he looked after you. I appreciated those things. He was good for you.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet? Now you’ve held me up long enough for the police to make a mess of the scene, I really need to get going.” He turned around.

“You’re not going to Baker Street, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s footsteps came closer. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go back there before the coroner’s team have been through.”

“You mean before they finish gathering up whatever splatters of gore and flesh remain of the body.”

“Yes.” Mycroft didn’t touch him. Mycroft knew better. “You don’t need to go and see that.”

“I’m an adult, Mycroft, I’ll decide what I do and do not need,” he snapped.

“I see,” his brother said softly.

Sherlock spun on his heel, ready to defend himself, but it was already too late. The taser hit him in the arm and after a moment of pain, the world went black.

*~*~*

He didn’t dream, just became aware of the fact he was sore and lying down on a bed. His eyes flew open, head snapping to the side to see Mycroft sitting next to him, reading through papers, legs crossed primly.

He looked around. The room was familiar, even if the paint had changed since he was last here. The spare room at Mycroft’s town house.

“You’ve been out for four hours. We gave you a light sedation when you reacted violently to the suggestion you couldn’t attend the bomb site.” He closed his folder. “I would prefer not to expose you to the bloodshed of your best friend’s body having been blown apart.”

“I’m not a child,” Sherlock snapped, sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed. “I need to get to-”

The door pushed open. “Just the once, dear, I thought you could do with a cup of tea for the shock.”

Mrs Hudson came in, putting down the tray on the foot of the bed. Sherlock knew he was staring, but he couldn’t quite seem to make himself stop.

She gave him a sad smile. Her eyes were puffy and red. “Giselle picked me up from the scene when I tried calling your phone. She told me what happened.”

Sherlock stood up and let himself be pulled into a hug from his land lady. He closed his eyes, trying not to shake with relief that at least she hadn’t been home at the time. He hadn’t even thought of her until then, had dimly just expected her to be here since John wasn’t but he knew how close she had come to being killed, blown to pieces along with his flat mate.

Her hands rubbed his back, patting with rough surety. “I got that DI of yours to gather up some things for us. Now, you sit down, have that tea and get your head in order and I’ll go and get them. The drier should be done by now.”

She let him go and bustled out again. Sherlock sat down, swallowing and looking to his brother.

Mycroft shrugged slightly. “I thought you might appreciate the company. She has nowhere else to stay and I will be busy for the next few days, so the two of you are welcome to the town house.”

“I need to get to the scene,” Sherlock said softly.

“Not yet,” Mycroft replied. “They’re still cleaning up.”

“I need to start the investigation. This was aimed at me, this game is for me.”

“Now, Sherlock, you listen to me,” Mrs Hudson said as she came back in with a shopping bag of things and a jumper.

A black and white striped jumper that was still warm from the drier as she handed it to him.

“You aren’t going in there. There’s no need. This Moriarty didn’t go into the building and he didn’t leave anything in there. You’re smarter than that. And drink your tea.” She started unpacking the bag. Sherlock watched, holding the warm clothing to his chest as he watched the items being set out.

John’s strong box, which Sherlock knew had his medals inside, a few photographs. His own violin, the case badly damaged but a quick check showed that the violin itself was intact and unharmed. A photo of John and Mrs Hudson from New Year’s. John’s sig, dusty and scratched, but still functional.

“We found the laptops, but they were badly damaged,” Mrs Hudson continued.

“I’m having the hard drives recovered,” Mycroft added.

“I need a new laptop,” Sherlock muttered, lifting the jumper up and closing his eyes, inhaling the scent of familiar detergent and the faint smell of smoke under it.

“I’ll have one arranged.”

“And the CCTV footage of Baker Street, covering from the moment I left until after the explosion,” he stated. He finally picked up the tea and sipped it. Mrs Hudson never added quiet the right amount of sugar for his taste, but it was perfect for being characteristically off.

“Very well.” Mycroft stood up. “I’ll leave you to it. Do take care of him, Mrs Hudson, don’t let him forget dinner.”

“Shoo, shoo,” Mrs Hudson fluttered. “I’ve got him now.”

Mycroft left.

Mrs Hudson nodded at Sherlock. “And we’ll find this monster who took your Doctor Watson. I’ll get some dinner started, you have a shower, you smell terrible and then you can talk at me while you work this out.”

He nodded and she left.

She was right, he was smelling a bit ripe. He was glad she was here. He could’ve wasted hours chasing around the bomb site for no point.

He shook his head and stood, moving to the bathroom. Somehow, the jumper ended up coming with him.

*~*~*

He spent longer than he should have in the shower, soaking in the heat and steam. He ended up dressing just in pajama pants and then hesitantly, guiltily, slipping on John’s jumper, giving in to the impulse to hug his arms around himself, eyes closed to try and picture what he would be doing now if this was just another case, if the victim wasn’t his flat mate.

When he came out, Mrs Hudson didn’t make any comment about the fact he was wearing John’s top, too broad in the shoulders making up for too short in the sleeves on his own lanky frame. She just sat him down with another cup of tea and indicated the box that had been delivered.

His new laptop and the discs of CCTV footage. He curled up on the couch to start his review, taking a vague note of Mrs Hudson sitting down in the armchair and pulling out some knitting needles, the television on low in the background.

It wasn’t at home with John. But it was an acceptable stand by, since home was rubble and John was blood and gore splattered inside a body bag in the morgue.

He worked systematically through all the discs, fast forwarding most of it. It was only when he managed to find the actual assault that he started to give it his concentrated attention.

A man walked to the door, knocked and when John opened the door, sprayed him in the face. Three other men lurched from a nearby car into the building, slamming the door.

He watched carefully. No sign of movement upstairs. No clear view into the basement apartment. It was nearly half an hour until they left. One ran off somewhere else; Sherlock made note to trace his movements, maybe he joined the sniper watching John. Two others helped a third out and Sherlock smiled smugly at the obvious injuries.

He paused the footage and played it back.

It wasn’t good quality. It was terrible, really, but he could see a couple of things immediately. That man was barely conscious and he was wearing different shoes. He wore sneakers in and black shoes out.

He added that to the file in his mind and kept watching. One ran off. Three and Four helped Two into the car. Two was bundled in the back with Three and Four drove.

It would be twenty eight minutes between them leaving and the phone call to him. Time to arrange delivery of the phone, probably.

Though it seemed unlikely that restraining John would have taken half an hour. Why were they half an hour in there? And why didn’t someone leave immediately to arrange delivery of the phone to the Yard?

“The sniper must have been positioned close, close enough to see into the bottom apartment. High angle, so by necessity the bomb would have been placed quite close to the window to be visible, shallow line of firing. The sniper was on top of the building one back, across the road, the old apartment block that’s being converted. It’s abandoned and quiet.” He looked over to Mrs Hudson, who was watching him as she knitted.

“I don’t know, dear. The blast seemed to be more central than that. Doctor Watson’s bed was mostly intact and that’s at the front of the building.”

Sherlock nodded and leapt up. “I need to see the site.”

“Shoes, dear. You might want real pants as well...”

“No time! No time, Mrs Hudson!” He grabbed shoes, for practicality (because John would insist on it) and his coat and was snatching up his phone as he ran out of the door.

He ran through the possibilities in his head as they drove. He didn’t want to think too much on them, the possibility of it all falling through and being wrong was too great and he might start adjusting evidence to fit his theory, rather than the theory to the evidence.

But... it was not impossible.

He shoved bills at the cabbie and ran across the road, leaping the police tape and skidding to the edge of the crater. “Anderson! Stop dragging your knuckles, tell me where the centre of the blast was!”

“Holmes?!” Anderson looked up from gathering blood samples. “You’re not meant to be here! You can’t be here!”

“Rubbish. I am here, so clearly I can be here. Where was the bomb located?”

“You aren’t allowed to be here, you need to go-” He trailed off.

“Home?” Sherlock gave him a bitter smile. “Yes, well, are you going to help me, Anderson?”

“Will you leave if I tell you?”

“Yes.” He nodded.

“Over there.” Anderson pointed to a spot on the former floor.

Against the old fireplace. “Stand there! I need to check something!” He took off again, running across the world, under the tape this time and to the renovation site.

Scampering up–he took note of the evidence of recent activity–he came to the top and stopped.

A sniper’s nest. Perfectly camouflaged from above, big enough for one person on their belly. And there was a package inside.

He pulled it out and turned it over in his hands. It was addressed to him, in Moriarty’s perfect hand writing.

“Holmes!” Donovan’s head appeared over the edge. “What the hell are you...”

“I found the sniper’s nest. Do you have some kind of laser sight on you? A pointer, even?” He flicked out his pocket knife and cut open the envelope, sliding everything out.

A vial of murky water. A matchbox car. Five playing cards. And a photo. A horrific, vivid photo of John, strapped in a vest and flinching from the flash, his eyes raw and blood on his face.

“A pointer... Is that John’s jumper?”

“No.” It was his now. He snatched the pointer from her hands and shimmied into the sniper’s nest. He turned it on and pointed, following the line on the laser.

It didn’t reach, but it gave him the clear sight.

The sniper couldn’t see the bomb.

He rushed out, grabbing Donovan. “He couldn’t see the bomb! It was out of sight! He couldn’t see the bomb!”

Donovan shook him off. “Are you wearing your pajamas? And I’m sure that is John’s...”

“Donovan, stop being so frightfully stupid and listen to me! The sniper could not see the bomb! The person in the bomb was unable to resist in any way because they could not be be seen by the sniper!” He shook her again. “Do you see?”

Understanding dawned on her. “John was conscious. He was talking to you. If he was conscious and unobserved...”

“He would’ve fought to free himself. The person in the bomb... The second man!”

The curiously small second man with the changing shoes.

Four men went in. Four came out. Just not the same four.

He started dialling.

“Sherlock?”

“He’s alive. He’s alive, but I don’t know for how long. I know if you could’ve traced the car, you would have, but I need the enhancements on the vehicle, make, type, tyres, anything that might locate it or tell me where it’s been.”

“Have you been using again?”

“No! Mycroft please!” He took a deep breath. “Please. John wasn’t in the bomb. I need you to help me. I need you. Please.”

Donovan was staring at him in shock. The world seemed silent around him.

“I’ll meet you at my town house,” Mycroft finally said.

“Thank you,” he breathed out. He disconnected the phone and grabbed the parcel, gathering everything back up. Then he looked to Donovan. “What?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head. “I’ll keep Lestrade updated on what’s happened with you.”

“Is he-?” He gestured.

“He’s recovering, no thanks to you.” She made a shooing motion. “Go. Do your freak thing and find him.”

Sherlock gave her a slight smile and took off again, to get back to the town house.

*~*~*

The items were spread on the table. Sherlock was studying the sediment from the bottle, the water already dismissed. It was from the Thames, but where along the Thames only the dirt would tell them.

Mycroft was looking at the car, turning it in his fingers and looking at it through a monocle. “Modified into a Kia, ninety three model, I think, cheap enough on the market these days. Nothing special. There’s a driver fastened inside, too small to have distinct features but I would hazard to say... male.”

“John,” Sherlock said.

“Potentially,” Mycroft conceded. “We can’t assume that. He’s played your emotions once, Sherlock, he will happily do so again.”

“Potentially,” Sherlock agreed. “What about the cards?”

“Eight of spades, eight of clubs, ace of spades, ace of clubs, Jack of Hearts.” Mycroft popped out the monocle. “The Jack of Hearts is probably reference to his threat to burn your heart out, Jack also representing the Knave, a male servant or man of lowly birth or standing. Jack, of course, is also a diminutive of John.”

“Dead man’s hand, dear.” Mrs Hudson set down tea for them both. “White and no sugar for you, Sherlock, white and three Splenda for you, Mycroft.”

“Dead man’s what?” Sherlock looked up from his investigation.

“Dead man’s hand. It’s the bad luck hand in poker.” The door bell rang. “I’ll get that, that’ll be that nice DI or yours.”

“My DI? What, Lestrade? He’s not allowed to drive.”

“Oh, I know, but I told him to pop around anyway to see if he could help. He’s terribly worried by all this.” She shuffled off, and her voice was clearly heard from the front door. “Hello, Inspector, oh, hello, dear, did you drive him over? Come on in, Sherlock and and Mycroft have the evidence in the living room, I’ll start a new pot of tea going.”

Lestrade came in, looking none the worse for his run in with Sherlock outside of the yard. Sally Donovan followed him in, looking between Sherlock and his brother.

“Holmes.”

Mycroft nodded politely and stood up. “Welcome, Lestrade, Donovan. Please, take a seat. We were just trying to decode this puzzle. Do either of you know anything about poker?”

“A bit,” Lestrade said, sitting himself down and dragging the playing cards over. “Dead man’s hand.”

“We know,” Sherlock snapped. “The bad luck hand.”

“Sudden death hand in some games. If you draw it, you’re automatically out.”

“Why,” Mycroft asked, interest perked.

“Story is that Bill Hikock drew this hand just before he was killed. He was playing poker and was dealt two pairs with the last card face down. Common belief is that the other card was either the Queen of Clubs or a diamond, not the Jack of Hearts.” Lestrade picked up the card, noting the burn in the Jack card. “This was the evidence recovered from the sniper’s nest?”

Sherlock nodded, pieces slotting together. “So... that hand could be construed as a threat of death?”

“I suppose so. Yeah.”

Sherlock looked to Mycroft, who nodded slowly. “Jack of Hearts, dead man’s hand, Thames water and a car with a driver.”

“He’s going to drown John in a car in the Thames,” Sherlock said softly. “Or at least, that’s the conclusion we’re meant to draw. Someone will be drowned.”

“The Thames is hardly a short river, Sherlock,” Lestrade murmured. “That’s a lot of ground to cover, looking for a single car.”

“A ninety three Kia, silver grey, two door,” Mycroft clarified.

“Any idea when?” Donovan sounded frustrated. “Since you’ve given us where and how, when will they do it?”

“The evidence is perfectly clear, Donovan,” Sherlock sneered. “John would follow.”

“John isn’t here, you’re stuck with us. When will it happen?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Tonight,” Lestrade said in the end. “If I were him, I’d do it tonight. It’s Sunday night, not many people about because of work tomorrow and gives only a minimal amount of time to solve the puzzle. He’s playing so you can’t win. If he hasn’t done it already, it’ll be tonight.”

If. It was a horrible word. Sherlock curled up a bit more, resting his chin on his knees, staring blankly at the wall instead of his microscope. If it hadn’t been done already. If Moriarty hadn’t had John drowned last night while they were busy with the explosion.

If. If. If. If. If.

“Sherlock, is that John’s jumper?”

“No. It’s mine.” He hugged himself.

“He’s going to want it back,” Lestrade added.

“It’s mine,” Sherlock said sulkily.

“Sherlock, have you identified where that sediment is from,” Mycroft asked, neatly derailing the brewing sulking fit.

Sherlock looked back at the microscope, running a comparison in his head. “Lambeth,” he breathed out. “I think it’s somewhere in Lambeth.”

“Think,” Mycroft asked sharply.

“Not enough sediment to be more sure,” Sherlock murmured. “Probably Lambeth.” He nodded. “I’m going to patrol. Wait.”

“You’re not going alone,” Lestrade said. “Donovan, come on.”

“I don’t require baby sitting,” he snapped.

“Sherlock, you’re wearing your pajamas and you house mate’s jumper and a dressing gown. I don’t think you’re in a fit mental state to be left alone near Moriarty or his minions.”

Sherlock looked at his state of dress. “I still don’t need a baby sitter.”

“And when you manage to remember clothing before barging into a crime scene, you won’t have a police escort. But right now, Donovan and I are coming with you.” Lestrade stood up, hand on the table for stability.

“Fine. Hurry then, the sun is already down, we’re losing time.” He looked to Mycroft. “Your spy network will be keeping a look out?”

“Sherlock, I don’t have a spy network, but yes, we’ll be keeping an eye on things.” He sipped his tea. “Go on, get chasing criminals.”

“Lestrade! Let us go! Donovan, you drive! He swept out, expecting the other two to follow.

And prepared to hotwire the car if they weren’t fast enough.

He took the back seat of the car, winding down the windows and watching out as Lestrade and Donovan got in and they took off.

Every broken street light was a possible dump site. Every glint on the water was the reflection of light on a sinking car. Sherlock knew that he getting paranoid, wired on caffeine and not enough nicotine.

He stole one of Donovan’s cigarettes, lighting up in the backseat and breathing smoke out the window as he watched out closely.

The glowing tip of his cigarette was the only light for far too much of the trip. Someone had destroyed no small number of the lights by the Thames, casting the water into darkness.

Every minute that dragged by without sign of any of a dumped car tightened the coil in Sherlock’s gut. Eventually, after nearly an hour, Lestrade made them park to let Sherlock pace and smoke another two cigarettes. Donovan walked out and away from them, which was probably for the best. She had threatened to drown him in the river if he didn’t stop analysing her relationship history and Sherlock wanted to see her try it.

He leaned on the railing by the river, inhaling deeply and staring out. They didn’t know if the dump had already happened. They were trying to cover the Thames in Lambeth and out several miles beyond that.

And if they didn’t get it right, John would drown.

Drowning wasn’t a pleasant death. Not if you were awake. Unconscious, it was apparently quite peaceful, but awake...

Hitting the water would be a cold shock, causing a reflexive inhale. John might have been able to resist that, meaning he would hold his breath, probably fighting to free himself. He would have to be restrained, so he would be trying to free himself. Possibly the water would leak in slowly, which might be worse, because the water would creep up slowly, with a morbid inevitability. Opening the door would be impossible, even if he managed to free himself, due to the pressure differences between the water and the air inside.

“SIR!”

His head snapped up at the scream. Donovan. And she’d only be screaming for one reason.

He dropped the cigarette, taking off down the pavement towards her voice. He didn’t hear Lestrade with him; he didn’t care. He could hear Donovan screaming for help. His feet beat a rough pattern in his head that drowned out the pounding of his heart, his vision dark at the edges as he panted for breath, leaping a fence and seeing it.

The car was already mostly underwater, just the back poking out, bubbles rippling the surface of the water. Donovan surfaced, gasping for breath. “I can’t break the window! I need something to break the window!”

Sherlock patted his pockets, looking around for a brick, a rock... And he felt the sig.

He pulled out the gun, throwing it out to her. She caught it, diving under again with strong kicks.

Sherlock saw the police car go racing past, chasing after a car that only dimly registered in his mind. He was focused on the river, on Donovan surfacing again and throwing the gun to shore. “Call an ambulance, Holmes!”

He pulled out his phone, numbly dialling nine, nine, nine, watching as bubbles escaped to the surface again and Donovan came up, taking another deep breath and vanishing once more.

Sherlock was barely aware enough to give their location and tell them to bring an ambulance, because Donovan came up and she had a body in her arms, kicking towards the shore while dragging the dead weight with her.

The phone was dropped; Sherlock came to the edge, grabbing the man under the arms and dragging him upwards, onto the bank.

It was John. Face slack, lips blue tinged, arms tied behind his back. Sherlock grabbed his knife, popping it open to cut the plastic ties, lying John flat on the ground and dropping his head to his chest.

“Is he-?”

Heart beat. Weak, but there. No breathing. Sherlock surged up, hands cupping John’s face. “Don’t you dare, don’t you dare die, you’re not allowed to die,” he demanded.

“Is he alive?!” Donovan sank to her knees, panting.

“Pulse. Not breathing.” He knew how to resuscitate someone, surely, somewhere in his mind he had that knowledge stored away.

“Fuck.” She crawled over, moving to pinch John’s nose and Sherlock’s memory flooded back. He batted her away, tilting John’s face up, pinching his nose and leaning down to lock his mouth over his friend’s, breathing hard into his mouth.

He leaned back, looking at him, but nothing happened. He did it again, willing something to happen, anything suggesting life. “Come on, John, come on, breathe,” he whispered. “Dammit, breathe!”

“Stop yelling at him and keep breathing for him,” Donovan snapped.

“Not helping,” Sherlock yelled back, but he put his hand under John’s neck to arch him up more and he breathed into his mouth again, trying not to panic as John was getting paler and bluer around the mouth.

“Don’t die, you’re not allowed to die!” He breathed out hard, staring at John’s cold face. “No. No, you can’t die.”

He cupped both hands on John’s neck and closed their mouth together once more, much less professional but breathing out hard once more.

He felt John’s throat move and then the bitter taste of Thames water in his mouth. He pulled away, spitting it aside and rolling John onto his side, hands on his shoulder and back as he coughed up water, retching and hacking and never had such revolting sounds been so wonderful to Sherlock’s ears.

Even more wonderful than the approaching sirens of the approaching ambulance.

*~*~*

By the time John opened his eyes, Sherlock had rearranged the room, refused to change into the hospital scrubs and been contacted by Lestrade to tell him that the men driving the car he had seen speeding away had been apprehended and were being questioned.

They wouldn’t lead back to Moriarty. But Sherlock was okay with that. Because he was never going to leave John alone in a situation where he could be taken and held hostage again.

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was watching his face, listening to the machines beep slightly faster as John roused back to consciousness.

“You’re not allowed to do that again,” he said by way of opening conversation.

“What,” John asked, voice hoarse with Thames water.

“Be kidnapped. Die. All that.” He gestured vaguely. “You can’t. It’s not allowed. I’m writing it into the lease.”

John smiled weakly, eyes closing again. “Knew you’d find me,” he whispered. “When the bomb didn’t go off. I knew you’d beat him.”

Sherlock swallowed, eyes closing briefly. He nearly hadn’t. He had very nearly not solved it. He had nearly charged off to the bomb site, lost time...

Lost John.

“Sherlock. It’s okay.” John reached out, tousling Sherlock’s hair softly. “You saved me.”

“You died,” he said plainly.

“I’m not dead now,” he whispered. “I’m too sore to be dead.”

“You did a lot of damage to your shoulders and wrists trying to free yourself,” Sherlock murmured. “I thought you were blown up.”

“I thought he was going to blow me up.” He finally dropped his hand from Sherlock’s head, looking at the bandaging on his wrist.

“He blew up our house.”

John met his gaze, eyes wide. “Mrs Hudson?”

“Angry. Worried about you.”

“And... Harry?”

Sherlock had forgotten about the case. The drink driver. “She doesn’t know you were dead. I don’t know if anything been done about the, thing, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” John closed his eyes.

They sat in silence for a while. Sherlock climbed onto the side of John’s bed, perching on the edge and watching until John opened his eyes and looked up at him.

Sherlock leaned forwards, pecking a light kiss to John’s lips. “I still, you know. Care.”

John’s shock faded to a mild smile. “Yeah. I know, Sherlock. I had sort of hoped it wasn’t just because you thought I was about to die.”

“No. Of course not. Why would I do that?”

John chuckled slightly, reaching out and taking Sherlock’s hands. “I thought so.”

“You do, right? Care?”

“Yes, Sherlock.” He smiled again. “I care, too. Now let me rest for a while, okay?”

“Okay.” Sherlock settled to sit properly on the side. “I’m staying here, though.”

“That’s fine. That’s nice,” John whispered. “Just... Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“Are you wearing my jumper?”

Sherlock looked at the jumper. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

John just nodded.

And that was just fine as well.

End Three Complete.
And that’s how it actually happened.

Fic: Rewriting the Game; Dead Man's Hand (Sherlock)

2010-11-25T08:13:59Z

Title: Rewriting the Game: Dead Man’s Hand
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade, Molly
Rating: 15+
Summary: Moriarty has made a decisive move in their game. Now Sherlock must decide what to do with the hand left to him.
Sequel to Rewriting the Game
Warnings: Angst. Drug use. Character death.

“Sherlock... I made you a promise at the pool. Remember? I said I was going to burn your heart out. And I am. This is the kicker, you’ll like this twist. I’m going to give you exactly sixty seconds, exactly, during which time John can say anything he wants to.

“Then, I’m going to blow him up anyway.”

“NO!” Sherlock was on his feet, hand slamming the desk. “No, that’s not how the game works, Moriarty, I solve the puzzle and you give him back to me in one piece!”

“Sherlock,” John said quietly.

“No!”

“Sherlock, be quiet,” John said, his voice shaking. “I’ve only got fifty one seconds. Less. I’m not spending them with you hurling abuse at him.”

“Tell me where you are. Tell me, we’ll...”

“Sherlock. It’s not your fault. You did what you had to, catching.... catching Harry. If she hit that girl, she needs to face the law. I don’t blame you.”

“John.” He held the phone, cradling it to his ear.

“This isn’t your fault either. Him being too gutless to finish me off himself, refusing to set me free, it’s not your fault. Promise me you’ll get him, Sherlock. Don’t let him keep killing.” His voice cracked with a sob. “No one else can. Get him for me.”

“No, no, John, I can’t... I can’t do this. This is.. I care.” The words were barely a whisper. “I care.”

“That’s why you’ll get him...” Breath. “I care too, Sherlock.”

There was a crack and the line went dead.

“John?!” He knew he wasn’t there and he couldn’t stop himself. “John?!”

The whole incidents’ room was silent, watching as Sherlock clung to the phone and kept whispering John’s name over and over.

Phones started ringing. Donovan was shaken to action, grabbing one and listening to the other end before hanging up. “Sir...?”

Lestrade blinked and looked up at her.

“An explosion has been reported... under 221b Baker street.”

Horrific understanding trickled into Sherlock’s mind. John had been in the basement apartment, 221c. He’d been right there the entire time, at home and now it was all gone.

Photos. Clothes. Papers. Laptops. Everything John owned was in that apartment and Moriarty had taken even the memories of him in that one action.

Home is where the heart is.

Sherlock stared at the phone in his hands, then started as it began to ring again. His lips twisted and he angrily pulled out the battery, shoving it in one pocket, the phone in the other and took off without a word for the door.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!” Lestrade called after him, but Sherlock didn’t even pause, forcing Lestrade to run to catch up with him. “Sherlock! Where are you going?”

It was patently obvious where Sherlock was going. He didn’t dignify the man with a response, just swept out towards the street, gaze flicking up to where he could see smoke billowing up into the sky from the explosion.

“You can’t go,” Lestrade said and he grabbed Sherlock’s elbow.

Sherlock drove the elbow back to dislodge Lestrade’s grip, spinning sharply on his heel to drive his other elbow into the DI’s shoulder to send him off balance. He smacked both hands sharply over his ears to stun him and then used a double handed shove to send him to the pavement.

Then he was off, hailing down a taxi before anyone could get out and stop him for having just assaulted a police officer.

Lestrade should have known better than to try and stop him.

It was his own damn fault, really, Sherlock thought coldly as the taxi sped towards Baker Street.

Ambulances sped past them, squad cars racing to reach the scene, to close it off before journalists got them and got into it. Sherlock could vividly picture it; closing his eyes, all he saw was the way that a suicide bomber was torn apart and how sickeningly unfair it was that John had survived that in Afghanistan only to be put in a vest himself.

I care too, Sherlock.

The taxi came to an idle, but there was no traffic lights before their next turn.

“I think they’re here for you, sir,” the cabbie called back.

Sherlock looked up.

A black car was parked in front of them, filling the road. One had pulled up behind them.

“Yes. Yes, they are. A lady will sort out the cost and a fee for the inconvenience.” He opened the door and stepped out, standing there as the door on the front car opened and Lenore stepped out, followed by the man himself.

“Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s expression was somber, an excellent impression of empathy and condolence. “Sherlock, I’m sorry-”

“For what? That you didn’t have surveillance on him? That another part of your city was blown up and you can’t find him? What are you sorry for, exactly?” A cold wind hit them, whipping Sherlock’s coat to the side, still open, his hands in his pants pockets. “Because I know you’re not sorry about the good Doctor. You don’t care about people.”

I care too, Sherlock.

He closed his eyes, trying to block the echo of those last words.

“Sherlock.”

He growled slightly at his brother’s interruption.

“I am sorry about John. He made you... he was your friend and he looked after you. I appreciated those things. He was good for you.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet? Now you’ve held me up long enough for the police to make a mess of the scene, I really need to get going.” He turned around.

“You’re not going to Baker Street, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s footsteps came closer. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go back there before the coroner’s team have been through.”

“You mean before they finish gathering up whatever splatters of gore and flesh remain of the body.”

“Yes.” Mycroft didn’t touch him. Mycroft knew better. “You don’t need to go and see that.”

“I’m an adult, Mycroft, I’ll decide what I do and do not need,” he snapped.

“I see,” his brother said softly.

Sherlock spun on his heel, ready to defend himself, but it was already too late. The taser hit him in the arm and after a moment of pain, the world went black.

*~*~*

He was lying on a bed that smelt familiar and warm. A warm hand brushed his hair back from his brow.

He felt sick, but safe. The hand stroked down his cheek and then went back up to petting his hair. “You’ll be okay. Maybe next time you’ll listen to me, hm? I don’t just say these things to listen to myself talk, you know, Sherlock.”

He moaned an agreement. He’d agree to a lot right now if he could just stay here, warm and safe.

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock.”

His eyes flew open.

Mycroft was sitting next to him, hands laced and leaning forwards. “You’ve been out for twelve hours. I would have preferred not to have to sedate you, but I was not going to let you go and be exposed to the bloodshed of your best friend’s body.”

Sherlock sat up, ignoring his brother and looking around instead. Curtains closed, but night sky visible. Familiar room. He was at Mycroft’s town house.

“You can leave now, if you want, but I would ask you to reconsider.”

Sherlock grabbed his coat from the door and pulled it on, flinging open the door and stalking out, back towards the streets.

Mycroft had cost him valuable time. And the damn drugs were making him drowsy, despite the cold night air.

He hailed down a taxi and told it to go to Baker Street.

He had to see. He had to taste the smoke and smell the explosives and feel the rubble under his fingers.

He had to feel John’s death so he’d stop turning to speak to him and instead enact vengeance for him. Like he asked.

Even now, twelve hours on, smoke tainted the air, the chemicals of the explosion heavy on his tongue as he paid for the ride and walked slowly towards the police tape.

Officers kept the perimeter. Flood lights lit up the remains of the building, collapsed in and down. Debris of their lives was strewn across the street and fluttered in the wind; Sherlock caught a piece of paper with one hand and read it.

‘Eggs, bread, jam, butter, nicotine patches.’

A shopping list. His fingers lingered on the scrawled writing before he made himself let go. It was just paper. Just waste.

“Holmes?!”

He looked up as Donovan hurried over, still wearing one of those ridiculous looking forensics suits. “Don’t look so shocked, I live here.”

“You shouldn’t be here. Go back to your brother’s,” she said firmly.

“Where’s Lestrade?” He pushed past her and ducked under the police tape.

“Someone assaulted him and left him in medical treatment, he’s not back on until tomorrow morning, you arrogant son of a bitch,” she growled.

Sherlock kept walking. He could see blast patterns, the pavement torn up and the bricks ripped outwards. And blood, blackened with the heat, sprayed and splattered across the area, dark pools were pieces had been removed and sent to the morgue.

“Intact hand, sir!”

His head snapped up and he strode to the edge of the pit they were working in, looking over the edge as Anderson picked his way to the junior officer.

“Get out from in front of the... Holmes? Is that you?”

“Who else would I be?” He pushed his hands in his pockets. “What body piece is it? Left or right?”

“You shouldn’t be here, Holmes, go-”

The word ‘home’ died between them. Sherlock gave Anderson a nasty smirk. “Well, I rather have come home, haven’t I?”

“You can’t be here.”

“Of course I can. This game is for me, Anderson, it’s about me, how can I hope to stop him if I don’t examine the scene?” He skidded down the rubble. “Now, where’s that hand?”

“No. Holmes, no.” Anderson stepped in his way. “You can’t be here and you’ll compromise the case-”

“Oh be quiet you tedious little man,” Sherlock said, pushing him aside and striding past, pausing as the hand came into view.

He had really expected it to be broad, tanned, with blunt nails and little scars under blood and soot and burning. Not thin and wrinkled, not pale and elderly.

Not Mrs Hudson’s.

He blanched and turned away, hand going to a wall to hold himself steady, breathing through his nose.

“Christ’s sake, Holmes, go back to your brother’s,” Anderson sighed. “Sally can drop you over there.”

“No!” He straightened up, pushing away the shock and grief. “I think not. It’ll take more than just a hand to stop me doing my work. I see dead hands all the time, this is not different.”

“She was your land lady.”

“And he was my flat mate, and you’re the thorn in my foot, hobbling me doing my work, do you have a point?”

“Don’t make me have you arrested, Holmes. I can and will.” Anderson held his ground. Sherlock would’ve been impressed if not for the fact that currently, he was just being a pain in his neck.

“Go on then. Arrest me. See how far you get in stopping Moriarty without me.”

Anderson hesitated.

And then nodded. “Officers. Arrest this man.”

Sherlock felt somewhat smug as they dragged him off to the police car. Irrationally, upsettingly smug.

*~*~*

Lestrade fetched him from lock up the next morning and took him down to the bomb site again. They were obviously confident they had removed all the bits of bodies lying about the place if he was being allowed down here and he almost wanted to prove them wrong, to dig up something unexpected.

He was given the run down. They’d identified Iris Hudson from the hand and were running tests on everything else, to sort out what was her and what was John.

The bomb was the same as the others, semtex, vest, detonated on the body. Official identification could take up to a week, and that was the lab dedicating time and work to it as a priority.

Mycroft tried calling him twice in the car down, but he just hung up on him until he was standing in the ruins of his home and honestly couldn’t see a thing of any use, just broken memories.

“What?”

“I wanted to find out how you are. I’m worried about you.”

“Go to hell, Mycroft. I don’t need babysitting.”

“Isn’t that what John did for you?”

He hung up on him again and dug out a glint of metal from a pile of bricks.

John’s strong box. Sherlock knew from snooping that it had his army medals in it, a few photos. A painful surge rose through his chest, like nausea, like he wanted to scream and cry and laugh hysterically at once.

He pushed it down and set the box to the side. That was his now.

More investigation gave him nothing about how it was done, no decent leads.

It did yield a few more intact objects. His violin, the case battered but the instrument no worse for wear. He found John’s gun, slipping it into the pocket with John’s phone. Both their laptops, neither working but the hard drives were potentially salvageable. A photo of Mrs Hudson and John at New Year’s, both rosy cheeked and blacked with soot.

Lestrade helped him while co ordinating the evidence collection. His gathering was less practical for leads, things like surviving clothes and books that were more intact than not. A lot more of John’s belonging had survived than Sherlock had feared, because of the location of his bedroom no doubt, on the top floor.

The urge came back, the feeling of sickness and tight, choking pressure when Lestrade came over with John’s striped jumper. Sherlock had almost ripped it from his grip, wanting to cling to it in a most unhelpful and pointlessly demonstrative way.

He used offered evidence bags to gather the items up. Technically it was all evidence, but Sherlock had no compunction about stealing evidence for his own needs and wants, so a few of the bags were added to the back of the taxi he took off in, speeding back to Mycroft’s apartment.

He had ignored fourteen phone calls from his brother in that time.

Mycroft was at work, so Sherlock let himself in and made his way to the spare room he had been in the night before. In there, he set out his stolen bounty which wasn’t really stolen because Lestrade knew he had it.

He needed to change. His clothes smelt awful and he needed a shower and a wake up. He stole a pair of his brother’s pants and a shirt, which would be too big, but at least they were clean and didn’t smell like the blast site and had a shower that lasted far longer than he meant for it to.

When he got out and dressed, he had curled up on the bed for a while, staring at the small collection objects that marked the life of John Watson.

He wasn’t able to focus. He was distracted and kept coming back to those awful emotional things that wanted to happen. So when Mycroft called again, Sherlock actually answered it for distraction. “What?”

“I have the CCTV footage for you. Of outside Baker Street.”

It was Mycroft’s apology. “I need a computer. Mine isn’t working.”

“I’ll have one delivered with the discs. Lenore will bring it around, along with some new clothes. Mine simply aren’t flattering on you.”

Sherlock hung up and grabbed his coat and wallet. He needed fresh air.

He needed to be able to think.

And he knew just how to do.

John would be so disappointed.

John was exploded bits of splatter and gore, he pointed out to himself angrily, so he didn’t get to have an opinion anymore.

