7 Fills for BBC Sherlock kinkmeme

[alanwolfmoon]

In order they were written, numbered for your ctrl-f convenience. 7 and 5 are probably the best of the bunch. All were typed directly into comment boxes w/minimal editing. Comes to about 8000 words of fic total.

1Blind and freaked out!Sherlock
Sherlock and Lestrade friendship/a little bit of unrequited slash

2John helping an ill!Sherlock bathe
Sherlock and John friendship

3Famous BAMF!Armydoctor!John
Ensemble Yarders/Sherlock and John

4Socially awkward!Sherlock helping John dress due to shoulder pain
Sherlock and John friendship

5Sherlock finding out he hurt Lestrade when Lestrade helped him detox
Sherlock and Lestrade friendship/preslash depending on your goggles

6BAMF!Mrs. Hudson who has a history, taking down Moriarty
Just Mrs. Hudson and her boys.

7Anderson dealing with a Sherlock who's in shock.
Anderson not being a complete dick, tiny bit of Sherlock and Lestrade friendship

Prompt:
Something happens (an experiment gone wrong perhaps?) that results in Sherlock being blinded and is assured that it should only be temporary. He tries to keep calm and pretend that it doesn't bother him and he is successful for a while, but he ends up having a panic attack at a crime scene as he attempts to go about his usual deducing routines. Lestrade and/or John have to comfort him as he voices what he has been secretly concerned about: what if the blindness is permanent?

Fill:
It was really all John's fault. If he hadn't been talking so much about how dangerous the experiment was, he would have been paying more attention, and probably could have gotten away before the explosion. It was the concessive force, he wound up sitting in a chair with a hand on his shoulder, that definitely didn't belong to John. He checked with the pads of his fingers, determining almost immediately that it was Lestrade. The hands on his face were gloved, not John's, and not Lestrade's.

"John?"

"He's getting taken care of."

"What? He wasn't...he's hurt?"

"There's glass in his arm, Donovan is helping him take care of it. He'll be fine."

He felt slightly sick, and he didn't really think it had much to do with his own pain.

"I can't be sure, but my guess would be detached retinas or blood clots behind the eyes. Regardless, he needs to go to the hospital right away."

"Anderson? You work on dead people, go away."

"I still have a medical degree."

"I don't care."

"Sherlock, the ambulance is almost here."

"Is John almost done? Or, do you have to stay? I just, well, doctors can be idiots..." he turned his head in Anderson's direction. Anderson snorted.

"There's a good bit of glass, John's going to need to deal with that before he can come. I'm going to leave Donovan, and I'll come with you."

He was slightly annoyed by just how much better having to go to the hospital seemed after he knew Lestrade was coming with him. He let Lestrade lead him out of the flat--he really couldn't see anything--with an arm around his shoulders. Sitting down on the stretcher inside the ambulance, he was more than a little bit relieved that Lestrade kept a hand on his shoulder--and even more annoyed at that relief. He really shouldn't be this bothered, both of Anderson's guesses were fixable if caught early enough, and it was definitely early enough.

Sitting on the hospital bed, he keeps unconsciously lifting his hands to his face, fingers lightly resting against his eyelids. Lestrade is sitting on the bed next to him, because for a while he was on the chair next to the bed, but Sherlock kept hearing him move and asking in a semi-panicked tone if he was leaving. A hospital was a noisy place, and trying to understand what was going on from just sound was making him miserable and rather jumpy.

So Lestrade sat next to him, and didn't go anywhere.

The doctor had come earlier, they had run tests, determined it was small blood clots behind the retinas, given him something to break them up--he was, at the time, trying not to hyperventilate, and he really didn't even know what they had given him. Angry didn't even begin to describe how he felt about his failures right now.

"Hey, stop it."

He swallowed, realizing his fingernails were digging into the skin above his eyes, along the bottom edge of his eyebrow. He dropped his hands, but three or four minutes later, found them back in place. Lestrade pulled his right hand away, and held it in his larger, though less elongated hand, "you're okay, Sherlock."

He swallowed, again, nodding, "obviously."

"Right. Obviously, you're fine."

A bit backhanded, but Lestrade was right, he was close to losing it, the thought of trusting something as important as his sight to some random doctors he couldn't even see was utterly terrifying. Lestrade let go of his right hand, gripped his left, and put an arm around his back, drawing him close against the older man's side. Lestrade was warm, and so very solid. He tried not to shake, as he buried his face in the Detective Inspector's chest.

Two hours later, they let him out of the hospital. John was still at home, and Lestrade quietly stood by Sherlock, until John was there instead, at which point the DI left, bidding them a good night and no more accidents.

The next day, Mycroft brought a case, said he’d already called Lestrade, but Lestrade had insisted he check if Sherlock was able to take the case. Already incredibly frustrated, Sherlock snapped and yelled, and just generally made an ass of himself proving he was perfectly fine. Mrs. Hudson had to put his hand on the handle of the cab door, he couldn’t find it among the smooth vastness of the side of the car, and John was still dizzy from the blood loss from the day before.

