Fic: Sherlock (BBC)
Title: Behavioral Modifications
Author: Alone Dreaming
Rating: Bah, PGish...
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade (is mentioned)
Warnings: Kinda fluffy, and humorous, and ridiculous, but, hopefully, plausible; probably one or two harsh words in there
Categories: Humor (the dust bunny kind: you know, fluffy but trapped in a dark sort of space), mild John!ow (not really whump, not really injury, just suffering really, but it's expected living at Baker Street), Friendship (because only the greatest of friends would do this for each other, according to Sherlock)
Words: 2,200ish
Author's Note: Honestly, it just popped into my head. Sherlock, scalpel, John, couch, and out came this. It had such potential to be an excellent hurt/comfort, gory, poignant piece of work, and, basically, slipped into a bit of a farce. But that's all right. Everyone needs a bit of silliness in their life.
Summary: He had another reason to never accept a cup of tea from Sherlock Holmes, regardless of the possible behavioral modifications positive reinforcement could produce.
Typically, Sherlock commandeered the couch from morning until evening, with little to no regard whether or not John wanted to use it. This didn’t particularly bother John-after all, he had a chair to peruse at his will and a desk-except when Sherlock attempted target practice around him from the couch; one memorable incident had ended with his ear bleeding, a remarkably loud row (a “domestic” Mrs. Hudson had called it as John stormed down the stairs, a dishtowel pressed against the side of his head), and a trip down to the clinic. As long as he kept the gun away from his easily bored (but even more easily distracted) roommate, John thought that the arrangement worked just fine. Sherlock sprawled and sulked, and he typed away in his chair or at his desk, and the two of them managed to not kill each other.
However, there were times where it made more sense for him to fall full body onto the couch and lie there, limp and drained, while Sherlock took up residence in his chair, folding his long arms and legs into the tiniest amount of space possible. Sherlock in a chair was nothing like Sherlock on the couch. On the couch, he often languished like a protagonist straight out of a Shakespearean revenge tragedy. He looked hopeless, dramatic and childish all at once, leaving John torn between amusement and frustration. By comparison, Sherlock in the chair was rigid, quiet and subdued. He observed, calculated, and sometimes, if necessary, spoke. This Sherlock-which John rarely saw while coherent-often caused John a bit of alarm; when he found Sherlock that way when he, John, had not taken the couch over, he would roll up dressing gown sleeves and peering at the crook of Sherlock’s arm just in case Sherlock had done something stupid.
Luckily, this time, he did not have to fret about Sherlock as he fell upon the cushions, his face pressed against the back crease, his eyes closed instantly. He could hear the man moving still, going to the kitchen with an audibly awkward gait (from his damn ankle, John thought, hazily) and opening the fridge. Or, at least, he didn’t have to worry about Sherlock settling into the chair in a nicotine patch stupor until he, John, found the energy to sit up and make small talk. Sherlock might accidentally poison himself with bad milk or whatever experiment currently haunted the fridge but John figured (considering the nearly daily occurrence of some deadly something lingering somewhere in the kitchen) that to be a “natural” cause of death and could not bring himself to fret over it. The door closed and Sherlock limped back towards him.
“John, I have tea for you,” Sherlock informed him, hovering high above, no doubt. He did not lift his head to look, busily inhaling the detritus that tended to collect in a couch over the years. It smelled musty and something dusty was definitely attempting to crawl into his sinuses but he didn’t have the energy to turn himself away. Already, his brain was drifting towards sleep.
Luckily, Sherlock’s impatience saved him from smothering himself. A sharp rap on the head elicited a groan from him that (he hoped) sounded vaguely like, “Leave me alone.”
“Tea,” Sherlock repeated. “It’s not as good as Mrs. Hudson’s but it’s passable.”
“No, thank you,” he grunted into the couch. It ended up coming out as, “N’thnu.”
Sherlock’s next words were distinctively perplexed. “Is it wrong?”