*~*~*

By the time Lenore arrived with the computer and discs, Sherlock was feeling decidedly brighter, his mind snapping and cracking and alive. He grabbed the machine, starting it up before he even had it on the table and sorting through the discs to find the ones he wanted.

“Sherlock?”

He looked at her. She had set aside the clothes that he didn’t need right now.

“I’m sorry about John. He was a nice man.”

He assessed her body language, her voice, the way she moved, looking for hints of deception, of her true feelings, of the indifference and coldness that was her signature.

It wasn’t there.

She was sincere. He looked away. He didn’t want sincerity. He wanted Moriarty at his mercy.

“Remember to eat sometime tonight. Inspector Lestrade is planning on stopping by after work to go over that footage with you.” She turned away, the phone coming out again. “Mycroft won’t be home until late.”

Sherlock ignored her, focusing on the laptop.

He heard her leave, deleted it from his mind and focused on the footage. There was hours of footage to go through and every second was important. Every second could reveal something, a tell tale sign of what had happened.

But there was nothing apparent until the moment that the man walked up to the door, knocked and sprayed John in the face as he opened the door. Three more rushed from the car and into the house and then the door was slammed shut.

They were inside for half an hour before leaving. One was being supported between two others, his leg dragging and his head rolling. Sherlock felt vaguely smug at the knowledge that John had managed to inflict serious damage, to the man who had opened the door from the build of him.

He re watched the sequence fourteen times, picking up every detail he could. One peeling away at the end, probably to set up a sniper post or to confirm in some way. Two helping the later, one driving, the other two in the back.

John was taken by surprise. The spray was probably mace or the like, to disorient him, make him easier to subdue, but John was practiced with desert fighting, wouldn’t have gone down easily.

The time stamp was confusing though. There was nearly half an hour between them leaving and the first phone call. Why did Moriarty wait twenty eight minutes? Was if because John wasn’t in a fit state to respond? Did they need that time to rouse him? Then why the half hour in the flat? Was it to deal with Mrs Hudson? Though an elderly lady was hardly would slow them down.

Was it the difficulty setting up a sniper? That made sense. Or, more likely, it was in fact waiting for John to rouse. If they had been forced to knock him out to get him into the vest and restrained, then he may have taken some time to rouse be able to read text off a screen.

In fact, given what they did to his face, it would have taken quite a while.

Which still didn’t help him.

The door unlocked and creaked open slowly.

“Go away, Lestrade, I’m busy.”

The man in question appeared in the doorway. “It’s two in the morning, Sherlock. You haven’t slept since you started the last case. You need some sleep.”

“Nonsense.” He started the footage on take fifteen.

“Sherlock, you’re not going to be any help if you don’t rest.” Lestrade sat down next to Sherlock. “Fuck. You look awful, Sherlock. When did you last eat?”

He shrugged. He had deleted that, it didn’t matter.

“What about drink?”

“Cup of tea, thanks,” he murmured. The man was not big, but clearly well built. Ex-athlete.

“That wasn’t- oh, fine.” He got up and trudged to the kitchen. “Where’s your brother?”

“Work. Ruining some economy or other, setting up a banana republic, who cares?” He certainly didn’t. He wasn’t helping catch Moriarty, so he was pointless right now.

“Sherlock, stop demonising your brother. He’s trying to help. We all are.”

“Trying is certainly the word for it! You’re all useless. Not one of you has come up with anything useful yet.”

“So enlighten me.” Lestrade came back with a cup of tea for Sherlock and coffee for himself. Sherlock dimly noticed that he looked fairly terrible. “What have you found?”

“There were four attackers. Mrs Hudson wasn’t home at the time, she returned six hours later, completely unaware of the bomb in the basement. She wouldn’t have thought twice about neither of us being home, it was fairly normal.

“John disabled at least one, he’s carried out by his friends. They spent thirty one minutes in the flat and a further twenty eight minutes doing something else before the call was made. Given John was maced or the like, potentially they had to wait until his sight was clear enough to read the screen.”

“Okay.” Lestrade drank his coffee. “And how does that help us?”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment.

He grabbed the cup and hurled it into the wall. “It doesn’t! There isn’t a single damn lead on where he’s crawled off to!”

Lestrade didn’t even flinch, just looked up with a level, accusing gaze. “How much have you had?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to reply. They both knew what Lestrade was talking about. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but getting Moriarty and using his skull as an urn for John’s ashes.

“How much?”

“What does it bloody matter?!” He flung himself out of the chair. “It doesn’t, it’s irrelevant, all that matters is finding that bastard and making him pay!”

“Christ, Sherlock, he’s been gone two days you’re already back on the coke?!” Lestrade was on his feet immediately. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me? Nothing’s wrong with me, Lestrade, I just needed to think for a while without the insipid waste of the police and my brother being dead weights around me!” He grabbed a paperweight, hurling it at Lestrade, who ducked with admirable speed. “Just go away and let me think!” Mycroft’s civil service award went next, until Lestrade backed into a room and shut himself in to avoid Sherlock’s anger.

Sherlock flung himself onto the couch, glaring reproachfully at the laptop. Eventually, he settled on his back on the couch, feet on the arm and plucking discordantly at his violin.

He plucked and he thought and he tried to pull together all the notes and threads but nothing happened.

He turned to ask John to get him a cup of tea and he remembered.

And then even the violin felt like too much effort.

*~*~*

The next day dragged by. A second hit kept him functioning and kept Lestrade furious but the Inspector still came with him when he went out walking, examining Baker Street.

He wanted to find the sniper’s nest, a place where the lower windows would be visible. He should have checked it sooner; he blamed Lestrade and Mycroft for addling him over those first crucial twenty four hours when it should have been patently obvious.

Without the window, it was hard to line up, but with Lestrade’s help, he managed to work out a playing field. They walked the streets in silence, checking each building until Sherlock spotted the tell tale markings of a fire escape having been used after the blast. Scrapings in the soot and ash, lighter sprinklings over it.

They climbed up to the roof and found why nothing had been spotted from the air.

A small camouflage shelter had been set up, perfectly matching the roof it sat it. Sherlock had to admire the precision in the deception, such perfect mimicry.

He climbed inside.

There was a package, addressed to him by name. He took it and stepped back while Lestrade called for forensics to get up there and comb the place for anything that might lead them back to Moriarty.

Sherlock crouched down and pulled out his pocketknife, sliding it along the edge and emptying the contents out.

A vial of water filled with pollutants and soils. A matchbox car. Five playing cards. And a photo, big and glossy and horrifically in his face.

John, side of his face bloodied, eyes red and swollen and strapped in the bomb vest. The flash of the camera clearly had him blinded, he flinched away from it.

Sherlock looked over the items. What was the message? What was Moriarty taunting him with this time?

He looked over the car, nothing interesting at first until he peered closer. Someone had meticulously crafted a tiny driver in the front seat.

He put it aside and looked at the water. Brownish, chemical pollution maybe. A sniff of it told him it was a major industrial flow.

“The Thames.”

“What?” Lestrade looked back at him. “What are you talking about?”

“This water is from the Thames.” The high was fading and he was feeling sick and weak. “What does it mean, Sherlock, a car, a photo and the Thames...”

“And the dead man’s hand.”

Sherlock looked up. “The what?”

“Dead man’s hand. Black aces and eights, the hand Wild Bill Hicock allegedly held when he died.”

The last card got Sherlock’s curiousity. He picked it up slowly, turning it over.

The Jack of Hearts, with a heart burned through it.

“There’s evidence in the Thames. He’s left us a lead and it’s a car in the Thames,” Sherlock breathed out.

Lestrade was on the phone instantly, organising teams to scout along the Thames. Sherlock moved away from him, holding the Jack of Hearts still and the photo of John.

Then he pulled his phone out and made the call.

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“I need a favour, Mycroft. I need to know what cars were dumped in the Thames since the explosion.”

He hung up, knowing the information would be sent through as seen as it was found. He shoved his phone in his pocket again, his hand brushing over the heavy weight of John’s sig.

“Sherlock?”

“Mycroft will notify us when the site has been located. Have the winch team ready for extraction.” He looked at the photo again, his mind niggling and telling him something was wrong.

Everything was wrong. John was dead. Mrs Hudson was dead. Moriarty was ahead in their game.

The address came in. It felt like it had taken moment and a life time at once. It was probably about seven minutes.

Sherlock grabbed Lestrade. “The game is back on, Lestrade, the game is back on. We have a location!”

Lestrade grabbed his radio, looking at the phone to read off the location while they scrambled back down to street level and towards a squad car.

Squad cars were faster, sirens got them running red lights and he knew the short cuts. Lestrade was willing to listen to his instructions as he directed them, bouncing in the seat and running off adrenaline.

He was out of the car before it had even full stopped, racing to the river’s edge and watching eagerly as everything was set up. The divers were arriving to locate the car underwater, the crane was being parked and braced.

A diver surfaced and swam to the shore, talking to Lestrade, who paled and looked at him.

He wasn’t surprised to see Lestrade come over to him immediately afterwards.

“I’m not leaving.”

“I think you should,” he said softly.

“I’m not going anywhere. There’s nothing more he can do to me.” He looked where the diver was signalling all clear and the crane operator was looking to Lestrade.

“I... wouldn’t count on that. Please, Sherlock. Trust me.” Lestrade looked awful, he noted, even worse when he was pallid and pleading softly.

“Pull up the car,” Sherlock said with a cold voice.

Lestrade closed his eyes and signalled for the car to be raised. “This wasn’t your fault, Sherlock.”

“Of course not,” he stated, watching as the car was slowly winched out, the doors open to drain the water.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Lestrade murmured, as the front came clear and Sherlock could see the slumped body in the front seat.

“It wasn’t your fault,” echoing in his ears as his addled mind took in the details, the dark blonde hair, the ugly cable knit jumper, as he took off running towards the car, leaping over the tape and up to the car door as it was being moved to the pavement.

He was pale, his skin pruned from the water and sickly, pallid pale. His lips were blue tinged and his eyelids looked bruised and water trickled from his mouth.

“No,” Sherlock heard someone whisper.

The car hit the ground and he sank to his knees all over again, hands gripping to the sodden wool of John’s jumper, where his hands were tightly bound behind his back.

There was an agonised sound too close to him, a sound he distantly categorised as emotional grief and total loss. His head dropped down to press to John’s arm, cold and wet and stinking of the Thames and death and he felt scalding heat on his face as his control cracked as he started to cry.

A bag went unnoticed pinned to the steering wheel. Inside of a photo of the two of them, walking down the street, smiling at each other.

The heart was burned out of both of them.

End Two Complete.
But maybe it could have gone another way...

Fic: Selfish (Sherlock)

2010-11-23T08:05:35Z

Title: Selfish
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson/Mycroft Holmes
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sequel to Greedy. The promised threesome.
Warnings: Graphic sex. Consensual incest. Mild bondage.

All John wanted was a nice quiet evening to himself.

Last night, Sherlock had kept him up until two running through the streets of London from bar to bar, looking for something that he still wasn’t entirely sure what it was. He had come home without his housemate, been unable to sleep until he heard him get in safely at four and then he had to get up at seven thirty to drag himself to work.

He had slept through his whole lunch break, nearly got fired when he slept over that and lost out on his afternoon break by taking it at lunch to sleep a bit more.

He was tired and worn out and he wanted a hot cuppa, a hot shower and a decent rest, maybe an evening camped out on the couch and listening to Sherlock working.

Instead, he opened the door to Sherlock and Mycroft sitting in the armchairs, knee to knee, Sherlock leaning back lazily and Mycroft leaning forwards onto his umbrella. They both looked to him.

“No. I don’t care. I’m not dealing with you two tonight.”

They both looked briefly surprised as he walked past them and into the kitchen. He really wanted that cup of tea about now.

He started filling the kettle, staring blankly at the wall and enjoying the numb feeling of being home and having no obligations for the night. If the brothers wanted to kill each other, that was okay. He knew the feeling, he wanted to kill them too sometimes.

Especially since Sherlock’s horribly mistimed revelation about the relationship between himself and Mycroft.

He blinked.

Was that why Mycroft was here?

“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock purred, sliding along the table’s edge to crowd John away from the sink, flicking the tap off with a gesture and advancing.

“Sherlock, I’m really tired...” He backed up, aiming for the door and instead hit something.

“Then we’ll have to do our best to take the burden of activity off you, shan’t we, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft’s hands closed on John’s upper arms, holding him firmly.

“Excuse me?” He tried to wriggle free, but then Sherlock was there, pressing against his front.

“I told you I’d love to see what he could do to you, John. You’re so strongly built, sturdy. You can take it, I’m sure.” He leaned down, biting John’s earlobe and tugging on it.

“It?” Mycroft sounded offended. “I am not an ‘it’, Sherlock.”

“Can you two do this some other night,” John protested. “I mean... Sherlock, did you even ask Mycroft if he was interested in this... me?”

“Low self image does little for you, Doctor,” Mycroft murmured, hands pinning John’s arms behind his back with shocking strength. “I assure you, I’ve been looking forward to this evening for some time, waiting for our schedules to meet up.”

“You’ve planned- Of course you ha-” His statement trailed off with a low whimper as Sherlock bit his throat, hands ripping his shirt apart, buttons flying, to latch onto his chest with the same ferocious hunger.

He tried to pull free, but Mycroft’s hands squeezed tighter, pinning his arms behind his back with more force.

Sherlock sank lower, teeth none too gentle as he nipped at John’s nipples, tongue chasing afterward to drag over the heated skin. It was slick warmth that almost felt cold compared to how much his nipples burned from Sherlock’s nipping and tugging. He wriggled, the cloth of his shirt almost chafing where he was tightly held by the elder Holmes.

“Sherlock, I do think the doctor needs more encouragement to wake up and join in on this.”

Looking up, Sherlock glowered. “It wouldn’t kill you to do something other than restrain him.”

“Not tonight, Sherlock. Think of John...” Mycroft purred the words, watching Sherlock intently as he lowered his mouth to John’s neck, kissing along it, teeth catching his shirt collar and pulling it back to bare more of his flesh to investigation.

So different from the way Sherlock was mauling his chest, teeth and tongue and tasting and biting. His bites were sharp and the way he tasted John’s skin was almost vicious, like he could taste into his soul just by licking his skin hard enough.

Mycroft’s mouth moved, nose nuzzling under John’s jaw to make him tip his head back and bare more of his throat to more attentions. At the same moment, Sherlock sank down lower, tongue pushing into John’s navel, teeth biting the flesh around it. His hands jerked at John’s belt and trousers, pulling him forwards, only to have Mycroft knot the shirt and pin his arms between their bodies. His arms wrapped around John’s body, holding him still and upright as he was stripped of his clothes.

With his pants around his ankles, his shirt around his arms, Mycroft at his back and neck and Sherlock at his front and stomach and heading steadily lower, John decided he must’ve gone to sleep on the road and died, because this didn’t happen in real life.

Then Sherlock’s hands slid up his thighs to grab his arse and he bent down to suck on the head of his cock and John stopped thinking at all.

There was exquisite heat and suction, sliding down along his length and back up again, pausing for the slick roll of a tongue over him and then a careful repetition of the whole affair. John wanted to look down and watch, see Sherlock’s mouth around his cock and those brilliant eyes focused entirely on what he was doing. He couldn’t, Mycroft was still kissing and mouthing at his throat; one hand casually brushing fingertips over John’s abused nipple, drawing gasps and moans from him.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured. He lifted his head up to speak, but it took John long seconds to think of lifting his head from the older man’s shoulder to look down at his lover.

Sherlock paused mid lick, tongue pressed flat to the tip of John’s cock. He raised one eyebrow and John wanted to scream at them.

“Churlish child, don’t tease the poor doctor. You’re quite capable of continuing and listening to me.” One of Mycroft’s arms lowered and his fingers pushed into Sherlock’s hair, tugging him back down onto John’s length. John’s eyes rolled back in his head, his voice caught in his throat as Mycroft didn’t let up, pulling Sherlock down and down, deeper than before, until John could feel the tight press of Sherlock’s throat and then unimaginably more, full lips pressing to his skin as he took the whole length.

John fought to not move, not hurt Sherlock but then Mycroft ground against him, hard and heated against John’s lower back. The motion rolled his body against Sherlock and the younger man swallowed, hard and purposefully and John did scream, whimpering as the pressure vanished again and slid back off him.

“You were saying,” he said in a soft voice, husky and throaty and wonderful and then he was diving back down again, urged on by both Mycroft’s hand and John’s sounds.

“We should convince John to have his nipples pierced,” Mycroft said conversationally. John would protest but he couldn’t find the voice to, not with Sherlock deep throating him and Mycroft’s hand coming back up to pinch and roll and tug on his nipple. “They’re so sensitive; he reacts with such abandon.”

Sherlock swallowed and then hummed thoughtfully and John came undone, screaming wordlessly as he came so close to the edge and then-

Sherlock was gone and up in his face, grinning wolfishly and grinding against him. “Not so interested in sleep now, are you?”

He hated them. He hated them so much and when he could breathe, when his body stopped bucking needily and his voice was his again, he would tell them so.***

“You don’t hate us,” Mycroft murmured, and he really hated how they did this, read his expressions and movements like they just read his mind. It meant they could have entire silent conversations without John knowing what was being said.

“I hate you,” Sherlock murmured with entirely too much heat in his voice.

“Mm, yes, I know,” Mycroft agreed.

Then–with John pressed between them–they closed the distance over his shoulder to meet for a slow, deep kiss.

It was for show. He could see that, in the way they broke apart, all parted lips and teasing tongues before they crashed together again, fighting each other for control of the kiss. It didn’t make it any easier for John to resist it, especially when they both rolled against him during the kiss.

He moaned and trembled and the kiss broke, both of them smiling. Sherlock caught John’s chin and lifted him up into another kiss, slow and deep and he could taste tea and sugary sweetness which was definitely not Sherlock’s preference.

They moved him with tiny steps and presses, still meeting for short, sharp kisses over his shoulder interspersed with Sherlock biting and nipping at his lips before kissing the pain away with soft lips and slick tongue.

Sherlock slid up onto the table–when did they get here?–and wrapped his longer legs around John’s waist, pulling him close and pushing his pants down more. Mycroft finally let his arms go and John threw off his shirt so he could start pulling Sherlock’s clothes open, pay him back for his horrendous teasing with nips and licks of his own over that pale skin. Sherlock moaned and threw his head back, grinding against John and moving to undo his own pants.

Mycroft was obligingly removing his shoes to get his pants off, so John stepped out of them, briefly wondering what was so fascinating about his ankles in socks that Mycroft was lingering over them. Then Sherlock’s hands were teasing his own chest and he was arching in a way that begged John to close his mouth over a nipple and work it with his mouth, so he did.

Then left foot slid and his right didn’t. Sherlock hauled him back into a deep kiss, enticingly wrapped legs going tight to stop him getting away as Mycroft duct taped his other ankle to the table leg, over the socks.

Sherlock broke the kiss and looked to his brother. “Secure?”

“Please, Sherlock, I can restrain a man with duct tape without supervision.” Mycroft ran his hands over John’s back, pressing close against him.

“You two...” He was torn between more turned on than he’d been in his life and wanting to kill them both. He could never reach his own ankles to free himself, they had him trapped. “You bastards,” he breathed out.

“Please, Doctor, our parents were married when we were born.”

Sherlock reached past John to Mycroft, both hands curling in his brother’s jacket and jerking him close, hard against John and making John cry out slightly as the solid heat behind him ground against his body once more.

“You’ll wrinkle my jacket,” Mycroft teased.

Sherlock shrugged and nipped Mycroft’s lower lip, undoing his tie with deft fingers. “Good cause.”

“Which is?”

“Shagging John until he can’t remember anything but our names,” Sherlock stated in a very matter of fact way.

John couldn’t breathe, watching long, nimble fingers slide the silk past his cheek and then drop down to stroke his cock. “Sherlock... no.”

“Yes, John.” He nudged John more upright, winding the silk around him slowly. “Not up for discussion. I want this to last until you’re screaming and sobbing for release.”

Whimpering at those words, John closed his eyes, letting Mycroft hold him steady as Sherlock used Mycroft’s tie to fashion an impromptu cock ring on him. Mycroft’s soft hands kept stroking his body.

Sherlock slid back along the table, taking John’s hands and pulling them out along the table. John reflexively tugged, but Sherlock kept hold, lacing their fingers together and sitting down at the far end of the table on a chair. He rested his chin on the table, watching John’s face.

Stretched out, John was completely pinned, bent over the table with his ankles taped to spread his legs, Sherlock holding tightly to his hands, chest on the cold surface. He met the pale eyes that were blown dark with lust. “How long have you been planning this,” he asked breathlessly.

“Since before we started having sex,” Sherlock said with a slight grin. “When I informed Mycroft that our arrangement was off.”

“And I insisted he tell me about you in detail,” Mycroft added from behind John somewhere. If he closed his eyes and listened, he could hear cloth, so probably Mycroft was undressing. Or at least taking off his coat.

“He did. What you smelt like, how you shifted your weight, how fit you kept yourself.” Sherlock glanced up his brother and back to John’s face. “Everything. And I’d sooner tell him myself than have any of his grubby agents trying to paw you.”

“My employees are not grubby agents,” Mycroft protested. “They are highly skilled professionals.”

“Professional whats,” John asked.

A hand slapped his arse, drawing a startled shout from him. “My brother’s a bad influence on you, Doctor.”

John tried to twist and look back and protest, but Sherlock refused to let go of his arms and give him the space to do so. Despite that, there was no more of them; he could only assume Mycroft had read that he really wasn’t impressed with it.

The thought and his annoyance fled his mind as he felt heated breath over his thighs and cheeks, then a teasing tongue tracing patterns over his skin. He tried not to move, not to buck or grind or push back as lips dragged damp trails over him and his gaze was held, pinned by Sherlock’s own.

Then Mycroft stopped teasing and his tongue slicked over John’s hole and John gasped, hips bucking back and unable to break Sherlock’s gaze. It would be eerie if not for the fact that it was Sherlock, he was watching John like he was the centre of the universe, like every reaction of pleasure on his face could unravel the secrets of the world.

He felt like he might unravel as strong hands pulled his cheeks further apart and that hard tongue pushed into him, thrusting and making him groan. He shuddered as Mycroft worked him open with steady thrusts and deep twists of his tongue. As he tried to pull away, again, he was pulled once more, Sherlock sliding forwards to kiss him, holding his hands tight as his tongue pushed aggressively between John’s lips.

He was caught between them, between their mouths, their tongues, their too sharp attentions breaking him apart and putting him back together as something of pure lust and need. His hips could barely flex but he was already so close to the edge that it just took the brush of his cock against the edge of the table to spike him up higher...

And there was a painful throb in his cock and gut as the snugly tied silk put an end to that. He half sobbed at the feeling of the denied, choked off orgasm; he felt Sherlock smile against his mouth at the sound and felt Mycroft chuckle against him, drawing back.

“How is he, Sherlock,” Mycroft asked, running his hands up and along John’s back, scratching down again lightly and making John moan and arch into it.

“Why are you asking me? You already know.” Sherlock came back in for another kiss, trying to dominate John with the kiss.

“I want to hear you say it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sharing a look with John. At least, John imagined he was trying to share it, John was busy trying to breathe.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock looked up at him. “I thought we weren’t teasing John...”

John heard Mycroft move, then he came into sight, still wearing his shirt and vest and pants neatly done up.

Sherlock let go of John, sliding off the table to meet Mycroft. They watched each other for a long moment, then Sherlock stepped in, hands undoing Mycroft’s pants and tipping his head to nip at Mycroft’s mouth in what John thought was probably the kisses they usually shared. Mycroft relaxed into it too easily, head tipping back to let Sherlock nibble and nip and suckle.

John could only watch helplessly as Sherlock drew out Mycroft’s cock and stroked it for a moment before producing lube from a pocket and opening it up, slicking over the hard length that John dimly realised would shortly be taking him.

And Sherlock would be watching. It sent a sharp spike of lust through him, that this was what Sherlock had fantasised about, him pinned down and being fucked hard and fast by Sherlock’s own brother.

Mycroft stepped back from Sherlock and slid around the table, taking a moment to grasp John’s butt with his hands, squeezing firmly. “You have quite a lovely arse, Doctor, truly lovely.”

“Thanks?” He twisted to look back at Mycroft. Mycroft smiled reassuringly.

Sherlock grabbed John’s hands and hauled them back towards him, pulling John flat on the table and making him look back. “Watch me,” Sherlock said. “Look at me, John, watch my eyes.”

He looked up to Sherlock’s eyes.

Hands pushed him open and blunt, heated thickness pushed at him, almost a tease until they lined up right and then there was an uncomfortable burn as he felt Mycroft start to work his way in.

He still held Sherlock’s gaze though, and it made everything both better and worse, because he was sure that Sherlock was dissecting every flinch and breath, dissecting his discomfort and pleasure and analysing it and categorising it and he was doing it all while his brother twisted and pushed and rocked against his lover.

He felt thumbs digging into his lower back, forcing him to relax more, sink into the table and back onto Mycroft. He could feel the heat of Mycroft’s body against his skin, the rasp of expensive trousers against him and the deep, full feeling of that hard cock buried in him.

“Tell me how it feels,” Sherlock said with a tiny smile. “Tell me everything.”

“Sherlock,” he managed to whisper. “I can’t-”

Sick of being ignored, Mycroft pulled back out again and pushed in with a smooth, firm thrust. John felt every inch of the movement and then the shift and a second push and Mycroft as pushing down and in at just the right angle.

His whole body bucked with pleasure, pinned helplessly between Mycroft, the table and Sherlock, pulling him taut and playing his pleasure like a violin.

Now that the angle was just right, Mycroft didn’t slow, didn’t ease his relentless drive into John’s body. He thrust just right every time to make John cry out in low, harsh sounds which made Sherlock smile in turn.

John wanted to rock, to push and feel Sherlock under him, his mouth or his hand, something other than the maddeningly taut silk tie wrapped around him still. He ached for relief and he wanted to see how long they would string him out.

“Please,” he heard himself whisper.

“Please what,” Sherlock asked. “Do you want him to move harder? Faster? To stop?”

“No.” Not stop. Aside from that, he didn’t know. He just knew he wanted, needed more.

“Use him,” Sherlock said, not looking from John as he addressed his brother.

Unlike the last times, Mycroft didn’t confirm with John. He just did it, moving sharper and faster, one hand gripping John’s good shoulder for leverage as he took. John had never felt to thoroughly taken as Mycroft fucked him hard and fast, the table shaking with the force and John breathless as his cock jerked helplessly with each shock of pleasure in him.

Sherlock let go of his hands and stood up.

John found himself craning his neck until he realised his hands were free and he could move, pushing to his elbows and rocking back instinctively onto Mycroft. He was panting for breath and still watching Sherlock’s eyes; their gaze held as Sherlock undid his shirt but didn’t remove it before moving onto his pants, undoing them with calm motion completely at odds with the way Mycroft and John fucked in front of him.

When he was stripped to just his shirt hanging from his shoulders with cuffs undone and sleeves half rolled up, he crawled up along the table, still holding John’s gaze as he pushed him more upright. Mycroft grunted with displeasure as he was forced to stop moving and instead help pull John to standing straight.

It wasn’t comfortable, spread so wide, impaled and fucked and painfully hard and now being held in a tangle of arms that seemed to be conspiring to stop him moving.

Sliding forwards, Sherlock spun to sit on the edge of the table, long legs wrapping around John’s waist and feet brushing Mycroft’s sides. He leaned back on his elbows. “Let John go, Mycroft. He’s not going to get much leverage with you pinning him like that.”

Leverage? And then he finally looked down, to see that Sherlock’s skin was slick already and he was shifting until the heated skin of John’s cock touched him and it was electric heat through him that he bucked against, drawing a moan from Mycroft.

Clever, nimble fingers slid down between them, guiding him and urging him on until he was nudging at Sherlock’s body and then the younger man took a deep breath and pushed to sink down onto John.

John stopped breathing. The silk tightly tied around his cock was suddenly a blessing because he felt like he was about to come despite it, the way Sherlock wriggled and shimmied down along him, tight and slick and inviting. Mycroft thrust and it bucked John forwards and he was balls deep and Sherlock was moaning under him, head thrown back and leaning on his elbows.

It was as good as impossible for John to move, even when he was allowed to lean over more, his hands braced on the table. All he could do was be bucked up into Sherlock’s body, pulling back as much as Mycroft would allow.

He could lean down though, closing his lips over Sherlock’s nipple and sucking firmly, tongue rubbing the peak. Sherlock groaned and buried his hand in John’s hair. “More,” he murmured.

John gave more, switching to the other one, suckling between gasps as Mycroft picked up his pace again, slamming into John, making him slam into Sherlock, until the younger man slid to lie on his back, hands gripping the edge of the table by John’s hips and looking back up into his eyes again, lips parted and gaze heavy lidded with pleasure.

It was unbearable, the way they worked him between them, with hands and mouths and feet–Sherlock’s damn feet planted on his arse and toes gripping to pulling him open– that pale gaze that never dropped from his, even when Mycroft let John shift the angle to drive against Sherlock’s prostate.

His cock ached inside of Sherlock, and he was sure he couldn’t take anymore when he felt someone tug the tie and the knot undid and suddenly Sherlock was kissing him and whispering, “Come,” against his mouth.

He might’ve shouted. He didn’t know, all he knew was that suddenly Sherlock was tensing around him and Mycroft was slamming deep and harder over his prostate and he was lost in the snapping coil of pleasure overrunning his body as he came hard, shuddering between them and he could hear Sherlock growling at Mycroft but the words meant nothing as he sank down again slowly, aftershocks making his body shiver against Sherlock’s.

“We’re not done yet, John,” Sherlock whispered in his ear.

He opened his eyes and looked to his lover. Mycroft’s hands were bruising tight on his hips and the hard length of Sherlock’s cock still pressed insistently against his stomach. He nodded slightly, pushing Sherlock back along the table, ignoring the faint whimper that he was empty.

Dropping to lean on his elbows, he bent down and closed his lips on the head of Sherlock’s cock, sucking firmly before sliding down a bit further, hand stroking the rest. Sherlock groaned and twisted, hands settling in John’s hair and letting him move as he wanted, up and down and sucking and licking.

It was different from before, where he could barely think past his need to come. He could enjoy the sharp, erratic thrusts in his body now, careful not to push him to over sensitised but needy and wanting and wonderfully selfish in the desire to claim. He could focus on making Sherlock gasp and whimper and moan with his hands and mouth, with suckles and strokes and two fingers sinking back into him and pushing ruthlessly up against his prostate.

Mycroft came first, biting his neck to quiet a sound on his skin, jerking deep and coming off in him. Sherlock was not far behind, arching between the thrust of fingers and the heat of John’s mouth. John pulled back as he came, stroking him through it until he sank to the table and John could sink to relax against him, head on his stomach and eyes closed.

Mycroft moved. John muffled the sound of discomfort as he was made aware of how empty he felt. The older man came to crouch up near them, brushing John’s hair back from his face. “Mm... you’re okay. Just worn out.” He moved on to Sherlock and John peeked to watch as Mycroft pushed back Sherlock’s curls and kissed his brow fondly. “I need your help, Sherlock.”

“Of course,” Sherlock sighed. “John, head up.”

John groaned.

Hands lifted his head and Sherlock moved away from him. Familiar hands stroked his back and held him as his ankles were cut free from the table legs and tried to give out on him.

“Come on.” Sherlock pulled him upright and between the two brothers, John found he could move enough to get to Sherlock’s room and sprawl on the surprisingly clear bed.

Not surprising. They’d planned this perfectly.

He pulled Sherlock down with him and looked up at Mycroft. “You staying,” he asked sleepily.

“I cannot. I have matters of state to attend to.” He was already looking barely rumpled, clothing sorted out, just his jacket missing. “I might call tonight and see if you’re both awake. Social call.”

Sherlock snorted and wrinkled his nose as Mycroft kissed his brow tenderly, one thumb sweeping over his little brother’s cheek.

John glanced away, feeling out of place, but then his chin was caught and he was lifted into a soft kiss on the mouth that ended as easily as it started.

Mycroft smiled slightly and straightened up. “Sherlock, let John rest. He needs it.”

The only reply was Sherlock positively snuggling into John as Mycroft left the room and let himself out.

Then Sherlock bit him.

John yelped, but it trailed into a low moan as Sherlock wrapped long arms and elgs around him and suckled instead, breaking off only when he’d left as mark. “Better.”

“What is?” John bullied Sherlock into lying down so he could lie on him like behind, head on his chest this time and legs tangled.

“You had a mark from Mycroft. Now you have one from me instead.” Sherlock sounded smug.

“That’s important is it?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s hand tightened briefly. “I might share with Mycroft, but you’re mine.”

“Oh. Well. Okay.”

And it was.

Fic: Taste Test (Sherlock)

2010-11-18T02:15:22Z

Title: Taste Test
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes
Rating: Gen
Summary: Sherlock doesn’t hesitate to make his disapproval of John’s gifted cologne known, in the most vivid ways he can.
Written for Washi. Hopefully a cheer up for pennies_4_eyes
Warnings: None.

Just once, once, John wished they could have a normal dinner, like a couple of friends out having dinner together just to spend some time socialising. He’d be happy with the pretence, even if they both knew it wasn’t real, they could pretend and not have half the restaurant staring at them.

Like last week, when they went to dinner and Sarah called and John had excused himself from the table to go and talk to her. So Sherlock grabbed his phone, took out the battery and dumped it in a glass of wine. To the applause of the couple next to them who thought Sarah was his bit on the side and Sherlock had done nothing to dissuade the idea.

Or the fortnight before that, when Sherlock took him out to the nice Indian place around the corner from them, but it turned out to be because he thought a suspect might come in and the meal was ruined when the man Sherlock was tailing recognised him and went him with a knife. John had put him down pretty fast, but the dinner had hit the floor at the same time as the suspect.

Or tonight. Tonight they were at Angelo’s place, in their usual seats where Sherlock could watch outside while appearing to actually be watching his companion. John could watch the diner and pretend Sherlock was even vaguely paying attention to him.

Naturally, when Sherlock did pay attention, it wasn’t very flattering. “You’re wearing new cologne.”

“Yes.” He’d been wearing it since they headed out, Sherlock must have run out of things of interest to study if he was turning to John. “You just noticed?”

“No, I noticed the new scent, I don’t like it much, but I just noticed that it’s weakened significantly while we’ve been here.”

“Right, thanks, of course you don’t like it. Why don’t you like it?” He pursed his lips, trying not to let his irritation get to him.

“It smells sour and cheap,” Sherlock sniffed.

“Sarah gave me this,” he stated.

“So it is cheap and it still smells sour. You should pour it down the loo.”

“I’m not doing that, Sherlock,” he ground out.

“No, you’re right. Pour it down the sink at the office, that way I don’t have to worry about the smell lingering.” Sherlock turned his gaze to the window again.

“Okay, I’ve about had it, Sherlock. You belittle me, criticise me constantly, I let you get away with crashing my dates, but can you have the decency to not call my girlfriend cheap.”

“I didn’t call her cheap.” Sherlock smiled patiently. John felt that impending nightmare warning bell. “I called the cologne she gave you cheap.”

“Where do you get off calling it cheap? Where? It was a gift and-”

“And what? That means you have to lie about it? It smells sour on you and it is cheap, it’s been blended with a heavy alcohol base. Only cheaper perfumes do it, it causes an immediate burst of strong scent that fades to virtually nothing, hence why the scent has diminished over this brief time.”

John vaguely wanted to punch Sherlock, only he’d be as likely to get done for domestic abuse with the misconceptions Angelo had about them.

“John, it’s simply facts. It’s cheap and smells bad on you.”

“You could be wrong.”

“I can smell the alcohol base.” He curled a hand around John’s shirt and pulled him forwards abruptly, tongue flicking out and licking up the column of John’s throat.

John’s mouth went very dry and his brain gave up on the evening and checked out because this was just too much ridiculous to cope with.

“I can taste it. You could taste it, with your paltry senses. It’s cheap and not very nice. Especially to taste. See?” He was leaning in again, tugging sharp and John was trying to back peddle even as he was hauled in and Sherlock’s tongue licked his own sharply.