Standing at the scene, he was in the way no matter what he did, people bumped into him, and he bumped into things. Eventually, Donovan took his hand, and pulled him to a corner, sitting him down, and telling him she’d get Lestrade. He muttered something after her, but he had no idea if she was close enough to hear it.

A couple minutes later, Lestrade was there, a warm mass in front of him, hands gripping his hands away from his face, “figure anything out yet?”

“It was the butler.”

“They don’t have a butler. I’m taking you home.”

Dammit, Lestrade knew him well enough to know he only joked when he couldn’t manage anything more intelligent. Well, he aught to, he’d been there for him feeling almost the worst he’d ever felt, coming off the drugs.

“I’m fine. I just...kept bumping into things.”

“Okay. Did you figure anything out?”

“Mrs. Morstan’s father.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, just listen to them. She’s terrified of him.”

“Doesn’t mean he killed a man he’d never met.”

“Trace their call history, credit card receipts, I guarantee you’ll find something.”

“...okay, then. I’ll have a look.”

Sherlock nodded, but Lestrade didn’t let go. He was having trouble keeping from shaking, and he knew if Lestrade stayed much longer, he would lose the fight entirely. Lestrade let go of his hands, and gripped his shoulders instead, “Sherlock.”

“Fine,” he managed to half gasp.

“Right. Okay, you’re perfectly fine. How about we get you out of the way before Anderson pitches a fit, though, eh?”

Sherlock nodded, starting to lose the fight against the panic. Even the minimal level of noise of the Yarders moving around the crime scene was terribly disorienting, there was just too much to process to properly understand the whole scene. He was getting dizzy, and realized it was because he was hyperventilating. Lestrade lifted him physically to his feet, and put an arm around his back, leading him firmly...somewhere. The door opened onto cold London smog, and so many more noises than had been in the flat.

He felt nauseous, at the thoughts flashing through his mind. He couldn’t, it was too much, he couldn’t, he couldn’t...Lestrade was yelling. He leaned, pressing his ear against Lestrade’s shoulder, using his hand to cover the other ear. Lestrade was practically the only thing keeping him upright, arms wrapped around his back, one hand rubbing up and down.

He coughed, slightly, and paid attention to Lestrade’s spicy smell and slightly rough cotton button down.

“You alright?”

He could hear the rumble of Lestrade asking through the bones in his head. He nodded, slowly straightening, curling both hands in Lestrade’s shirt, “fine.”

“Okay. Well, the car’s right here.”

He nodded, and held onto the DI’s sleeve, as Lestrade walked him to the car.

“Um,” he heard Lestrade half close the door, then stop, and open it again, “yes?”

“There’s a chance it won’t come back.”

“I know, I was there.”

“I know-you wouldn’t leave.”

“Oh, so that’s how it happened. Sorry, I must have forgotten.”

Sherlock turned away, miserable, and just wanting to stop feeling sick to his stomach whenever he thought about the next week. He really didn’t want to get Lestrade mad at him, because then he would be much less likely to indulge what he really, really needed.

“I’m sorry.”

Lestrade, who had just started the car, shut it off again, “are you about to freak out again, or do you want something?”

He remained silent, mouth clamped shut. He couldn’t ask. There was no way he was going to be able to ask, because John was at home, and Mrs. Hudson, and he had a perfectly good bed and there was nothing wrong with any of it. Except that none of it had that one thing that had become his solace when he was detoxing, the one thing that could ground him and make him actually believe that even if whatever was wrong wasn’t okay, his life would be.

Which was kind of a problem, because that thing was something he really needed, and that thing also happened to be someone bothering to stay beside him while he sleep. He couldn’t ask John, the man already had enough problems with anythign that caused question to his heteronormativity. Lestrade didn’t have heteronormativity in the first place, and besides, had been the one to sleep beside Sherlock every single night that he was detoxing, and for several weeks after.

Lestrade had started the car, Sherlock sat, trying with absolute desperation to find a way that it would be okay to ask. By the time the car pulled to a stop, he was almost as worked up as he had been at the crime scene. He was so mad at himself, and at the whole situation, because he was perfectly fine, as long as he was fine, but the thought of any part of himself betraying him drove him bloody nuts with anxiety.

Lestrade had gotten out, opened his door for him, and was standing, the silence expectant, and tinged a bit with worry.

“Can-I...”

He buried his face in his knees, was silent, eventually mumbled, “Gabriel.”

“We’re at my flat, Sherlock.”

He pressed his face harder into his knees, “oh.”

Lestrade gently pulled him out of his foetal position, and led him upstairs, walked him around the apartment so that he would get the idea if he woke before Lestrade, and then handed him a t-shirt to borrow for the night.

Slipping under Lestrade’s comforter, he felt Lestrade slide to press against him, an arm tucking itself into place around his waist. Suddenly, he turned over, and clung to Lestrade, nails digging into the older man’s arm and chest through the nightshirt.

“Texted John, said you were working on the case with me overnight,” said Lestrade, with no trace of anything but concern in calm in his voice.

“What if it doesn’t go away?”