“Hm?” he said, not remotely interested in what was wrong or what wasn’t. In fact, he could safely say he’d had enough of the supposed “war” that Mycroft had welcomed him into nearly a year ago; at least, he’d had enough for today and no doubt the “Is it wrong?” applied to the last twenty four hours of his life which he preferred to forget. The smell of his borrowed clothes kept dragging him back to the closet with the tape over his mouth and about his wrists and ankles, and sleep promised an escape from that.
“The tea,” Sherlock clarified. “Whenever my mother had one of her moments, the housekeeper would always fix tea. Mrs. Hudson, when my day’s been particularly unproductive, brings tea and biscuits. Sarah fixes you a pot with honey every time we have a disagreement and you take refuge with her so I assumed, after your experience, that a cup of tea would be the appropriate gesture. Am I wrong?”
He turned his head so he could stare at Sherlock’s knees. “Tea?”
“Yes, John, tea,” Sherlock had acquired a long-suffering tone. “Are you certain they didn’t drug you while they had you? You’re disorientation suggests you-”
He rolled onto his side so he could see Sherlock properly. The man had yet to remove his scarf or coat, and he looked impossibly tall and thin from John’s perspective. In his delicate hands, he held a tea cup (the same one John had used the morning before, from the looks of it) his expression innocent and uncertain. It was so utterly endearing, that for a moment, John felt certain he’d drifted off and was now having a rather odd dream where Sherlock was somewhat human. A quick fist to his eyes revealed nothing changed except Sherlock’s expression was somewhat more confused, and the cup in his hands, a bit closer to John’s face.
“No, no,” he managed, shifting so he lay on his back. “I’m fine. Just wiped. Uh, and… actually,” it was against his better judgment considering there’d been toes in the fridge last time he’d look, “tea’s perfect. Thank you.”
As he took the cup, he attempted to smile at Sherlock but failed. The tea looked a bit chunky, as though the milk was bad, and there was grit resting at the bottom. Sherlock waited expectantly, his hands now tucked behind his back, as he gingerly cradled the cup to his chest. Something about it all didn’t quite fit about this sudden burst of caring and concern but he couldn’t bring himself to turn it down. As a child, he’d had a number of dogs, and every time the new puppy would come home, his father would remind him that it was positive reinforcement that brought about behavioral changes. Not that Sherlock even remotely resembled any of those dogs-he lacked the doggy empathy, general friendliness, and unfailing good nature-but the idea of positive reinforcement remained true. Drinking the tea would assure Sherlock that bringing tea-however poisonous it might be-was an excellent form of comfort.
Raising his glass-and praying to God he wouldn’t need a hospital in a few moments-he attempted to sip around layer of scum that formed at the top. It tasted dreadful, just as he had expected, but he put on his bravest face and finished the mouthful. This wasn’t the worst experience he’d had today, after all; that position was having Lestrade find him in his skivvies in the closet, bound hand and foot with duct tape. In fact, when he mulled over it, trying to get the tea down his gullet instead of lingering near the top of his throat, it probably wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to him in a long time. Three kidnappings, several injuries, a few drugging, once incident involving eyeballs in his soup and several long (and unpleasant) walks home from random areas of London after Sherlock stole the last of his money and then forgot about him in a crazed moment of processing, and John Watson could easily finish off a bad cup of tea.
“How is it?” Sherlock queried, scrutinizing his every motion until he felt self-conscious.
“Fine, just fine,” he assured, his stomach twisting. “Lovely even.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly. “It’s rubbish.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But it was the thought that counts…” His lips tingled and he ran his tongue over them.
“Hardly,” Sherlock sniffed though he didn’t seem the least surprised about how bad the tea was. “The thought is meaningless if the actions do not produce the intended outcome.”