He shoved his flat mate off. “Sherlock! God, what is wrong with you?!” He grabbed his glass of coke and downed it, hoping the acidity would do something about the whole memory of that moment.

“You can hardly lick your own throat now, can you?” Sherlock sipped his coffee like nothing strange had just happened.

“You can’t just lick me at random, I’m not a crime scene!”

“You should be, that cologne should be illegal,” he sniffed disdainfully.

“That’s it.” He stood up, grabbing his coat. “I’m leaving.”

“But you food hasn’t arrived yet,” Sherlock pointed out.

“That never stops you dragging me out at a moment’s notice,” he snapped. “Don’t wake me up when you get home.”

He stormed out, heading home and hoping Sherlock had got the hint that he wasn’t welcome back yet.

In the restaurant, Angelo approached the table. “Lover’s quarrel?”

“I don’t think he likes me telling him his cologne is cheap,” Sherlock mused.

“Sherlock...” Angelo looked scandalised and sly at once. “Buy him a nicer one then. Get someone he respects to remark on the old one and you give him a new one, a nicer one, eh?”

“Someone he respects...”

Down the road, John swore someone just walked over his grave.

*~*~*

John made sure to wear the cologne every day. In truth, he wasn’t sure how big a fan of it he was, but it drove Sherlock nuts so he was happy to do it. Sarah commented that he was wearing her gift, so that went over well at least. Someone might as well enjoy it on him because no one at 221b Baker Street did.

He always made sure to put on a heavy dose before coming home, slipping it back into his briefcase before he reached the front door.

No pacing. No shooting. No violin. It was a promising start to the evening.

He came up the stairs and set his briefcase by the door before stepping in, half out of his jacket.

He froze.

Both of the Holmes brothers looked up at him, eyes sharp and attentive. He hated it when they did this. Mycroft had his bloody umbrella and Sherlock was playing with a skull. John hoped it was the skull he had originally brought into the house and not a new one.

“See,” Sherlock murmured, eyes not leaving John.

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed, also not looking away. “Most unsettling.”

“What?” He hung up his coat and spread his hands. “What now?”

“Chemical, not natural base. Minimal actual oils.” Mycroft stood in a smooth movement, setting his umbrella aside, Sherlock catching it and hooking it on his own chair.

Mycroft advanced on John. John, who had faced down terrorists, gun men, Moriarty, being strapped in a bomb, Chinese cross bow torture and American friendly fire did the sensible thing and backed up until he hit the wall and Mycroft was right there in his personal space, looking down at him.

“That cologne is not a good scent on you, Doctor. It’s cloying and souring. A lack of genuine essential oils for scenting means the alcohol content is very high.”

“Yeah. So Sherlock said.”

“Still, we must be certain,” he said diplomatically.

John turned his head to offer to go get the bottle from his brief case.

Mycroft licked up the column of his throat, from base to jaw, leaning back to pull a face. “No, ugh, quite sour and sharp, you were absolutely right, Sherlock.”

John stared at Mycroft. Mycroft and Sherlock were sharing a look.

“You’re both bloody insane,” John yelled.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, turning back to him. “Did you want to taste...”

“No!” He shoved Mycroft back. “You, and you, keep your tongues away from me, do you get it? I won’t wear the bloody cologne anymore, just stop licking me!” He grabbed the brief case, pulled out the bottle and threw it on the couch. “There, done, now stop treating my throat like a free tasting session!”

He fled before they got it in their heads to start dissecting his words and found some obscure loophole that gave them permission to continue their invasion of private space.

Mycroft pulled out his handkerchief and neatly dabbed at his mouth. “Now, even if she does buy him more, he won’t dare to use it and will instead put it straight down the sink. Just leave the new one with his razor, he’ll use it in absence of choices and then find he quite enjoys it.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “And you’re sure it’s the licking he objects to, not the criticism of Sarah’s gift?”

“Yes, Sherlock.” Mycroft grabbed his umbrella. “Though by no means take my word for it. Experiment all you want on the matter.” He smiled and let himself out.

Sherlock smiled to himself.

He liked experiments.

Fic: Wearing Skins (Sherlock)

2010-11-17T10:36:35Z

Title: Wearing Skins
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: Gen
Summary: Mycroft is a jerk and likes to abuse highly experimental government projects. John and Sherlock don’t appreciate the body swap. At all.
Written for Washi.
Warnings: Mild language.

According to Mycroft, it was an experiment in empathy.

By empathy, John Watson could only assume he meant ‘strange and exotic cruelty the likes of which normal men may not comprehend’ because nothing else quite covered how he was feeling.

Mrs Hudson had started ordering two newspapers. When did that happen?

Anthea-who-today-is-Persephone had tiny chips on her nails as her hand opened the door for them. There was faint marks of her polish on the keypad of her phone.

He banged his head on the door frame because he was not paying attention to his height, but the scuffing on the pavement next door. Heavy items dragged through and up to the steps of 223 Baker Street. The pain was bright and clear and green and made him sit back briefly as he tried to understand how pain was green.

Calloused fingers reached out to touch the injury and then drew back, Sherlock scowling at the automatic impulse to check for injury. “Do be careful with my head, John. I want it back in the same condition I left it in.”

“You mean hallucinating and half starved?”

But he didn’t feel hungry. He knew Sherlock hadn’t eaten before they went... or yesterday at all, but he felt nothing like hunger.

“Can you two keep arguing in your apartment,” Anthea-who-was-Persephone asked, not looking up from her phone.

Her brow was slightly knitted, muscles twitching and flickering around her eyes and lips.

Sherlock shoved him out with a bit more force than he really appreciated. He stumbled over too long legs, standing and straightening himself and glancing around.

Bricks damaged recently, fresh colour, not yet dulled by exposure; paint scuffed on the window sill, smudges of black on the edges of the peeling paint...

“John!”

He snapped around, focused on Sherlock and had to look away because the sight as unsettling still. “Yes?”

“You need to focus. Stop thinking about everything around you, see it and move on and get inside.” A hand caught his elbow and marched him up to the steps. “Keys.”

Keys? Keys, keys got them inside. He almost patted his pockets, then shook his head. “Right pocket.”

Sherlock fished them out and unlocked the door, dragging John in and upstairs. John tried to keep his focus on his friend, not on all the distracting things around him that he had never noticed before.

The door panels didn’t have matching glass. They were all frosted, but the front on the left one was heavier than on the other two.

“Is this... what it’s like in your head all the time,” John heard himself whisper in Sherlock’s voice. “I can’t stop noticing things. Everything. It’s all there.”

“Tch.” The familiar expression in such an unfamiliar voice. “Idiot. Of course not. You’re only dealing with the sensory input I process, not the associated meaning and knowledges associated with it. You don’t have the knowledge to put it all in context.”

“I never realised I sounded like that,” he said instead.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and at least that look of frustrated weariness was familiar from his own expressions. “You’re going to be a joy to... John. I feel sick. Why do I feel sick, what’s wrong with this thing?”

“That thing is my body. You’re probably just hungry.” The scars on his cheeks weren’t as bad as he’d always thought. No more stand out than any other detail.

“Why? You ate at lunch time, that should be enough.” He winced, hand going to John’s stomach and then pausing. Then he started stripping.

“Hey! What are you doing?!”

“Undressing. I want to examine this body, learn it. We don’t know how long this might last, I plan to become accustomed as quickly as possible to minimise discomfort.” He threw off the jumper and started undoing shirt buttons.

“No! No, Sherlock, forbidden, veto, I don’t really want you feeling up my body!”

“It’s not like you’re in it,” Sherlock retorted. “You can do the same to mine if you really want. I suggest you get used to it though. And stop banging my head on things.”

“Sherlock, I don’t want you feeling up my body, whether I’m in it or not.” He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and was shocked when suddenly he was on the floor, Sherlock blinking down at him through his face with a touch of amazement.

“Your muscle memory is incredible,” he breathed out. “You suppress that every time you’re touched?”

“... Not every time,” he grumbled.

“John, your body is fascinating, why do you object to me studying it?”

“Because...” He looked away, wincing under the assault of reasonings that usually didn’t hit him so hard. “Doesn’t your brain have a filter?”

“No. That would mean filtering things out. I don’t want it filtered, I’ll delete what I don’t want to know later.” He offered his hand down to John, to help him up. “Your world is very... quiet.”

John got up, dusting off without thinking and then snapping his hands away from what wasn’t actually his own arse. Sherlock quirked a slight smile and slid off the shirt he’d been wearing, stripping off shoes as he wandered towards his bedroom.

It took John a moment to react, because he was inundated with tiny observations about his own body, the slightly awkward way Sherlock moved with the grind in his shoulder and the dull ache that had been pressing on his hip, not enough for a limp but enough to be felt.

“Hang on, whoa! No! Sherlock, no!” He chased after him, skidding to a halt in the doorway and hanging his head with a heavy sigh.

Sherlock moved fast when he wanted to. He’d managed to get naked in something like record breaking time. And it was amazingly creepy to see Sherlock’s way of moving, Sherlock’s intense examining gaze from his own eyes.

“You have to let me do this when I have my own faculties back. Yours are too slow to give me the information I need.”

“Definitely not!” He shrugged off the coat and wore and swung it around the other man’s shoulders.

“Oh, come on, John! It’s not like you haven’t seen it before!”

“That’s not the bloody point, Sherlock.” He gritted his jaw, noting that the other man’s eyes were wide, sharp, attentive, his mouth set like determination but it was really just stubborn.

“And now I’ve seen it, so what is your problem?”

“I don’t want you poking, groping and prodding my body, especially when I’m not in it!”

He got a sharp look in his eyes - amusement, mischief - and his lips twitched. “What about when you are, then?”

“No! not now, not ever, it’s my body, I consider it mostly private property and not your business.”

“John, you’re being unreasonable, even for you.” Hands out, placating, drawing himself up, ready to use usually superior height to enforce a sense of authority.

“Don’t you start that with me, Sherlock.” His head was hurting from the constant observations, marks on the mirror from adjustment, a screw must be loose if it kept slipping out of place, bottom drawer, no wear and tear on the handle or finishing, rarely used, Sherlock holding the coat with his left hand, he was using the right, mad sense but now he had noticed it, he couldn’t unnotice how it felt.

“John?”

He had gone abruptly silent, he realised. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” A hand grasped his elbow and marched him out, back through the kitchen and to the couch. “Lie down, feet up before your blood pressure starts dropping with the tension.”

He lay back, feeling strange to take up so much of the worn leather couch, to have Sherlock almost fussing over him.

A pillow went behind his neck and a hand over his eyes. “Light will make it worse. Just relax, catalogue the room with your other senses. I’m going to see if I can contact Mycroft.”

A hand slid across his chest, intimate and familiar and clinical and then plucked the phone from his breast pocket.

Closing his eyes did help a little. He could hear Sherlock moving, the sound of heavy cloth hitting the floor and dammit, he was walking around naked in John’s body, probably going to see what weak spots he could pick up on while he texted with Mycroft.

“Put on clothes!” The clock was ticking, marking every second that passed with more or no information flooding his brain. Sherlock’s brain was on overdrive, all the time, probably flooded with adrenaline which made him so jumpy and restless, kept him on edge and constantly picking up every detail around him.

God, he was doing it again. His brain was churning, thinking, and he couldn’t get it to still. It was noisy in the silence, it was worse in the silence, in fact, because there was nothing to take his mind off itself.

“John.”

He opened his eyes, looking up at Sherlock. He was dressed again, in John’s pajamas and slippers.

“You should at least change.”

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbled. He didn’t want to change. He didn’t want to get that friendly with Sherlock’s body. Sherlock might have no sense of propriety, but he did.

“And you need nicotine.” Fingers rolled up his sleeve, peeling off the patches carefully.

There was an irony that Sherlock was possibly taking better care of his body now he wasn’t in it than he ever had before. He quickly applied a new patch, smoothing it on at the edges, fingers lingering briefly.

Curiousity. He was curious about his body because it was something outside of him all of a sudden.

“How do you stop yourself getting bored,” he asked softly. “Your mind is so quiet and I’m having to work at seeing things.”

“I get bored, Sherlock.” He closed his eyes again. “I’m just not an arse about it. What you get isn’t bored.”

And suddenly, tiny pieces seemed to snap together in his mind. he sat bolt upright, it was like electricity down his spine, like the flush of first love, or first lust and all of them at once but none of them. “You don’t get bored. You call it bored, but it’s not boredom, it’s sensory overload, no, not that, it’s your mind, you can’t quiet it and when you’re left without a case, without something to do, it just... runs and runs and burns hotter and hotter,” he was on his feet and Sherlock was watching him so intently. “And now...”

“It’s a high.”

And it was. This understanding was a high, was addictive, and he understood why Sherlock had to push himself. It was after this.

“Come on, sit down again.” He patted the couch, but John shook his head.

“And you’re... being taken by my instincts. Years of medical training and you don’t have the knowledge but the drive is there, the conditioning to alleviate suffering even if you’re not sure how to do it.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I don’t like it much, but resisting it is just likely to upset you in the long run since you don’t seem to have the ability to cope with the way I think.”

Enforced empathy on a wannabe-sociopath. No wonder Mycroft had called it a lesson in empathy.

He sat down again, jittering slightly and concluding it was probably the nicotine in his system. “I hate your brother sometimes.”

“I hate him all the time,” Sherlock said with a shrug.

“Did he say when this would wear off?”

“It’s Mycroft,” Sherlock spat, as if that should be blatantly obvious. Then he groaned. “John, your body is being needy again.”

“Feed it! Bloody hell, Sherlock, it’s not rocket science.” He threw himself back on the couch as Sherlock wandered out to the kitchen to hopefully procure food. John vaguely wished he was hungry. Or tired. Or anything but restless. “I hate you and your body,” he muttered.

“John! I can’t reach the top of the fridge!”

However long this was meant to last, it was going to be entirely too long.

Fic: A Medical Examination of One Sherlock Holmes (Sherlock)

2010-11-16T03:50:47Z

Title: A Medical Examination of One Sherlock Holmes
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson mention of Mycroft Holmes
Rating: 18+
Summary: Sherlock’s habit of not mentioning injuries has pushed John’s temper to snap point with his flat mate. Written because of this discussion.

NOW WITH FANART! Picture of Sherlock texting by the lovely capaow

Warnings: Explicit sex. Medically described injuries or mostly superficial nature.

“I’ve had it, Sherlock! I am not putting up with this anymore!”

John was not angry. He had passed angry when he caught up to Sherlock and found him reeling and swaying on the ground, looking nauseous and clutching his neck.

He had gone way past angry when he went to check the injury and Sherlock pulled away, only to grimace and try to hide the bruise lower down, near the shoulder.

By now, after a tense cab trip home, John was furious.

Sherlock turned around to speak and John shoved him hard, back towards his bedroom. “No. Do not speak. Just get into your room. I am not in the mood, Sherlock, I’m sick of you putting your life on the line constantly and needlessly by refusing medical treatment!”

The new retort was also silenced with another push backwards. “Move, or I carry you.”

Finally, Sherlock gave up and went to his room, John following behind him until they were inside Sherlock’s room and he could kick the door shut and turn on the light.

Despite the state of the rest of the house, this room remained mostly untouched by the chaos. There were books, lots of them, but the bed was clear and the wardrobe neat.

Sherlock turned around and raised an expectant eyebrow.

“Strip,” John calmly.

“You must be kidding me,” Sherlock drawled.

“Strip, or I will strip you. One way, your clothes survive intact. Not naked, but down to your shorts.” John stayed in front of the door, arms folded over his chest.

“I admit, John, usually your motives are plain to me, but this time you have me at a bit of a loose end.” Wisely, Sherlock was removing his coat as he talked, hanging it on a bed post and his scarf joining it.

“You ignore injuries until they’re serious and debilitating. You don’t even mention half of them to me and I’m your closest friend and a doctor.” He took a breath. “So, you are going to strip and lie down and let me find those injuries and apply whatever treatment I feel is medically necessary and you are not going to fight me on this or so help me, Sherlock, I will walk out of this flat and go stay with Harry. If I want to see someone I care about self destruct, it might as well be a slow death of alcohol.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment and then continued to strip. John watched as Sherlock’s jacket came off, then his shirt and belt, shoes, socks and finally pants until he was standing there, all pale skin and mottled injuries.

If John’s temper had cooled, this would have flared it up again. “Sit. On the bed. Feet on the floor.

Again, Sherlock was obedient, sitting down and watching John, to see what he’d do.

What he did was take off his jacket and roll up his shirt sleeved before coming over and kneeling down, finger tips tracing over Sherlock’s bony, scratched up knees.

“What do you see, John,” Sherlock prompted.

He glanced up to that pale gaze and down again, focusing his mind to his profession. “Old scarring, over twenty years old. Cluster puncturing, same age of healing, landed on your knees at speed on gravel, I’d say. The rest... scratches, grazes, there’s too many for me to categorise them all. Minor injuries in an area that scars due to require skin elasticity.”

His hands ghosted down one leg, hovering over marks. “Subcutaneous bruising, shape suggests a kick. Another subcutaneous bruise, parried blow with outer calf.” He stroked Sherlock’s ankle, feeling for lumps or hidden contusions.

Sherlock’s long toes curled into the carpet, white knuckled as John continued to gently touch his skin, working out along his toes one by one. John heard a hiss and paused, repeating the touch to the same result. “Pain in the third, fourth and fifth distant phalanges. Probable fracture, possible periosteal, bruising on the bone. No visible bruising, so it wasn’t a strike, more likely stubbing them or catching them in an awkward movement. Those bones can break fairly easily. No wonder you were slower off the mark than usual.”

Setting the foot down carefully, he picked up Sherlock’s left foot, looking it over. “Minor laceration to the side of the foot, some sign of healing... Entry isn’t consistent with stepping on something...” he looked up, trying to think what had caused the injury. He looked back down, lifting Sherlock’s foot to rest on his own knee while he examined it. “Signs of minor burning along one edge. You dropped a beaker, it shattered and one of the pieces embedded. Whatever was coating one side of the glass was caustic.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock breathed out. “Your deductive reasoning improves substantially when you’re in your element, John.”

“I’m still not happy with you, Sherlock,” John pointed out. “You should have treated this. It could have infected.”

“I washed it with water.”

“Not helping your cause, Sherlock.” He stood up. “Lie down, on your stomach. I’ll be back. Do not do anything else, you can survive a few minutes without being entertained.”

He headed out, shutting the door behind him and going up to his room, fetching his medical kit and bringing it back down.

Sherlock was lying on his stomach, feet waving in the air like a child might do, texting away on his phone.

“Who are you annoying?” He sat on the edge of the bed, catching the injured foot in his hands and guiding it down to his lap.

“Mycroft.” He closed his phone and put it aside, resting his cheek on his folded arms. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning this and putting a dressing on it.”

“It happened three days ago.”

“I know. Feet are particularly susceptible to infection, especially when you’re an idiot and don’t properly treat the injury when it happens.”

Sherlock hissed as John rubbed iodine over the injury, careful to not disturb the healing scab more than he had too but there was a redness to the injury that he wasn’t happy with. “Stop being a baby,” he murmured. He smoothed a cream on with one thumb, a single stroke to evenly apply it to the laceration before he plucked out a water proof dressing and sealed it over the area. “Leave the dressing until it comes loose on its own, it should keep the scarring down, let it heal cleaner.”

“I don’t care about scars,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“I figured, but it will still heal better if you leave it alone.” He set down Sherlock’s foot, running his eyes up his legs for more injuries but saw nothing but old scars. Older than their friendship.

“Are you done?”

“I’ve barely started,” he snapped back, feeling that rise of heat. Sherlock’s cavalier attitude about his health might suit him, but it made John angry. “Stay.”

Even Sherlock managed to grasp that John was not joking about this. He settled down again, stretching his spine out.

John’s gaze lingered, for a brief moment looking past scars and marks to just the simplest lines. The definition of muscle with too little body fat overlying it, the latissimus dorsal over his ribs strong, but doing little to conceal the curve of ribs and the prominence of his scapula.

Then he let himself adjust back to rest of it. The anger bubbled back, not all of it aimed at Sherlock.

He started low on Sherlock’s back, where the waist of his trunks did a poor job concealing an old bruise. His fingers brushed over cool skin, but Sherlock didn’t flinch. “Bruising healed to superficial discolouration, probably two weeks old from the rate of healing and colour fade. Relatively even distribution, no lacerations... impact, through clothing. no object pattern. You landed hard, probably thrown. You didn’t tell me about this.”

“Nothing to say,” he mumbled into his arms.

“How about, ‘John, I was in a fight today and I’m a bit sore from it, would you make sure I don’t have any serious damage’, hm?” He pushed down gently and felt the knotting in the muscles. “Lingering trauma in the thoracolumbar fascia.” He pushed firmer and Sherlock made a pained sound, arching and unable to escape the relentless press of John’s thumbs.

He released and Sherlock melted with a happy sound. “You also have an impressive amount of chronic tension in your spine, probably in your shoulders and neck. You need to relax sometimes.”

“You don’t,” he mumbled.

“I’m your doctor, I’m allowed to live by the maxim ‘Do as I say, not as I do’. And I’ll relax more once you start taking care of your health and safety.” He ran his hands up the cool skin of Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock sighed and bent his head down a little more.

“You wouldn’t get so cold if you ate enough,” he murmured. He ran his hands over Sherlock’s skin lightly, hovering over a lump. “Contusion, blunt force trauma.” He circled the injury lightly, with his fingertips alone. “Applied through an even area, sharply. No discolouration. Something was thrown at you and bounced off your middle back.” He trailed up higher.

“Scar. Uneven laceration with evidence of ripping in the dermis. Blade, sharp at the tip but blunter further down, it tore rather than cutting. Slashing action, caused damage to the infraspinatus fascia and trapezoid muscles from the atrophic nature of the scar. Evidence of professional suturing and removal of stitches, you were treated in a hospital. The scar is at least twelve months old, more likely two years but no more than five.”

He felt the scar slowly, where the skin puckered down, smooth and pale for such a nasty injury. He could see Sherlock’s skin tense and prickle with the touches, though the man himself remained still and quiet.

John passed some nearly healed grazes and bruises and came up to Sherlock’s right scapula, gently pressing. Sherlock arched against his hands.

“Minor displacement of the scapula.” He felt the muscles, drawing small hisses from his flat mate. “Muscular aggravation, inflammation... Sherlock, how long have you had have this?”

Sherlock made a sound which probably meant ‘longer than I want to admit to’. John sighed and carefully felt for the correct place. “Deep breath in.”

He felt the grind under his fingers as Sherlock breathed. “Hold it.” He moved to another position, to get his weight behind his hands. “Exhale.”

As he did so, John pushed and slid the bone back into the right place, rubbing the tender spot. “Set. You’re a bloody idiot, Sherlock.” He kept massaging to work out the worst of the knot.

Sherlock grumbled incomprehensibly into his arm and pillow.

John sat down, tucked in against Sherlock’s ribs and examining his shoulders and neck, which had inadvertently set this off.

The mottling covered a large length of skin and a multitude of sins. John bit back another surge of anger, at Sherlock for saying nothing, at himself for not noticing sooner, at every arsehole who had put one of these on Sherlock’s pale skin.

“You never ignore injuries again.” He examined the older mark, a cold knot in his stomach. “Manual strangulation. Blunt force object, rob, similar to a nightstick or broom handle. Compression of the jugular briefly, main damage on the trapezoid muscle. Evenly applied force, they had a hand on either side and were pulling back. Strongest way to apply force.” He shifted Sherlock’s head to face away from him, head tipped back to bare his throat, pressing softly along his throat to feel for anything suspicious.

Sherlock made the faintest whimpering sound and John leaned down close. “Breathe. I need to hear if you have any internal damage.”

He listened as Sherlock breathed, no wheezing, but his breath shook slightly. John took another breath. “And again.” He breathed out slowly as Sherlock did, taking in another shudder and shiver from his flat mate. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” he said gently. “Breathing doesn’t hurt.”

He sat up, fingers lingering on Sherlock’s larynx. “Minimal damage, minor discolouration, no visible contusions. You managed to take most of the blow on your jaw and neck rather than your throat.”

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide and pupils dark.

“What,” he asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

For a moment, it looked like Sherlock was going to say something, but instead he shook his head and closed his eyes.

John let it go, moving along Sherlock’s left arm and find nothing more than spot burns and grazes he already knew about. He leaned over his flat mate’s body, both hands on his arm and pushing along skin and muscle until Sherlock made another noise of protest.

“No contusions, no discolouration. No dislocation. Strain. You’ve put too much on your arm, probably in the tendons, not the muscles.”

“Your deductive skills-” Sherlock’s voice was raspy briefly, until he swallowed. “Are proving to be more developed than I had thought.”

“Are you sure your throat is okay?”

He nodded.

“If you’re lying to me...”

“You’ve checked me out. Am I lying to you, John?”

He leaned back, hands gently stroking Sherlock’s throat again, checking once more. Sherlock swallowed.

“No. You’re not lying.” He ran his hands back, pressing into tensed and knotted muscles. “Your splenius capitis and servicis muscles are in terrible states.”

Sherlock made a small noise.

“You need to go to a massage therapist.”

“I don’t like strangers touching me. No.”

“God, you’re a pain.” He patted his back. “Roll over.”

“You’re done more than enough, John.” Pushing himself up onto his elbows, Sherlock shook his head to ruffle out his hair. “I don’t think I want to be touched anymore.”

“Tough. You’re getting touched.” He laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I can’t trust you with your health.”

“My body is my concern, I will treat it as I see fit,” Sherlock bitched.

“You could be injured,” John snapped.

“I don’t care,” Sherlock yelled back.

“I do!” He grabbed and flipped Sherlock onto his back, pinning him with an arm across his shoulders, putting his weight onto the weak right arm so he couldn’t be thrown. “I am sick of this cavalier attitude towards your health and well being, Sherlock Holmes! I have seriously had enough and you will not be doing it anymore because as of now, I am revoking your right to judge on your own physical health! You’re incapable of assessing your own needs so I am going to do it for you and you will listen to me, or I will make you listen! Do you understand me?”

Sherlock stared up at him, eyes wide and dark and breath shallow.

John stared back.

“I have never found anyone as sexually attractive as you when you were mapping me like I can map the world,” Sherlock breathed out.

Whatever John had been about to say died from his lips as he realised the other things he could do with his mouth instead.

He didn’t let up off Sherlock’s shoulders as he leaned down and kissed him, hard and deep like he seemed to be inviting with that heavy gaze and those parted lips.

Sherlock’s hand came up to grab his arm, holding onto his arm as he tilted into the kiss, teeth sharply nipping John’s mouth. John heard one of them moan softly an shifted to cup Sherlock’s head with one hand, fingers tangling in the mass of dark curls.

Then he was hitting the bed on his back, Sherlock landing on him with barely a pause in the kiss, biting harder before shoving his tongue into John’s mouth.

John rolled them back over with some effort, Sherlock kept them moving, John flipped them once more and they landed side by side, Sherlock’s back against the wall and John flush against him.

All the anger and fear and frustration that had been bubbling through John found voice in their kisses, in the way they surged against one another, Sherlock occasionally trying to shift, John pushing him back against the wall again. His shirt was ripped open by Sherlock’s eager hands as his own buried again in those thick locks, guiding him into a deeper kiss.

He could feel the tiny ulceration of bites in Sherlock’s mouth, spots that made the younger man moan as he licked them, made them both shudder as Sherlock’s hands ripped open John’s pants and John’s shoved down Sherlock’s trunks. Their legs wrapped together; John was careful not to let Sherlock get him in a lock to flip him over again.

Sherlock’s hands came up to grab and push at John’s chest, ducking his head to nip along the jagged scar on John’s shoulders. “Massive trauma,” he murmured against John’s skin, breath damp and hot. “Field dressing. Evidence of operation with a military blade, bullet extraction.”

“You already knew all that,” John gasped, moaning as Sherlock’s tongue wiggled around the edge of the scarring. Long fingers framed the scar, stroking and then pushing quickly.

John grabbed Sherlock’s hands, lacing their fingers and pushing Sherlock’s hands over his head to pin them against the wall. “Stop it,” he whispered against his mouth. “I’ll take care of us both, just stop being so needlessly aggressive about it.” He nipped Sherlock’s mouth, squeezing his hands and shifting his body to rub their cocks together.

With their legs tangled, Sherlock’s hands in his and the wall there, John had Sherlock firmly held in place to grind their bodies together, a hard grind and rock together. He could taste his moans and the tint of blood as his mouth has bitten again, in frustrated want and lust. Sherlock’s toes flexed and gripped onto his legs and the sheets as he bucked against him and John badly wanted to let his hands go, to grab his body and pull them hard together but he didn’t, wanted to make Sherlock understand that his body had needs, like sleep and food and fucking and John was going to make sure he saw to those needs.

The next kiss was tongue to tongue and chest to chest and their bodies rolling and grinding in a heated rhythm. Sherlock broke it to gasp and groan. “John-”

“I know,” he whispered. “Increased respiration and heartbeat. Flushing of the face and chest, tangible muscular, fuck, Sherlock, contractions of, Christ...” Sherlock was sucking on his earlobe, moaning and bucking as he spoke.

Nails scratched over his back as Sherlock pushed as hard off the wall as he could, body jerking as he came, heated and beautiful as he gasped for breath. John held on still, grinding against Sherlock’s tense body until the coil of knotted tension snapped and released and he was coming with a low, breathless groan.

They sank down together, John letting Sherlock’s hands go and Sherlock promptly buried them in John’s hair and kissed him slow and deep, like he could taste the difference between John pent up and John relaxed.

John kissed back, relaxing against Sherlock. He expected Sherlock to shove him onto his back and pin him, or scramble to go and get up and get back to doing things.

He didn’t. He cuddled in closer, pushing John’s trousers all the way off and tangling their legs.

“I was serious before,” John murmured, kissing the top of Sherlock’s head. “I’m revoking your right to make health based decisions. You might not care about your body, but I do. It keeps you alive, despite the way you punish it.”

“So long as you promise to do it like this every time,” Sherlock purred.

John smiled to himself.

Fic: The Gift of One's Self (Sherlock)

2010-11-10T08:59:18Z

Title: The Gift of One’s Self.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Jim Moriarty.
Rating: 15+
Summary: How the scene at the pool could have gone. Written for this prompt.
NOW WITH ART Illustration with spoilers for the story, but I am SO freaking excited!
Warnings: Violence, spoilers, blackmailing, non-con behaviour (on both sides).

They had been the fatal words for the stand off.

“Sherlock, run!”

Sherlock had done no such thing, holding the sig level at Jim’s head as John kept hold of him, arm around this throat.

Jim had caught the significance of it. John was willing to die to stop Jim and let Sherlock escape in one movement. The sheer delight in his face was obscene, even as John was roughly grasping him, using him both as human shield against the sniper and insurance for the bomb strapped to his own body.

Sweet, he had called it. Loyal pet. Sherlock resented the words, because John wasn’t a pet, he was a brilliant, devoted man who was willing to be self sacrificing.

And that was very bad. Because with snipers trained on both of them, Jim was now aware what John would do to protect Sherlock. And heaven help him, Sherlock wasn’t sure just how far he’d go himself to protect his companion.

Standing between them, Jim brushed off his suit, looking mildly disgusted that John had dared to manhandle him. “Westwood.”

Sherlock’s gaze shifted briefly to John, catching the pain his gaze. John stayed back from Moriarty, watching Sherlock.

“Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock?” Jim’s rolling lilt added a menace to the words that Sherlock didn’t enjoy. “To you?”

He shifted on his feet, keeping the gun steady. “Oh, let me guess,” he drawled. “I get killed.”

But really... he was only hoping that maybe Jim would buy it. That he wouldn’t pick the slightly more hidden path.

“Kill you?” Jim looked mildly disgusted. “Um... no, don’t be obvious, I’m going to kill you anyway, some day.”

Sherlock wondered if that was how he sounded to others, when they were being horribly obvious and annoying him.

“I don’t want to rush it though,” Jim murmured fondly. “I’m saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no.” And the friendly veneer fell, just like his own mask of humanity, Jim’s face cold and expression distant. “If you don’t stop prying...” And he paused, almost open mouthed panting as he looked up and down Sherlock’s body. “I’ll burn you.”

Sherlock’s gaze didn’t waiver from Jim’s as he kept speaking. “I’ll burn the heart right out of you,” he finished, the hatred used to spit the word heart melting into something almost like pity.

Sherlock didn’t let himself show a thing. He held Jim’s gaze, unflinching. “I have been reliably informed I don’t have one,” he said levelly.

“But we both know that’s not quite true,” Jim purred, shaking his head.

Sherlock made the second mistake that night.

The pain briefly showed, in his gaze, in the way he felt himself blink to stop himself from the automatic reaction of looking to John, in the fact his cold mask slipped for a second, not showing any emotions, but slipping nonetheless.

Jim took it in, smiled slightly, then seemed to shrug off the inhumanity, all friendly and cheerful again. “Well. I better be off.” He looked at Sherlock, back at John and back to Sherlock again. “So nice to have had a proper chat.” He licked his lips and Sherlock dearly wanted to put a bullet between his eyes.

He shifted, firming his grip. “What if I was to shoot you now? Right now.”

Jim barely paused. He knew as well as Sherlock did, Sherlock wasn’t going to shoot him. “Then you could cherish the look of shock on my face,” he said in those same round, lilting tones. He pulled his face into what was meant to be a mockery of shock, grinning seconds later. “Because I’d be surprised, Sherlock, really, I would.” He frowned slightly, emotions flickering. “And just a teensy bit...”

Disappointed.

“Disappointed.”

Being able to predict Jim Moriarty’s words was not a comfort right then.

The silence stretched between them, Jim smiling slightly, Sherlock refusing to lower the gun, even though they both knew at this stage that really, it was meaningless to their interaction.

“And of course... you wouldn’t be able to cherish it for long.”

Two snipers. And a bomb with a remote detonation, still strapped onto his best friend, who was pale and doing everything in his power to stay calm and focused. Sherlock was proud of him for refusing to give in to his base fear.

Jim shifted, starting to turn away. “Ciao.” He turned and looked back, and this time the barely concealed psychopathic rage was in his gaze and bleeding into his voice. “Sherlock Holmes.”

He started leaving, gaze lingering back on Sherlock. Sherlock moved slowly, pacing to keep Moriarty in line of sight but get closer to John. “Catch, you, later,” he carefully said, watching the door open and Moriarty pause in the doorway, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“No, you won’t!” His voice was high and light and cheeky once more and then, finally, the door shut between them.

Sherlock stayed exactly where he was, waiting for Moriarty to burst back in. Next to him, in his peripherary, John was staying exactly where he was, tense and upright still. Somehow.

Finally, he turned his head slightly, gun still pointed looking to the bomb vest which clearly had no boobytrapping over the buckles holding it shut and finally up to John’s eyes.

John was terrified and near collapse and if his pupils contracted much further they wouldn’t be visible.

Sherlock dropped to one knee, dropping the gun aside and scrambling for the buckles doing the vest up as John staggered to the side, letting himself relax and the emotions of the moment hit him. His breaths were ragged and his arms limp, making no attempt to help free himself.

“All right,” Sherlock asked, snapping the words.

John just panted, trying to stay upright.

The buckles undid. “Are you all right?!” he tried louder, trying to get John to respond.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. “Yeah, I’m fine.” His expression was numb and his voice flat and unpanicked as Sherlock desperately tried to pull the coat and vest off before Jim changed his mind and detonated it. “Sherlock,” John mumbled again, almost tripping over his feet as the clothing finally came off and Sherlock took a few steps, skidding it down the tiles and away from them. “Sherlock!”

He looked up and their gaze met. John was starting to hyperventilate, going into deep shock no doubt and Sherlock briefly wished he had a blanket to give him. Blankets helped with shock.

But he was okay.

And would stay that way if he could catch sight of Moriarty and blow his head off.

He heard John stagger and curse softly as he himself dove to grab the gun-

The door opened again, freezing Sherlock in place.

Moriarty grinned. “I am so changeable!” He walked in and Sherlock looked to the gun and saw the dilemma.

A red laser dot focused on the gun. Another traced up his arm and presumably stopped around his temple.

“Sherlock.”