“Then I’ll call you when I’m stumped, and you’ll solve everything brilliantly and tell me how much of an idiot I am, and then we’ll all take down the bad guy, and you’ll go home and John’ll write it up if he thinks it was interesting. Anderson and Donovan will read it the minute it goes up and get annoyed, and call and tell me we shouldn’t be dealing with you, and then I’ll get a new case, and maybe I’ll solve it myself, and maybe I’ll call you. With some variation, of course. Sometimes Anderson and Donovan are having sex, and then it takes them longer to call me to complain.”

Sherlock snorted into Lestrade’s shirt.

“Okay?”

Sherlock nodded. He was...okay. John needed to be okay with him, and he knew John would be. But just as much, he needed Lestrade. And while he knew Lestrade had sat with him while he shook and puked and screamed and didn’t sleep, that had been because he was useful, he himself didn’t have all that much faith in his ability to be useful if he couldn’t see. But Lestrade obviously didn’t know how useful he would be, and apparently it would be okay regardless.

He turned back over, and shifted so his back pressed against Lestrade’s front, “okay.”

Lestrade’s hand ran over his arm, up and down his body, gently combed through his hair. Clearly, Lestrade still liked him just the same way he always had, reciprocated or not.

2
Prompt:
John washes Sherlock's hair.

Fill:
To say that saying Sherlock was not well was an understatement was a vast understatement in and of itself. The consulting detective had started spouting absolute gibberish, and then collapsed at a crime scene while John wasn't there. He had been forced to suffer the indignity of being carried to a police car, driven home and carried to bed by Lestrade. John had taken over from there, giving his friend a thourghough checkup before concluding that Sherlock hadn't slept at all more than three days time, and hadn't slept properly for at least double that time.

Simply, his body and brain had decided they'd had enough, and he had slept for almost twenty-four hours solid. He had taken ill sometime during his sleep, sweating and running a fever that was nothing to laugh about. John cared for him, and made sure he ate, and drank, and continued on the road to recovery, rather than beginning to push himself again at the slightest sign of improvement.

It did help that he was so weak, physically, from what the fever had taken from him, that John was easily able to overpower him. Right now, it had been two days since the last time he had bathed, and then it had been only a sponge bath of his upper body administered by John, because he'd been too out of it for a real bath to be at all safe.

Today, however, he was miserable, and kept wrinkling his nose at his own smell, so John offered a real bath, and he accepted with a silent, miserable nod. He tried so very hard to make it, but that his knees kept collapsing made it a bit of a challenge to walk to the bath. He was so thin that helping him, and even lifting him wasn't even close to difficult.

Sherlock seemed incredibly sleepy, resting his head against John's shoulder, as John carried him to the bathroom. Sitting his friend down in the tub, he rolled back his sleeves, then decided Sherlock was going to need enough help that taking the entire shirt off would be better.

Sherlock was practically asleep, as John removed his shirt, and trousers and pants. Once Sherlock was naked, John started the hot water, but didn't plug the drain, so that it wouldn't fill and chill the young man half asleep and curled against the side of the tub.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open a crack, and sleepily looked up at John, reaching, slipping two long, delicate fingers in the waistband of John's pants. John smiled slightly, and checked the water, then plugged the drain. Sherlock slept, as the water rose, and John stayed kneeling beside the tub, hand rubbing over his friend's goosepimpled skin.

when the water reached Sherlock's belly-button, John switched it over to the sprayer hose, and picked up the soap. Sherlock sort of woke, as John started washing, enough to get his more private areas, and lift his own limbs.

"John?"

"yeah?"

"I, uh...you are..."

"Is something wrong?"

"No. No, that wasn't... that is the opposite of what I was saying."

John smiled slightly to himself, and picked up the shampoo, a green bottle with pictures of pink cherry blossoms on it. John remembered using it, once, and it had made the whole room smell like flowers. the effect is always much more subtle on Sherlock's person, but John still wonders exactly how this got to be in the flat. Maybe Mrs. Hudson decided Sherlock needed shampoo and gave him hers or something.

Taking the sprayer and the shampoo, he gently pulled Sherlock's head forwards of the back of the tub, holding the sprayer above his friend's curly black rats nest. Sherlock grunted slightly, as water ran down into his eyes, John sighed, and reached, giving his friend a washcloth to hold to keep his face from being assaulted.

Squirting the shampoo onto his palm, he started working it into the young man's hair, until Sherlock's curls were weighted down by the water in some places, and held at wild angles by the soap suds in others. The flower smell was overwhelming. John started rinsing the shampoo out, warm water pouring over his hand and Sherlock's head. the suds slid down Sherlock's chest and arms, and the younger man seemed to relax, slightly, as John's fingers worked over his scalp.

Done washing, John put the shampoo and soap away. Sherlock looked up at him, holding himself around the chest, knees bent up to his chest, "John..."

"It's all fine, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head, "I was just going to inform you that I'm getting rather cold."

John nodded, "of course."

He got a towel--large, fluffy, and slightly pink, again, he wondered if Mrs. Hudson had something to do with this, or if Sherlock just had exceedingly feminine taste in bathroom accouterments. Once Sherlock was practically swaddled in the towel, John helped him out of the tub. Two steps was all he could manage, and John lifted him again, Sherlock's damp head resting against his bare shoulder and neck.