His eyes felt heavy and his fingers kept slipping about the cup. Obviously, the bit of adrenaline he’d run on since his rescue had worn off. He needed to crawl to his bedroom so he could forget about this latest experience brought on by his oh-so-very-brilliant moment with his therapist ages ago. Nothing happens to me, he’d said, so foolishly. Clumsily, he attempted to set the cup down before he dropped it, now thinking that it would be best to just curl up here until he regained his senses. He didn’t need a concussion from a fall to his ever growing list of things that happened to him after all. His vision blurred and only Sherlock’s quick hands rescued the tea cup from an untimely end.
“Sorry,” he slurred, his tongue just as numb as his lips. A sudden wave of concerned crashed onto him. “Seem a little more tired than I thought.” He swayed forward instead of backwards, the edge of the table coming a bit too close for comfort.
“I suggest lying down,” Sherlock said, taking his shoulder and guiding him back to his supine position.
His vision blurred, warped, showed him two Sherlocks instead of one. Wouldn’t that be a disaster, he thought, two instead of one. The world wouldn’t be able to handle it.
“Sherlock,” he mumbled, trying to swallow. “I think…”
“I think you should rest,” Sherlock informed him, mildly. “And when you wake up, our problems should be solved. I’ve, of course, been considering this for a long time and do believe it to be the best action to take. It will prevent any more of these ridiculous search and rescue incidences and it will allow for me to find you when I need you, regardless of whether you’ve remembered to charge and bring your cell phone. You’ll barely feel a thing.”
“Wha-”
“Just sleep, John.”
And, very much against his will, he did.
He woke up to Sherlock leaning over him with a scalpel which replaced almost all incidences he’d been involved in over the past two years as the singularly most terrifying event he’d ever experienced. With a yowl of horror, he rolled off the couch onto the floor. His torpid limbs flailed as he attempted a stomach crawl towards the door. He would not-would NOT-become one of Sherlock’s experiments, sitting in the fridge until some unsuspecting person happened upon him in search of refreshment. Nor would he sacrifice any piece of his anatomy in the name of science, a case or Sherlock’s own grim curiosity about how the world ticked.
Sherlock stepped into his path-considering a slug could’ve outmaneuvered him at this point, it wasn’t terribly difficult-and crouched down, scalpel still in hand. “John, there's no point in frantic escape attempts. After all, I'm almost done.”
He realized that the area behind his left ear felt curiously numb and when he pressed upon it, his fingers came away wet with bright, red blood. His throat went tight and he just managed to squeak, “Wha?” It was only a small portion of the thought, “What the hell did you do to me?”
“I believe it would be unwise to go out right now,” Sherlock added.
He tried again. “Wha’ did you d’to me?”
Sherlock frowned ever so slightly. “Nothing, do to your untimely return to consciousness. But if you would be so kind as to lie back down, I will finish.”
“Wha’ are you TRYING to do to me?” He rephrased the question, his words a bit clearer, his head a little less foggy, his heart racing and his body steady.
“I thought I told you,” Sherlock said, as though it was terribly obvious. “I intend on inserting a microchip behind your ear to prevent future kidnappings.”
His arms and legs gave out and he ended face first on the carpet. A tiny giggle escaped him, and, though he’d admit it to no one, it was a giggle born of borderline hysteria. He tried to blame it on the kidnapping, the rescue, the drugs Sherlock had dosed him with, but, in the end, he knew none of those were the real culprit. Rolling over, he let the giggle turn into a full-out bout of laughter and it increased with Sherlock’s bemused expression.
“I’m uncertain what’s funny about this situation,” Sherlock commented. “You’re getting blood on the carpet and Mrs. Hudson’s bound to have a fit.”
“No, no, I suppose you wouldn’t,” he managed. “’Scuse me. I’m going to bed.”
Sherlock ended up half-carrying him to his room, tentative hands holding his arm and waist, producing rapid-fire argument about the benefits of GPS and how, with it, Sherlock would never have to worry about misplacing (as though he was that damned skull on the mantel or a mobile) John again. John only heard half of the words, and once Sherlock settled him-with the solemn promise he would allow John to think about it-he decided that he would never, ever accept a cup of tea (regardless of possible behavioral modifications it could produce) from Sherlock again.