He looked over to John, who was still crouched awkwardly against one of the change stalls. A red dot played over his chest, another sat on his brow and a third on his gut.

Dammit.

He lifted his hand away from the gun and stood slowly, taking a step back for each one Jim took in until he was alongside John again.

“It’s a weakness of mine,” Jim grinned. “Of course, it’s my only one, unlike you two. You start ‘caring’ and suddenly you’ve got all sorts of weaknesses.” He put his hands in his pockets. “How much do you care about your pet, Sherlock? Your faithful little puppy?”

“Stop it,” he said, making himself not move between Jim and John. He wouldn’t give Moriarty anything more to gloat over.

“Oh, lighten up, Sherlock. You were willing to let me get away to make sure he was safe, so I think it’s fairly safe to say his loyalty’s paid back in whatever way men like you and I can manage.”

“He’s not like you,” John protested.

“He’s just like me,” Moriarty snapped. “More than he’ll ever be like you, with your boring little mind and horribly obvious life.”

“John, be quiet,” Sherlock said softly. While Moriarty focused on him, they were fairly safe. Moriarty wasn’t going to kill them out of hand or he would’ve done it already. He was playing with Sherlock but if he felt John was more hindrance than fun, he would shoot him and it would be a slow, painful death.

Or worse, an instantaneous one.

“Yes, John, do listen to Sherlock. He’s got your best interests at heart.” Jim grinned. “Did you ever wish you had a heart, Sherlock? Or did you just come to the horrible realisation one day that it was there and that you’d started caring without meaning to? Traditionally, the Tin man is meant to realise he has a heart after loving his friends.”

Sherlock didn’t understand the reference. It must have been one he knew once, the word was familiar but he couldn’t find any data in the file in his head.

“If he’s the Tin man, then you must be the Wicked Witch of the West,” John said with contempt.

“But you’re not Dorothy, John, so don’t go having any delusions that you’re going to be the one stopping me,” Jim said coldly.

Sherlock hated feeling out of his depth, but suddenly the information was there. Wizard of Oz, classic children’s literature, small child in world of magic and wonder seeks to return home to her family and a mundane existence. A kidnapping case he’d been involved with had referenced the book in the ransom note. “You hardly came back to discuss children’s classics.”

“Maybe I did,” Jim pouted. Then he laughed. “All right, so I didn’t, but it was a nice change of pace.” He pulled a phone out of his pocket, looking at the screen for a moment.

Sherlock risked a look to John, who just nodded slightly. He wasn’t going to go to pieces, not while the threat was here.

“You know, I do like the touch where you frantically claw off his clothes before it even passes your mind to double check on me. Should I be hurt, Sherlock, out of sight, out of mind when you have a chance to be stripping John Watson?”

There was a camera in here. Possibly with the snipers. Sherlock mentally kicked himself.

“I can’t bring my mind down to the level where someone as plain as him takes precedence over your nemesis,” Jim said, walking between them and trailing his hand over John’s shoulder, across his back, giggling when John tried to shrug his touch off. He stepped back, adjusting his own jacket and lifting the eat piece and microphone back on.

John turned, stepping back and into Sherlock, not hiding his base reaction to put himself in between the two geniuses.

Jim giggled again. “Lets play a game, boys. Where we find out how brave and loyal our little soldier is.”

“I thought you wanted to play with me,” Sherlock said coldly.

“So I did! John, take off your earpiece and put it on Sherlock.”

John looked at Sherlock, who just nodded slightly. There were at least five snipers on them, there was no point trying anything at this moment.

With remarkably steady hands, John took off his ear piece and unclipped it, offering it out to Sherlock.

“John, John, John, you’ve already forgotten the rules. Still, we have to forgive you, you have a small mind.” He tutted. “Put the earpiece on Sherlock. Sherlock, kneel down for John. If you behave, nothing happens. If you don’t, I start putting random holes in the other one. So just think, your best friend’s safety relies on you behaving well. And I’m sure John can enlighten you to how excruciatingly painful a gunshot can be without being even remotely fatal.”

Jaw tight, Sherlock knelt down on one knee. John moved closer, clipping the pack to his collar and then carefully brushing his hair aside to affix the earpiece in place, snug and firm.

“Step back.”

It was like stereo feedback, hearing Moriarty in his ear and standing back from them at once.

John stepped back on step, not looking back at Jim.

“Do stand up, Sherlock. If I bring you to your knees, it won’t be to let John Watson have his hands on you.”

Sherlock stood up slowly, looking past John to Moriarty, who backed up a few more steps away from them, his voice dropping to whisper in Sherlock’s ear.

“We’re going to play Jim says. If you do what Jim says, nothing happens. If you don’t do what Jim says, then Jim starts putting holes in Doctor Watson.”

With his teeth clenched, Sherlock nodded the once to show that he understood.

“And if you try anything obvious, the snipers will shoot you through both arms, both legs, do the same to Doctor Watson and then put a very large hold in his groin. It’s a horrible way to die, Sherlock, bleeding out from a large caliber bullet to the genitals.”

Sherlock didn’t let anything show on his face; he didn’t want to agitate John any further.

“Show me you understand, Sherlock.”

He nodded again.

“I didn’t say Jim says,” Moriarty said coldly.

Sherlock heard someone scream a denial as the shot rang out and John staggered to his knees, clutching his right arm where the bullet had grazed him. Jim loudly sighed, then dropped his voice back down.

“Next time, they won’t be so generous, Sherlock. Show me you understand.”

He stayed perfectly still.

“Perfect.” Jim stepped back a bit. “Jim says help John to his feet.”

Sherlock stepped forwards, helping John to his feet carefully, holding him steady. He dreaded to think that John saw on his face, because he gave a weak smile to Sherlock that was probably meant to be encouraging.

“He is a brave little soldier, Sherlock. Jim says tell him to stay upright and face the stalls.”

“Stay upright and face the stalls,” Sherlock carefully said, voice bland and neutral.

John did it without any protest.

“Very good. Jim says tell him he’s a good boy and pat his head.”

Really? Moriarty was going to be this pedestrian. Predictable? Boring? “Good boy,” he said with the same dull tone, patting John’s head the once.

John looked at Moriarty.

“Jim says remind him of the rules.”

“Remember the rules, John,” Sherlock said softly. John did what Moriarty wanted, but otherwise was silent and still. And Sherlock played Jim says, determined not to slip again.

With a deep breath, John looked back to Sherlock, watching him with anger in his gaze.

“Jim says take off John’s awful cardigan.”

He quelled the urge to protest before he got John shot again and reached up, to tug the cardigan down and off, taking the chance to glimpse at the gunshot. It was a graze, luckily nothing more serious. John swallowed, meeting his gaze with a hint of worry behind it now.

“You know, Sherlock, I just don’t get it. Look at him. I mean... look. He’s so mundane. His clothes are positively cheap, his mind is dull and slow, he’s so... stocky. Thick. Everything about John Watson is very... thick.”

Jim hadn’t said, so Sherlock didn’t respond, didn’t let his gaze drop from John’s. John wasn’t as dumb an everyone else. He was boring sometimes, but he wasn’t thick and he wasn’t mundane. Mundane people didn’t get shot without protest. Mundane people didn’t try to save him at the cost of their own life.

“So, I’m thinking you should show me what parts of John mean the most to you. Jim says you have five spots you can declare safe from shooting if you fail, and I’ll even give you a minute to think on them. Here’s the catch though, Sherlock. Jim says you have to show me how much you love those spots by kissing them.”

His body actually jolted with the urge to leap and kill, to smash Jim Moriarty’s face into the tiles until there was nothing left of it but blood and pulp. John picked up something was wrong, his brows knitting into worry and Sherlock had to close his eyes, to focus on thinking.

he had to do his best to eliminate the instant kills shots. Anything else, however painful, John would recover from with medical attention.He could think of three obvious instant kills shots. He would try to save his hand, not make him face the world unable to hold a gun and exact revenge against this man. And- he winced, knowing it was what Jim wanted to see, to force him to do to protect John from a threat he never heard uttered against him.

“Jim says time is up, time to act.”

He opened his eyes and tried not to see as he moved. He pressed his first kiss to John’s temple softly. Head shot. The next he placed softly on his left hand, bending down to it so John didn’t have to lift it from his wound. He could feel John’s gaze on him, sharp and attentive.

The third went chastely over his breast bone, over his heart and he was aware of the smell of fear and sweat on John’s body.

Four meant touching John’s head to make him tilt to the side so Sherlock could press his lips to this throat. A throat shot, as good as untreatable if made right.

And five...

He closed his eyes, dropping to one knee and inhaling sharply before leaning in to kiss lightly over John crotch, standing up just as swiftly and looking at the wall over John’s head.

John was virtually vibrating with pent up anger and humiliation and indignation.

“I didn’t know if you’d actually do it, Sherlock, but you really do have a heart for your sweet pet, don’t you?” His tone went cold. “How pathetic, someone like you brought down by something as meaningless as John Watson.”

He didn’t look, didn’t react.

“Jim says to come over here to me.”

He walked over, looking down at Moriarty.

Moriarty gave him an ear piece. “Jim says put this on John.”

He snatched the ear piece and strode back, quickly and efficiently putting it on John.

“Jim says behave well.”

He didn’t hear anything, but clearly John did, because his jaw went tight and he left go of his arm, reaching up and starting to undo Sherlock’s shirt with professional detachment.

He kept watching over John head, but then the whisper came back. “Isn’t this what you wanted, Sherlock? Feeling John Watson pawing your body with his grubby hands?”

He felt John undo the clip on his jacket collar and put it on his skin, the crocodile clip biting his flesh. John pulled off his coat and then threw it in the swimming pool before stepping behind him, pulling down his shirt and twisting it, trapping Sherlock’s hands somewhat ineffectively in his sleeves.

He was forced to face Moriarty, arms pinned behind him, bare chested and neck throbbing with the bite of the clip on it.

“Very nice,” Jim murmured in his ear. “Are you enjoying it, Sherlock, John holding your arms behind you, his body pressed closed?”

He didn’t respond.

There was silence and then John’s hand reached around his body, hot and sticky with his own blood as he touched Sherlock’s chest, around his nipples and down his stomach to his belt.

He still didn’t respond.

“Jim says turn around and slap John. Hard.”

He closed his eyes, freeing himself nearly effortlessly and spinning around, pretending it was Mycroft standing with him. He slapped John hard across the face, eyes still closed.

“Now, that wasn’t very friendly, Sherlock. Help him up and kiss it better.”

Everything in him wanted to help John, but he had caught the vital, lacking phrase.

“You know, this game isn’t as fun when you’re both so careful not to do anything wrong,” Jim said out loud. “You take your headpieces off.”

John complied. Sherlock didn’t move again.

“We’re not done, Sherlock,” Moriarty whispered to him. “Jim says pick up John’s gun and shoot him.”

Sherlock hesitated. He didn’t want to. God, how he didn’t want to. But if he didn’t, the snipers would, and he knew exactly how it would happen.

He dashed for the gun, grabbing it and spinning around. He had already catalogued and decided, shifting his aim for his shoulder before changing it.

Jim said shoot him. Jim didn’t say it had to be a strike.

He fired, the shot grazing lower on John’s right arm and sending him back a step, staggering to his knees and going white, fresh blood blossoming over his shirt.

“Clever, Sherlock,” Jim murmured. “But I suppose you did play within the rules. I’m going to give you a chance. Show me how much John Watson means to you. The more convinced I am of his importance, the less likely I am to kill him.”

And the more he knew to hold over them. His gaze dropped, but on the way he saw salvation.

Jim was enjoying the game too much. That was a weakness.

He walked over to John, kneeling down in front of him, lips barely mouthing an apology before he cupped his face with one hand and kissed him.

John’s lips were lax with shock, letting Sherlock deepen the kiss, tilting John’s head more and bearing down on him, tasting his mouth, the faintest hints of beer from dinner, blood from where he’d bitten himself. He pressed closer to taste more, substituting interest in what he could pick up for genuine passion in the moment.

His other hand slipped around John’s waist, still holding the gun. Tightening his arm to pull their bodies flush, he got purchase on the tiles, leaning John back even as John broke the kiss, looking horribly confused and shocked.

Sherlock fired the gun.

Not at Moriarty.

At the vest still on the ground behind him.

In the same moment he threw them forwards, taking a deep breath and protecting John’s head with his hand as they hit the water and sank.

The explosion still threw them through the water, clinging onto one another as rubble and flames erupted above them. John twisted them sharply, a piece of ceiling crashing down where they had been.

They surface together, gasping for breath. Whatever Moriarty was paying his men, it wasn’t enough for them to still be looking for the pair of them when the building had exploded.

Sherlock ripped the earpiece from his neck and ear, throwing them aside and pushing towards the edge as more of the roof cracked and crumbled. He kept a hand on John, dragging him too, helping him out of the water.

They ran for outside, listening to the sirens wailing in the distance as they got clear and more of the building fell in on itself. Around the district, lights were going on, people coming out of houses cautiously.

“All right,” John said, coughing harshly on the pool water he had half inhaled.

“Fine.” Sherlock looked down at John, hand coming to rest on his back as the older man coughed again.

“Good distraction.”

“The kiss? Jim wanted to see me kiss you, he has a strong voyeuristic streak and would be stimulated by the sight of me displaying passion, even for someone he considers a lesser being. He told me the more convinced he was of your importance to me, the less likely he’d be to kill you. Clearly, he wished to see us engage in a sexual embrace, undoubtedly to make one or both of us uncomfortable with each other in the future.” He caught John as his legs gave out under him, guiding him to sit on the side walk.

“Shock. Feel cold.” John’s teeth were starting to chatter.

“Unsurprising. It has been a rather stressful night.”

“Sherlock... I need warmth.”

He realised what John meant and nodded, moving to sit behind him, wrapping his long limbs around the doctor and holding him tight and close for warmth. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

John was quiet in response, probably due to shock and slowly returning warmth.

“John? Thank you. For that thing... you know. You tried to do. For me.” For trying to let him escape. For being willing to die for him.

“You’re welcome,” John murmured softly. “You’re worth it.”

“So are you,” he whispered back, holding John tight and close. Every little thing Moriarty had forced them in to, it was worth it to keep John alive and mostly unharmed in his arms.

They stayed there together until the ambulances arrived.

Fic: Playing Cops and Robbers (Sherlock)

2010-11-09T10:44:24Z

Title: Play Cops and Robbers
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Gregory Lestrade
Rating: 15+
Summary: Sherlock had some troubles with prohibited class a substances. Lestrade did his best to help him through it. Written for this prompt. Based off scenario five from this fic.
Warnings: Discussions of drug use and crime scenes.

For the life of him, Gregory had no idea what had compelled him to post bail for a belligerent coke head.

However, having already gone that far, it was only logical for him to drag said coke head back to his empty house, where he knew there were no drugs stashed about the place and where he actually had food and clean food preparation areas.

Sherlock had been kept in the cells for three days before his bail was up for posting. That hadn’t actually done anything to improve his mood or his temper, but at least he was three days clean at this stage and getting too worn out to be a a flight danger.

“There’s a spare room with a bed. You’re going to be fairly tired for the next couple of weeks.”

“Lestrade, don’t insult my intelligence. I know the symptoms of cocaine withdrawal.” He drew himself up, looking fragile and hollow in his large, black coat. “And I have no intention of allowing myself to become debilitated by it.”

Gregory stared at him for a moment. “So you’re planning on breaking out of here and going to score again. Thanks, Holmes.”

“I didn’t ask you to post my bail, Inspector,” Sherlock snapped.

“No, you didn’t. But I know what happens to cops in prison and you won’t fare any better. They’d eat you alive in there, because no amount of clever will help you against angry murderers and rapists.” He took off his coat, hanging it up and putting his gloves in the pocket for when he was inevitably called out.

“I would have coped,” the young man sniffed disdainfully. It was as likely a symptom of his drug abuse as contempt.

“And you would’ve come out of prison angry, resentful and dangerous. Would you like a drink? I have tea, coffee and apple juice.” He walked to the kitchen, hoping he wasn’t horribly misjudging Sherlock in leaving him by himself in the living room.

“No.” There were footsteps and then the whump of a body hitting his couch. He let out a breath he hadn’t really been aware he was holding.

“Have you eaten today?”

“If you don’t already know, I’m not telling you.”

He already knew he’d refused to eat while he was in the holding cells. He probably hadn’t eaten for a day or two before then. “I don’t have a lot, but there’s bread for toasting, jam, peanut butter, marmite...”

“Lestrade, please at least try not to be boringly pedestrian for a moment.”

He started bread toasting and got out plates. “If you collapse from starvation, they’ll hospitalise you and they won’t hesitate to sedate you to keep you in.”

“I won’t collapse. The body is transport for the mind, nothing more, it will obey. You coddle your base desires too much.”

“Coddle? Sleep and food are not base desires, they’re basic biological needs, Holmes!”

There was a harrumph sound from the living room.

Gregory ignored it and went back to watching the toaster.

When it was done, he made up his toast with jam and grabbed a coffee, heading back out into the living room.

Sherlock was asleep.

He had never thought it would actually happen. The young man was curled up on the couch, the collar of his coat turned up, starkly dark against his pallid skin.

Gregory set down his plate and cup and went to the spare room, getting a quilt and laying it over Sherlock, tucking him in and leaving a pillow next to him, in case he woke and wanted more support for his neck.

*~*~*

He had read over case files late into the night. There were two robberies and a triple homicide to be solved, not odd enough to warrant looking for Sherlock, but difficult enough to keep him up far too late.

When he woke up in his armchair, he wasn’t surprised to find Sherlock curled up on the couch, flipping through the cases distractedly.

“The cousin committed the murders. The first was anger, but the second two had to be killed to remove witnesses.”

Gregory closed his eyes again. He wasn’t awake enough for dealing with Sherlock.

“He claimed to not be there, but from the photos, it’s clear that he was still living with them. Four toothbrushes in the bathroom. You can use that as your justification to get DNA run, knives are messy, someone inexperienced would almost certainly do themselves harm.”

He could smell coffee. He opened his eyes and saw that Sherlock had a cup of the stuff in front of him.

“The first robbery.... you’re looking for someone who has cased the shop extensively. They knew the lay out, where the items they wanted were and which pieces they wanted. They’re probably a customer and they were probably there the night before to make sure that the robbery itself went well. Also, the fact that he used please and thank you, indicates a level of intimacy with these people, he wasn’t being sarcastic, he was working on reflex when dealing with them. Customer or potentially a reseller client.”

He really needed coffee. He got up slowly, rubbing his face.

“Also, Donovan called and said that they want you to take the morning off, which is why I turned off your alarm.”

He groaned. “You answered my phone?”

“No, I listened as the message was left. And before you ask, no, I’m not high, I’m feeling too physically lethargic to do anything as active as buying drugs, but the mental inactivity of sitting around your house was motivation enough to get myself coffee and your case files.”

Gregory almost spoke, then just shook his head. He needed breakfast and caffeine and a shower. Not necessarily in that order.

He moved to the kitchen, glad that the kettle was still heated, the water hot enough to mix some instant coffee into. He watched it dissolving while Sherlock started to talk again.

“The last one took me a bit longer, no doubt because my mental faculties are impaired by the drudgery of the company for the last three days and the absence of my preferred stimulants. Caffeine is a poor replacement and you don’t have any cigarettes around the house.”

“I don’t smoke,” he mumbled to himself. “I haven’t for twenty years.”

“Also, your coffee is terrible. Honestly, I know you have little taste and even worse discernment, but instant, Lestrade?”

“God, it’s like being married all over again.”

“I’ve met your ex-wife, the only thing we have in common is the ability to spot genuine diamond from cubic zirconia in under five seconds.”

“You were telling me about the second robbery,” he said in a tired voice.

“Ah, yes. At first, there was nothing apparent in the photos and testimonials but, as I said, I blame my impaired faculties for not seeing it sooner.”

“Seeing what, Sherlock?”

“The photo. The photo was damaged. Yes, the room was ransacked, but the photo of the man with his new wife, that was torn straight through. That was excessive for the sort of robbery it was. It was the ex-wife, she probably feels she got an unfair deal in the divorce.”

“You can’t know that,” Gregory replied as he shuffled back out with a breakfast bar and coffee.

“Of course I can, and you could too if you weren’t so fearfully mediocre.”

It was lucky for Sherlock that it was early and Gregory was too tired still to actually kill him and find somewhere to hide the body before work. “Can you try to limit the insults when I’ve let you into my house to stop you being incarcerated?”

“I am limiting them.” He looked up. “You are the smartest police officer I have ever met,” he eventually said.

“Really?” That sounded frighteningly close to a compliment.

“Yes, of course. You were smart enough to bring me in to the fold.”

He rolled his eyes and drained half his coffee. “I’m having a shower before work. No, you’re not coming in with me, you scare my team.”

“Cretins,” Sherlock mumbled. “What am I meant to do?”

“Use your vaunted intellect to find something legal and non-destructive to occupy... You know what, you’re right, you should come to work with me.”

“If you’re concerned I’ll go out and get more coke-”

“I’m more scared what you’ll do to my house while I’m not here. We’ll stop by your place on the way in, you can get clean clothes and whatever you need to stay over here.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Lestrade.”

“I’m paying your bail, I want to keep you close.” He slammed the bathroom door a bit harder than necessary to end the conversation.

*~*~*

Sherlock’s house was worse than even Lestrade had feared.

It smelt awful on the outside and inside wasn’t really any better. Sherlock unlocked the door and shouldered it open, pushing piles of papers, books and what looked like a plastic jar of withered baby carrots to the side.

There were piles of things everywhere. Mostly books and paper but something photos, note books. Then he started taking in the other details. Knives. Mutilated sausages. Whips, chains, ropes, machetes, “... is that a pig’s head?”

“Mm?” He spun around and looked. “Yes. I was leaving it out for a study on sun heat through glass, but clearly that experiment is ruined because I was arrested instead.” He picked his way through the piles of things. “Stay out of the kitchen.”

Naturally, as soon as Sherlock vanished into the bedroom, Lestrade looked into the kitchen.

When Sherlock came out with a suitcase in one hand, violin case in the other and clean clothes, Lestrade was still half hanging out of the window feeling sick.

“I told you not to go into the kitchen, inspector. Now, shall we? We wouldn’t want you to be late, god knows what the other idiots will do without someone to tell them what to do.”

He swept out of the flat.

Lestrade hated him right then.

He jogged to catch up with him, falling into step alongside the lean figure.

“You were very foolish to leave me unattended in my bedroom. I am a recovering cocaine addict, you realise.” His tone was conversational.

“I’m showing you trust with the addiction, to not risk bail when you know I can’t really afford to pay it if you breach.”

“And the drug’s squad have already searched my apartment,” Sherlock commented.

Lestrade nodded. “And that.”

They finished their trip to Scotland Yard in silence.

*~*~*

Having Sherlock in the office was... different.

He was content to stay in Lestrade’s office, not sleeping, despite his exhaustion, but too tired to get into real trouble about the place. The cold case unit were sending him files to get insights and Donovan couldn’t seem to resist going in and poking and harassing him.

It was enough to keep him occupied and out of trouble and to let him get on with his work while knowing Sherlock wasn’t breaking the terms of his bail.

Lunch was from a vending machine, but he didn’t manage to convince Sherlock to eat anything again. He just wanted nicotine patches and caffeine, as though somehow he could compensate for not eating by making do on those.

When the call came through of a major bank robbery with two fatalities, Sherlock looked brighter than he had in days, bouncing to his feet.

“No. You’re staying here.”

Gregory learned the satisfaction of shocking Sherlock Holmes to silence in that moment.

“I can’t have you at the scene. You could compromise the investigation in court.”

“I’m less of a risk to your crime scene than those idiots you call your team,” Sherlock yelled, his very body coiled with indignation.

“None of my team could be called up before a court and be confronted with a felony drug possession charge,” he said in a hard voice. “Every case you helped with while you were using, we’ve had to go back over and make sure the convictions can’t be compromised or challenged on the basis that you were high on cocaine at the time. So sit down, be quiet and behave and you can go over the case file when we’re back.”

Sherlock was again quiet, though this time he was more subdued. Gregory had no doubt that it had never passed Sherlock’s mind that he had endangered convictions by engaging police cases while using but he had and he needed to face it.

“Lestrade?”

He sighed, pausing as he pulled on his scarf. “Yes, Holmes?”

“Will that happen on any of our cases? Are there legal challenges being made to evidence because of my pending drug conviction?”

Pending conviction. It sounded like he was planning to plead guilty. “No. And if there are, we can hold the cases without you. But we shouldn’t have been in that position.” He did up his coat and grabbed his phone. “You can’t work with the police if you’re not staying clean, Sherlock. And that will mean more criminals getting away with it.”

Sherlock looked almost like a little boy, curled up on Lestrade’s couch in his black coat.

“I’ll be back later. Stay here. Don’t cause too much trouble for Maloney.”

He headed out, giving Maloney to news that she had to watch Sherlock, maintain the phone contact between the office and the scene and the coroner’s.

He hoped that maybe this was a wake up call for Sherlock Holmes.

*~*~*

Nearly six hours later, Lestrade finally got back to the office.

He had sent everyone else straight home, but he had to pick up his ward (assuming he hadn’t wandered off) and clean up the paper trail they’d made so far.

The office was quiet when he got in. Maloney had left (he didn’t blame her), and his own office was still dark.

The phone on Anderson’s desk rang. He almost answered it, but then moved on. It could wait.

The phone stopped ringing as he walked by and Donovan’s phone started to ring. A cold chill started to trickle down his back and he kept moving, the phone stopping as he walked by.

He swerved to avoid Davies’ desk. That phone stayed silent, but Barker’s phone started as he passed.

He snatched it up. “Who the hell are you,” he hissed.

“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, recently divorced, no children, seventeen years on the force with four commendations.”

The male voice was clipped and smooth, quiet and commanding and entirely disquieting.

“Who are you,” he asked again.

“Your generous offer to bail Sherlock Holmes from cocaine charges has been noted, but is no longer required. Other provisions have been made. Sherlock Holmes is no longer your problem.”

“The hell he isn’t,” Lestrade snapped. “Where is he? Who are and what have you done with him?” He might not always like the younger man, but he was frail and vulnerable right now. Well, as vulnerable as a sociopath could be.

“You do not- No, I’m handling it. Go back to sleep.”

“What?” He pulled the phone back and stared at it, lifting it to his ear again as he realised the man was arguing with someone there with him.

“Go back to sleep and let me deal with the situation, Sherlock. Do not make me bring Mummy into this.”

“Mummy?” Maybe he had entered the twilight zone. Maybe Sherlock spiked his thermos with LSD for amusement.

There was some grunts and then a new voice. “Hello, Inspector.”

“Sherlock! Where are you, are you okay? And who is that lunatic who has you?”

Sherlock chuckled. “I’m quite fine, Lestrade. I didn’t mean to panic you by leaving but your words made me reconsider.”

“Reconsider what,” he asked softly.

“I enjoy hunting criminals. I wish to continue doing it. But I do not want to as much of a risk to your investigation as your team pose.”

He was torn between being proud that Sherlock realised he had to clean up and angry at the slight against his team.

“So I contacted someone who could arrange what I need to be on top of my game again. Distasteful, but necessary. I know you would have done your best, but it wouldn’t have been enough. I would be bored beyond reasoning within twelve hours and I would’ve taken the cocaine I had stapled into the lining of my violin case.”

“Goddamnit, Holmes...”

“Your drugs teams need to search better and not be put off by mundane things like jars of eyeballs. Anyway, I do appreciate your attempts at help but you simply aren’t equipped for it. Mycroft is.”

That was the elusive brother then.

He wished he could say he was insulted that Sherlock thought he couldn’t cope with him, but he wasn’t. It was a fact. Sherlock was like raising a demanding bulldog. He was more trouble than Lestrade could handle when he was being agreeable and if he got belligerent...

He was glad it was Mycroft’s problem, honestly. He couldn’t keep Sherlock and have a job outside of it, let alone a more than full time job like his. “I do want to hear that you’re getting over this.”

“Of course, of course, you’ll be kept updated about when I can return to doing your job for you. Until then Gregory.”

The phone disconnected.

Lestrade smiled slightly and recognised the use of his first name for what it was.

Thank you.

Fic: Hypoxia (Sherlock)

2010-11-09T01:21:44Z

Title: Hypoxia
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: M 15
Summary: Sherlock couldn’t hide the marks of repeated strangulation forever. John is unhappy. Written for this prompt.
For Nu.
Warnings: UST. Spoilers for “The Blind Banker”. Discussion of episode based violence.

John wasn’t meant to be home until after work that evening.

However, when he came into work the day being abducted, beaten unconscious and somewhat less than inadvertently shooting a man with an ancient Chinese crossbow, he was told under no uncertain terms that he wasn’t to be there.

He was given the week off and told to go home. He didn’t really want to go home, but he only managed to pass an hour at the library before deciding he probably did to go home and rest up from the adrenaline.

His leg was behaving, so he let himself in and quietly made his way upstairs. The lack of banging and bubbling was promising and John let himself believe that just maybe Sherlock was trying to get some sleep.

The door opened quietly and he spied Sherlock lying on the couch, flat on his back and fingers steepled under his chin, head tipped back and eyes closed.

Then he saw the marks.

“Christ, Sherlock!”

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking up at John. “You’re home early. Work are enforcing sick leave on you under the mistaken belief that you need to recover from the trauma of your kidnapping.”

“How- no, don’t. Doesn’t matter. What happened to your neck?”

“I was throttled,” Sherlock retorted.

John dumped his coat on a chair and sat on the edge of the couch, drawing an indignant sound from Sherlock, who tried to sit.

“Stay.” John pointed a finger at him and pushed him back to the cushions firmly. “This is much more serious than just last night.”

“Are you trying to say that wasn’t serious?” He cleared his throat, trying to shift from under John’s hands as he brought his fingertips up, not touching the marks but trying to shift Sherlock’s head to let the light fall on the bruising.

“You know that’s not what I’m saying. This is repeated trauma, fresh bruising over old.” John slid his fingers around the back of Sherlock’s neck, forcing his throat into a slight arch as he shifted to avoid any actual skin to skin contact.

Maybe it should have felt weird, but the trained medical part of John’s mind was taking over to deal with this. “Repeated layering of bruises over... twenty four hours, maybe forty eight. First layer shows sharp marking, ligature of some kind.” He touched his fingertip lightly across the very top of Sherlock’s throat, cutting under his chin and jaw. “No sign of rope burning, suggests twisted cloth maybe, like a scarf or tea towel.”

Sherlock’s breathing was slightly sharp and short, his eyes riveted on John’s face when John glanced up and then back down.

“You were brought down by your attacker, they were either a giant or, more likely, managed to bring you to your knees quickly from the upward angle of the bruising. The large contusion over the carotid arteries suggests a knot or twist that was used to induce quick hypotension and unconsciousness and the blood pressure was dropped below medically safe levels.” He looked up to Sherlock’s eyes. “How am I doing so far?”

“It- It was a silk slip,” Sherlock barely whispered.

“You could just say ‘Very well John, I appreciate your excellent medical knowledge.’ This should have been treated at the time, Sherlock. The bruising could have been alleviated significantly and the pain wouldn’t have been half as bad. I suppose this is why you were having so many troubles the other night.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but he did swallow, making his adam’s apple bob and drawing John’s gaze back down to the bruising. “Secondary bruising... Maybe a day or two later. Manual strangulation, I think.” He shifted his right hand, thumb touching the dark spot and then stretching to curl his hand over his slender throat. “Right handed. Pressure focused on the larynx, possibly attempting to break to hyoid bone.” His thumb shifted slightly to stroke the spot in question. “Attacker slightly shorter than you, taller than me. Impression of maybe... not rings... wearing something on the hand, hard finger tips. The circus, the fight behind the curtains.”

“E-Excellently deduced,” Sherlock whispered and John could feel the next swallow under his hand, the way Sherlock’s pulse was fluttering under his fingertips, skin heated with bruising and flushing pink with the moment.

“I am a doctor, despite the fact you treat me like a barely functioning imbecile some of the time.” He kept his touch light, stroking the outlines of the bruises, the different layers of damage. “This one could have been very serious, compounding the previous injury. The internal swelling must be significant.”

Sherlock stayed silently, breathing slightly shaky and swallowing occasionally with the smallest hint of pain on his face when he did.

“Then of course, there’s the generalised bruising from the fight in the tunnels. Minimal actual damage due to how thick the cloth was, constricting without have a garrote affect on the throat. Induced hypoxia, suffocation, starving the brain of enough oxygen.” He shifted his hands again, both hands cupping and cradling Sherlock’s slender neck, his thumbs resting lightly either side of his larynx. “I could throttle you for being so cavalier with your health, but it would sort of defeat the point.” He stroked softly and Sherlock shivered under him. “You need medical attention. You’re lucky you live with a doctor. Is the pain bad?”

Sherlock started to nod and then changed his mind and shook his head instead. He swallowed again, hard; John felt the entire movement through his hands.

“Liar,” he whispered to the younger man, leaning down a bit closer, fingers still light on bruised skin.

Sherlock almost quirked a slight smile at the accusation.

Fic: The Case of the Birthday Party (Sherlock) Part 2

2010-11-06T10:42:20Z

Title: The Case of the Birthday Party (Part 2)
Fandom: BBC Sherlock/Modernised Raffles
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, AJ Raffles, 'Bunny' Manders.
Rating: G
Summary: One party, two adversaries and a small fortune in gifts at stake. Also, cricket.
Warnings: Some mild drinking and language.

The room itself had a personal guard assigned to it, but the man wasn’t paying attention to the windows. It was freezing outside as they peeked in to look at the table piled with expensive gifts from various guests.

John could see what looked to be diamond cufflinks and matching tie pin, expensive leather looking bound journals and antique books that had been lovingly restored to good condition inside a glass case. They must have been first edition somethings.

“Sherlock... why are we looking through the windows at your brother’s gifts at... three in the morning?”

“Because sometime tomorrow, Raffles is going to attempt to steal them.”

He blamed the fact he hadn’t enough sleep for his total lack of reaction to that. “Righty-oh then.”

“He won’t be able to resist the opportunity. He’ll steal them. Maybe not everything, too much, but the smaller, more expensive items.”

“And why will he do this, Sherlock?”

“Because that’s what Raffles does, John. He steals. He prides himself on his ability to steal and not be caught. He’s never been caught because the police are idiots and people are deluded by his smile and wit. He’s a thief and he’s going to rob this party to prove to himself that no one can catch him. Not even me.” Sherlock’s face was dark.

“Hang on. You think he’s going to rob your brother as part of this ongoing feud you two have over which of you is smarter?”

“No,” Sherlock snapped. “It is not a feud. I am smarter and he knows it. It is a matter of whether he is more cunning and manipulative than I am astute and logical.” He looked back to the window. John kept staring at him.

Sherlock ducked, tugging him down sharply.

He hit the ground on his butt, wincing but not trying to stand. The guard must have looked in.

“This is, in many ways, the apogee of our encounters. He will rob my brother and I will have only until the end of this party to recover the goods and prove once and for all that AJ Raffles is not a gentleman cricketer but a gentleman thief, robbing his hosts.”

Watching Sherlock’s face, John concluded that rightly or wrongly, Sherlock completely believed his story. “You really think he’d try to rob your brother, with all this security, all these people and you in the house?”

“John, I think he won’t be able to resist it, even if it wasn’t planned before.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer.

“Well... this has been enlightening,” John said, standing up. “I’m going back to bed.”

“But we haven’t explored the kitchens yet!” Sherlock stood, trailing after John, silk robe billowing in the wind. “Or the patio from after the drinks gathering!”

“You can explore away. It’s cold. It’s dark. I’m tired. I’m going back to bed and I suggest you come inside before you start to give yourself hypothermia.”

“Jooohn.”

“No.” He opened the door and looked back. “We can poke around tomorrow all you want, but right now, it’s cold and dark and it’s going to rain. I’m going to bed.”

Sherlock huffed, stamped his foot and stomped back inside after John, sulking the entire way back to their rooms and throwing himself into the couch before grabbing his violin.

John put in his earplugs and went back to sleep.