Setting Sherlock on the bed, the younger man curled a little, half out of it already, and clearly a bit cold. John tucked the towel under Sherlock's head so the pillow wouldn't get wet, then tugged the comforter up over his friend.
3
Prompt:
John and Sherlock are at a pub (maybe celebrating the end of a case?) with some of the cops they work with when some soldiers on leave approach and ask if he is “…John Watson-really, THE John Watson?”

Fill:
He barely notices the clearly off duty Royal Marines come in, glances, turns back to Lestrade and Sherlock and Donovan-invited by Lestrade, and currently holding her own against the curly-haired man’s barrage of barbs. Lestrade catches John’s amused look, and breaks into a quiet laugh, nodding.

He and Lestrade wander over to the darts board, to give Sherlock and Donovan their shouting room, and not be involved if they get themselves kicked out. Seven in, Lestrade claps him on the back, smirking, “Dr. John Watson, I’m going to owe you more pints than I have pounds in my wallet if we keep playing.”

John smiles, slightly, a little bit proud of his dart-throwing ability. They look over at Donovan and Sherlock, who are currently united in an argument with the bartender-most likely regarding their continued occupation of space inside the establishment. He turns back to Lestrade, “perhaps one more, without wagers?”

Lestrade nods, and John goes to pull the darts out of the board. While he’s working one out of the center, Sherlock and Donovan come over, announcing in happy and miserable tones, respectively, that they’ve been asked to leave. John rolls his eyes, puts the darts on the table below the board, and absently follows Lestrade to go pay. But the bartender says they’ve already been paid for, by one of the Marines in the corner. John checks, but they aren’t anyone he knew, though he’s pretty sure he saw one of them as a patient. He and Lestrade walk over, followed by Donovan and Sherlock.

“Sorry, do I know you? I’m terrible with faces-“

“No, no. I met you once, but I was a little too distracted by the large hole in my side to introduce myself.”

John nods, shaking the man’s hand, “well, obviously I didn’t do to bad a job, I suppose.”

The man frowns, then laughs, his buddies joining in, “never thought you’d be a modest one, what with what happened, all especially with all the stories.”

The other Marines are staring at him.

John feels a slight flush rising to his cheeks, “you know, most of those aren’t true...”

Donovan looks amused, and just the tiniest bit drunk, “what stories?”

The soldier’s buddy grins, “well, the one about pulling the man out of the burning car.”

The second one to his left nods, “or operating at gunpoint?”

Another one joins in, “or staying behind in a battle to save a kid who couldn’t be moved?”

“Or-“

“You know, those are all exaggerated...”

“Or the one with the bomb in triage-“

“That never happened.”

The man John had operated on smiles, “no, it was in the operating theater, right?”

John’s cheeks are burning, and he turns around, and walks out of the pub. He never really understood why people told stories about him. He was just an army doctor, an ex-army doctor, at that, and the idea of people telling exaggerated accounts of things that were just what anyone would have done really kind of bothers him.

Donovan pulls on his shoulder, as they walk out, “how exaggerated are we talking?”

“The bomb was a grenade that was just part of the shrapnel from an explosion, it never was in danger of going off, the car was only a bit on fire. They’re all just exaggerations.”

“How can a car be only a bit on fire?”

He sighs.

“And staying behind?” asks Lestrade, eyebrow raised.

“I...well, what else was I supposed to do? He had a spinal injury, there was no way we could move him.”

“You operated under fire because you didn’t want to risk moving a patient?”

“He wouldn’t have ever walked again if we had moved him! Really, anyone would have done the same!”

“And operating at gunpoint?” it’s Sherlock, asking that time, and there’s a very odd quality to his voice.

John sighs, and rubs his forehead, “well...the patient was critical, there wasn’t... anything to be done, except... well, keep working. So that’s what I did. Anyone else would have done the same.”

“And what happened?”

“They fired.”

All three of them stare at him. He sighs, again, “I got shot. Then I got discharged, and met you lot. It happened, it’s over, there’s no point in talking about it.”

“What happened to the patient?” asks Lestrade, as they walk out of the pub.

“You just met him.”

“Did another doctor step in?”

John grimaces, “well...no.”

“So you kept operating. You were shot, and you just kept operating.”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“Not keep operating?” suggests Donovan, as they flag down a cab. He, Sherlock, and Donovan end up crammed in the back, with Lestrade half turned around riding shotgun.

“What happened after you got shot?”

“He kept holding the gun, and I kept operating.”

“And then?”

“And then somebody took the gun away and I finished operating.”

“Nobody stepped in, then?”

“It was the middle of a live fire zone...”
4
Prompt:
Sometimes, when John's shoulder is really bothering him, Sherlock helps with getting dressed (putting the sweater on, carefully pulling his hand through the... arm of the sweater? and putting his jacket on

Fill:
The days his leg would have bothered him, are the days that he now wakes up with his shoulder screaming at him, stiff, and unwilling to move. His fingers are tingly and numb, and not much use at all, and he ends up walking out of his bedroom with his good hand pressed against the bullet scar. Sherlock notices, but John ignores him, heading straight to the bathroom to pee. When he comes out, he sees that Sherlock is staring at him above his newspaper, John shakes his head, "what?"