Author: Alone Dreaming
Rating: Bah, PGish...
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade (is mentioned)
Warnings: Kinda fluffy, and humorous, and ridiculous, but, hopefully, plausible; probably one or two harsh words in there
Categories: Humor (the dust bunny kind: you know, fluffy but trapped in a dark sort of space), mild John!ow (not really whump, not really injury, just suffering really, but it's expected living at Baker Street), Friendship (because only the greatest of friends would do this for each other, according to Sherlock)
Words: 2,200ish
Author's Note: Honestly, it just popped into my head. Sherlock, scalpel, John, couch, and out came this. It had such potential to be an excellent hurt/comfort, gory, poignant piece of work, and, basically, slipped into a bit of a farce. But that's all right. Everyone needs a bit of silliness in their life.
Summary: He had another reason to never accept a cup of tea from Sherlock Holmes, regardless of the possible behavioral modifications positive reinforcement could produce.
Typically, Sherlock commandeered the couch from morning until evening, with little to no regard whether or not John wanted to use it. This didn’t particularly bother John-after all, he had a chair to peruse at his will and a desk-except when Sherlock attempted target practice around him from the couch; one memorable incident had ended with his ear bleeding, a remarkably loud row (a “domestic” Mrs. Hudson had called it as John stormed down the stairs, a dishtowel pressed against the side of his head), and a trip down to the clinic. As long as he kept the gun away from his easily bored (but even more easily distracted) roommate, John thought that the arrangement worked just fine. Sherlock sprawled and sulked, and he typed away in his chair or at his desk, and the two of them managed to not kill each other.
However, there were times where it made more sense for him to fall full body onto the couch and lie there, limp and drained, while Sherlock took up residence in his chair, folding his long arms and legs into the tiniest amount of space possible. Sherlock in a chair was nothing like Sherlock on the couch. On the couch, he often languished like a protagonist straight out of a Shakespearean revenge tragedy. He looked hopeless, dramatic and childish all at once, leaving John torn between amusement and frustration. By comparison, Sherlock in the chair was rigid, quiet and subdued. He observed, calculated, and sometimes, if necessary, spoke. This Sherlock-which John rarely saw while coherent-often caused John a bit of alarm; when he found Sherlock that way when he, John, had not taken the couch over, he would roll up dressing gown sleeves and peering at the crook of Sherlock’s arm just in case Sherlock had done something stupid.
Luckily, this time, he did not have to fret about Sherlock as he fell upon the cushions, his face pressed against the back crease, his eyes closed instantly. He could hear the man moving still, going to the kitchen with an audibly awkward gait (from his damn ankle, John thought, hazily) and opening the fridge. Or, at least, he didn’t have to worry about Sherlock settling into the chair in a nicotine patch stupor until he, John, found the energy to sit up and make small talk. Sherlock might accidentally poison himself with bad milk or whatever experiment currently haunted the fridge but John figured (considering the nearly daily occurrence of some deadly something lingering somewhere in the kitchen) that to be a “natural” cause of death and could not bring himself to fret over it. The door closed and Sherlock limped back towards him.
“John, I have tea for you,” Sherlock informed him, hovering high above, no doubt. He did not lift his head to look, busily inhaling the detritus that tended to collect in a couch over the years. It smelled musty and something dusty was definitely attempting to crawl into his sinuses but he didn’t have the energy to turn himself away. Already, his brain was drifting towards sleep.
Luckily, Sherlock’s impatience saved him from smothering himself. A sharp rap on the head elicited a groan from him that (he hoped) sounded vaguely like, “Leave me alone.”
“Tea,” Sherlock repeated. “It’s not as good as Mrs. Hudson’s but it’s passable.”
“No, thank you,” he grunted into the couch. It ended up coming out as, “N’thnu.”
Sherlock’s next words were distinctively perplexed. “Is it wrong?”