*~*~*

Most people would wake up in a better mood the next day. Sherlock, having probably not slept, was still being sulky when a rather nice full English breakfast was delivered for each of them along with a note card explaining the plans for the day.

John sat in the armchair and enjoyed breakfast while reading over the neatly written card. Sherlock lay on the couch and poked holes in his food with a knife until he was seized with some mad idea that involved taking the plate into the bathroom and testing if various pieces would float or sink.

He didn’t worry about it. Even Sherlock couldn’t do any major damage with breakfast and water. He focused on the card so he’d know the plans for the day.

‘Day One Events

10 am: Guided nature walk of surrounding woodland.
Badminton on the lawn.

12 noon: Lunch on the terrace.

2 pm: Cricket match (places still available on the teams).
Afternoon tea served during.

6 pm: Dinner in the main hall. Formal wear.

8 pm: After dinner drinks.
Operatic soloist Miranda Florence performing.

10 pm: End of scheduled events.’

At the very bottom, written in a different hand was a personal note. ‘Please don’t feel obliged to attend anything, I understand if you need to occupy Sherlock’s limited attention. -Mycroft.’

John chuckled at the note and tucked the card into his pocket.

“What’s so amusing,” Sherlock asked.

“Your brother sent me a note, reminding me that all the scheduled events are voluntary.”

“Events,” Sherlock spat. “It’s all so very old school, like we’re back before the war, upper classes playing in the manor houses while the lowers tend out whims.”

“Says the man who doesn’t even make his own tea when he’s at home.”

“I don’t schedule play events and grand balls.”

“Or get his own dinner. Or buy groceries. Or get his phone out of his pocket.”

“Are you still on about that? My hands were busy on the microscope.”

“You were too lazy to get your phone out of your jacket pocket,” John sighed. “Are you done in there, I want a wash and shave.”

“No, I am not done. You will just have to work around me.”

He rolled his eyes. That would be the payback for refusing to indulge running about the house last night.

He got up out of his chair and headed into the bathroom, picking up his electric shaver. Months of physical therapy and months before of living in a desert had got him used to using it and he was very grateful right now as he half leaned over Sherlock to actually be able to see into the mirror.

Sherlock glared at him in the reflection but John ignored him, focusing on what he was doing instead. Then, thankfully, Sherlock uncurled from where he was hunched over the sink and breezed through to the bedroom to take over the couch again.

“Are you going to come with me on the nature walk, or spend all day in here sulking?”

“I don’t sulk.”

“Or spend all day in here refusing to interact with the general public.”

“They are not the general public. They are Mycroft’s guests, which puts them below the police and above a common criminal, and even that point is disputable with the likes of Raffles here.” Sherlock hung his head off the couch to look at John. “Why are you going on the nature walk?”

“Because the grounds around here look nice. It’s a change from the city and it’s spring and I haven’t seen the English landscape in Spring for a long time.” He turned off his shaver, running a hand over his face. “Are you going to come with me?”

“Maybe.”

John didn’t push it any further than that. Maybe was more than he had expected. “There’s a cricket match this afternoon.”

“Don’t tell me you want to play,” Sherlock groaned. “I am not playing cricket with you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. And no, I’m not signing up. Not with my leg and shoulder.”

“You’re twice as healthy as most of these people, you’d probably do splendidly out there. Maybe Bunny will fawn over your playing like he does Raffles’.”

John came to the doorway, staring at Sherlock. “What?”

“You seemed rather enamoured of Bunny last night, especially the way he was fawning over you.” He leapt to his feet, sidling closer. “I’ve never met a real soldier before,” he said breathlessly, in remarkable mimicry and mockery of Bunny last night. “It’s very awe-inspiring Doctor Watson. John.” His hand stroked John’s upper arm.

“Stop it,” John hissed.

“It just, it makes me admire you ever so much more,” he sighed out, pressing close.

“Jealous,” he asked peevishly.

“Perish the thought,” Sherlock snapped, straightening up. “It was revolting watching him pander to your ego and you lapping it up like a starved man at a desert oasis.”

“Do you have a problem with people being nice to me? He’s a nice young man.” He stomped past Sherlock to the wardrobe, grabbing some clothes.

“He wasn’t being nice, he was sucking up to you. I wouldn’t be surprised if Raffles sent him specifically to suck up to you to wheedle you onto his side.”

“For God’s sake Sherlock!” He turned to the younger man. “Not everything in life is about getting one up on other people. Sometimes people are just genuinely nice! Not that you’d know anything about it.” He went back into the bathroom, slamming the door.

Sherlock was a dear friend, but he drove John absolutely nuts some days. He took a few calming breaths and then got changed, cleaning his teeth and brushing his hair a bit neater before stepping out.

Sherlock was standing there, dressed and pulling his scarf around his neck.

John raised an eyebrow.

“I’m coming on the walk. If I leave you alone you’re as likely to have a relapse and get left behind because you refuse to admit you’re having troubles.” He did up his coat. “So I’m coming with you.”

John smiled slightly. Whatever excuse Sherlock felt the need to give, he didn’t mind. It was as close to an apology as the other man was ever likely to come. He grabbed his own coat and pulled it on, opening the door for Sherlock and then following him out and towards the patio.

*~*~*

As it happened, no one else they really knew came on the walk. Sherlock got bored about five minutes into it and tugged on John’s arm, offering to show him the interesting sights, not the easily reached, over publicised views that the tour would be looking at.

And John could never resist when Sherlock offered to show him something more interesting.

They had branched off and through the forest, away from the carefully tended path and into the still wild areas. They saw some rabbits getting into the spring spirit, the first bluebells and foxgloves flowering in small glens where the trees were yet to cover with newly sprouted leaves.

Then they reached the old quarry.

Sherlock scrambled up the mostly concealed path like a mountain goat, all sure footing and graceful movements. There was clearly a childhood’s worth of muscle memory in climbing up that path. John followed more carefully, half walking and half climbing after his friend until he reached the top and Sherlock gave him a hand to his feet and gestured.

It was beautiful. Looking over the valley, a meandering creek and blue pond... well, maybe lake was closer, but lit by the bright Spring sun, the water sparkled and the new growth seemed even more brilliant.

Even Sherlock seemed content looking out over the small valley when John glanced at him. His expression was relaxed, lips slightly upturned in a tiny smile, hands in his coat pockets and the light breeze tugging at his clothes.

John didn’t ask what this place was. It was special, and Sherlock had decided to share it with him. That was enough.

They sat on some rocks and sat in silence for a while enjoying the view and some quiet company.

*~*~*

They got back a few minutes after lunch had already started, but others were still wandering about. The terrace had been filled with garden tables, four chairs to each and a smorgasbord laid out that people were getting food from.

Sherlock took a table on the very edge which had had two of its chairs taken away to let three married couples sit together. John got himself something to eat, made sure to have a bit extra to try and get Sherlock to have lunch and came back. “Are you eating today? You missed breakfast.”

“I didn’t miss it, I chose not to eat it.” He rested his chin on his hand, watching the amassed people.

“You should eat. Especially after that walk.”

“Slows my thinking.”

“Stops your body trying to consume your brain for the nutrients it needs,” he countered. “You’re not a case, Sherlock.”

“Of course I am. And that case is coming this way.” His expression hardened as Raffles came strolling up, plate of food in hand and Bunny wandering alongside him, chatting away amicably. “I hate to intrude, but do you mind if we join you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock stated.

“Ignore him, please.” John gestured for the pair to join them.

Raffles set down his plate and grabbed two chairs, plonking his own down and then getting Bunny’s seat for him, pushing it in before taking his own.

Interesting. John made no comment though.

“Did you two enjoy the guided walk,” Raffles asked in a cheerful voice. “We came out too late to join in, sat and watched the badminton for a while, have to say, it was a riot.”

“Actually-” John started.

“The walk was like everything else my brother organises. Insipid and catering to the lowest common denominator,” Sherlock cut in.

“Which we all here know you aren’t, but maybe your opinion is just biased against Mycroft. John, what did you think?”

John paused, swallowing. “Very nice,” he said finally.

“Are you coming to the match this afternoon, John?” Bunny’s light voice cut across the building tension.

“Um... yes. Yes, I am. I’m looking forward to just relaxing and watching a match. Are you planning on playing, Mr Raffles, or enjoying not having to?”

Raffles grinned that wolfish grin. “I think I’d rather disappoint everyone if I didn’t. And Bunny does so love to watch me play. And just Raffles will do, I’ve always found it easiest. Public school upbringing drills it into you.”

“But you still call Bunny by his nickname, not his surname,” John pointed out.

“Bunny’s the exception to a great many things in my life,” Raffles said, giving Bunny a genuinely warm smile and reaching over to drape an arm around his shoulders. “It’s rare that one finds a genuinely good and loyal soul in this world. Rarer than than diamonds in English soil.”

Bunny blushed, looking pleased and reaching for his drink to try and hide his fluster.

Sherlock leaned forwards, taking one of the spring rolls from John’s plate, as if to make a point. “Yes, it is. Someone who’d do anything you needed them to.” He looked at Bunny. “And you would do anything for Raffles. You took the fall for him when he broke a window to get back into the school after curfew.”

Bunny lifted his chin. “Raffles looks after me, I do what little I can in return.”

“Oh dear Bunny, you do so much for me, you’re my constant companion,” Raffles smiled.

John got the feeling Sherlock was one breath off telling them to stop the sickening, over the top display of true comradeship and cut in before he could. “Bunny said you helped him when he was at a pretty low point, that was how you got back into contact after school.”

Raffles turned his attention to John. “Oh, it wasn’t that big a deal. Bunny just needed someone there for a little while and I was happy to oblige.”

“It was a huge deal, Raffles,” Bunny said softly.

“Nonsense.” Raffles was determined to underplay whatever had happened. John wondered why.

“Raffles!”

He leaned back on his chair, waving a hand at the table that had called. “The adoring public beckons.” He stood, grabbing his plate and drink. “Holmes, are you going to be joining the match? You know how I love to play against you.”

Sherlock looked up. “I don’t think so. Cricket isn’t a game I enjoy.”

“Then perhaps we’ll find something else later tonight.” He nodded. “Until later, Holmes, John.”

Bunny stood, nodding. “Enjoy lunch. I’ll talk to you later, John.”

John focused on his lunch, waiting for the inevitable.

“I loathe that man,” Sherlock spat.

“I know, Sherlock. Finish your spring roll and then you can tell me what it was that Raffles did that he’s so determined to underplay.”

Sherlock made a show of finishing the spring roll and cleaning his fingers off on a napkin. “Bunny inherited from his father. A lot of money. A lot. And then he didn’t keep an eye on his accountant. He had no idea how to.”

John could see where this was going.

“He was bankrupted. He had to sell the family estate and move into a townhouse. Then he started to see Raffles again and things started to pick up. No doubt Raffles was loaning him money and giving him gifts, but the question remained where Raffles was getting so much money. Of course, I know where.”

“From this thieving he’s apparently so skilled in that no one but you can catch him.”

“Precisely.” Sherlock lifted his coffee and sipped.

“Sherlock... Why don’t you want me getting on with Bunny?”

Sherlock didn’t reply for a long moment. “Because he’s a criminal, John. And worse, he’s not a criminal for any moral conviction or desire, but simply because Raffles drags him along. Whatever friendship you could have would be entirely dependent on what Raffles wants and you deserve better. No, you’re too good for those two.” He sniffed disdainfully.

“Because it sounds a lot like you’re jealous, to me.”

“I’m a sociopath, I’m not capable of jealousy,” Sherlock countered.

“You’re not meant to be capable of caring either but I know you do. If you felt nothing, you wouldn’t have have what you did at the pool.”

Silence stretched between them. Sherlock got up abruptly and walked off towards the house. John sighed.

Mentioning the pool was one of those things that was Not Allowed. Sherlock didn’t reminder of feeling defeated. John had never managed to find out from him how he felt about it, but he had put together a few things from observation.

He’d go and find Sherlock later. Once he had calmed down.

Until then, he was going to enjoy lunch.

*~*~*

After lunch, Sherlock had still not put in any appearances, so John made his way to the large lawn where the match had been arranged and settled himself into a comfortable deck chair with a shade keeping the sun off his eyes but on his feet for warmth.

He was surprised when the chair next to him was taken. Not by Sherlock, or even Bunny, but by the elusive host. “Doctor.”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled slightly, folding his hands over his stomach. “Enjoying this weekend?”

“I am, yes.” It had been lovely so far, despite Sherlock’s little tempers.

“Marvelous. I was so glad when my brother asked if he could bring company.”

“He did?” Sherlock had told him that the invitation was for him and a guest and he wasn’t going on his own.

“Well... Declared he was bringing you is more accurate, but for Sherlock, that’s asking.”

That was interesting. Sherlock had demanded the space be made to bring him. “Is that why we only have the one bed?”

“All the room in the West tower are the same. I presumed, I admit, but given Sherlock’s insomnia I thought it would be mildly inconveniencing at bed.” Mycroft glanced to him. “Did I presume wrong?”

“No. Not really. I slept. Sherlock spent the night watching the telly on the couch.” He shrugged. “I got him to eat a spring roll at lunch. I might even get him to sleep tonight.”

“That would be a wonderful birthday gift. You have done a marvelous job of looking after him so far. He’s only been hospitalised twice in six months and once of those times was due to a mad man and the other a car accident. I’m very impressed.”

“He’s nearly cost me my job five times.”

“And yet you manage to persevere. Good afternoon, Mister Manders, looking forward to the match?”

“Yes, rather,” Bunny said as he came over. “Good line up you’ve organised. Williams is awful good. Pity that your brother wouldn’t join in.”

“Spending hours in the sun isn’t really Sherlock’s thing.” Mycroft got out of the deck chair. “Now, I must get to the umpire’s seat and I will leave you two to enjoy the game.” He nodded to them both and left.

Bunny occupied the seat that had just been vacated, curling up to half sit on his legs. “I am sorry if we interrupted you and Holmes before.”

“No, it’s fine. He’s just been in a mood about having to be here.” John shifted slightly. “He told me a little about what happened to you. Before Raffles stepped in. I’m sorry you were taken like that.”

The younger man looked down. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without him. Well... I mean, I do know, and it’s awful to think about now. I just didn’t know what to do.”

John stayed quiet, nodding attentively and not correcting Bunny that Sherlock hadn’t known about this. He considered the fact he was arguably getting as nosy as Sherlock was but he couldn’t entirely care.

“I just went around there to say goodbye, tell him that he’d been terribly decent to me over the years and I wished him all the best in his career. Or maybe I’m lying, and I did want him to stop me, to know someone would worry enough to stop me doing something silly.” He looked up, eyes bright. “Look at me, still getting all emotional about it. But it just... I was at my rope’s end and then suddenly Raffles is sitting me down, getting things organised, offering me somewhere to stay to get on top of things and just being... Raffles.”

“Yeah,” John said softly. “I know what you mean.” Sherlock had forced him to put himself back together when he was about ready to stop trying.

“They’re more alike than either of them like to admit,” Bunny said quietly.

“God help the world,” John muttered and Bunny smiled and laughed and offered to get him a lemonade.

*~*~*

Eventually, in the name of being sporting, Raffles stopped bowling and one of the other gentlemen took over from him. Bunny went off to get another round of refreshment, leaving John alone again for a while.

“I can’t for the life of me see what you enjoy about this game, John.”

“It’s a gentleman’s game. With good players it’s a joy to watch and with bad ones a lot of fun to play if you’re as bad at it as I am.” He looked up to where Sherlock stood behind his deck chair. “Did you have fun wandering all over the place?”

“I found out some interesting things,” he replied, dragging a chair closer to John’s and further under the shade before settling into it. “I also got a good look at the gifts room. The windows are alarmed, there is a guard on the only door and there are motion detectors inside of the room.”

“Sounds pretty safe,” John commented.

“Yes it does, doesn’t it.” Sherlock stared into the distance. “That’s what you’re meant to think.”

John hated it when Sherlock got into these moods. “That room is pretty secure, Sherlock. I really don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to try and rob it.”

“There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity and I am fairly certain it is one that Raffles enjoys walking.”

“He’s not as bad as you think, Raffles.”

“Of course he is,” Sherlock sniffed.

“He saved Bunny’s life. He was ready to- well, make an irreversible decision.”

“Commit suicide?”

“Yes.”

“Then just say commit suicide, euphemisms don’t become you, John.”

He sighed. “Fine. He stopped Bunny killing himself. Gave him somewhere to stay, support, not just financial, but made him feel like he still had a place, that he mattered.”

“That doesn’t make him a good person. Just a selfish one who doesn’t like giving things up.” Sherlock looked back from the crowd to John. “I should know.”

John didn’t really know what to say to that, so he said nothing, looking away from Sherlock and out to the game again.

“Oh, hello, Holmes. I have a jug and a spare glass if you’d like a drink.”

John got up to move one of the low tables between them all for Bunny to put the tray on. Drinks were poured from the one jug and John took one with a soft thanks.

After a moment, Sherlock took one as well, sipping and looking back out over the crowd. “Manders.”

“Mm?” Bunny looked up. “Yes, Holmes?”

“I know what he’s planning. And I’m just waiting for him to try.” He looked back to Bunny. “So you tell him I’m watching. And I will catch him. Not for any love of my brother. Just to prove I can.”

Bunny swallowed.

“Sherlock!”

“Are we clear, Manders?”

“Y-yes, Holmes,” Bunny stammered. “Excuse me. I have to- go.” He got up and fled from them.

“Sherlock! That was completely uncalled for!” John glared at his companion.

Sherlock shook his head. “Bunny isn’t as innocent as he looks.”

“Sure you don’t think Bunny knows about it?”

“My dear Doctor, Bunny is not that clueless. he knows something. He just doesn’t know what he knows.”

John was left trying to work that out while Sherlock sipped his lemonade with a smug smile.

Fic: The Case of the Birthday Party (Sherlock) Part 1

2010-11-06T10:34:57Z

Title: The Case of the Birthday Party (Part 1)
Fandom: BBC Sherlock/Modernised Raffles
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, AJ Raffles, 'Bunny' Manders.
Rating: G
Summary: Last time they played, Moriarty didn’t play the last round. He intend to correct this. Written for this prompt.
Warnings: Some mild drinking and language.

The gathering was stuffy and overcrowded and, in the words of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes - terribly, terribly dull.

It was tastefully over the top in that way that only the frightfully and obliviously wealthy could manage, with balloons and sparkly things and pretty lights and the tactful avoidance of actually mentioning Mycroft’s precise age or date of birth anywhere.

John felt horribly out of place here. He didn’t like dressing up and he felt strange wearing a suit, even if it was casual compared to what he had dreaded.

Sherlock looks out of place, but Sherlock looked out of place everywhere. He thrived on his ability to shrug of social convention and stick out like a sore thumb everywhere he went and it was only his petty amusement at this which gave John hope for surviving this weekend without police intervention. Sherlock was here under duress from the elusive Mummy and nothing less, but that wasn’t guaranteed to make him behave.

No. Making him behave had apparently fallen to John. He didn’t know why, no one had managed to control Sherlock thus far in life, he didn’t see why he should be expected to achieve where even his family or Scotland Yard had failed.

“John.”

Sherlock’s long finger hand plucked at the elbow of his jacket. “He’s a serial philanderer, she’s flirting with the waiter in the hopes of making him jealous. She doesn’t have the stomach to go through with an affair, even a one night stand, which means he feels free to keep up his ways.”

And as inappropriate as it was... it was still amazing what Sherlock’s sharp mind would deduce from seemingly meaningless observations. “You... never fail to amaze me.”

Sherlock looked briefly smug, turning his attention around to try and find another hapless person to dissect with his gaze.

John spotted a young man with a frightened deer in the headlights look on his face, endearing and screaming ‘victim’. John had the feeling he’d seen him somewhere before but couldn’t place where.. “What about him?”

“Hm?” Sherlock looked over, gaze narrowing. “Harold Manders, more commonly referred to as ‘Bunny’ for some obscure reason that makes no sense to anyone, possibly due to his perpetually bewildered and lost expression. He’s here at the invitation of a guest, much like I have you to accompany me, Mycroft’s people would never bother letting him in otherwise.”

“Do you know him? Only, you know his name and I can’t see anything on him that has his name, or even a suggestion of it.” He was looking and while he wasn’t Sherlock, he liked to think he wasn’t so blind as to miss something that obvious.

“Oh yes, I know Bunny Manders,” Sherlock said disdainfully. “And I know who brought him to this dreadful gathering of my brother’s.” He was looking at his phone again, texting away frantically. Across the room, a phone beeped with a message.

“How do you know him? One of your cases?”

“No.” He looked over at a couple, watching them for a long moment.

John waited for a moment, until it became apparent that Sherlock wasn’t going to explain without prompting. “Are you going to make me ask all the possible ways you know him?”

“I’m not making you do anything,” Sherlock sniffed disdainfully.

Giving up, John went to find a drink. He flagged down one of the wait staff and took a glass of wine, sipping at it as he looked around the room again.

He’d estimated about fifty people when they had first arrived, but now, looking around, he suspected it was closer to eighty. The massive old ‘country home’ that Sherlock had said they were going to was closer to a retired castle in truth and clearly bigger than even he had estimated if everyone here was staying for the full weekend of festivities.

These people were social elite. They were from news pages and social columns and the back halls of government, according to his flatmate, anyway. People of fame and power.

He gulped his wine a bit fast, starting to feel very, very insignificant.

Maybe leaving Sherlock hadn’t been a good idea, he pondered. He didn’t actually know anyone here except the Holmes brothers and he would take Sherlock over Mycroft any day.

And he’d take Mycroft over the mid fifties woman in the floral shirt who had just started eyeing him off like a prime cut in a butcher’s shop.

He started moving through the crowd, back towards where he had left Sherlock. He spotted him fairly quickly, his pale gaze catching John and then moving on, scanning the crowd again. He pushed back to his partner’s side, taking a breath to tell him about the woman in the floral shirt and instead spotting a very familiar face.

“Sherlock, is that AJ Raffles, the cricketer? The test player?”

“Probably,” Sherlock absently agreed, not bothering to look. “Do you think he knows his wife is having an affair?”

“Raffles isn’t married.” He looked up and sighed when he saw Sherlock wasn’t looking.

“No, I know. Give me your phone.”

“No, use yours. Do you know him?”

“Who?” He sounded absent.

“Raffles!”

“Oh, yes. Why?” He looked down at John. “Do you want to meet him? He’s a terrible bore, you know, all witticisms and pick up lines and charm.”

“Oh yes, perfect bore,” John mumbled, but suddenly a friendly hand was clapping on his shoulder, making him jump.

“Who is this dashing fellow you’re talking about, Holmes?”

Sherlock sighed heavily and looked up from John. “Raffles.”

“Holmes.” Raffles had a bright smile, all warm and slightly wolfish. “Long time no see, how are you these days? Mycroft said you’d been through a bit of a rough patch, though obviously not rough enough to stop you picking up a charmingly attentive date for this.”

“I’m not his date,” John grumbled. He didn’t know why he bothered.

“Terribly sorry, old man, I did rather presume.”

John started. No one ever listened when he protested that he wasn’t Sherlock’s date. “Oh. Well, it’s all right.”

“Where are my manners, probably vanished with the second glass of wine. Raffles, AJ Raffles, though I daresay you’ve heard of me, Mister-”

“Doctor. Doctor Watson, John Watson.” He took the offer hand and shook it, trying to ignore Sherlock’s disgusted sound at the fact that Raffles used two hands on his one. “I’m a huge fan of your bowling.”

Raffles let his hand go. “Glad to hear it. So tell me, Watson, Doctor Watson, how did you met our reclusive and frankly anti-social Holmes?”

“I’m not ‘your’ Holmes, Raffles,” Sherlock spat.

“Figure speech, old boy, BUNNY! You remember Holmes, don’t you? Holmes, you of course remember Bunny, he was my fag at school.”

John choked on his wine, hacking into his hand.

Raffles just laughed and patted him on the back. Sherlock looked more annoyed than ever. “Sorry about that, I do love the quaint old terminology. The younger boys served as manservants to the older boys at school. Except Holmes, of course, he wasn’t having anything to do with any of it. God forbid he join in and have fun with everyone else.”

John only then realised there was a hand on his arm, guiding him towards the doe eyed young man from before, the one Sherlock had identified as Bunny. He had the sweetest, most innocent face John had ever seen, a stark contrast to Raffles’ own dark, rakish looks. “Bunny, come and meet Doctor Watson, he’s here with Holmes.”

“O-Oh.” The young man gave him a shy smile, bobbing his head and offering his hand. For a moment, John feared he was going to bow or curtsy instead; it was a relief to just shake his hand. “How do you do, Doctor?”

“Nice to meet you, uh-” It didn’t seem right to call him by such a familial nick name.

“Just Bunny, it’s what everyone calls me,” he assured quickly.

“Bunny, be a good man, look after John, get him another drink, his last one ended up being inhaled rather than ingested, Karida, my darling, you look fantastic, did Mycroft buy that for you for the party?”

And suddenly Raffles was gone, leaving John standing there with Bunny.

The silence stretched for a long moment.

“Is he always like that?”

“Oh yes. That’s just Raffles for you.” Bunny rocked on his feet. “He’s just a bit forceful.”

John looked to where Sherlock was cornering a waiter and quizzing him about the sanitation of the kitchens. “I know someone like that...”

There was another pause.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Dear God, yes,” John exhaled.

*~*~*

“So, you and Raffles went to school together.”

“Yup.”

“And you were his- manservant. At this public school.”

“Yup.”

“And Sherlock also went to school with you and Raffles.”

“That’s about the sum of it,” Bunny agreed over his whiskey and soda. “They were in the same grade. I was a few years behind.”

They had retired to a quiet corner and after a bit of chatting, John had decided that watching Sherlock wasn’t his job or obligation and that he’d sooner sit and have a relatively normal conversation with Bunny instead. And take the chance to find out a bit about Sherlock when he was younger, a time that Sherlock liked to pretend didn’t exist.

“Still, you must have spent a lot of time with Raffles, at least.” He had switched to drinking soft drinks after the wine incident. An absence of Sherlock also helped curb the urge for a drink.

“Oh, rather. I was a bit at a loss when he graduated and moved onto university. It didn’t last, he went into cricketing instead, but for a while I really thought he was going to become a banker or something equally brainy and boring.”

John didn’t actually know much about Raffles, outside of his average bowling score and how much the Australian batsmen didn’t like him. And apparently, he went to the same exclusive boys’ school as the Holmes brothers. “He’s smart then?”

“Oh yes! He’s absolutely brilliant, he thinks up all kinds of things, he knows all this obscure trivia that turns up to be useful when you least expect it, and he speaks English, French, Italian and Latin fluently.” Bunny sighed a little. “I really don’t know why he keeps me around some times.”

John could take a guess though, from the adoring way Bunny spoke of the older man. he clearly hero worshipped him. “Obviously you did meet up after school, though.”

“Yes. Raffles helped me through a bad patch, he’s a real sport like that, I turned up at his door after five years and he just invited me in like I’d only seen him the night before at school dinner.” He looked over to John with that same shy smile. “How did you meet Holmes?”

John glanced to the ceiling briefly, trying to work out how much to say without sounding like a lunatic. “A university friend of mine introduced us. I was looking for a flat, Sherlock was looking for a flatmate to split the rent.” He shrugged and took another drink. “I’ve been living with him ever since. Well, we live together, we have a land lady, the flat doesn’t actually belong to either of us.”

Bunny nodded attentively. “I imagine it could be rather hard at times. Holmes was a bit... eccentric in school sometimes.”

“Eccentric. That’s a way you could put it.” A very nice way. Bunny was obviously well mannered or too nice for his own good. Maybe both. “What do you do, Bunny?”

“Mm? Oh, I inherited from my father, he died when I was in high school. Mostly I travel with Raffles when he goes on tour, we travel around Britain a lot when he’s not. That sort of thing. You’re a medical doctor?”

“Yes. I work at a clinic when Sherlock isn’t dragging me around the streets of London after serial killers, thieves and blackmailers.” Sherlock almost made a warzone look calm.

“Th-thieves? You work for the police?” Bunny seemed startled about that.

“Sherlock works with them. Consulting detective. He does private work as well when he’s bored enough. It’s all just a game to him.”

Bunny laughed nervously. “Raffles is just the same. He gets bored with people a lot, why I don’t really understand why he keeps me around after all this time, really.” He blushed and drained his drink. “He and Holmes used to get into terrible chess matches.”

“Chess.” Terrible chess matches?

“Oh yes. They both wanted to prove they were better. Raffles is very smart, you know. He seems like he’s all smiles and talk, but he’s awful clever.”

John suspected that some sheepdogs would seem awful clever to Bunny. It wasn’t meant to be an unkind thought; the young man was charming and sweet and good company but he wasn’t striking John as a mental giant and frankly, he suspected that Bunny would declare that Raffles made the sun rise just by asking nicely if pushed about what made it so.

“You must be terribly clever too, to be a doctor,” Bunny suddenly came up with.

“I- Well, I just worked hard,” he said quietly.

“You must’ve done more than that. I mean, you’re a doctor, that’s really, really impressive.”

John felt himself blushing slightly. After months of running around after Sherlock and feeling like the world’s class A, first prize idiot, it was refreshing to be in the situation where he was reminded that he wasn’t a mental slouch compared to the general population. “Thank you, Bunny,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome, John.” Bunny waved down another waiter and got himself another drink. John declined with a raised hand as Bunny turned back to him. “I don’t imagine you get complimented a lot. I mean, hanging around with Sherlock, no matter what you do...”

Sherlock did it better. But John didn’t mind. “I didn’t become a doctor for glory. I want to help people.”

“Have you been at your practice long?”

“Not really. I started shortly after I moved in with Sherlock.”

“And what did you do before that?”

He was quiet a moment. “I served in Afghanistan. I was sent home when I was shot twice.”

“Oh my!”

John might’ve laughed if it weren’t a somber topic. Bunny’s exclamation should have sounded so put on, but it was so incredibly genuine. “It’s fine. Really. I don’t look like a soldier.”

“You were shot? It must have been terribly painful,” he gasped.

“I don’t remember,” John said automatically. He liked to not remember whenever possible.

“I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable,” Bunny murmured. “I’ve just never met a real soldier before, who went and fought and everything. It’s just... very awe-inspiring, Doctor Watson, John, of course, John, it just makes me admire you more as a person that you have that sort of conviction.”

John opened his mouth to speak when a hand landed on his shoulder. “That’s because the only conviction you have is to Raffles.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed out.

“No, no, Holmes is right, I am terribly indecisive... oh, I think Mrs Bullet-Finch wants me, lovely to meet you, John, maybe I’ll catch you tomorrow at the festivities, bye.”

Unlike Raffles’ practised, easy retreat, Bunny’s came off as frightened and stumbling run for cover from the presence of John’s flatmate. John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Would it kill you to be nice to people, sometimes?”

“I was just stating facts, John. Bunny Manders is indecisive, lacking conviction in anything but his servitude to that ingrate cricketer.” Sherlock sat down in the chair Bunny had just vacated, and John resigned himself to not seeing Bunny again that evening.

“Give me your phone.”

He sighed and took Bunny’s whiskey and soda for himself.

*~*~*

Sherlock had eventually taken his phone, placing a few harassing texts to Mycroft while John worked his way through the whiskey and felt a little more able to handle keeping Sherlock on a leash until they were able to retire to their rooms for the night.

“Ladies and gentlemen, drinks and dancing will be commencing on the back patio. For those of you who have had longer journeys, wait staff are available to show you to your rooms for the evening.”

Sherlock sighed. “That sounds wonderful. I have no desire to spend the rest of the evening listen to sycophantic discussions with my brother or the ever so beloved AJ Raffles.”

John wasn’t sure if he wanted to go and try and find Bunny to talk to or just make a graceful escape with Sherlock and get an early night. Or, more likely, be kept up half the night by violin playing, talking and general restlessness.

“Come on, John.” Sherlock’s hand caught his elbow, lifting him from his seat and propelling him forwards.

“Come on, where?”

“To our rooms, of course. You don’t intend to go and make small talk with my brother’s guests, do you?”

“Well... no, not really,” he admitted.

“Wonderful.” Sherlock started off again towards one of the staff. “My room, please, and my companion’s.”

“This way, Mr Holmes,” the man said with a slight bow. “You’ve been put in the West tower, on the lower floor in deference to Dr Watson’s leg injury.”

“How thoughtful,” John murmured. “I’m glad to see someone doesn’t expect me to have the room at the top of the stairs.”

“Stop grumbling, John, you love your room. And your leg is generally fine.” It was a show of unusual tact that Sherlock didn’t outright tell him it was made up and thus not a genuine impediment.

They followed after the man as he led them through the house. Sherlock pointed out paintings that had been collected by the family, a hideous vase from an aunt that Mycroft was too gutless to get rid of, and that the West tower was the most heavily soundproofed, big, old, original stone that would keep the more rowdy guests from disturbing anyone else.

John could well imagine why they were being housed here.

“Your rooms, sirs.”

“Hang on.” John looked to the man as Sherlock pushed open the door and wandered in. “Did you say ‘sirs’? As in, we’re both in here?”

“Many of the guests are sharing rooms with their companions, sir. Misters Raffles and Manders are the floor above you.”

“John, stop complaining and come in. There’s accommodation for both of us.” Sherlock’s voice drifted out of the door.

John bit back the low growl that wanted voicing and stepped inside, shutting the door before taking in the room.

There was a large, four poster bed, very large, with a big, comfortable looking couch that would perfectly fit a sprawling Sherlock. They had a small television, an arm chair, coffee table, writing desk. Through a side door he could see an en suite arrangement with toilet, sink and shower. Large wardrobes with their clothes already hanging and someone had left a nicely carved wooden walking stick alongside the door, which John assumed was for him, just in case of difficulties.

“There’s only one bed.”

“I don’t sleep and even if I do, it’s large enough for both of us and two other adults to comfortably sleep in, the two of us will fit fine with no threat of inadvertent contact.”

“It’s more the implications of it that bothers me,” John grumbled, but Sherlock had a lot of valid points. It was huge, and that was even assuming that Sherlock would go to bed during this weekend and not just doze on the couch for a few hours.

Sherlock ignored his comment and flung himself into the couch, toeing off his shoes and sliding down a bit to rest his ankles up on the arm of the chair, head on the seat. “Not bad.”

“This room is amazing, Sherlock. Considering what Mycroft could have given to either of us after that last stint you pulled with him.” He sat on the edge of the bed, pouncing slightly and feeling the mattress.

“Bah.” He closed his eyes.

“Don’t bah, you sent secret service scattering all over the city just so you could chase down the criminal yourself.” He took off his shoes and tie, undoing the top of his shirt and stretching out on the bed. “This is fantastic.”

“Hm.” Sherlock reached out and turned on the small television, tuning it into BBC1.

“If you do want to take the bed for a night, the couch looks comfortable enough-”

“Don’t be more ridiculous than nature intended, John. I am quite comfortable sharing a king sized double bed with you for a couple of nights should I even desire to sleep. Undoubtedly, you will not even notice if I do so due to the fact that I sleep much less than you.” He didn’t even open his eyes as he spoke.

John held up a hand. “Okay, okay, point taken.” He got up again and went to the wardrobe. “I’m going to have a shower before bed.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, so he just went into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, using the facilities and stripping down before his phone beeped from his coat pocket. Sherlock must have stuck it back at some point. He turned on the water and checked his phone.

I need nicotine patches. SH

John sighed. “I packed some in my suitcase, check the drawer in the wardrobe!” He got into the water and ignored the next two texts.

If Sherlock was too lazy to call out to him, he certainly wasn’t going to bother replying.

When he got out, dressed for bed, Sherlock was still lying on the couch, curled up under his coat and narrating Big Brother with the sound turned off the television.

“Night, Sherlock,” he said softly, getting into bed and turning off the main light.

“Good night, John.”

He relaxed into the plump matress, lulled by Sherlock’s muttering and the alcohol from the party.

He opened his eyes to find Sherlock hovering right above him, poking him in his uninjured shoulder. “John. John.”

“I’m awake.” Military habits died hard; he was sharp awake instantly. “What time is it?”

“I’m bored. Come explore the house with me.”