"Were you injured last night? I didn't see--"

"No. I was injured over a year ago in Afghanistan."

"Oh. I wasn't aware it bothered you."

"It doesn't, usually. When it does, though, it's a bloody pain..."

"You're pale."

"Pain does that to a person."

Sherlock went back to reading newspaper, but John could feel the younger man still observing him. Going to make breakfast, his left hand proves to be utterly useless, so he ends up taking twice as long as usual. Sherlock comes to investigate the delay, and finds John cracking eggs one-handed--something he did get used to doing while recovering, but it's still not the easiest thing in the world.

Sherlock is standing, staring at him, like his shoulder bothering him is the most fascinating thing in the world. He drops the egg yolk into the rather irregular hole he cut in the bread, frying them together. Three more slices are sitting on the counter, one with a hole torn in it, the other two untouched.

He turns to Sherlock, "if you're going to stand there and stare, make yourself useful."

Sherlock looks annoyed, but he obliges, taking the knife and cutting perfectly round holes in the pieces of toast. John finishes making breakfast, two eggs in a basket for each of them, and slips the last piece onto Sherlock's plate. Sherlock watches him, curiously, he rolls his eyes, and stacks Sherlock's plate on top of his own, carrying it to the table.

Sherlock pratically devours the toast and egg, John grins--they were on a case, so Sherlock didn't eat, and getting him to start eating again is sometimes something of a challenge. John cooking breakfast, particularly eggs in the basket, seems to be a fairly reliable solution, however.

John sort of picks at his own breakfast, and when Sherlock asks if he's going to eat it, he gladly gives it up. His appetite is the first thing to go when he's in pain, he lost quite a bit of weight when he was first injured, not because he wasn't able to eat, but because he had no interest in doing so.

Sherlock finished the fourth piece of toast, and got up, sweeping out into the living-room, probably to finish his paper. John started cleaning up, looking up as he heard Mrs. Hudson enter, "have you eaten yet?"

She nodded, "yes, I had my tea and toast, but thank you, dear. There's a man in a uniform downstairs, he's rather insistent on coming up, but I wanted to make sure you two weren't still abed."

John nodded, "I'll get dressed, but Sherlock's probably as ready for the day as he's going to be."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, "I'll let him in, then, dear. Have a nice morning."

John nodded, smiling after her. He dumped the dishes in the sink, setting the pan to soak, and walked into his bedroom to dress while Sherlock talked to whoever it was--Mrs. Hudson would have recognized Lestrade, and probably invited him for tea and biscuits besides.

John frowned, trying to get his nightshirt off. It was awkward, and hurt. Today was going to suck.

His bedroom door burst open, about fifteen minutes later, when he was in the middle of trying to pull his shirtsleeve over his shoulder. Sherlock, looking positively inflamed, "I don't understand how these people can be such idiots!"

John blinked at his friend, standing awkwardly, arm half in, half out of his sleeve, as the younger man paced back and forth, ranting, waving his hands, "Sherlock."

Sherlock kept going, turning, grabbing John by the shoulders, letting go, and carrying on pacing. It hurt, and John was getting a bit annoyed. Not least of which, because as soon as Sherlock was done mocking whatever poor sergeant had come asking for help, he would probably start right in on John.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped, turning to stare at him, "what?"

"Calm down. And get out."

Sherlock didn't do the latter, but at least he did the former, standing still, and just watching John. John stood, refusing to continue his battle with his shirt in front of Sherlock, but starting to get cold with his whole torso exposed.

"John, you really don't look very well."

"It hurts. Now please get out."

Sherlock shook his head, stepping towards John. John glared at him, "I don't need help, I just need you leave."

"Let me?"

John blinked, and stared, "what? Why?"

Sherlock was staring at him, expression completely inscrutable, he didn't answer. John sighed, "Sherlock, I didn't sleep well, and I'm not in a very good mood. Either be clear or leave."

"I just... it is rather disagreeable. When you... are not...sound."

John stared for a moment, then smiled slightly, amused. Sherlock was so awkward, when he was worried, it was impossible to be mad at him once John figured out that was the issue, "okay."

Sherlock's hands slid the shirt up onto his shoulder, held the other side of the shirt for him to put his arm through, and started buttoning it. John stood, watching his friend, Sherlock's expression so very fascinating. Sherlock's hands were surprisingly warm, and unsurprisingly delicate, the long fingers trailing just the tiniest bit against his skin. It was nice, really nice, it had been a long, long time since someone who actually cared for him had, well, cared for him.

Sherlock left, after apparently getting bored or possibly just exceedingly awkward halfway through helping John with his sweater, but John really didn't mind. It had been nice, and it was really nice to know Sherlock gave enough of a damn to want to help him button his shirt. And, honestly, John wasn't complaining about Sherlock's hands against his skin, either.
5
Prompt:
John comments in passing on a deep scar he sees on Lestrade's arm when the DI has his sleeves pushed up at a crime scene. Lestrade seems uncharacteristically anxious to change the conversation.