“Hm?” he said, not remotely interested in what was wrong or what wasn’t. In fact, he could safely say he’d had enough of the supposed “war” that Mycroft had welcomed him into nearly a year ago; at least, he’d had enough for today and no doubt the “Is it wrong?” applied to the last twenty four hours of his life which he preferred to forget. The smell of his borrowed clothes kept dragging him back to the closet with the tape over his mouth and about his wrists and ankles, and sleep promised an escape from that.
“The tea,” Sherlock clarified. “Whenever my mother had one of her moments, the housekeeper would always fix tea. Mrs. Hudson, when my day’s been particularly unproductive, brings tea and biscuits. Sarah fixes you a pot with honey every time we have a disagreement and you take refuge with her so I assumed, after your experience, that a cup of tea would be the appropriate gesture. Am I wrong?”
He turned his head so he could stare at Sherlock’s knees. “Tea?”
“Yes, John, tea,” Sherlock had acquired a long-suffering tone. “Are you certain they didn’t drug you while they had you? You’re disorientation suggests you-”
He rolled onto his side so he could see Sherlock properly. The man had yet to remove his scarf or coat, and he looked impossibly tall and thin from John’s perspective. In his delicate hands, he held a tea cup (the same one John had used the morning before, from the looks of it) his expression innocent and uncertain. It was so utterly endearing, that for a moment, John felt certain he’d drifted off and was now having a rather odd dream where Sherlock was somewhat human. A quick fist to his eyes revealed nothing changed except Sherlock’s expression was somewhat more confused, and the cup in his hands, a bit closer to John’s face.
“No, no,” he managed, shifting so he lay on his back. “I’m fine. Just wiped. Uh, and… actually,” it was against his better judgment considering there’d been toes in the fridge last time he’d look, “tea’s perfect. Thank you.”
As he took the cup, he attempted to smile at Sherlock but failed. The tea looked a bit chunky, as though the milk was bad, and there was grit resting at the bottom. Sherlock waited expectantly, his hands now tucked behind his back, as he gingerly cradled the cup to his chest. Something about it all didn’t quite fit about this sudden burst of caring and concern but he couldn’t bring himself to turn it down. As a child, he’d had a number of dogs, and every time the new puppy would come home, his father would remind him that it was positive reinforcement that brought about behavioral changes. Not that Sherlock even remotely resembled any of those dogs-he lacked the doggy empathy, general friendliness, and unfailing good nature-but the idea of positive reinforcement remained true. Drinking the tea would assure Sherlock that bringing tea-however poisonous it might be-was an excellent form of comfort.
Raising his glass-and praying to God he wouldn’t need a hospital in a few moments-he attempted to sip around layer of scum that formed at the top. It tasted dreadful, just as he had expected, but he put on his bravest face and finished the mouthful. This wasn’t the worst experience he’d had today, after all; that position was having Lestrade find him in his skivvies in the closet, bound hand and foot with duct tape. In fact, when he mulled over it, trying to get the tea down his gullet instead of lingering near the top of his throat, it probably wasn’t the worst thing that had happened to him in a long time. Three kidnappings, several injuries, a few drugging, once incident involving eyeballs in his soup and several long (and unpleasant) walks home from random areas of London after Sherlock stole the last of his money and then forgot about him in a crazed moment of processing, and John Watson could easily finish off a bad cup of tea.
“How is it?” Sherlock queried, scrutinizing his every motion until he felt self-conscious.
“Fine, just fine,” he assured, his stomach twisting. “Lovely even.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly. “It’s rubbish.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But it was the thought that counts…” His lips tingled and he ran his tongue over them.
“Hardly,” Sherlock sniffed though he didn’t seem the least surprised about how bad the tea was. “The thought is meaningless if the actions do not produce the intended outcome.”