Oh God. “Sherlock, what time is it?”

“Bored time. Come on, everyone’s asleep, we won’t be disturbed, we can have a look around.”

“Everyone’s asleep because it’s some ungodly hour in the morning. I was asleep.”

“You can sleep later. Now we have the place to ourselves.” Sherlock’s eyes seemed to almost gleam silver in the pale moonlight.

“Sherlock-”

“I’m going one way or another,” he threatened.

John sighed.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes and reaching for his robe, which Sherlock eagerly helped him in to. “Where are we exploring?”

Sherlock grinned at him. “The gifts room.”

“Oh. Goody,” John deadpanned.

Fic: Just Unwell (Sherlock)

2010-11-06T09:43:37Z

Title: Just Unwell
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson mention of Mycroft Holmes
Rating: 15+
Summary: John wakes up in an Institute and is told nothing from his his meeting with Mike Stamford onwards really happened. But is that world real... or this new one, and his carer, Jimmy? Written for this prompt.
Warnings: Discussions of war and violence.

His dreams were tormented flashes of reality, of people with missing legs from land mines and missing faces from gunshots. He would almost wake, see Sherlock leaning over him, watching him dispassionately with those pale grey eyes of his, his face swimming and bulging unnaturally. he would speak, but the words and his mouth didn’t match up and then he’d plunge back into his nightmares, listening to Sherlock’s voice recite injuries and fatalities.

Waking up was an eternity more difficult than it had been the morning before this one.

John tried to open his eyes, but they felt like they were taped shut, unresponsive to his demands that he he wanted them open. He knew he was awake, but his body didn’t seem to get the message, sluggish and heavy.

He felt like he was choking, tightly wrapped and coddled in bedclothes, but he couldn’t seem to fight his way free.

“John... relax,” a soft, lilting, Irish voice murmured. “It’s okay, you’re safe in your room, no enemy combatants. No serial killers.”

The voice sent a spark of fear through his chest. He tried to pull away, but cool hands rushed over his face, followed by a cloth and he hadn’t even realised he was overheating until that moment. Without his mind telling his body to act he was arching up into it slightly, wiping away the feeling of grime on his skin.

His eyes finally opened. His head felt like there was a heavy pressure behind it and there was a nauseating feeling of clawing, crowding memories, things he couldn’t quite remember but felt like they were terrible.

His vision was blurry and dull. He could see someone, pale, dark hair, wearing blue. “Sh’lock?”

“No, John. Sherlock isn’t real, remember?”

Not real? John knew he wasn’t deranged enough to make up his insane house mate and his atrocious habits. If Sherlock wasn’t real, who had he been living with for six months? He laughed at the idea. “Wh’re?”

“You’re very lucid today, John. Are you going to stay with me for a while?”

He knew that voice. “Mori-”

“John... Sherlock and Moriarty aren’t real. We’ve been through this. I’m Jimmy. I’m your carer, remember?”

Carer? Jimmy? He shook his head, but the cloying, smothering fog stayed.

“Head up... that’s it.” A hand cradled the back of his head, helping him lift it and a cup was placed to his lips, letting him sip at tepid water. He felt parched, like he hadn’t drunk in days.

He was gently lowered down again. “Are you still with me, John?”

“Yes,” he croaked.

“Who am I?”

“... Jimmy?” He blinked his eyes, but they remained stubbornly blurry. “Can’t... see.”

“Hang on.” The cloth came back, cleaning his eyes gently. “You got a bit rough yesterday. We let you sleep it off.”

He was ridiculously grateful for the gritty feeling being wiped away and he opened his eyes, looking up.

To see Moriarty.

He flinched, trying to pull back, but again he was stopped, his body comfortably and firmly held in place by bands.

“Shh, it’s okay, John,” Moriarty said softly. “It’s just me, just Jimmy.”

“Moriarty,” he whispered.

“No, John. Jimmy Holmes.” He gave a slightly tight smile. “Remember? I’m your nurse.”

Oh god, Moriarty had him. He looked around, taking in the pastel cream walls, the sterile, stainless steel cabinets. He pulled and looked down and realised he was strapped to a bed, big, padded restraints holding him down.

“John, you’re starting to panic. Slow breaths, you’re safe.”

“Where’s Sherlock,” he whispered. “What have you done to him?”

Jimmy frowned slightly. “John... there is no Sherlock. No Baker street. You’re here, at the institute.”

“No... that’s ridiculous.” He struggled again. “You won’t get away with this.” His voice caught on the dryness of his throat, making him cough.

“Away with what? Would you like some more water?” Jimmy moved to sit next to him again; John tried to pull away as he was so gently lifted again, head supported and cup help to his lips. He refused to drink. It had to be drugged.

Jimmy shrugged and set it down again. “Okay. It’s there if you want more.” His hands moved, very professionally folding down the blanket to his hips. John noted that someone had stripped off his shirt, but his scars were like he remembered.

“This is the best I’ve seen you since you came here. Can you tell me about yourself, John? Do you remember anything?”

John watched Moriarty, tight lipped and silent as Sherlock arch nemesis rinsed out the cloth and started to briskly and professionally clean off his grimy, overheat skin.

“John?” He looked up after a bit. “Are you still here?”

“You’re not fooling me,” he said firmly. “Not like that first time when you used poor Molly to get at Sherlock.”

Moriarty glanced up and then back to what he was doing. “You remember me from then?”

“Of course I do,” he snapped out.

“I thought... maybe you were going to come out that day. When you actually called me Jim, not Sherlock.”

“Why would I call you Sherlock? What have you done with Sherlock?!” He tried to pull free and Moriarty backed up, moving the bowl out of range.

“I don’t know why you chose Sherlock.” He shrugged, looking a little awkward. “The doctor said it was how you coped with it all. By calling me your flat mate, Sherlock.”

“That’s insane. You’re telling me that the last six months didn’t happen. No. That’s bullshit,” John said firmly.

“Six months now, is it?” Moriarty came closer with the bowl, setting it down again. “It was only five months last week.”

John’s nightmares flashed through his mind, making the room feel like it was rolling. “I feel sick.”

“That’s the sedation wearing off.” He carefully started undoing the straps on John’s arms and shoulders. “Please don’t hurt me again, but I don’t want you choking if you are sick.”

“Again?” He felt his stomach roll and settle as the weight was taken off it, the restraints taken off.

“Last fortnight was a rough one. You thought you were a suicide bomber and tried to use me as a hostage.” The water was offered again and he took it, noticing how badly his hands were shaking, even just lying on his side with no other strain in his body.

“Do you want help?”

“No.” He glared at Moriarty, who seemed to take it in stride, staying close and watching as John lifted the cup and slowly sipped.

There were easier ways to drug him. Like when he’d been restrained.

He set the cup aside after a few more sips, resting back down on his side and looking around him. The room was actually very familiar. The lay out was very similar to the living room of the apartment. The bed he lay on faced the windows in the wall, what was clearly a carer’s station occupied where Sherlock’s lounge would go and guarded the way out, the large door designed to keep him in.

“This... looks like the flat,” he murmured, more to himself.

“This is the ‘flat’, John. There is no 221c Baker Street.”

“B. 221b Baker Street,” he stated, glaring at Moriarty.

“Sorry, I can never remember which one it is.” He went and sat down in his chair, leaning to write in his notebook.

“I suppose I’m not a doctor either,” he asked eventually.

“Of course you are,” Moriarty said softly. “You’re a very good doctor, exceptional even. You just had some troubles adjusting when you came back from Afghanistan.”

So Moriarty was going to let that go. He was an Afghanistan veteran, an army medic. And he knew he was Sherlock Holmes’ flat mate, at 221b Baker Street and their landlady was Mrs Hudson. He tried to sit up when blinding pain hit him through his right leg, making him cry out.

“Whoa, whoa, careful there.” Moriarty hurried over, pushing him to lie back. “That would have stiffened up while you were in restraints, be gentle with it.”

“There’s... nothing wrong with my leg,” he ground out.

“Aside from the fact you were shot in it,” Moriarty said with a small smile. “Come on, let it unknot.” His hands lingered near the site of the pain, rubbing the muscle which slowly started to relax.

“Stop that,” John protested. “Stop touching me, you monster.”

Moriarty didn’t stop, but he stayed gentle and attentive, gaze going sad. “You can call me all the names you want, John, but I’m still going to look after you. It’s my job and it’s what you deserve.”

That answer stunned John into docility for a moment and in that time Moriarty just kept massaging him, easing the kinks out of his muscles, letting his leg relax again.

Moriarty patted his leg and moved back. “You should be good now. Remember your cane though, in case it gives out on you. Do you want to have a shower?”

“Are you going to watch me?”

“I’ll be out here like I always am. Your electric shaver is in there if you want a shave.”

John sat himself up carefully, feeling over himself. He felt... mostly normal, really. “How long have I supposedly been here?”

“You have been here eight weeks. Some times are better than others,” he admitted. “It’s nice to have a chance to talk to you like this, with you aware of your surroundings and not calling me Sherlock, or accusing me of putting heads in your fridge.”

“You know about the head in the fridge?”

He smiled. “John, I was sitting in that chair when you told me there was a head in the fridge. I asked you why it was there and you said you supposed it made sense because where else could you keep it so it wouldn’t rot?”

“No.” That wasn’t how that conversation went. “Sherlock put it there. He was... measuring coagulation of saliva.”

“But the temperature would skew the result, wouldn’t it? A real body wouldn’t be in a still, cold place, probably, undisturbed.”

He had never thought of that. This was starting to sound frighteningly... rational. “I’m not crazy,” he whispered.

“No, you’re not crazy.” Moriarty nodded encouragingly. “You’ve just been a bit unwell for a while. But I think... maybe you’re on your way to recovery at last. Now, you go have that shower, I’ll get your clean clothes for after and then we can go for a walk in the yard if you like.”

John didn’t reply. He slid off the bed - his leg hurt when he put weight on it still, forced him to limp - and went to the gestured to room. Bathroom where the kitchen door should be. Shower stall the fridge should sit.

The door wouldn’t shut all the way. There was nothing in here he could hurt himself on though. Just a battery powered shaver, tooth brush, tooth paste and a bar of soap.

He stripped off the hospital issue pants and grabbed the bar of soap, pausing as he saw his reflection.

His hair was shorter. It was a small detail, and before Sherlock he might not have noticed it. But his hair was shorter, much like it had been during that Black Lotus incident. He rubbed it between his fingers, feeling the hair.

His shoulder looked well healed. His leg somewhat less so. The scar was angry looking, not as well healed, like it hadn’t had the months of recovery.

He touched it, not flinching at the tender feeling that numbed to nothing in the dead area of actual scar tissue.

His scar. Exactly right, just... not finished healing, almost.

He closed his eyes and looked away. This was insanity. It had to be a game, it had to be. He just didn’t know why Moriarty would bother with him when it was Sherlock he was after.

Sherlock would find him. He knew it. And this would all be over and he could go home.

He got into the shower and started to wash, refusing to give in to the bubble of emotions that wanted to burst.

*~*~*

He had ignored Moriarty when he got out, clean washed and shaven and dressed in clean hospital clothes. Moriarty had given him his cane – it had his initials scratched in the side, the dents from his fingers clutching it – and then escorted him out and into a nice big yard.

It was quiet. Clearly a private facility of some kind. The garden was pretty and fenced in with large, white washed walls.

“How can I afford to be here?”

Moriarty was quiet for a moment. “Sponsorship. And we have some public spaces, for people who need the specialised care we provide. We deal with people in your situation, traumatic breakdowns from reality.”

“Psychotic snaps,” John said softly.

“I try not to use that word. People take it badly. But of course, you’re a doctor. You know a lot more than the average patient coming in here.” He looked up at the sky. “It’s nice to have you with us, even if it’s just for a few hours. I hope this will herald more lucid periods for you.”

John leaned on his cane, looking about. “I don’t believe you, you know. About any of this.”

“That’s okay,” Moriarty agreed. “You’re being calm, not violent. You’re aware of who I am. That’s a huge step towards recovery, you should be proud of yourself for coming so far.”

“Stop it, Moriarty.”

“Jimmy,” he said quietly and firmly. “My name’s Jimmy.”

“Moriarty,” John repeated.

“All right. What about Jim?”

He wanted to growl. “Fine. Jim.”

Jim smiled warmly. “Thank you, John. Or would you prefer Doctor Watson, now you’re feeling better?”

He didn’t want Moriarty calling him John. “Just Watson.”

“Okay, Watson, then.” They walked in silence for a bit longer.

“When will you let me go?”

“You can leave when you’re established to not be a threat to yourself or others. You need to be lucid and aware and not have slips back. We don’t want to send you out just to have you... do the same thing you did last time.”

“Last time?” He had no idea what Moriarty was talking about.

“Repression of traumatic events is fairly common and you did take a lot of vicodin.”

“Vicodin?”

“You were prescribed it for your leg. You... overdosed. After you met with an old college friend, you just... couldn’t take civilian life with your injury, I guess.” He shrugged and gave John a sad smile. “Only you really know why you did it. But we brought you here when you started talking to ‘Mike’ about getting a flat with someone he knew. You came here, I took over your care. And you started to call me Sherlock sometimes. It’s an interesting name, I hadn’t heard it before.”

“This is ridiculous, you realise. I met Sherlock at St. Bart’s. My mind isn’t clever enough or twisted enough to dream up Sherlock Holmes.” He looked at a man chasing butterflies on hands and knees, barking happily.

“You’re very clever, John. Very clever. I guess... you needed to feel there was a reason why the person with you treated you with cold professionalism.”

“Sherlock’s not cold,” he argued. “Just a bit... odd. Detached. But not cold.”

“You imagined up a flat mate who keeps heads in the fridge.”

John’s leg was hurting.

Moriarty headed for a bench immediately, apparently catching the heaviness in his step. “I think it was you trying to normalise the things you saw in the war. Seeing the things you saw... dismembered parts, horrific deaths, you tried to make it more normal by having this fantasy where there’s body parts in the house, you go to a morgue a lot, deal with dead bodies, in a much more sanitised way. Gradual acceptance of the deaths you witnessed to bombs and insurgents.”

John sat down heavily. It sounded so horribly... plausible. Didn’t Sherlock always say to him that when the impossible had been eliminated, that which remained, no matter how implausible, had to be the truth?

“I’m sorry if this is a bit much for you, Jo- Watson.” Moriarty sat down next to him, taking John’s hand and uncurling the white knuckled fist, pressing on his palm.

There was a stabbing feeling, like a deep bruise, and sudden the rising dread in John ease back again. He gave Moriarty a shocked look.

He smiled back. “Accupressure. It helps with anxiety.”

“I- thanks,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome,” Jimmy replied. “Do you want to stay out here or head back inside?”

“Stay here.” In the sun. Where he could try and think and sort out his head.

“Okay.” Jimmy put his hand back onto his knee and settled in quietly.

*~*~*

John spent the rest of the day in contemplative silence. He was provided with food that he ate in a communal space with the other eleven residents of this section. He didn’t talk to them, they didn’t talk to him. He was sort of used to life like that.

It was strange though, eating by himself. No piercing gaze watching him, no trying to tempt Sherlock into eating something.

He kept waiting for Moriarty to show his hand, to do something to drive him insane but nothing came. Even the medication he was given wasn’t forced down him, it was just a simple stare off until John decided not playing wasn’t going to help and he took it.

It didn’t make him sick. It just made him feel a bit calmer, a bit more focused on the here and now.

That night, Moriarty double checked him just before curfew to make sure he was settled in bed with some books in case he got bored, reminded him where the button was to call for help if he needed tablets for the pain or nightmares, then left, locking the door behind him.

He had nightmares again. Strange, distorted dreams where Sherlock dispassionately listed the damage done to John’s shoulder and leg and psyche and he would half wake to find the ghost like figure almost looming over him before he would slip back into dreams about the war.

There was a soft voice that he didn’t hear but he knew was there, telling him to relax, it was over now, he was safe. He wanted to say it was Sherlock’s voice but Sherlock never said such things.

When he woke up properly it was morning and Jimmy was reading the paper.

“Morning,” he said cheerfully.

“Morning,” John murmured. “Still here.”

“Still here,” Jimmy agreed. “How’s the leg?”

He moved and winced, clutching it. “Been better.”

Jimmy folded his paper and got up, coming over. “Come on, let me have a look, see if we can work it out.” He tugged down the blankets, hands setting to work.

“Do you play the violin,” John asked, having a thought.

“No, I don’t play any instruments. But I sometimes bring my music in here when you’re having bad nights. You seemed to like the orchestral pieces.”

“This isn’t real. You’ve taken me for some reason.” But he groaned as fingers skillfully dug into the pain and undid the knots.

“Mm-hm. Because I’m an evil master mind, right?” Jim smiled warmly and patted his leg. “Go and have a shower, you’ve got an appointment with your doctor this morning.”

“My doctor?”

He nodded, raising an eyebrow. “Gregory Lestrade. Remember?”

“Lestrade... DI Lestrade?”

“Doctor Lestrade,” Jim corrected. “Tablets and shower.” He offered tablets that looked exactly like last night’s, only a smaller dose.

John took them and stared at them in his hand.

“Jo- Watson?”

He looked up, blinking. “Yes?”

“Tablets and shower. Then breakfast and seeing Lestrade.”

Horrifically, he found himself nodding and taking the tablets before getting up to go shower.

*~*~*

“You’re not calling me ‘DI’ today, John.”

Lestrade was pretty much as John remembered. Different somehow, but much the same. Same mannerisms, same clear voice, same silvered hair and worn face. Still towering over John.

“No, I’m not.” He took a seat gratefully, rubbing at his leg. “Something’s not right about you... Are you really Lestrade?”

The man didn’t roll his eyes but he did nod with very carefully schooled patience. “Yes, John. I’m Lestrade.”

“I remember you looking...” He waved a hand. “Different.”

“I’m glad you remember me at all. Last week you called me Anderson and told me I was an idiot. A fortnight before that I was... some other DI.” He flicked through his notes. “Dimmock.”

That... sounded insane. But everyone here was telling him he was insane, so maybe it made perfect sense.

“How do you feel? Jimmy says you’re recovering lucidity well.”

“Jim Moriarty is-”

“We’ve been over this, John. There is no Jim Moriarty. Just poor Jimmy who’s been very good about you calling him an arch nemesis.” Lestrade sounded tolerant but tired, like they went over this a lot.

“Have we had this conversation before?”

“Most therapy sessions. Sometimes you even remember it for a few days.” He leaned back. “Is Sherlock with us today?”

John looked around, half expecting to see Sherlock lurking somewhere. “No... of course not.”

“Really? This is interesting.” He leaned forwards. “When did you last see him?”

“I...” He saw him last night, he was sure of it, a ghost white figure leaning over his bed. “Last... no. Not last night.”

“Very, very good,” Lestrade wrote some notes down. John read them from where he was. Improvement to cognition, awareness of reality reasserting.

“Jim said his name is Holmes.”

“Yes, it is. Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty. Both your carer, but sometimes you’re less happy with his decisions about your care. Do you remember grabbing him by the throat two weeks ago?”

He shook his head, but then paused and nodded. “I... at the pool.”

“Outside one night, yes. We were showing improvement, then you got out after dinner, you were yelling about someone being blown up. Tell me about the explosions you lived through, John, in the war.”

“I saw a lot of people die,” he said curtly.

“You saw a lot of dismembered bodies in Afghanistan. A lot of people you tried to help and couldn’t after bombing attacks.”

He could see it as Lestrade spoke, the blinding light, the blistering heat against his skin, the stench of blood and charred human flesh. He nodded slowly, feeling sick.

“Do you need some water, John?”

He nodded, eyes closed.

“Open your eyes, look at the room. You’re not there.” A cup of water was pressed into his hand; he looked up to see a flash of Sherlock’s face that made him jump and flinch away, when he looked back, it was just Lestrade watching him with concern.

“Are you okay, John?”

“Yeah.” He gulped the water, taking a deep breath. “I’m okay.”

“Do you want to continue?”

He looked at the cup and nodded slowly.

If he was as insane as he was starting to suspect... He was more than ready to start getting better.

*~*~*

Slowly, John started to settle into something like a routine. He had therapy once a day, with Lestrade after breakfast and in the afternoons, Jimmy would escort him outside and they’d walk if John was having a good day with his leg or sometimes Jimmy would push him in a wheelchair and they’d play chess or watch the other inmates.

Mrs Husdon turned out to be Matron Husdon, the night shift. She came one night when he woke up screaming from his nightmares and convinced he could still hear Sherlock’s voice screaming his name, echoing around the room but the noise faded back when a small, fierce, older woman with a loud voice came charging in.

She didn’t have herbal supplements, but she did give him medication to get him back to sleep and cups of tea when he asked her softly not to turn out the lights and plunge him back into his dreams.

He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Jimmy to start laughing and reveal how this was his master plan all along to lure Sherlock into doing something, but day after day, nothing of the sort happened.

Jimmy was sweet, funny and very, very clever. Not clever like Sherlock or Moriarty, but he knew a lot about his field, a lot about chess and gardening and a surprising amount about clothing. John knew that he was just a job to Jimmy, but Jimmy was all the company he really had. The other inmates were fairly far gone and he wondered if that had been him a few weeks ago.

In a three weeks he was showing marked improvement. He only had one day of confusion and that had been quietly spent in his room reading a medical journal while Jimmy kept watch on him and played classical music.

He didn’t mention the once or twice in the song he was sure he heard Sherlock’s deliberate screeching on the violin, just shivered and was reassured when Jimmy just smiled slightly at him and went back to his paper.

At the end of three weeks, he had to admit he couldn’t entirely describe Sherlock anymore. In his dreams, he seemed to slightly change every time he saw him, familiar, clearly Sherlock, but mutable in the way a memory shouldn’t be.

Pale skin, dark curls and a brilliant, pale piercing eyes was hardly a clear cut description of a man he had lived with for six months. But it was all John could manage. He could describe Lestrade, Mrs Husdon, even the dark skinned, pretty pharmacist who wasn’t actually called Donovan at all but one of her shirts had a patch that read “Donny’s Vans” which was some reference to shoes that he didn’t understand.

Sometimes, Jimmy would laugh, and it would remind him of Sherlock’s laugh. Or how he imagined Sherlock had laughed. Or he’d wink and it was that awkward, playful gesture he associated with Sherlock trying to be normal.

Harry wasn’t allowed to visit, but John doubted she would if she could. Harry wasn’t the type to come and visit him if he’d just gone crazy and hadn’t had the decency to actually have something physically wrong with him.

Maybe it was unfair, but Harry had barely been there since came back. She’d been distant enough that John’s psyche had invented a house mate to fill the void that should have been filled by family. He’d worked that one out on his own.

He and Jimmy were out in the garden, watching the pond and the koi swimming in it. More and more, John was noticing the similarities between Jimmy and Sherlock. Jimmy was a lot more personable... and that was a little scary.

John hadn’t been close to anyone in a long time. Sherlock had been wonderfully... different like that. Distant and involved at once. Jimmy was distant, but only in a professional sense.

And John knew what was happening. Patients often latched onto doctors and carers. But it still wasn’t easy.

“Are you all right, John?”

He nodded, tearing up the bread into smaller pieces, scattering them over the pond. “Just... thinking. My life has changed so much in three weeks. I still... have flashes. Dreams. But I’m a lot more aware.”

“You are. Lestrade is talking about moving you to assisted living soon, so we can monitor you, but you don’t really need us anymore. You’re doing so well.”

“I guess I won’t see you anymore after that. It will be-”

Jimmy waited for him to find the word he wanted.

“Strange. You’re the only friend I have since I came back from Afghanistan and I guess we’re not really friends. You’re my carer and I’m... recovering from a psychotic snap.” He leaned his hands on his cane.

“You’ll make other friends, John.”

In theory, he would. But he wasn’t good at it. “Yeah.”

“And then you’ll get back out into life and this will just be a bad memory.”

“Jimmy?” He looked at him and out again. “When I’m out... better, could we catch up? As friends, not just a mad man and his nurse?”

Jimmy smiled. “I reckon we can discuss that once you’re better. If you want to still do it.”

John smiled slightly with a shy glance sideways. “That sounds nice.”

“You about ready to head inside again?”

“Can we stay out a bit longer,” he asked softly.

“Sure, if you’d like.”

He nodded and settled back in the bench, watching the fish. And maybe, just a little bit, watching Jimmy.

*~*~*

He went to bed with his dose of melatonin to help him sleep and his anxiety and psychosis pills to keep him calm during the night and during his sleep.

When he woke up to screaming and yelling, he logically concluded he had gone insane again and had another total, psychotic break. It was like the war, people screaming to get down, stay down, gun shots and the hiss of flares.

He scrambled off the bed, shocked at how well his leg responded once the adrenaline was going. He felt sluggish still, heavy, but he forced himself upright, grabbing his walking stick and hefting it up. He might be going mad again.

Or there might be armed men storming the institute.

Which sounded just as crazy, so either way he guessed he was insane.

A loud clunk had him spinning around, clutching the walking stick as the door was unlocked and it swung open. Bright beams of light played over the room, over him, blinding him and forcing him to look away.

“Jimmy,” he barely whispered.

“Sir, we’ve got him!”

Peering against the torches, John fought to make out who was in the doorway. His eyes widened as he saw Jimmy, face pale and arms held pinned behind him, blood across the side of his face where he must’ve been hit with the butt of a rifle. “What did you do,” he gasped, looking around the bright light.

A dark figure almost seemed to flow from Jimmy and solidify, pushing past him. “Get those torches out of his face, you idiots, you’re blinding him.”

No.

“No.”

Sherlock.

“John.” Sherlock came sweeping up to him, setting down an electric lantern and turning it up to floor the room with light. “They cut the power to disable the security system.” Long fingered hands stroked his face. “Did he hurt you?”

He looked past Sherlock to Jimmy... no, to Jim. Jim Moriarty.

“John,” he said softly. The blood slipped further down his face. “Don’t do this now. You’re so close to being released.”

“John, don’t listen to him.” His face was tipped up, forced to look at Sherlock. “We’ve been looking. For a month, we’ve been trying to hunt you down.”

“I-” He knew those pale, piercing eyes. But the rest of his face was almost unfamiliar. “This isn’t real.”

“No. He’s been drugging you, a similar mix to that used by the military to brainwash enemy agents into compliance, interrogation drugs. They make you pliable to suggestion. Whatever he’s been telling you, it’s lies, John.”

“I’ve been seeing you... at night.”

“John! Come on, feel me touching your face,” he heard Jimmy saying. “John, please, don’t do this now. There is no Sherlock. No Moriarty, just you and me.”

“Get him out of here,” Sherlock snapped. “Before he manages to do any more damage. John, listen to me, this room is designed to keep you here, thinking your insane, you think they don’t have cameras, screens, speakers to make you think you’re crazy?”

John looked between them, Jim... Jimmy... Moriarty, whoever he was, and Sherlock. Jimmy who had nursed him, been there... who was Moriarty, who strapped him into a bomb. Sherlock, who was taking off his coat and wrapping it around him.

“John, stop fighting me, please, just relax, it’s a hallucination, listen to me, believe me, JOHN!

His name echoed down the hallway as Sherlock’s arms tightened on him. Warm and snugly held, just like the restraints.

“Sherlock?” He looked up.

Sherlock gave him a slightly shaky smile. “It’s okay now. I won’t let him get near you again.”

John paused. He made his choice of which of them to believe.

“Can I go home? To Baker street?”

“Of course,” Sherlock murmured.

And John prayed he’d made the right decision of what was reality.

Fic: Rewriting the Game (Sherlock)

2010-11-04T11:59:54Z

Title: Rewriting the Game
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade, Molly
Rating: 15+
Summary: Last time they played, Moriarty didn’t play the last round. He intend to correct this. Written for this story spoiling prompt.
Warnings: Angst. Spoilers within the lines, highlight to view. |Major character death.|

They knew that Moriarty would be somewhere, waiting, licking his wounds after what happened at the swimming pool.

Sherlock knew better than the others. Moriarty was driven by the same skull crushing boredom that drove him; he would be powerless to resist the desire to match their wits against one another.

But four months had passed and there had been less than no activity attributed to Jim Moriarty. And frankly, it was driving Sherlock out of his mind.

Of course, he didn’t always have time to think about it. Just because Moriarty wasn’t apparent didn’t mean the rest of the criminals of London took a break. There were bizarre murders, impossible thefts and a curious kidnapping case which involved a pair of identical twins separated at birth.

It was that case which Sherlock was just wrapping up. The girls had been reunited and were both going home with the loving adoptive couple who had taken one of them in as a baby. The birth mother was being processed and it was, as John would’ve said if he was there, all happy endings.

Lestrade and Sherlock were discussing the likely jail term for the mother when Donovan knocked and looked in. “Got a package sir.” She looked to Sherlock. “For you, freak.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply. “No mailing details, just a plain package with my name, hand written in blue ink?”

Donovan frowned. “Yeah, actually...”

“It’s him!” He leapt from his seat, spinning in a circle. “Lestrade, surely this is apparent even to you, it’s him.”

“Moriarty,” Lestrade murmured.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock confirmed. “Donovan, where’s the package?”

She showed him to her desk where she had left the package on top of her in tray. It was small, simple; Sherlock had no doubt it was a new phone. he picked up the package, studying it carefully. No fingerprints in the tape, the same precise, neat handwriting as before. Common brown paper, available at any number of places.

He carefully opened it up and draw out the phone inside.

It wasn’t a pink cased iphone. It was grey, nearly a year old from the model, with scratches all around the charge point and an inscription on it.

‘Harry Watson, from Clara.’

The phone rang.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he hit to answer, lifting the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

There was a shaky exhalation. “Hello, Sherlock. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

He admired again how steady John sounded, how calm he managed to stay as he spoke Moriarty’s words.

“I know, I know, not long enough and too long at once.”

“Stop it,” Sherlock snapped. “I know what you sound like, I know what you look like, this game is pointless. You could just speak for yourself.”

“But Sherlock. Last time we did this, I didn’t do it properly. No puzzle to solve, no mystery location. I even have him reading from a screen, just like the first ones.” John’s next inhale shook. “He’s my little toy, Sherlock, not yours. And I don’t play nice with my toys.”

“Then give me the puzzle, let me do this,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

“So eager to start. All right. You have eight hours. If you try to locate him and disarm the bomb,” his voice cracked briefly. “The bomb goes off. If you fail to solve the puzzle, the bomb goes off. If you or he break the rules-”

“The bomb goes off, I know how this works, Moriarty. I want to talk to John.”

“I’ll be generous, Sherlock, because I like you. He can say one sentence, give you one answer, so long as the question isn’t anything to do with the puzzle or where he is.”

He knew he should try and send a veiled message to John, but there was nothing he could say and nothing John could say without risking his life and whoever was around him. “Are you unhurt, John,” he asked gently.

“Just a nasty bump on the head from where I was knocked out,” John replied just as softly.

“Can I get to the problem solving now?”

“Eight hours,” John said in a whisper. “You have eight hours before John Watson explodes.”

The phone disconnected.

Sherlock lowered the phone, waiting for the message with whatever tiny clue he would get on it.

Lestrade and Donovan were watching him, silent.

“Is John okay,” Lestrade finally asked.

“Of course he’s not okay. He has a large explosive device strapped to him, designed to go off in eight hours and a sniper or two watching him to make sure he does nothing. Do you think he’s okay?” The message came through and he opened it up hurriedly.

There was just a photo. A single photo of a girl in a trainee nurse’s outfit. It looked like it was the identification photo of a security badge or the like.

Sherlock frowned. He had no idea who she was. He’d never seen her before...

Or had he?

He racked his mind for a connection. He really didn’t know her.

He held the phone out to Lestrade. “Do you know her?”

He looked it over, shaking his head. “She doesn’t look familiar.”

“She’s the clue. I need to know who she is before I can do anything!” He strode to the projector and plugged the phone in, swiftly bringing up the photo for the room to see. “Does anyone know who this woman is?!”

Officers and detectives looked, all starting to shake their heads.

Except Anderson. “I do. I think.”

Sherlock pounced, grabbing Anderson by his arms and shaking him. “Tell me about her, everything, every detail you can think of, where she works, who her family is, her hobbies, her friends-”

“Let go of me.” He struggled out of Sherlock’s grip. “Her name is Deborah... Deborah something. She was a nurse at St. Bart’s.”

“Was?”

“She involved in a hit and run. Her file should be on the system, but it wasn’t investigated up here. Nothing suspicious, no real clues.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Lestrade, I need her file, everything on it. Autopsy, incident report-”

“She’s not dead.”

That brought him up short. “What?”

“She’s not dead. She’s still at St Bart’s. As a patient.”

*~*~*

Sherlock stood to the side as the girl’s carer patiently kept trying to spoon the mush in the bowl into her mouth. “I knew her before the accident. It’s criminal, what they did to her. Such a bright girl, she was so kind and devoted to her work.”

Lestrade nodded. “I understand, we’re going to try to bring whoever did this to justice.”

They were waiting for the head nurse to come back with both Deborah Price’s work record and her patient record. The incident papers were already in Sherlock’s hands and he scanned them while half listening to the conversation.

“Did Deborah ever speak when she came into A&E?”

“Not really. She was unresponsive on scene when she was found by her sister. She was late coming home and her sister decided to walk to meet her along the path. Instead she found her on the side of the road and the car long gone.”

“And undoubtedly the ambulance obliterated most of the useful evidence for locating the car and driver,” Sherlock murmured. “It says here that she appeared to have tried to use her scarf to stem the blood flow.”

Lestrade looked to Sherlock. “And?”

“What was her GCS?”

“Her what?”

Sherlock sighed. “Glasgow Coma Scale. It’s a rough indicator of trauma level.”

“Her chart will say,” the carer added. “Is there anything else, gentlemen, only I need to get back to this.”

“Of course.” Lestrade stood and nodded to her.

Sherlock had spotted the nurse with the records and went there instead, grabbing the folders and flicking them open. “GCS of three when she came in, meaning... probably five at the highest, given that she’d been bleeding out for... thirty minutes. There was no way that woman was capable of bandaging her own head, or even attempting it. At most she might have tried to speak or move from the road, but not something abstract like tend her injuries.” He snapped the folders shut. “The driver stopped and then drove on. I need to speak to her family.” He walked out, not caring if Lestrade followed him or not.

He didn’t have the time to waste on Lestrade’s niceties. John’s life depended on it.

His hand drifted down to John’s phone in his pocket and then he made himself move on, hailing a cab and getting inside.

He read her file as they drove. She worked regular shifts, was good at her job. She presented at the hospital unconscious and with severe brain damage. Coma for three weeks, woke up unable to speak or recognise people around her with any clarity.

Realistically, there was little of help in these files. The incident report would be of more help. flesh out what had happened and what the police had missed.

He paid the cabbie, told him to wait because he wouldn’t be long and strode up to the house, banging on the door.

A older woman answered. She was tired, she didn’t sleep well and was stressed, she cleaned and kept house to compensate and keep her mind off it, the house smelt of cleaners and the vacuum cleaner was visible, easily accessible. Her hands were worn from chemicals and hard scrubbing. “Mrs Price, my name is Sherlock Holmes, I’m investigating the hit and run involving your daughter. Did you recognise the scarf that was found on her?”

“I... pardon?”

Slow response time, numbed with exhaustion and possibly medication.

“The scarf. Did you recognise it?”

“I... no. No, it must have been new. Who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” He flashed one of Lestrade’s ids and put it back. “The police kept it for evidence?”

“Yes,” she stammered.

“Thank you for your time.” he turned and walked back down the path, his question answered. He pulled out his phone and called Lestrade.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Coming back, I need that incident report and the evidence bags delivered to St Bart’s, I have to examine it all. Do you still have the scarf?”

“The scarf?”

“Is everyone deaf today, yes, the bloody scarf! Do you have it?”

“Probably in the evidence bag.”

“It’s the driver’s.”

“What?”

“Why does everyone keep ‘what’ing at me? It was the driver’s. The driver stopped and made some attempt at assistance before driving off again. Given the amateur attempt, they didn’t know what they were doing and there’s the possibility they were intoxicated with something, which was why they didn’t stay on the scene and didn’t call emergency services.” He took a steadying breath. “The scarf will lead us to the driver and that will lead us to John.”