Sherlock is intrigued, and he gets to deducing. He finally comes to the conclusion that he himself wounded Lestrade during his less-than-sane days of his withdrawal from cocaine, when the DI was caring for him. After he was clean, Sherlock didn't remember the incident, and Lestrade never told (or, apparently, blamed) him.

This makes Sherlock wonder: what else did he do during those dark days, especially to Lestrade?

Fill:
John is new--so really, it shouldn't be surprising that he's surprised by things that have been there for years, like the long scar on Lestrade's arm. It must have been a deep wound, and Sherlock remembers when it was still pink, but never bothered to ask about it. John does, though, and Lestrade's reaction is very odd. He refuses to explain, looks around, and points out a completely irrelevant piece of evidence to go after.

Sherlock stands back, looking curiously at the DI. He thinks back, calculating, and decides the scar was fresh pink about three years ago, in the fa...

In the fall, after he got clean. After those days he barely remembers, and doesn't want to remember. It wasn't there before, it was there after. He swallows. He knows he was out of his mind, during that time, but no, he wasn't... he wouldn't have done that. Except he knows that is the solution, the timing fits, and Lestrade's behavior.

He resolves to ask the DI about it--when John isn't around. Was he really *that* out of it, that he stabbed his then only even close to friend? He remembers curling in misery, confused, and terribly unhappy, unable to sleep, his head and upper body in Lestrade's lap, Lestrade rubbing his arm, his back, taking care of him.

He remembers terrible dreams, screaming himself awake, to find Lestrade right there, keeping him from hurting himself in his sleep, and ready to comfort as he woke.

He remembers laying awake in bed, curled, arms around him, head resting on Lestrade's chest, miserable, and craving so bad he felt it was going to kill him. He remembers fear with no basis, and he remembers being so confused sometimes, but he... he wouldn't have done that. He wouldn't have hurt the man who stopped him from hurting himself, craving the release of endorphins.

Following Lestrade back to his car, he swallows, and asks, "did I do that?"

Lestrade turns to look at him, seemingly surprised, "well...not really."

"What do you mean not really? It was either me or it wasn't."

"Or it was a terrified young man who didn't know where we were was or who I was."

"So I did that. I hurt you."

"Sherlock, nothing you did during that time was your fault. I knew what I was getting into when I said I was going to help you get clean. Nothing that happened was your fault."

"Nothing that happened... what else did I do?"

Lestrade shook his head, "you did nothing, Sherlock."

Sitting in the armchair in their flat, he stared at the wall. He knew Mycroft had had surveillance planted in Lestrade's home during those days, knew Mycroft probably still had the footage. It had never occurred to him, that he was that out of control. He had even said, several times, that Lestrade had been there to keep him from using, and that was it. Lestrade had never corrected him.

Standing, he walked outside, and flagged down a cab to his brother's penthouse.

Sitting in a rolly-chair in front of a video screen, a remote clutched in his hand, knees drawn up to his chest, he couldn't tear his eyes away. Lestrade, standing in front of him, Sherlock's own hands shaking on a kitchen knife. Lestrade cautiously holding out a hand, Sherlock stabbing viciously, cutting deep into Lestrade's arm. Lestrade's calm face, as he continued to try and get the knife away, eventually succeeding, and drawing a trembling Sherlock close, patting him on the back, holding him. Sherlock's hand clenching in Lestrade's shirtsleeve, as it slowly became crimson with blood.

There was no sound, but there didn't really need to be. It was all perfectly clear.

He hit the skip button--mycroft had patched together a few clips, as different tracks on a CD, so he wouldn't have to go through days of nightmares, lack of sleep, and misery to find anything he might have done. Bloody Mycroft.

Sherlock sleeping on the couch, fitfully, clearly in the midst of a nightmare. Lestrade walking out of the bathroom, hair wet, wearing his pajamas. Frowning, crouching beside Sherlock's adjitated form, gently shaking him, until he woke. Sherlock punching with all his might, shoving, attacking, eyes practically feral.

Lestrade taking it, letting Sherlock pin him down, punch at him, only blocking his face with the backs of his forearms, until Sherlock's hands were bruised and the skin on his knuckles split, and he stopped, staring down at the then Sergent, like he wasn't sure where he was, or what had just happened. Lestrade sitting up, and gently taking Sherlock's wrist, checking his hand, fingers for damage, then the other wrist, performing the same check.

Sherlock sitting on the floor, staring blankly at Lestrade, then frowning, and touching the bruise already starting to form on Lestrade's cheek, clearly asking what had happened. Lestrade shaking his head, and leading Sherlock into the bathroom to clean the split skin on his knuckles.

Another skip, Sherlock biting, another, Sherlock with a gun, another, another, another. In all of them, Lestrade taking it, letting Sherlock hurt him, and then comforting once he stopped. One time Sherlock trying to hurt himself, Lestrade wrenching the knife away, throwing it across the room, and holding a clearly distraught Sherlock like a small child, a bandaged hand stroking through Sherlock's sweaty hair.

Lestrade never mentioned *any* of this. As far as Sherlock had known, those days had been mostly a lot of missed sleep and yelling. He hadn't known he'd been completely mental.

