Fic Rec: Tea and Sympathy
Title: Tea and Sympathy
Author: Tea_Logic on AO3
Pairing: none
Word Count: 2,971
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Author chose not to use warnings
Verse: Elementary
Author's summary: Post 2x22 oneshot. Joan looks for comfort but can only find new horrors.
Reccer's comments: This post-"Paint It Black" fic deals with Joan experiencing flashbacks to her experiences in captivity and with nothing held back. It's a smorgasboard of hurt/comfort and angst.
Excerpt:
Joan throws herself back into the present. Even though the bath had been hot and her room is warm she feels cold now. She should eat, although the idea seems impossible. Tea could work though.
She pads quietly in bare feet down the stairs. She remembers how strung out Sherlock had looked. Exposed like a raw nerve. Maybe he had crashed out on his bed thinking that she was going to do the same. He certainly didn't need waking up now. She flicks on a light. If only-
She turns and stops. The overturned furniture and scattered papers all over the floor make her heart race. She gasps audibly as she walks towards a table, not wanting to recognise the shapes of the objects lying on it but being unable to help it. The gleam of metal is like breaking open a lock. Jem's face, pale and sweaty, dashes in front of her. She turns quickly, trying to get away but she sees a chair placed directly in front of the table. Her imagination is several steps ahead.
She doesn't recollect this. She should have realised last night what Sherlock's eagerness to herd her upstairs meant. To get her clean and then to sleep- because he didn't want her to see this. Mycroft too, with his suggestion of going elsewhere. He had been part of it as well. What had they done?
What had Sherlock been pushed to do for her?
She looks at the tools again. All lined up neatly like a parade. She makes a move to touch one of them- the tools, but the nausea that builds at the back of her throat is too much. Her mind is too much. She feels like yelling. The sickness builds and her chest pulls so tight that she has to blunder out of that room before she does something she feels she'll regret. Somehow she makes it to the kitchen. Attempts to make tea in the half-darkness. But her movements are so jerky that she knocks a mug off the counter and it sails to the floor and smashes, the pieces scattering from the point of impact.
It's like pressing a stop button. She gives up. She's tired and sick. She sits on one of the kitchen chairs, facing the entrance. Waiting for something else to happen to her. She stares into space and tries very hard not to think.
Author: Tea_Logic on AO3
Pairing: none
Word Count: 2,971
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Author chose not to use warnings
Verse: Elementary
Author's summary: Post 2x22 oneshot. Joan looks for comfort but can only find new horrors.
Reccer's comments: This post-"Paint It Black" fic deals with Joan experiencing flashbacks to her experiences in captivity and with nothing held back. It's a smorgasboard of hurt/comfort and angst.
Excerpt:
Joan throws herself back into the present. Even though the bath had been hot and her room is warm she feels cold now. She should eat, although the idea seems impossible. Tea could work though.
She pads quietly in bare feet down the stairs. She remembers how strung out Sherlock had looked. Exposed like a raw nerve. Maybe he had crashed out on his bed thinking that she was going to do the same. He certainly didn't need waking up now. She flicks on a light. If only-
She turns and stops. The overturned furniture and scattered papers all over the floor make her heart race. She gasps audibly as she walks towards a table, not wanting to recognise the shapes of the objects lying on it but being unable to help it. The gleam of metal is like breaking open a lock. Jem's face, pale and sweaty, dashes in front of her. She turns quickly, trying to get away but she sees a chair placed directly in front of the table. Her imagination is several steps ahead.
She doesn't recollect this. She should have realised last night what Sherlock's eagerness to herd her upstairs meant. To get her clean and then to sleep- because he didn't want her to see this. Mycroft too, with his suggestion of going elsewhere. He had been part of it as well. What had they done?
What had Sherlock been pushed to do for her?
She looks at the tools again. All lined up neatly like a parade. She makes a move to touch one of them- the tools, but the nausea that builds at the back of her throat is too much. Her mind is too much. She feels like yelling. The sickness builds and her chest pulls so tight that she has to blunder out of that room before she does something she feels she'll regret. Somehow she makes it to the kitchen. Attempts to make tea in the half-darkness. But her movements are so jerky that she knocks a mug off the counter and it sails to the floor and smashes, the pieces scattering from the point of impact.
It's like pressing a stop button. She gives up. She's tired and sick. She sits on one of the kitchen chairs, facing the entrance. Waiting for something else to happen to her. She stares into space and tries very hard not to think.