*~*~*

The scarf was clearly a woman’s article. It was a pashmina scarf, suitable to be worn as a scarf or shawl. The soft silk/wool blend was patterned dark paisley over a rich, cool toned purple and the whole thing was soaked with old, dried blood.

Smells still clung to the folds though. Beyond the blood and antiseptic that had been transferred from Deborah. Floral, maybe rose and iris. Something almost fruity, like apple. It was complex. It was probably a perfume, a fairly expensive one from the complexity of the scent. A woman with expensive tastes who had gone drink driving.

The was half the middle class of England. He sank back, turning away from the table and pacing around the room, trying to think of other small hints that might still survive in the evidence bags.

Hair. DNA would take too long, but maybe colour, length, if it was dyed. Traces of make up, if any.

He sat down with the scarf again, holding it up and slowly teasing out the crumpling, scanning the surface for anything that might give a hint. It was slow work, using water to wet the blood to let the cloth unfold, brushing over the surface for hints of hair wrapped in it, concealed by gore.

He found a lot of hair in one area, undoubtedly where it had been held to Deborah’s head. He put each strand aside to check though. Finally he found other strands, shorter, single, solitary ones. He put those aside too, soaking in water to try and remove the blood from them.

A smudge of lipstick on one edge was coloured a mid brown with a pink tint. The scarf was distorted from having been worn and pulled carelessly, the weave disturbed.

It was expensive, but not particularly cared for. Not valued. Could explain why it was left behind.

Clues weren’t enough. He had facts, he had plenty of facts, but he lacked the context he needed.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sherlock looked to Molly, peeking in through the door. “No, just go- Actually. Maybe.”

She perked up eagerly.

“Smell that scarf.”

She didn’t argue, just went over and inhaled the scent. “Chanel no. nineteen.”

His head snapped around. “You know it?”

“It’s... my mother’s favourite perfume,” she admitted.

He spun on his chair, leaping off and grabbing a marker, scribbling on the nearest surface, the dividing glass of this lab and the next. “Female, she has expensive taste, the shawl is a silk blend, well made, good weave, but not worth hanging on to in the face of the crime scene. She wears Chanel perfume, maybe she’s out on a date, she wants to be her best, good perfume, good, high pigment lipstick. She has a few drinks while she’s out, possibly nerves or habit. Hair!” He skidded back to the microscope, taking out several of the hairs and laying them on slides, snapping it into place and focusing.

Dark blond or light brown. Greying, but covering it. “She refuses to accept she’s greying, covers it up. The scarf is an older woman’s look, she’s probably in her late thirties at the youngest, though she might be younger.”

Molly was staring at him with that dumb, awestruck look..

“Are you going to contribute anything else to my deductions,” he snapped.

She scuttled out of the room.

The silence was empty, hollow. Even when he was quiet, John brought a presence to the room.

He had used four of his hours. He had four hours left and he had no idea where to start looking for this woman. She could be anyone.

Grabbing his coat, he went outside, to walk and move, to let himself think. He didn’t have any nicotine patches so he stopped and bought cigarettes and matches and lit up in the hospital car park, coughing slightly at the burn of smoke.

He was missing something. He was missing something vital.

Last time, all the crimes were connected to Moriarty. He had had enough information to follow leads. Shoes with evidence connecting back to that first shared case. Someone famous, lots of information. Intentional, malicious acts.

This wasn’t like that. This was stupidity. The police had double checked for anyone who might want her dead.

He’d have to check again. Make sure they hadn’t missed anyone.

He smoked the cigarette faster than he would’ve liked, took a second one the same way and headed back inside to the lab and his files.

*~*~*

Ninety precious minutes were lost double checking if anyone had a reason to want Deborah Price dead.

He used police resources, he worked as fast as he could but there was nothing to suggest this was anything but a hit and run by a potentially drunk driver.

John only had two and a half hours left. Two and a half hours before Moriarty would push the button and John would be blasted apart. He could picture it vividly, if the explosives were rigged the same way as before, it would compress and shatter John’s body and chest, the force tearing apart most of his head and trunk, thighs and upper arms. His hands and feet may survive somewhat intact but it was unlikely he would be identifiable by anything short of DNA testing of bloody chunks of once human flesh.

He lit a new cigarette off the old one and stubbed the old one out on the side of a bin. He had been to bomb sites before, but it hadn’t been anyone he knew, someone he had spoken to, touched, lived with.

It hadn’t been John’s bloody chunks of once human flesh.

He growled at himself. Caring didn’t help. It was pointless. He pulled out his own phone, then John’s. He assumed it was John’s, but he hadn’t actually double checked.

He opened the messages box. Nine from his own number, he had sent them while waiting for Lestrade to say that the case was officially wrapped up. Several from Harry, all with attachments with inane subjects like ‘At the gala’ and ‘New girlfriend’ and ‘My house’.

He found himself flicking down to the first one and opening it.

A photo of Harry at some event, wearing a business suit and toasting the camera, her hair mussed and roots newly touched up.

He opened another. Harry’s house, about forty minutes drive from where he sat now. And she still never managed to make it over to visit her brother.

He puffed on his cigarette, letting it hang loosely in his fingers as he blew smoke out into the night air and opened the more.

All photos of Harry. With her new girlfriend, the one she met several months back and wasn’t sick of her drinking yet. The one who wore brown lipstick with a tint of pink.

He went back through the old message, to find something dating back four months or more, searching them one by one until he saw it.

Harry. Wearing a pashmina scarf of dark, cool purple with a paisley print.

He didn’t even pause to regret that he was about to imprison John’s sister. Because John would be alive to visit her in prison. “Lestarde!” He took off into the building, leaving his cigarette smoking on the pavement as he ran, fingers fumbling with the phone, to get connected to the net and post the answer up on his blog. “I’ve got it, I’ve bloody well got it!”

He didn’t even wait for the lift, taking the stairs three at a time until he skidded into the office, waving John’s phone and dropping it in front of Lestrade, the photo still up. “I found her. Your driver.”

Lestrade looked at the image as Sherlock typed the entry into his blog.

‘Deborah Price, hit by Harriet Watson who was drinking driving.’

He hit post, looking to Lestrade with a brilliant smile. “I solved it.”

The phone rang.

He answered fast. “I solved it.”

“Yes, you did, Sherlock,” John said calmly. “I’m reading your message now but I want you to say it. Tell me how clever you are, Sherlock, what the crime was and who committed it. Details please.”

“Have you stopped the timer,” Sherlock demanded.

“Yes, the timer’s stopped. But I want to hear it. I want you tell John what you found, you clever little monkey.” Moriarty’s words in John’s voice didn’t just sound wrong, it felt wrong.

And he realised what Moriarty was making him do. “You... bastard,” he ground out.

“Tell him, Sherlock. You know what happens if you don’t play along.” John’s confusion was open in his voice now, even more than the fear.

“Deborah Price was hit by a drunk driver and left with permanent brain damage,” Sherlock said slowly. And then stopped.

“The driver. Name the driver.”

He didn’t want to. He had to. “Harriet Watson,” he whispered.

There was silence for a long moment.

“Y-you should see his face,” John stuttered out, voice pained. Like he was forcing himself not to cry. “This- this has been a fun game, Sherlock.”

“Where is he? I won, I named the driver, now tell me where he is.”

“Sherlock... I made you a promise at the pool. Remember? I said I was going to burn your heart out. And I am. This is the kicker, you’ll like this twist. I’m going to give you exactly sixty seconds, exactly, during which time John can say anything he wants to.

“Then, I’m going to blow him up anyway.”

“NO!” Sherlock was on his feet, hand slamming the desk. “No, that’s not how the game works, Moriarty, I solve the puzzle and you give him back to me in one piece!”

“Sherlock,” John said quietly.

“No!”

“Sherlock, be quiet,” John said, his voice shaking. “I’ve only got fifty one seconds. Less. I’m not spending them with you hurling abuse at him.”

“Tell me where you are. Tell me, we’ll...”

“Sherlock. It’s not your fault. You did what you had to, catching.... catching Harry. If she hit that girl, she needs to face the law. I don’t blame you.”

“John.” He held the phone, cradling it to his ear.

“This isn’t your fault either. Him being too gutless to finish me off himself, refusing to set me free, it’s not your fault. Promise me you’ll get him, Sherlock. Don’t let him keep killing.” His voice cracked with a sob. “No one else can. Get him for me.”

“No, no, John, I can’t... I can’t do this. This is.. I care.” The words were barely a whisper. “I care.”

“That’s why you’ll get him...” Breath. “I care too, Sherlock.”

There was a crack and the line went dead.

“John?!” He knew he wasn’t there and he couldn’t stop himself. “John?!”

The whole incidents’ room was silent, watching as Sherlock clung to the phone and kept whispering John’s name over and over.

Phones started ringing. Donovan was shaken to action, grabbing one and listening to the other end before hanging up. “Sir...?”

Lestrade blinked and looked up at her.

“An explosion has been reported... under 221b Baker street.”

Horrific understanding trickled into Sherlock’s mind. John had been in the basement apartment, 221c. He’d been right there the entire time, at home and now it was all gone.

Photos. Clothes. Papers. Laptops. Everything John owned was in that apartment and Moriarty had taken even the memories of him in that one action.

Home is where the heart is.

With a shaking hand, he hit to listen to John’s voice bank message.

“You’ve reached John Watson. I can’t answer the phone right now, probably because Sherlock has decided to take us on a mad chase after serial killers. I’ll call you back once they’re caught.”

His breath caught and he sank down, hugging the phone to his chest, silent and still.

Ending One Complete.
It could have happened this way...

Fic: Assumption makes an ass of you and I (Sherlock)

2010-11-04T11:54:57Z

Title: Assumption makes an ass of you and I.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade, Molly
Rating: 15+
Summary: Sherlock told John not to eat from that place. He had no idea how right he was. Written for this story spoiling prompt.
Warnings: Descriptions of a person with gastro.

The sound of John being violently sick was distracting Sherlock from his thinking.

He was aware that John wasn’t doing on purpose, but that didn’t make the sound any less revolting or nauseating. “I told you not to eat that burrito.”

There was a pathetic groan from the bathroom.

“The hygiene standards were below acceptable. It was clear that their meat wasn’t well enough cooked, and really, cross contamination with raw meat?”

That image was enough to set John off again, noising heaving into the toilet. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and glanced to the doorway before looking back down to the ink samples he was testing. “Can you do that less noisily?”

“No!”

“Can you shut the door then, I can’t focus when you’re making that noise.”

John made a rude sound and the door slammed shut. It didn’t help much, because not two minutes later he heard the same noises, dragging him from his deep thoughts.

He sighed and got up, moving to the bathroom door. “Next time, will you do what I tell you and not eat from places like that. I did say this would happen.”

“I hate you,” John groaned inside.

“Only because I’m right,” he stated smugly. “This is your own fault.”

“Go away,” John wailed. “Just let me- urp-”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose again as John went back to throwing up. “Make sure you have a shower before you come out, you’ll drag that stench through the house with you otherwise.”

Luckily, John was too busy feeling miserable and throwing up to point out how the kitchen smelt when Sherlock had been at work in there.

Settling back into his chair, Sherlock finally gave in and put on headphones to drown out the sound of his flat mate’s misery and illness.

But really, he had told him not to eat from there. He had to expect this sort of thing if he would insist on doing it.

*~*~*

It was some time later that Sherlock finished his work on the ink saturation of the paper sample that he had been given. With careful elimination, even the police would be able to narrow down the rather expensive, bio organic ink that the blackmailer had been using.

He took off his headphones, relieved that John seemed to have stopped throwing up and instead retired to bed, since the house was quiet and peaceful.

Wandering to the window, he looked out onto the night street, gaze wandering to find something of interest.

He found it.

Three dead rats, lying on the footpath.

Just... lying there.

He grabbed his coat and bounced down the stairs and outside, crouching down next to the small bodies. They were contorted as if they had been wracked seizures and one of them at least had been throwing up.

Someone had probably baited them, they did have rat problems at this time of year but generally baiting worked that the rats would eat and leave and die. This seemed like they’d been in the bin when the toxin hit them.

He lost interest and stood up, but then he saw what they had been eating.

A burrito.

The remains of a burrito.

His eyes widened and he spun on his heel, running back inside and slamming the door far too loudly behind him, taking the steps two at a time, up to John’s room where he just barged in.

John wasn’t in there. His bed was still made from that morning.

Something cold and unpleasant coiled around Sherlock’s chest, far too similar to the cold and unpleasant he had felt in that moment when he realised there was an explosives vest under that parka that John was wearing.

He skidded back down stairs and shoved the bathroom door open.

John lay on the floor, soaked in sweat. He was pale and shaking, lying on his side in what was a close approximation of the recovery position. His breathing was shallow and laboured and their was vomit across the floor from where he clearly couldn’t get himself up off the floor.

“John?!”

He barely stirred, eyes opening briefly to look at Sherlock. “Nine... nine... nine...” he panted out at a whisper.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, dialling quickly. “Ambulance. I think my flatmate’s been poisoned, two, two, one b, up the stairs, the landlady will guide you up.”

He knelt down, pulling down a towel and putting it under John’s head, finding his hand lingering to push his hair back from his face. “I don’t know... strychnine or... no, nicotine.” His symptoms best matched that. “Yes, he’s in the recovery position... Are you going to give me useful advice or simply coddle me until the ambulance arrives, because I have no need of ‘comfort’ over a phone.” He hung up, shoving the phone in his pocket. “They’re on the way, given average response times, they’ll be here in seven minutes.”

John didn’t answer, just closed his eyes. Sherlock briefly checked his mouth; his gums were nearly white. It was nicotine poisoning, he was sure.

“Charcoal,” John whispered.

“Charcoal?” Sherlock looked around.

“Bottle. Cabinet.” His gaze went to the small cabinet in the corner of the room.

Sherlock pulled it open, finding what John was talking about. Activated charcoal, it would help absorb the poison from his stomach before more was metabolised. He got the bottle, breaking the seal and dropping to the floor to lift John’s head and shoulders from the floor and help him drink the solution down.

The time had been nearly eight when he called the ambulance. They had arrived home at about seven. If John could survive the next three hours, he had a good chance of recovering.

If he hadn’t had his headphones on to drown out the noise of John’s sickness, he might have heard him call for help when the weakness hit him. He had presumed on the cause without once thinking it could be something more serious.

“Don’t die,” he said softly. “You’re not allowed to die. I can’t find anyone else who will live with me.”

John gave a weak laugh.

“Mrs Hudson!” He looked to the door. “Mrs Hudson, there’s an ambulance on the way, show them up here when they get here!”

He heard her coming up the stairs, but he didn’t look back, focused on monitoring John’s condition. “Oh my gracious, Dr Watson?”

“He’s been poisoned. Go down stairs, wait for the ambulance, show them up here.” He lifted the solution to John’s lips again, encouraging him to drink more.

John was barely sipping now, struggling for breaths rather than drinking. Sherlock could hear the ambulance approaching as Mrs Hudson disappeared back down stairs, opening the door to show them the way in.

“Sherlock?”

He set aside the bottle. using both arms to hold John half upright in his lap. “Yes, John?”

“I don’t think I will eat there again,” he whispered.

Then paramedics swarmed the room and Sherlock stepped back to let them work, getting John safely bundled on a stretcher and moved downstairs.

*~*~*

Sitting crouched in the hospital chair, Sherlock bit at the pad of his thumb, staring intently at John’s somnolent face.

The ambulance hadn’t let him ride along, so Mrs Hudson had insisted on helping him pack a bag for John for when he woke up and made him change his own clothes before letting him head in.

By that time, they were settling John into a private room that someone had paid for and had Sherlock listed down on the authorised contact list so he had been allowed to come in and perch next to his friend.

The doctors had monitored him closely, giving him various transfusions and solutions for the next four hours before declaring he was out of imminent danger but would have to stay overnight for observation. John hadn’t woken the entire time, so Sherlock figured he probably didn’t care that much about where he was sleeping.

The nurses had called Harry, who hadn’t answered her phone. Sherlock thought she was probably too drunk, given it was a Friday and she wouldn’t have to work the next day.

A light knock on the door warned him of entry before Lestrade looked in. “The hospital called us. They said it was nicotine poisoning.”

Sherlock nodded, looking back to John. “It was dinner. John got a burrito from the Mexican take away, Los Fantastico, around the corner from us. He was sick shortly after. We thought it was food poisoning.”

Lestrade looked at the sleeping doctor. “Will he recover?”

“The doctors seem to think so. Nicotine has a good recovery rate if you survive the first four hours, sixteen hours roughly to purge it all from your system, but he’ll have to be careful for a while to let his liver recover.” He huddled into his coat further. “I thought he was going to die when I found him.”

“Found him? You were out?”

He shook his head. “I was wearing headphones while I worked. His throwing up was distracting. When I finished work I observed some dead rats on the sidewalk and was curious about what had caused it. I went down and realised they had consumed the remains of the burrito and died and concluded it was poisoned.” He buried his head in his hands, tugging at his hair. “He saved himself. Managed to lie on his side to prevent himself choking if he was sick again.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“He was served by a girl named Annie. She had dark hair and white eyeliner.”

“We’ll pick her up immediately.” Lestrade hesitated, then squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “He’ll be okay.”

Sherlock said nothing as Lestrade left.

*~*~*

The next morning, by the time John awoke, Sherlock had already been on the move for several hours and was back in his chair again, watching John’s face for signs of life.

He waited for John to speak first, for his dark eyes to focus and then soften as understanding flooded him and he let them close again. “Morning.”

“Good morning, and it is good, because you have only another two hours until you are declared completely detoxified, our blackmailer has been arrested and he and his girlfriend are facing blackmail and attempted murder charges for poisoning you.”

John made a small sound of understanding and was quiet for a bit. “Nicotine poisoning?”

“Very well deduced.”

“Thanks. Can I have water?”

Sherlock looked at the jug and cup on the rolling bed table and pushed it over.

“Let me rephrase. Sherlock, will you pour me a cup, I don’t feel strong enough to handle a jug.”

He poured the cup half full of water and handed it over. John gratefully sipped and then downed the rest in a long gulp. “IV hydration just doesn’t stop that cotton in the mouth feeling.”

“No, not really.” He looked at the bag. “I brought you clothes. Mrs Hudson packed them. You can leave as soon as you’ve had a last check over.”

John nodded slightly. “Thank you.”

“All I had to do was carry the bag in here.”

“No. For... back in the bathroom. All of that.” John wouldn’t meet his gaze.

That was all right, Sherlock didn’t feel much like making eye contact himself.

“I know you don’t do displays of compassion easily.”

“No.” He thought about his words. “But it came naturally with you.”

As naturally as John taking his hand and squeezing it and the two of them just waiting in companionable silence for John’s final assessment, hands still curled together on the bed.

Fic: Greedy (Sherlock) (Big fat ADULTS ONLY)

2010-11-04T11:47:54Z

Title: Greedy
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson mention of Mycroft Holmes
Rating: 18+
Summary: Moment before having sex together for the first time is not the time to drop bombshells about your brother. Written for this prompt.
Warnings: Explicit sex. Discussion of incest.

John broke the kiss with a gasp, staring dumbfounded up at Sherlock. “You... But...”

“I’m human, John. I have needs. I have urges and sometimes it’s much more satisfying to fulfil them than ignore them.” He ran his hands up John’s stomach, over his chest to hold his shoulders. “I’d like to satisfy them with you,” he breathed out.

John stared up at Sherlock, at those flushed, full lips and dilated pupils. “God, yes.”

Sherlock smiled. “Good.” And then they were crashing together again, mouths slick against one another as they kissed, John sucking on Sherlock’s lower lip as those elegant, long fingered hands slid back down his body and around his waist, pushing up under his clothes to grasp at the skin of his back.

In return, John pushed Sherlock back against the wall, pushing his way between his legs as he came in for another, deeper kiss. His hands tugged to get Sherlock’s shirt from his belt, to start pulling it open so that he could feel Sherlock’s body, run his hands over that perfectly pale skin as their tongues met and tangled.

Sherlock’s body rolled against his, slow and sensuous, moaning into their kiss. His hands pushed down under John’s pants to grab his arse, tugging him in sharply and sending a spike of heat up John’s spine and through his cock.

The kiss broke so they could both gasp a breath, gasp moans as John’s body rolled into Sherlock’s, the movement met to grind their bodies along one another. Sherlock shimmied and leaned back into the wall, tipping his head back in invitation for John to kiss and bite at his throat, which he readily did.

Getting the shirt open, John nipped and kissed and lapped his way down Sherlock’s throat to his collarbones, leaving pale pink marks with his teeth, tasting the slowly gathering sweat on his skin and feeling the rising heat against his hands and mouth, along his body. Sherlock moaned, a hand tangling in John’s hair and urging him on.

Pulling on his shirt, he slid it off Sherlock’s shoulders, down his arms and then neatly twisted it, pinning Sherlock’s hands behind him as he bent to close his lips on one nipple, sucking wetly and then blowing a stream of cool air over the spot. He was rewarded with a low sound of want and felt tugging against the cloth he held; he smiled to himself and repeated the gesture on the other side to draw more sounds and flinches of desire.

“John...”

His name was said as a drawn out moan, Sherlock’s body rolling against him again. He came up for another kiss, pressing close and rocking into Sherlock’s body in return.

“Bed,” Sherlock whispered in his ear, biting his earlobe and tugging on it. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Christ,” John exhaled. “You got-”

“Condoms and lubricant, in my room.” His mouth closed on John’s ear, sucking on the lobe.

They moved together, John keeping hold of Sherlock’s shirt, keeping his hands pinned as they kissed their way to Sherlock’s bedroom. It was chaotic, but at least he didn’t complain when John let him go to pull the blankets and piles of paperwork off of the mattress. He took the chance to free his hands and get his shoes and socks off, working on his belt when John looked back at him. “Strip. It’s quicker.”

John swallowed dryly and nodded, pulling off his jumper and tossing it aside, losing his shoes and pants as fast as he could. Sherlock stretched out on the bed once he had stripped, all long, lean lines and pale skin against the dark sheets.

John couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted someone so desperately. He almost fell onto the bed and Sherlock’s body, swiftly being wrapped in Sherlock’s arms and legs, their naked bodies sliding against one another, and electric shock through his body as their bare cocks touched and rubbed and made them both moan.

One of Sherlock’s hands was grabbing at his bedside table, pulling it open and blindly pulling out what was inside. A handful of condoms, a bottle of lube and a half melted phone case were dropped on the pillow; John chucked the melted phone away and grabbed the lube, distracted as Sherlock grabbed his neck and pulled him down into another spine tingling kiss.

A couple of drops of lube spilled across Sherlock’s stomach and their cocks as John managed to get it open and get his fingers slicked up. Seizing on the oppourtunity, Sherlock waited until John was pushing a finger into him to grasp their erections together and tug.

It was liquid heat and perfect sensuality, kissing each other over and over as John worked his fingers into Sherlock’s body, both of them rolling and shifting with the movements, with one another.

As he eased out three fingers, Sherlock grabbed a pack and opened it deftly, grabbing John’s cock and stroking it as he rolled the condom on. “Mm, I’m looking forward to this,” he murmured, biting John’s ear again. “Much more satisfactory than Mycroft.”

The heat of lust didn’t just fade. It was a candle faced with an Arctic blizzard. “What?”

Sherlock paused, seeming to pick up something was wrong. “What?”

“I... must have misheard you then.” He must have. “Because I thought you said that us having sex was going to be much better than... with Mycroft. Your brother.”

There was another pause. “Not good?”

“Not... Sherlock, you can’t actually mean that you’ve had sex with Mycroft,” John choked out.

“Well... not recently,” he agreed amicably. “He’s been too busy and I’ve been more interested in-”

“No, no, no, stop, stop right there.” John sat back on his heels, ignoring the way Sherlock pouted at him for moving away. “You have- sex. Sex with your brother?” Manipulative, overbearing Mycroft and suddenly he realised just why Sherlock hated his brother and avoided being around him. “I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill him, then put him back together and kill him again.”

“John, kindly don’t try to kill my brother, Mummy would be terribly upset about the resulting mess.” Sherlock leaned up on his elbows. “Does this mean you’re not going to have sex with me? Because I really would like to get back to it if we are.”

“What did he do to you, Sherlock?” John leaned to cup Sherlock’s face with his hands. “Tell me what he did.”

“Kinky...” Sherlock purred with a smug smile.

“What? No! I mean what he did to make you go along with that, with... having sex with him!”

“He... asked?” He sighed theatrically. “Honestly, it’s not that big a deal, John. On odd occasions, Mycroft and I have had sex. I don’t trust many people, he’s too busy to find someone with enough security clearance to have an affair with. It’s convenient.”

“He’s your brother!” John felt slightly sick.

“It’s not like we’re going to inbreed,” Sherlock argued. “It’s a purely physical arrangement. We both have urges. We find each other convenient for venting them. Mycroft likes to take, I enjoy being taken and we know exactly how much the other can take.”

“It’s incest.”

“It’s logical.” Sherlock sat up, shifting closer to John, wrapping his long legs around his waist. “Stop thinking with societal expectations. They don’t apply to me or my brother. Or you.”

“Your brother...”

“Yes, and it helps him keep the weight down too... Isn’t that some people’s fantasy, a pair of twins, a set of siblings in a threesome?” He leaned in, kissing John’s jaw. “We could make it happen if you would like, sometime. Right now, I would really prefer to get back to what we were doing.” His hand slid down to John’s flagging erection and started touching, to urge heat back into the moment.

“Sherlock, that is so wrong.” He was telling himself as much as Sherlock, that he shouldn’t even begin thinking about it.

“No more wrong than shooting an unarmed serial killer. We’re not hurting anyone. Except occasionally when we feel like getting a bit rough. He does like putting me over a desk and taking me hard. He’s a prat, but he can be a wonderfully masterful one sometimes.” Sherlock’s voice was liquid sex, coaxing John onwards, past the shock and horror and towards heated acceptance. “I’d love to see him at work on you. I think you’d enjoy it, you’re strong, solid, you could take anything he gave you.”

“Sherlock,” he groaned, hips twitching as he was stroked firmly.

“But really, I would much prefer you in my bed. I like you. I respect you. You have a beautifully firm, toned body and so much passion hidden under that cool soldier mask.” Their lips met in another slow, deep kiss, tongues stroking against one another.

Somewhere along the way, Sherlock had leaned back and John was over him again.

“I’m happy to use Mycroft but I really would prefer this between us. You pour emotion into every kiss and revel not in the power but the pleasure you can bring. I’m selfish and you love to give.” Another hard, heady kiss and Sherlock’s fingers were guiding him to his body.

John gave in and pushed, inhaling at the tight clench around him and the soft noise of pure desire that Sherlock made, stretching himself out under John with a luxurious movement. “Yes. More. Don’t go easy, I’m ready.”

John wasn’t strong enough to argue with that. He leaned on his hands over his lover and moved, pushing deep in a smooth movement that made him feel like he was on fire.

Sherlock twisted and tensed his body, eyes heavy lidded and kiss dark lips curled into a faint smile. He pressed with his feet against John, urging him to move, to take and John obliged, driving into Sherlock with long, firm thrusts, watching his face as he reacted each time, their breaths mingling as they panted for breath.

It only took a nudge to make Sherlock curve his spine and shift the angle. The next thrust drew a low cry from him, made him tense around John in the most delicious way. Sherlock’s legs untangled from his waist, feet pressing to the bed, on his toes and panting and gasping as John wrapped his arms around that slim waist and took with merciless passion, driving into his prostate over and over. Sweat coated that pale skin in a sheen that he eagerly lapped at, chasing the lines of muscle that showed every time Sherlock twisted or ached or stretched for more.

It was when Sherlock’s breath shortened further, his low sounds becoming barely gasped and that tightness gripping John’s cock tensed further that he was coming hard, bucking sharp and erratic into Sherlock. His mouth sucked and bit at Sherlock’s skin, grinding into him and against him until he was coming with a near pained sounding sob, jerking as his come slicked their stomachs.

Slowly, John let Sherlock back to the bed, carefully moving out of him and disposing of the condom in the waste bin nearby before flopping down next to his flatmate.

Sherlock’s eyes were close, mouth curved in a smug smile. “I knew it would be better,” he murmured. “I feel fantastic.”

“I feel exhausted,” John sighed.

“Then sleep for a while. I’m going to enjoy the endorphins.” He flopped an arm out and John hesitated, then took the invitation to rest his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

He was nearly asleep when he felt Sherlock kiss his ear and murmur, “But I’m still looking forward to sandwiching you between us and shagging you stupid.”

Fic: Study of a Soldier (Sherlock)

2010-11-04T11:38:29Z

Title: Study of a Soldier
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: 15+
Summary: A case from Mycroft sends Sherlock digging into John’s past and the secrets he’s keeping from the war. Written for this prompt.
Warnings: Descriptions of crimes in war. May cause triggers.

The case involved a morally bankrupt lawyer, a murder charge and three angry SAS officers who weren’t talking.

Mycroft had passed the case to Sherlock in the hopes of making it vanish quickly and obliging the need for some kind of investigation into the affair while keeping it all comfortably close to home.

But the case wasn’t what was holding Sherlock’s attention right now.

Across the room from him, John sat in his armchair, back stiff and totally absorbed in the paper. The act would be more convincing if he would actually read anything on the page, let his eyes move, relax, scan the print, turn the page occasionally.

He had been ‘reading’ the same page for nearly half an hour since Sherlock had come back from his meeting with the soldiers. He knew he had heard the frantic scramble for John to get to his chair and look relaxed and he had noticed the cane skidded across the floor some distance in an attempt to not draw attention to the fact that he was suffering from his psychosomatic pains again.

His phone was on the coffee table, so was his laptop, which was shut, but clearly switched on. He had been doing something on there and wanted it to appear he hadn’t.

“I have another interview tomorrow with the prime suspect,” he drawled, closing his eyes and turning his face to the ceiling again.

He heard John’s hands tighten on the paper. That made him anxious for some reason.

“Do you know what happened yet?”

Of course he did. He knew who had done it and why, but that wasn’t interesting. What was interesting was that John had refused to accompany him after looking at the file. Specifically, and the name of the three SAS men involved. He just didn’t know which of them or why.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm. Yes. I do.”

“Was it Geoffries?”

Geoffries mattered to John in some way. not necessarily a good one, but clearly, there was some kind of connection. “Why?”

John shrugged and neatened his paper again. “Just what I read in the file.”

“Wrong.” Sherlock leapt to his feet. “You’ve been agitated since you saw Geoffries name in the file, you refused to accompany me on my queries. I returned here and find you still agitated and once again in pain, indicating that this Geoffries brings up bad memories of your time in service.” He grabbed a chair and skidded it in front of John, straddling it backwards to face him. “So the question really is, why are you agitated at this case?”

“I’m not agitated,” John ground out. “I don’t like seeing servicemen doing the wrong things and dragging others into it with them.”

“A partial truth. Your involvement is clearly personal, not simply that of a slighted professional and a good, upstanding man. You’ve stood beside me over the remains of a butchered woman without so much as blinking, this should not have such a strong emotional reaction.”

“Leave it, Sherlock,” he said softly.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on. I will find out one way or another, John, it would be easier for you just to tell me yourself.”

John pushed Sherlock’s chair back with one leg, getting up and trying to conceal the fact he was limping again as he walked for the door. “I’m not part of your investigation.”

“Aren’t you?” He watched his flatmate closely. “You’re certainly acting like you are.”

“I’m going to Sarah’s.”

“Sarah’s away until Friday.”

“Then I’m going for a walk. I’d say don’t wait up but I don’t imagine you would have bothered with sleep by then.” He left, stomping unevenly down the stairs.

Sherlock shrugged and plucked his laptop from the coffee table, opening it up and browsing through John’s recent history.

Military blogs. Much like John’s own, veterans and casualties and currently serving soldiers talking about their daily life.

He skimmed them absently, looking for keywords that might jump out, connect them all together, but he couldn’t find anything of any note. Possibly John hadn’t either, which was why he hadn’t bothered to shut down the browser.

He still noted which blogs they were, emailing his phone from the computer with the links. He’d have a better look at them all later and try to work out what it was that had drawn John to those people in particular.

He needed to sit down and reconsider the facts.

He closed down John’s laptop and flung himself onto the couch, pressing his fingertips together and closing his eyes to focus.

Fact: John was disturbed by this investigation.

Fact: John was not disturbed by most investigations.

Therefore: Something about this case was different for him on a personal or professional level.

Fact: John directly reference one of the SAS involved, Geoffries.

Therefore: John in some way knew or knew of Geoffries before the case was taken.

Inference: Geoffries was good candidate for being what had John upset about this case.

He sighed. That didn’t really help a lot. John was a soldier. It was entirely possible he had heard of an SAS operative...

He sat upright, grabbing his own laptop and flinging it open, typing away quickly. Mycroft had given him electronic information on each officer. He just needed to map if Geoffries and John had served in Afghanistan at the same time.

Sitting there, he made timelines for each of the men. He decided to cover all three of his suspects, just in case there were more overlaps of interest that could imply involvement.

He had the service records for the three SAS men. John’s service record he would have to infer from conversation, unless John had a copy of his own service upstairs in his room.

Sherlock headed up to John’s room, letting himself in and looking around. Unlike his own room, this one was immaculate, spartan even. The bed was precisely made, all clothes neatly sorted and ordered, even his laundry hamper was organised into dark and light.

It was what made this so easy for Sherlock. He wandered to the wardrobe, opening it up and pulling out the box of army decorations and papers, rummaging through it until he found the documents of release.

They had a brief overview of his career, army medic, served several terms...

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

That he had not expected.

*~*~*

John came back at nearly one in the morning, his limp still heavily pronounced as he walked up the stairs and into the room.

Sherlock was waiting for him. Staring at the door, so that as John walked in, he could catch his eye.

John didn’t say anything, just shut the door to hang up his coat.

“Were you planning on telling me you served in the SAS?”

The way John’s back stiffened, his head lifted, he was shocked that Sherlock knew. “You’ve been going through my belongings,” he accused.

“Yes, I have. Though I began to suspect you had some time to Geoffries much earlier, but now I’m wondering if you served together in Afghanistan. Directly together, I already know that you and he were int he country at the same time.”

“It’s not your business, Sherlock.” John wasn’t looking at him.

“Of course it’s my business, John, you appear to have a personal connection to someone in a case that we’re investigating!”

“No! Not we. You. You are investigating. I told you, I don’t want part of this one.” He flung the door open. “Stay out of my room.”

“John!” He was up and after him. “You know that hiding things from me is pointless. I will deduce your secrets.”

John paused halfway up the stairs and flicked his fingers up at Sherlock. “Deduce that.” And he stormed into his room, slamming the door shut.

“Would you boys keep it down,” Mrs Hudson called from the ground floor.

Sherlock decided to make a tactical retreat for the night, to think and see what other facts he could drag up. John would fell better after he had slept.

And sobered up a bit if the smell of beer was any indication.

*~*~*

Come five that morning, Sherlock felt confident that he had plotted out all the relevant interactions. Andrews and Parkman had served in a unit together for several years. Geoffries, however, was a new comer. He had transferred in a year ago, six months after John was shot through the leg and shoulder.

Fact: Geoffries and John had trained together in the SAS at the same time.

Fact: They had also deployed to Afghanistan at the same time.

Fact: They were repeatedly sent to the same locations at the same time.

Therefore: They were in the same unit.

John Watson and Peter Geoffries had served in the same SAS unit and probably gone through some of their training together.

John had outright lied when he said he was edgy about Geoffries based on what he had read.

John Watson, softly spoken, morally upright, crack shot John Watson was ex-SAS.

He had served with one of the prime suspects in this case.

And he had felt it necessary to hide this fact from his best friend.

The door opened and John looked in sheepishly. “Sherlock?”

He turned his head to the side to look at John.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

“It’s all right, I understand that you were emotional and partly inebriated.” He looked back up to the ceiling. “What time is it?”

“Nearly eight. I don’t have work today.”

“Hm.” He must have been thinking for a while longer than he had realised.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, thank you.” He sat up, swinging his legs around and his feet into his loafers. “You lied to me, John.”