And, god, Lestrade, face holding absolutely nothing but compassion, no matter what--even if Sherlock was pointing a gun at him while completely out of his mind.

A brilliant crime solver, Lestrade might not be. But Sherlock feels that he may have vastly underrated Lestrade's other qualities.

Sherlock feels the need to confront him, a while later. Asking why he's never mentioned this, why he just *took* it all. Lestrade can see the guilt in Sherlock's face, which surprises him more than a little, but not in a bad way. Deciding he can't leave Sherlock upset like this, though it is a little, tiny bit nice to have Sherlock finally know just what those days were like, he sits the Consulting Detective down on his couch, and starts to explain.

He starts with Sherlock's usefullness, Sherlock's brilliance, not wanting to see all that go to waste. And then he starts on the things Sherlock didn't already know. Sherlock's hands, and eyes, when he's playing the violin. Long, delicate fingers, grey eyes focused far, far away. Sherlock's smile, when something goes especially well, and how much Sherlock cares when something goes ill.

Then moving on to what got him through those days. Sherlock sleeping peacefully, for once, finally, but the tiniest of frowns crossing his face when Lestrade went to leave. The frown disappearing, when Lestrade settled back into place. Sherlock falling asleep in the bathtub, without any water in it, and still in his pants. Sherlock pulling on his sleeve, and quietly apologizing for punching Lestrade earlier that day. Sherlock asking him to sleep in the bed with him, and then curling practically on top of him when he obliged.

"I never needed to mention the bad things you did, because you didn't only do bad things. You were bloody cute at times, and I got to help you. I care about you, have for years. You letting me help you was one of the biggest gifts you could have given me, at the time."

Sherlock didn't seem to know what to react to first--not being held responsible for all the bad things, or being called cute.
6
Prompt:
Before she became the housekeeper landlady at 221B Baker Street, Mrs Hudson was an evil genius, criminal ubermastermind. But after some major screw-up she made a scrapgoat of of her (cheating) husband and went to live happily in London as a model citizen (at last time to bake a cake without arsenic in it!). When Sherlock and John move in, she becomes quite attached to them, as they remind her of her youth.

But then Moriarty comes along. And Mrs Hudson will not tolerate ANY SISSY AMATEUR SPOILING CRIME BUISINESS AND THREATHENING HER BOYS! It's time to put on black gloves again, get this stupid white cat on a diet, dust off the guns, find the missing key to the secret torture chamber and call her minions (Mrs Turner missed her sniper riffle terribly, didn't she).

Mrs Martha 'Bloody Mary' Hudson is going to war. And Moriarty is going down.

Fill:
"Oh dear..." murmured Mrs. Hudson, standing at the door, as a small, odd man stood over John, who looked very angry and also very much stabbed, the small knife still in the wound, and Sherlock, who was kneeling beside the fallen ex-soldier.

The man turned to look at her, grinned, and shook his head, "you shouldn't interrupt boy's playtime, nanny."

She frowned, slightly, and shook her head, "really, that wasn't wise."

He raised an eyebrow, "what?"

"Oh, well, it's just that I'm rather fond of those two."

John struggled to sit upright, "Mrs. Hudson, please, leave, he's not after you."

"Oh, dear, John, I think you should probably lie back down. And, Sherlock, you might want to as well..."

"Mrs. Hudson--" started Sherlock, but the man standing over them interrupted, "Hudson?"

She smiled, sweetly, "yes, dear. I would like it very much if you left now, as I mentioned, I'm rather fond of the two men you're threatening, and I would like if if you left them alone."

The man hesitated, slightly.

"Oh, come now. This can all end well, just step out."

"Mrs. Hudson, please, please leave, he already shot Lestrade--"

She frowned, "did you, know. I'm afraid I'm a bit fond of that one, too."

The look of pure fear on the man's face made her blush slightly, she shook her head, "it's a pity, I rather liked this carpet."

The man shot out past her, she sighed, watching him go, then moved to help Sherlock move John onto the couch, and start to stem the bleeding. She ignored their questions, and simply got a suture kit, "don't worry, I'll see to that boy in a bit. Is Gabriel alright?"

"Shot in the back, protecting Donovan. He's hurt, but he'll be alright."

She nodded, "then I suppose I will have to be a bit lenient."

Sherlock was staring at her, "Mrs. Hudson, what the bloody hell is going on?"

"Language, Sherlock!"

"Mrs. Hudson?" asked John, staring at her with the same confused look as Sherlock.

She sighed, turning back to Sherlock, "I may not have been entirely truthful with you when you helped me with my husband's murder trial. By which I mean, he didn't do it, I made a slight mistake, and really, I was old enough to retire, anyway."

They still didn't seem to quite understand, so she sighed, and stood, retrieving the three knives from under her sleeves, another from the small of her back, two more from inside her pants--admonishing them for staring at her ankles--and took out the two from inside the soles of her shoes, "not quite as prepared as I used to be, but I have been retired for a good long while. Anyway, you tend to John, there. I'll be back in a pop."