His eyes felt heavy and his fingers kept slipping about the cup. Obviously, the bit of adrenaline he’d run on since his rescue had worn off. He needed to crawl to his bedroom so he could forget about this latest experience brought on by his oh-so-very-brilliant moment with his therapist ages ago. Nothing happens to me, he’d said, so foolishly. Clumsily, he attempted to set the cup down before he dropped it, now thinking that it would be best to just curl up here until he regained his senses. He didn’t need a concussion from a fall to his ever growing list of things that happened to him after all. His vision blurred and only Sherlock’s quick hands rescued the tea cup from an untimely end.
“Sorry,” he slurred, his tongue just as numb as his lips. A sudden wave of concerned crashed onto him. “Seem a little more tired than I thought.” He swayed forward instead of backwards, the edge of the table coming a bit too close for comfort.
“I suggest lying down,” Sherlock said, taking his shoulder and guiding him back to his supine position.
His vision blurred, warped, showed him two Sherlocks instead of one. Wouldn’t that be a disaster, he thought, two instead of one. The world wouldn’t be able to handle it.
“Sherlock,” he mumbled, trying to swallow. “I think…”
“I think you should rest,” Sherlock informed him, mildly. “And when you wake up, our problems should be solved. I’ve, of course, been considering this for a long time and do believe it to be the best action to take. It will prevent any more of these ridiculous search and rescue incidences and it will allow for me to find you when I need you, regardless of whether you’ve remembered to charge and bring your cell phone. You’ll barely feel a thing.”
“Wha-”
“Just sleep, John.”
And, very much against his will, he did.
He woke up to Sherlock leaning over him with a scalpel which replaced almost all incidences he’d been involved in over the past two years as the singularly most terrifying event he’d ever experienced. With a yowl of horror, he rolled off the couch onto the floor. His torpid limbs flailed as he attempted a stomach crawl towards the door. He would not-would NOT-become one of Sherlock’s experiments, sitting in the fridge until some unsuspecting person happened upon him in search of refreshment. Nor would he sacrifice any piece of his anatomy in the name of science, a case or Sherlock’s own grim curiosity about how the world ticked.
Sherlock stepped into his path-considering a slug could’ve outmaneuvered him at this point, it wasn’t terribly difficult-and crouched down, scalpel still in hand. “John, there's no point in frantic escape attempts. After all, I'm almost done.”
He realized that the area behind his left ear felt curiously numb and when he pressed upon it, his fingers came away wet with bright, red blood. His throat went tight and he just managed to squeak, “Wha?” It was only a small portion of the thought, “What the hell did you do to me?”
“I believe it would be unwise to go out right now,” Sherlock added.
He tried again. “Wha’ did you d’to me?”
Sherlock frowned ever so slightly. “Nothing, do to your untimely return to consciousness. But if you would be so kind as to lie back down, I will finish.”
“Wha’ are you TRYING to do to me?” He rephrased the question, his words a bit clearer, his head a little less foggy, his heart racing and his body steady.
“I thought I told you,” Sherlock said, as though it was terribly obvious. “I intend on inserting a microchip behind your ear to prevent future kidnappings.”
His arms and legs gave out and he ended face first on the carpet. A tiny giggle escaped him, and, though he’d admit it to no one, it was a giggle born of borderline hysteria. He tried to blame it on the kidnapping, the rescue, the drugs Sherlock had dosed him with, but, in the end, he knew none of those were the real culprit. Rolling over, he let the giggle turn into a full-out bout of laughter and it increased with Sherlock’s bemused expression.
“I’m uncertain what’s funny about this situation,” Sherlock commented. “You’re getting blood on the carpet and Mrs. Hudson’s bound to have a fit.”
“No, no, I suppose you wouldn’t,” he managed. “’Scuse me. I’m going to bed.”
Sherlock ended up half-carrying him to his room, tentative hands holding his arm and waist, producing rapid-fire argument about the benefits of GPS and how, with it, Sherlock would never have to worry about misplacing (as though he was that damned skull on the mantel or a mobile) John again. John only heard half of the words, and once Sherlock settled him-with the solemn promise he would allow John to think about it-he decided that he would never, ever accept a cup of tea (regardless of possible behavioral modifications it could produce) from Sherlock again.