“I know.” The kettle started heating. “I don’t have anything to do with this.”

“But you did serve in the same unit as Peter Geoffries until eighteen months ago.”

There was a silence.

“Yes. I did.”

“You didn’t like him.”

“No.”

Sherlock smiled slightly, until John looked out from the kitchen. “We were very good friends, actually.”

But John had asked if Geoffries had done it. Accusation, or concern?

Fact: John hadn’t wanted to see Geoffries or even have his name mentioned around him from the lengths he had gone to avoid this investigation.

Fact: He continued to deny a connection between them until confronted with the truth.

Fact: John would be aware that Sherlock’s deduction would be unaffected by John’s personal relationship to a suspect.

Therefore: John did not want his connection to be know by anyone, especially Sherlock himself.

Fact: John did not get letters from any old army comrades.

Fact: Or phone calls.

Therefore: They had had a falling out.

“Was the fall out over your injuries?”

John didn’t reply, just poured the tea and came out, handing one to Sherlock. He was limping again.

“Are you embarrassed of your connection to him?”

John’s head shook slightly.

“Are you embarrassed of being connected with me in front of him?”

He looked up, genuinely shocked. “No, of course not.”

Sherlock sipped his tea, trying to work out why then.

“Sherlock... I just don’t want anything to do with my old life in the SAS, okay? I’m out. I’m adjusting to civilian life.”

“You shoot people.”

“Only bad ones. Only when they’re trying to hurt you, because you don’t have the sense to stay safe.”

Sherlock smiled slightly, meeting John’s gaze. John smiled back softly.

Wonderful. John thought he’d deflected away from the issue. That would lower his guard. “You should shower, you smell like the bar.”

“Sorry.” He stood up, and his limp had lessened a bit. “Got plans for the day?”

“Mm. Not yet. I might have ask Mycroft for more information on these men.” He didn’t, but it was a good excuse for contacting his brother for other information.

“Okay.” John headed for the bathroom.

Sherlock picked up his phone and dialled a dead number, still staring at the doorway as he waited for a pick up.

“I need information. I need John’s service record.”

He hung up his phone, still watching the doorway where John had vanished.

When his phone buzzed, he finally looked away to read the text on it.

What for? M.

Trust Mycroft to be a pain about it.

I just do. Send it to my email. SH.

He dropped the phone onto the couch next to him, leaning his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers again, watching the door for a lack of anywhere more interesting.

He needed to orchestrate John and Geoffries meeting. He needed to watch how they both reacted to a surprise meeting, that first honest reaction that they’d both give to seeing one another.

That could be done. He was meant to have another meeting with them this afternoon. He would simply not attend, wait until he was called and drag John along with him under the pretence that they were only meetin with Mycroft.

His phone buzzed.

I thought I was meant to be the one who spied on loved ones. Are your deductive skills not up to unraveling this one, brother? M.

His email programme chimed, saying he had received one email from an anonymous source.

He glared at it and dropped the waiting attachment into a folder and didn’t open it.

No one accused Sherlock Holmes of not being up to a mystery.

Least of all his big brother.

*~*~*

To further put John at ease, Sherlock announced they were going out for lunch. There was a Greek place that he could eat free at, so he took John down there and eventually agreed to eat one of John’s dolmades to stop him from fretting about how much Sherlock wasn’t eating at the moment.

The case was solved but needed all his wits to pick apart what had happened between Geoffries and John eighteen months ago when John was shot. He was sure that must be it, he wouldn’t have had much contact with others once he was hospitalised.

Why was Geoffries transferred six months later into another unit? Who were the other two men in the unit and what had happened to them?

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out and looked at the message.

Why aren’t you at the meeting? M.

He sighed and dropped his phone into his pocket. “Come on.”

“What?” John looked up, frowning slightly as Sherlock stood.

“Mycroft wants to see me. I’m not going on my own, I’ll end up doing him physical harm with that umbrella of his.” He pulled his gloves back on while John finished his drink and stood, putting his coat on.

They took a cab over to the office that Mycroft ostensibly claimed as his own and was probably just an empty set of rooms where he sometimes met with people. Not-Anthea was there, she waved them through with barely a glance up from her phone.

Sherlock walked in first, hiding his smug smile that Mycroft had worked perfectly to plan. The three men were in here already.

He spun around and threw himself into the seat and watched for the moment that John and Geoffries saw each other.

It was perfect.

John’s back stiffened. He lifted his chin, almost standing to attention, feet drawing together. His face went stony in the next two seconds, expression dead and locked out, and his right leg trembled as the psychosomatic pain hit him.

But those two seconds before he gained control to shut down told a world of information. Hurt. Anger. Resentment. A senior officer, he didn’t go to salute, he outranked Geoffries. John Watson had a lot of old anger towards Peter Geoffries.

As telling was how Geoffries reacted. He went to stand automatically, not necessarily indicating anything, but the way his hand raised and stopped spoke a volume. He still had respect for John if his instinct was to salute him.

He was shocked. Not really surprising, he hadn’t expected to see him. But after the shock came the really interesting emotion.

Shame.

And then he closed off and stood more slowly. “Watson.”

“Geoffries,” John said quietly.

“Ah, so you do know my associate. John, this is Peter Geoffries, whom you know, Shang Andrews and Desmond Parkman. This is my associate, Doctor John Watson.”

Andrews and Parkman didn’t react much, polite interest and nods.

Geoffries glanced at John’s lower body. There was another smothered flash of shame.

More interesting.

“John, take a seat, won’t you?”

“No, Sherlock, I don’t think I will. I’ll wait outside with Anthea,” John said stiffly, turning and leaving.

The limp was back.

Sherlock looked back to the three men as the door shut. “Frankly, I have limited interest in your activities. I already know which of you did it, I know the other two of you know and have stayed silent to protect a comrade. I don’t care.” He leaned forwards. “I want to know about how Geoffries came to serve in this unit. from anyone, I don’t care whom.”

They all exchanged looks. Parkman broke the silence. “Why... What does it matter?”

“It matters to me. What happened to the rest of your unit, Geoffries?”

“Retired,” he said curtly.

He was lying.

If they were killed in action, he would’ve been proud to say it. “They were probably dishonourably discharged.”

His breath caught.

“Or worse. Tell me, have you always been ashamed of looking at John Watson, or did it only start after he was shot? Was it the fact that you were helpless to stop it or that you allowed it to happened?”

Geoffries was going redder in the face. “You don’t know anything about it, you sick bastard! You don’t get to ask questions about that, it was eighteen months ago, I was cleared of any misconduct!”

“Shut up, Geoffries,” Parkman hissed, but Sherlock was already smiling.

“Misconduct... The rabbit hole goes ever deeper. John certainly doesn’t believe you were clear of any ‘misconduct’,” Sherlock purred out.

Geoffries lurched forwards, only to be caught by Parkman and Andrews before he got out of his seat.

“What the hell’s wrong with you,” Parkman snapped. “We’re not here to discuss this bullshit.”

Sherlock stood up and opened the door. “Parkman did it, but probably to protect Andrews and Geoffries from doing it themselves. Do be kind with him. Or not.” He strode past where John sat, to the door and then paused, looking back. “Coming?”

John was red with anger. But he stood and limped after Sherlock silently.

*~*~*

“You had no right!”

John had managed to wait until they were back at 221b Baker Street before rounding on Sherlock. “You had no right to do that me, Sherlock. None at all.”

“You didn’t have to come in.”

“You told me you were meeting with Mycroft. He wasn’t even there.”

“Details.” He waved his phone at John to show him the message. “He did tell me to come. I wasn’t to know he wouldn’t turn up.”

“But you knew those men would be there.”

“Yes. Well, I presumed.” He waved his hand. “He shows shame when he looks at you, especially your leg. Well, I assume your leg, given how he reacted when I asked him about the circumstances under which you were shot.”

John was tense again.

“And you’ve started limping again. The pain has been coming and going since this started, but it got much worse after you saw Geoffries in person. He said he was cleared of misconduct, but clearly, you don’t feel that way about it. You’re angry at him still for whatever he did.”

John was silent, jaw tight and watching Sherlock.

“You feel no shame for what happened, but it causes you considerable psychological pain. Not in your shoulder, which means while you were shot twice, it was two different incidents on the same mission. Geoffries didn’t look to your shoulder, which also confirms that he feels no emotional attachment to that injury. You were shot, he is ashamed of that fact, you are angry at him about it. It is possible that he shot you accidentally, that doesn’t account for the two other unit members who have been removed from service-”

“Stop.”

John’s voice was soft but firm. “Just stop. I didn’t want to go back into this. It’s gone. I’m readjusting. It isn’t relevant to the case. Just leave it alone, Sherlock.”

John took his computer and his cane and headed for his room.

Sherlock decided to nap until John had finished updating his blog.

*~*~*

He napped for a while, maybe two hours, and then checked John’s blog, but all that was posted was that he thought Sherlock was a bastard and that he didn’t know why he had to dig up everything he could just for the fun of it.

Sherlock lay back to think about it.

He needed data. Facts. Information. He needed to know what happened eighteen months ago.

He grabbed the laptop and started to search.

Afghanistan. Eighteen months ago. Military operations. SAS operations that went bad. Civilian casualties. Two disgraced SAS soldiers.

And he started to put things together. Two soldiers in prison. Unexplained deaths in custody. Official investigation.

“Have you dug it all up yet?”

He straightened from the laptop, wincing as his back protested the movement. It was dark. John was standing in the doorway in his pajamas and robe, looking worn and haggard, his hair unkempt.

“I believe so. What time is it?”

“Nearly four.”

He cracked his neck and stood, trying to shake warmth back into his legs. “Why are you- Ah. Nightmares.”

John didn’t bother replying and dropped onto the couch, arm across the back.

“No doubt about the incident I’ve been investigating. When one of your unit shot you.”

The hand on the back of the couch went tight.

“I haven’t managed to identify which of the other two did it, but I have no doubt that it was due to your attempting to stop them from interrogating a prisoner.”

“That wasn’t an interrogation,” John hissed.

“As a doctor, you could not stand by and allow a violation of human rights. And for some reason, one of them shot you. Perhaps as a lesson. Or to stop you from interfering with what they were doing.”

John closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Sherlock slid in close to him on the couch, watching his face.

“But... I have no doubt that you were shot while attempting to defend human rights and individual lives. Because that’s what you are like.”

John still didn’t open his eyes. “I... was the team medic. But unlike a lot, I was a doctor first. We were deployed with another unit to go and subdue insurgents in a village. We took them, but we lost two men and I was shot through the shoulder. The other team medic was killed, so I was out for a two days after I removed the shrapnel.

“When I came to... They were torturing people. For information, they said, but I recognised the injuries on those people. Five young women, two young men had been raped. One boy died from internal damage and infection. They were torturing the men and would rape their daughters, their nieces and granddaughters in front of them.

“Two of my unit and one of the other men with us were involved. I told them I wouldn’t allow it to continue and stood in front of the hostages they were threatening to shoot.

“I was shot in the leg. And the other two useless bastards finally radioed for extraction because shooting on of our own was just too much for them.”

Sherlock was quiet a moment longer. “Geoffries did nothing to stop them. That’s why he was ashamed. You defied them. He did nothing until you were shot.”

John opened his eyes and looked to Sherlock finally. “He should have been court marshaled with them. He did nothing.”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he said softly.

John sighed. “Yes?”

“... why on Earth didn’t you just tell me?”

“I didn’t want your pity for poor John and trauma based, psychosomatic injury from where his teammate shot him,” he replied quietly.

Sherlock sighed. “You really can be just as stupid as everyone else sometimes. Now, do you want some tea?”

John looked up, shock fading to gratitude to a small smile of relief. “Yes. Tea would be nice.”

Sherlock smiled and nodded, retreating to the kitchen and starting the kettle boiling.

He pulled out his phone and sent off a quick message to Mycroft.

I didn’t need your document to tell me John Watson is a hero. SH.

Fic: Five Times Sherlock was Bailed (13+)

2010-11-04T11:18:09Z

Title: Five times Sherlock had his bail posted (And once the person who would've bailed him was in with him).
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Lestrade, John Watson
Rating: 13+
Summary: Please see title.
Warnings: Drug use.

1.

"Holmes household, Miss Ellis speaking."

"Miss Ellis, it's Victor Taylor-Sterling from-"

"Yes, Mr Taylor-Sterling. What's he done this time?" She didn't even attempt to conceal the long suffering tone from her voice. "Suspension or detention?"

"Miss Ellis... Annie. I'm afraid it's more serious than that this time." His voice was heavy.

"Oh God. Don't tell me he's been expelled."

"Expulsion is a matter we will have to discuss with his parents. Right now, you should go to the police station."

"The police station?! Oh God, they're going to fire me, they're going to fire me." She slammed the phone down and grabbed her coat and the car keys, running for the front door.

Her mad drive down there did nothing to prepare for the situation. Two officers were sitting with her charge, a young DC who was trying to offer him a glass of milk and an older, tired looking man who was covered in some of the soot and ash no doubt dislodged from the burnt school uniform when they were trying to get him down here.

Then he looked up, pale eyes locking on hers. He didn't say anything to her, just watched her for a moment before looking out over to the side again.

"You're his mother?"

"No." He answered before she could. "Mother will be busy. Miss Ellis is my nanny. And will no doubt be posting my bail."

"Bail?!" She looked at him. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

He didn't look up at her. "It was an experiment into thermodynamics."

"He blew up several fire hydrants. And a bin. And Mrs Pearson's scooter."

She looked to Sherlock in horror.

"Experiment," he said plainly.

2.

He sat in a cell, staring at the wall, trying to ignore the voices from outside. His legs were crossed at the ankles, stretched out along the bed. Notes on the wall, five different hand writings, one repeat offender in various states of sobriety, one neo nazi of limited linguistic education, doubtful intelligence and an improbable understanding of anatomy, probably a stay of no more than four hours while he was here judging by how prolific he was. The pen hadn't dried before he was doing the next, smudging it.

He sighed when he heard the door unlocked, but didn't bother to straighten or look. He recognised his father's footsteps from down the hall, and those of his arresting officer.

"Sherlock, what do you think you were doing, breaking into that house?"

"I was breaking into it, clearly. I wished to gain entry and was unable to do so through conventional means."

"Why, boy?" His father stared down at him. "Why do it? It's not like you need the money or goods."

Sherlock actually laughed, a bitter sound. "Money? You think I entered for something as petty as theft? What would I do with stolen goods? What possible interest could I have in theft?"

"Then why?!" He was pure exasperation. "Why do it?"

He shrugged a little. "To see if I could. Of course."

"Sherlock, you have to stop with this reckless behaviour."

Sherlock said nothing, but followed his father out to have his bail cleared.

3.

He knew his id was good enough to fool any common police officer. He had all the right information, all the paperwork, everything that should have let him just waltz into the halls of government unchecked.

He was thrown unceremoniously into a darkened room, the door slammed behind him. He got to his feet, leaning against the door. "What am I charged with? You have to charge me if you're going to hold me, I work here, dammit!"

"No, my dear boy, you don't."

Sherlock paused and straightened, looking back but not far enough to actually turn his body. "Ah."

"Ah, indeed." He listened to expensive shoes tap over the wood floor. "Really, Sherlock, what were you thinking?"

He looked back to the door, tipping his head back and smothering his sigh. "Clearly, that I could impersonate you without anyone of any importance noticing until such a time as I had uncovered what you were up to."

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock." Heavy hands landed on his shoulders. "What are we going to do with you?"

"I imagine you're going to tell Mummy what a disappointment I am and console yourself with a couple more cream buns. Really, how much weight have you put on?"

"You can't tell? I'm disappointed."

"From just your hands... Twenty two kilos since last Christmas."

The sulky silence suggested he was right. He smirked.

"You know, Sherlock, I think maybe you should spend a few days in Her Majesty's company."

"What a shock. Then no doubt you'll come bail me out once you've been officially notified that I'm in custody."

"Of course," Mycroft virtually purred. "Until then, Sherlock." The hand lifted from Sherlock's shoulders and footsteps retreated before a door shut.

The door in front of him opened and Sherlock sighed, offering his wrists.

4.

He spun in a circle, trying to fight the hands off of his body. "No, you're not listening! Would you unhand me, you neanderthals, I'm trying to explain the basic elements of a murder inquiry to cretins who have apparently finished basic training without actually learning the first thing about manning an investigation!"

Lestrade sighed as the cell door was shut, Donovan peering in to make sure their guest was holed up safely.

"Ingrates!"

She slammed it shut, cutting off his ranting. "He's fine."

Lestrade sighed again, moving to the office, away from the cell block. "Now, explain to me again what happened, Donovan."

"There's nothing more I can say, sir. He came charging onto the scene, straight through the posted officers, grabbed the hand and licked its fingers." She pulled a revolted face. "Freak. Then he said that we were all idiots, a simpleton could figure it out and asked why we were wasting time on the site when we had a murderer to catch."

"And you still do, Donovan. Back to work." He watched her go and then went back to his office.

His phone rang. He picked it up. "Lestrade."

"Inspector Lestrade." The woman's voice was clipped and distracted. "You have one Sherlock Holmes in your cells. His bail is posted. There is a black car out the front. You will escort him to this car and see him safely inside. He will then stop being your problem. I hope you understand." The phone disconnected.

He looked at his phone. And the intercom buzzed. He hit it irritably. "What?!"

"Sir, someone has posted bail for Holmes."

He let the button go and finally hung up the phone. Standing, he moved to the cells again, unlocking Holmes' and looking in. "If I were to ask who did it, would you explain?"

The gaunt young man looked up, pale gaze piercingly bright. "Are you really so slow, Inspector Lestrade?"

"Pretend I am. Who did it?"

"The hand smells of-"

"I don't want the explanation. Just who."

He huffed. "Whoever cooked raspberry tarts that day."

Lestrade considered this. "Your bail's been posted. There's a car waiting for you."

Sherlock smirked to himself and stood up, bushing off his coat and stalking ahead to Lestrade like a cat with wounded pride.

5.

The crumpled heap in the cell's corner hardly looked capable of movement, let alone the levels of violence that had been executed upon Her Majesty's finest a few hours earlier.

Lestrade looked at Addison, the arresting officer. "Class A substance?"

"Cocaine. He tried to purchase from an undercover officer, resisted arrest, assaulted two officers-"

"I get the point," he said in a tired voice. "His bail has been set, I assume?"

"Bail's been set, but his family said they're not paying his way out of this one. I think they're hoping that a bit of time in the cells will wake him up to the reality of these constant arrests."

Lestrade couldn't say they were constant but the young man certainly had a record longer than most families would be happy with, especially a well to do family like his.

He also knew time inside was not going to help Sherlock Holmes. Drive him crazier, probably, but he was delicate and refined and pretty. And just as likely to come out with ideas for alleviating his boredom not by helping the police 'spot the obvious' but using those not inconsiderable smarts to keep the police chasing after him.

"I'm posting bail."

"You're... dear god, man, why? He's a coke-head!"

Lestrade looked back into the cell. "Because... God help the world if he sobers up angry."

+1

"I hate you."

"No you don't," Sherlock said smugly. "If you hated me, you would have refused to come with me when I said I was going to break into the manor house. Which you didn't. Instead you said, Sherlock, that's illegal, as though I was somehow unaware of the fact that we were trespassing with intent to commit break and enter and that that act is illegal. I have been arrested for this before, you know."

John buried his head in his hands. "You're right," he groaned. "I hate myself. I must. It's the only thing that explains why I keep letting you talk me into these things."

Sherlock laughed. "Cheer up, John! If we hadn't done this, we might be stuck at home, listening to the kitchen tap drip and the furnace creak, bored out of our minds!"

John gave him a resentful look. "I've changed my mind. I definitely hate you, not me."

"Are you honestly telling me you'd sooner have spent an evening watching mediocre television rather than running from guard dogs, climbing chapel spires and leaping across rooftops."

"Yes!" John held Sherlock's gaze.

The silence stretched between them.

As one, they started laughing.

"The look on the maid's face when we came out of the chimney..." John wheezed and Sherlock just smiled wider.

Someone would post their bail eventually. There was no rush.

Fic: A List of Unsatisfactory Options (Sherlock)

2010-11-04T10:58:23Z

Title: A List of Unsatisfactory Options
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: 13+
Summary: Sherlock and John fight. Sherlock tries to think of how to bring John home.

Generally speaking, Sherlock was quite happy to fight with John. He enjoyed arguing, and even though John was nearly always wrong, Sherlock liked the way he stuck to his gun on moral and social issues regardless of how much Sherlock tried to make him see reason.

John would get flushed and growl and wave his hands sometimes and then make tea in the single most aggressive way Sherlock had ever witnessed tea being made in. Sherlock would fling himself onto the couch and mangle his violin playing while John staunchly read the news and pretended that the cacophony wasn’t going on next to him.

However, last Monday had not gone like that.

It wasn’t like he had said anything that John hadn’t. At least, not to begin with. Harry was a drunk and it was for the best that John minimised contact with her until she was ready to face her problem. He had just said so himself as he hung up from the phone. Sherlock didn’t like the way she upset John so much with her refusal to face basic facts about her well being and her addiction.

Sherlock should know. He had been there.

But John got upset about that. Said she was his sister and he to help her because she had no one else. That she had no one else because she had abused them while drunk, refused help and consistent antagonised everyone who might have assisted her was a fact, it wasn’t up for dispute.

But John still yelled at Sherlock that he was a fine one to talk about antagonising and ostracising people with the way he behaved.

In hindsight, it had been temper that led him to say that his problems were actually medical and not just self inflicted pretence. It wasn’t really accurate and it had been unnecessarily vindictive.

John had left without another word.

Sherlock had felt completely justified. For about twenty minutes.

That had been Monday.

Now it was Wednesday and John was still not talking to him.

He had tried. He’d texted him on Monday night to say that his temper was cooled off. And that he was bored. And that there was no tea. And no bread. Could John get bread? And tea? And a new packet of nicotine patches. And never mind, he found his stash of boxes from last fortnight when he thought he was going to have a tough case and then the prat confessed.

John never replied.

He texted John the next day eighty two times. He texted Sarah and told her to tell John to message him back but she just told him to leave her alone. She wasn’t his biggest fan, he suspected.

He called the office and was told John wasn’t taking calls while he was consulting. So he called John’s direct line but he just got hung up on and then the phone was engaged. He called his mobile and that was on voice bank. He told John to call him back.

Today he had tried employing Mrs Hudson into luring John back to the flat, but she said she was too busy to sort out their lovers’ tiffs and she’d be back that night.

Sherlock now lay on the couch, fingers steepled in front of him and staring at the back of his eyelids, willing the nicotine patches to give him the rush of insight he needed.

He had an idea of where to start. He would pack John a bag of his belongings. Clean clothes, his laptop, even his dratted cane and he would ask Mrs Hudson to take them into the surgery for John. While there, she could suggest that it would be best for John to return to the flat. He would make sure of it, he could cause enough disruption that she would ask John to come back just to get some peace.

He growled and leaned over the couch, grabbing another patch and slapping it onto his upper arm. That wouldn’t work. John was as likely to tell her to call the police as agree to come home.

Perhaps a particularly gruesome crime would come up. He could tell Lestrade to go and get John because he needed his medical expertise. Then John would have to interact with him.

But there was a good chance John would refuse and make him work with Anderson. He didn’t want to work with Anderson. And it relied on a gruesome crime happening and short of orchestrating one himself, he couldn’t rely on that.

And John would get really angry if he orchestrated one.

He lay there thinking for a while long over the possibilities. He texted John another four times to tell him to stop being stubborn and just come home. It wasn’t likely to work, but he had at least tried now.

Sometime after the sun had come up and he had slapped on another patch because he was getting hungry and the nicotine would kill that craving, he thought about going to the surgery himself. Take in some of John’s belongings, demand to see him and tell him that even if he, a doctor, was indifferent to the plight of his starving flatmate, Sherlock was considerate enough to bring John clean clothes, his laptop and his cane that he didn’t really need but made him feel better.

He was tired by then. But he still didn’t know how to make John come home. As infuriatingly, he didn’t know why it was so important that John come home but it was. He needed him to come home.

The headache being back in full force, he slapped on a patch to try and and stave it back. He had to work this out and he just couldn’t. John needed something to make him come back.

Maybe, he could refuse to let John have his clothes. Change his pin, deny him account access and make him come home. Sherlock would take them out to dinner somewhere and the next day, John would contact the bank, get his pin reset and he’d never be any the wiser.

That had promise.

He would think on it while he showered.

He stripped off his clothes in the bathroom and then hit the floor on his knees as his stomach seized, twisting and cramping violently. He gasped for breath and gagged, heaving himself to the toilet before he was sick, throwing up bile and stomach acid and nothing else. The cramping didn’t stop, it was almost like withdrawal all over again, cramping and throwing up and headachy and dizzy...

He looked at his arms and cursed. Seven patches was too many. His body couldn’t handle that much nicotine. He tugged them off weakly, struggling to find the force to pluck them from his skin.

He needed John.

The irony was not lost on him.

He staggered to hands and knees, crawling to his clothing and trying to find his phone. The pockets were infuriatingly complex, the folds of clothing foiling his every movement. He retched again, but nothing happened, his stomach already empty.

He got it, hitting speed dial for John as his arms gave out and forced him to the floor.

The phone picked up.

“Help,” he whispered. “Please.”

He closed his eyes, listening to his name being yelled.

He opened them to find that he was lying in the bath, with his head elevated out of the warm water and John sitting on a stool, watching him closely. He licked his lips dryly and John held up a finger to stop him speaking.

“You are an idiot.”

Sherlock blinked.

“You are the most clever, brilliant idiot I have ever met. You could have killed yourself with that many nicotine patches. It’s only your sickeningly high tolerance and the good fortune that you’ve thrown up a lot that’s stopped it becoming serious. You could have died, Sherlock!”

This anger was new as well. It was heated and filled with a lot of fear. Fear for him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”

John sighed and put a new cool cloth over his brow and eyes. “Why couldn’t you have just said that Monday night?”

Huh.

Sherlock made a mental note to add “apologising” to the list of ways to get John to come back home. In case he ever needed that list again.

Fic: Knowing (Sherlock)

2010-11-04T10:37:30Z

Title: Knowing
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Mummy Holmes
Rating: 13+
Summary: Mycroft always explained the things that didn’t make sense to Sherlock.
Warnings: Drug use.

“They’re such a lovely pair of boys, Honoria.”

Honoria smiled fondly as she watched Mycroft lift his little brother up to let him look at the caterpillar spinning itself a cocoon from the leaf. “Mycroft was very adamant that he never wanted a little brother but when Sherlock actually came home...”

Mrs Wooster nodded sympathetically. “He’s so good with him, your Mycroft. Some boys get frustrated with a younger brother that wants to constantly be with them.”

“Oh no, Mycroft dotes on Sherlock. And of course they’re both such intelligent boys, I think Mycroft likes being able to guide Sherlock through life.” She sipped her tea, still keeping half an eye on them as they set off across the landscaped garden in search of the next natural wonder. Of course, Mycroft liked guiding Sherlock and she suspected her youngest would need it. Such an intelligent little boy, maybe even brighter than Mycroft which was a little frightening.

Lightning wasn’t meant to strike twice, but it did with her boys. She was glad it had. Sherlock needed all the guidance he could get.

She nodded absently as Mrs Wooster asked her about the new doctor, agreeing that he was very nice, just the sort of man they needed around here, watching the boys walk over to her. “Yes, Mycroft?”

“I’m trying to explain hive micro-societies to Sherlock. May we go and watch the bees so I can explain it?” He said it very seriously, carefully enunciating each word.

“I want to see the queen,” Sherlock added. “She’s bigger and bullies everyone else until she stops producing the suppressant hormones.”

Mrs Wooster tittered about what adorably large words they used for such small boys.

Sherlock fixed her with one of those looks, gaze raking over her. “You’ve changed your lipstick colour and had your nails done at the expensive place Mother says is a waste of money.”

“Don’t they say the darndest things,” Mrs Wooster said, but she was a bit less amused than she had been moments before. Sherlock looked smug.

“Don’t they? Mycroft, you can go and watch but don’t let Sherlock touch them and keep hold of his hand so he doesn’t wander off,” she cautioned.

“Yes, Mummy,” Mycroft said, taking Sherlock’s hand and leading him off towards the beehives.

Honoria honestly dreaded when Sherlock got old enough to start putting those observations together. Next thing she knew, he’d be announcing affairs and scandals left, right and centre.

At least he would have Mycroft there to hold his hand... even when he was too old to want to hold hands.

*~*~*

“No!”

Mycroft winced as the book was hurled into the mirror, looking up to the ceiling patiently and counting to ten before he responded.

“No! They can’t have you! You’re my big brother!” Another book joined the first. “I won’t allow it!”

“Sherlock... it’s just a term. I won’t be their brother, just a mentor figure. It’s important that I have a history of volunteering in the lower socio-economic demographic for my future career development.”

“NO!” The science award trophy smashed into the wall next to the door, but Mycroft didn’t flinch. As much as Sherlock might throw things around him, he’d never actually throw anything at him.

“Sherlock, calm down. Sit down on the bed.”

He didn’t like to use the voice on his little brother, but sometimes he was beyond unreasonable and only demands would work.

Sherlock threw himself into the bed, all childish rage and unkempt curls. Mycroft sat next to him, stroking his hair back, even when Sherlock growled at him like a feral animal. “It’s just called the Big Brother programme. I won’t actually be anyone else’s brother, just spending one afternoon a week helping underprivileged children.”

“But I need you,” Sherlock sulked.

“You’ve got me. And you don’t need me, you’re already brilliant. You explained to me how chemical reactions create the breakdown of metals and dissolution.”

“You already knew.”

“But you didn’t need any help to understand it.”

“And you can read music. And play the violin and piano.”

“I don’t need you for that.” He sat up, huffing like only an eight year old could. “Any idiot can do that, I don’t need idiots. I need you to explain things, like why I can’t tell Mr Burt that Mrs Burt is having sex with the man who comes by and says he’s her nephew but isn’t.”

“You know why, Sherlock.”

“And you make things make sense, in my head. You make it sound calm and normal when people tell me I’m a freak because I’m smarter than them and why I didn’t care when that show was about dying people and I thought it was interesting and I should have been crying instead.” He grabbed Mycroft’s hand and pressed it to his forehead. “You make it make sense, so I need you more than they do. You’re my translator to the world. Because people are stupid and society is stupid but you get their stupid and I don’t.”

Mycroft rubbed his little brother’s brow, holding his hand with his free hand. Sherlock was too young to be so aware of how different he was. “I’m still going to do the programme, Sherlock.”

“I hate you,” he grumbled. “I’ll hate you forever and ever.”

Mycroft smiled indulgently. “Of course you will. Once you work out what hate feels like?”

“Yes,” he huffed, and Mycroft laughed at him but Sherlock never minded in these situations. “But you’ll make me understand hate.”

“I’ll always help you, Sherlock. Promise.”

*~*~*

All the clinical diagnoses in the world were pointless. People threw around a lot of words, like autistic (that one was clutching at straws), asperger’s syndrome (his language skills were far too high and he had exquisite physical co-ordination), anti-social personality disorder (he was anti-social, but they suspected that was by choice, not nature), disassociative disorder (he was very well aware of himself, thank you) and a bunch of other words that all came from small minded doctors who made the mistake of thinking that they were special that they were the one specialist that this brilliant, obnoxious boy couldn’t out think.

Honoria despaired of him at times. She wondered if maybe it was her fault, if she should have remarried after their father was gone, if a stable male influence would have helped socialise him. If maybe she should have punished him more for his destructive tendencies during his ‘experiments’. If she’d been too motherly, too open, too generous.

Other times she just sat on the patio, overlooking the garden and listening to tape recordings while Sherlock angrily pounded dischordant music from the piano and later screeched his violin in the way that only someone truly skilled can make an instrument so awful.

And then Mycroft would come home and everything would be peace for a while. Sherlock was fifteen, which was difficult for any child, let alone one with Sherlock’s vast mind and sometimes limited attention span. Mycroft, at twenty three, was working in government, some civil service job that she had no doubt he was brilliant at. But he would come home and for a while, Sherlock’s frustration and overwhelming drive would be focused for a while onto his brother, onto listening and learning even if he didn’t care about the corridors of power, because it was Mycroft doing these things and Mycroft explained it in ways that made Sherlock connect with it, understand the importance of it.

She didn’t know what she had done to end up with two boys like she had, but she was endlessly thankful that she’d had them both, not just one.

*~*~*

The hospital called Mycroft, because he was listed as the nearest next of kin that Sherlock had. He really couldn’t afford the time off work, but it was Sherlock and there was nothing more important than his baby brother, so he came down personally to the hospital, where a nice young policeman was saying he wouldn’t press charges this time but he hoped that Sherlock had learned a valuable lesson about little tablets bought from people on street corners.

Mycroft agreed that he had and took him home to sober up. Sherlock lay on the couch for a day without saying a word, just lay there in a sprawl of boneless limbs and broken gaze and Mycroft had sat with him, talking softly to him and brushing his too long curls back from his face.

When asked why he did it, Sherlock simply said, “I wanted to understand.”

Mycroft took that to mean it was an experiment and left it at that.

Until Sherlock started turning up wild eyed and heavy limbed, all nervous energy one moment and exhausted collapse the moment.

He stayed in Mycroft’s town house and screamed at the walls that they were pointless partitions of privacy poorly concealing the dirty secrets of society. He accused the television of being a reprobate drain of the intellect and energy and refused to sleep for five days. He refused to get up for the next week after that.

And Mycroft had had enough. He went into the guest room and flung open the curtains, pulling the blankets off his lanky limbed sibling.

He wasn’t lanky limbed though. He was underweight, wasting away on powders and tablets that Mycroft knew he was abusing but could never catch the proof of on his brother. “Up. Up, showered, breakfast.”

“What’s the point, Mycroft,” he asked in a croaky whisper. “What is the point of everything? It’s tangled webs and stretched elastic and it doesn’t mean anything.”

He sighed and sat next to Sherlock, cupping his face, holding his hand. “Of course it means things, Sherlock.”

“No! No, it doesn’t! It just endlessly chews up facts and spits out conclusions and it never stops! I deprive it of all input and still they’re there, still it races and claws and demands and it chews up facts but if it doesn’t have them it chews up me.” He grabbed Mycroft’s shirt, pulling him close and staring at him. “Why does it do it, Mycroft? Make it make sense. Make it work, I need it to work and not just endlessly devour me!”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock. “It’s just how you are, Sherlock. Your mind is powerful and it needs to be used...”

“Wong! Wrong, I don’t use it and still it goes!” He shook him with surprising strength. “I’ve done martial arts, meditation, studied books, learned whole fields and it’s never ending and I need to know why so I can stop it and if I use just a bit more, I might find out why, I need to know why!” he shook him again, pale eyes broken and desperate. “Help me, Mycroft. Make it make sense so I can stop it.”

“I’ll get you into a good rehab facility...”

And with that, Sherlock’s expression closed down. Like it had when they’d seen a deer hit by a car and Sherlock had seemed stunned at first and then just watched, like the only point he could make of death was studying it.

He pulled away from Mycroft.

“Sherlock...”

“You said you’d always make it make sense. You promised.”

And he had. He had promised. “I can get you help for your addiction...”

“Symptoms, nothing more, meaningless, treating a symptom does nothing, Mycroft, NOTHING! It is meaningless, because the underlying cause goes unresolved and it simple recurs!” He was shoving his belongings in a bag, still dressed in his pajamas and dressing gown.

“What do you want from me, Sherlock? I don’t know why you’re like this. No one does. You just are.”

Sherlock paused and drew himself up haughtily. “You’re an idiot. Just like the rest of them. And you’re fat.” He stalked out of the room, out of the townhouse, doors banging after him.

The words hurt.

Because they sounded an awful lot like “I hate you.”

And this time, Sherlock knew what it meant.

Writer's Block: You can't take that away from me!

2010-11-02T04:52:50Z

Mobile phone, without a doubt. I could go without the tv comfortably, but I only really use my mobile for the alarm function. it dries everyone else nuts when I forget it, not really me.

No music, though, would kill me. Kill me dead.