It didn't take long to find the man's name, and trail. Three calls to old contacts, a trip to Mrs. Turner's flat for supplies, and she was in a cab to Central London. Getting out in front of a Bakery, she stopped in for a pastry and cup of tea--she was a bit parched, and not as young as she used to be--and then slipped into an alley and lifted the manhole cover. Frowning, she rolled up her pants and removed the sheaths strapped to her ankles, then dropped in, sliding the cover back on above her.

Two turns, three or four city blocks, and she reached the right drain, climbed the pipe, and slid the grating off, and popped out in the middle of a warehouse, the two men standing and the body on the floor telling her she hadn't taken a wrong turn. She smiled politely, and let them have their little moment of dominance, before slicing her wrist knife through both of their throats. She cut the bonds on the man on the floor, he scurried out, and then settled down to wait by the door for the boss to return. The sound of the two men choking and writhing as they bled out helped a bit with the wait.

Three hours later, he did, and she slid a visioned knife into his back, and a second in the same place as he had stabbed John, "hello young man. Lets go for a little walk."

He swallowed, positively petrified, "Mrs. Bloody Mary Hudson."

"Who else?"

"The assassin for hire."

"Not anymore, dear, I'm retired."

"By the looks of my men, you seem to be making a return."

"Oh, no, just doing a little favor for some friends."

"So you're not doing what you're famous for?"

She smiled, "oh, no. Of course not, dear. I'm not on a job."

"Right."

"This is far too personal to be that nice."

"You tortured your targets to death!"

"Well, it wasn't as if any of them were very nice people."

Moriarty pulled a gun, she sighed, "really?"

He turned it on himself, and would have fired, but she sliced his trigger finger off before he could fire. He stared down the blade she was holding to his throat, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest, "you're insane."

"You really did pick the exact worst men in London to try and hurt. I'm very fond of all three of them. Now we're going to have a little chat, and I'll tell the antidote to the police, and you'll hope they're merciful and just kill you on the spot or let you die without the antidote, because you really won't want to live, after our chat."

7
Prompt:
Anderson covering Sherlock in a shock blanket when he really needs one.

Fill:
He's sitting on the steps outside the building across from the pool, and it's raining, and there's thunder. But it's not very cold, and he doesn't quite understand why he's shivering so violently. His hands are shaking just as bad as the rest of him, and when Lestrade tried to hand him a cup of tea or something, his fingers had refused to close around it. It was currently sitting next to him, a slight bit of steam still rising off it, as raindrops sprinkle into it, sending ripples across the surface.

He leans forwards, trying to pin his trembling hands down, make them stop, but his shoulders are having a fit, and his chest is heaving, and he's feeling very, very dizzy. He's on the verge of blacking out, when something heavy is dropped across his shoulders, and pulled around, hands tugging it, tucking it, moving the tea out of the way, and sitting down beside him.

He stared at his own hands, long, thin, pale fingers trembling, shaking, useless, the hands grip his, two of them, sandwiching both of his between them, "why didn't you drink the tea?"

His mouth--brain, really--didn't seem to work, all he manages is an inarticulate, "uh."

"Okay. Look, Gabriel should be back in a few minutes, try not to lose it completely until he's here, alright?"

Gabriel? He really has no idea who that is, or, for that matter, who's sitting next to him. He raises his head from staring at his hands, to stare instead at the warm on his right-hand side.

It's really not much more informative, because it looks like Anderson, and that makes no sense even more than nothing makes any sense at all.

"Can you actually hear me?"

He blinks, slowly, and nods, once. He feels so dizzy.

A hand leaves the sandwich, an arm puts itself around his back, he only realizes then that the dizzy is because he's breathing so fast he's not getting enough oxygen. Hyperventilation, acute stress reaction.

To what?

He stares at Anderson that can't be Anderson, again, and sort of slur-croaks, "John."

"On the way to the hospital. He'll be fine, they were able to stop the bleeding in time."

The dizzy gets even worse, and he suddenly finds himself staring down at the asphalt between his knees, arms really the only thing holding him up, he feels like he was trying to move, run, something forwards, but it really didn't work, and somehow he's now on his knees, and there's an orange blanket poking into his field of vision, and hands are putting it on him, and gently, so very, very gently pulling him to his feet.

"Alright, Sherlock. Got it. Changing the subject. Gabriel should be back any minute."

He's feeling worse than before, he's breathing like he's run a marathon, but at the same time, he feels a tiny bit clearer, and manages to order his thoughts enough to ask, "Gabriel?"

"Yeah. He'll be here, just a few minutes, heard him say on Sally's radio."

He really has no bloody idea who Gabriel is, but it sounds good, someone coming, who will apparently change what's going on What's going on right now really isn't very pleasant.

The hands leading him back to the steps are rubbing, too, now, and he realizes he's sitting down, and the tea is behind held under his nose, and a hand is rubbing up and down his back, through the bright orange blanket.

Feet are in front of him, and then there seems to be a change, and there's a heavier, larger hand, and a different smell, and different shoes next to his. He blinks, and looks, and he must have been confused, because that's Lestrade, not Anderson. Gabriel.

He closes his eyes.

But... he never did know Lestrade's first name.