Fic: White Lies Like Cyanide
Title: White Lies Like Cyanide
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: pre-slash, mostly. Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13? Nothing explicit but very mild violence and some... horror possibly, one mild swear.
Word Count: 1933
Spoilers: Very general spoilers for episode 1.
Author's Notes: Based on ciaimpala 's prompt at the sherlockbbc_fic meme. No beta so I appologise in advance for any sloppy spelling and grammar mistakes.
Summary: John drinks poison intended for Sherlock.
It was strange for that to have been the time that John worked it about before Sherlock. Or maybe Sherlock had worked it out, John didn’t think so but he knew he would never be even a little sure of what his friend was thinking. He could, as he sometimes did, have been waiting for an appropriate moment to dramatically reveal all the facts at once or perhaps had been too busy piecing together the bigger picture and this lesser, side note had realisation simply slipped through the net. John was never sure what the hell the genius was planning but Sherlock was the only person he trusted implicitly regardless.
So naturally when John realised the cup of tea the other man had been holding was almost definitely spiked with poison he'd snatched it from Sherlock's grip and downed the drink in one, cringing as the hot liquid scolded his throat but forcing himself to swallow it all. In hindsight it would have made far more sense to have knocked it to the floor or to have shouted for Sherlock to stop but whenever John was around the detective he always acted more impulsively, sometimes foolishly, as if to sub-consciously balance Sherlock's cool, lightning fast logic.
His eyes had widened at John's action, the unexpected suddenness of the movement at first and then surprise at the completely out of character behaviour and lack of social tact; even a high functioning sociopath would've known it was inappropriate to take a drink right from someone's hands.
The attempt on Sherlock's life was most likely unrelated to the case they'd been discussing when they'd stopped in the small tea shop on Morton Street, but there had been something about the man who'd served them, John had recognised him, seen him watching them from the opposite side of the road earlier that morning, and they way he fit so awkwardly in their surroundings- the instinct of wrong wrong wrong had grabbed hold of John and spurred him into action, everything seeming to fall in to place, this must be the way Sherlock thinks all the time.
By the time Sherlock has abandoned the wide-eyed look of shock and has replaced in with a slight glare and a demanding barrage of words and questions John has already felt the effects of the poisoned tea start to take hold his head spins, he can feel his heart slamming against his ribs and Sherlock is starting to blur as his expression quickly begins to morph into one of concern and his eyes sharpen. John can't talk, feels like he's choking on what little breath he can drag in anyway and can feel nausea press along his throat, so he lists the symptoms in his head, pulling the words into a list and he wrestles to hold onto the thought, a security blanket of clarity.
He feels Sherlock grab onto his shoulders, shaking him, yelling at him and notices his panicked, rushed movements as time dips and spins around him and everything blurs and darkens, voices muffled to a buzz. Something hits him in the face, hard, but it's like he's been slapped in slow motion and they absurd sensation of it startles John into laughter but he chokes instead, vomit he thinks at first but then a coppery taste penetrates his slurred thoughts.
His heart feels like he's near the end of a marathon, the final stretch and he suddenly remembers the morning he used to go running with Harry when they were teenagers, she was lithe and skinny and damn fast but he was determined and she'd always turn back to laugh at him so sometimes he'd beat her anyway. Everything is dark now, only memories and thoughts colouring his vision but he can still feel hands groping at the front of his jumper, then his neck. John rather wishes he'd told Harry he loved her more than he hated her or that he'd phoned his mum this week. He should have told Sherlock that he was his best friend, more if he ever wanted, not that he'd have expected the man to listen but it had been there sometimes, on the tip of his tongue.
John's aware enough that he's desperately glad Sherlock's with him - he doesn't think anyone has given him water or tried to make him sick and if he's correct in thinking it's cyanide then that'll help.
There's a flurry of movement next to him and then he can hear something again, distant but he recognises Sherlock’s voice. He's yelling, furious if the tone is any indication, the words are too far away to make out but John can see them shivering and shaking as they chase away anyone getting too close to the great Sherlock Holme's glorified side-kick. Best friend. He should've said it. John thinks he might be smiling and tries to make some reassuring movement and then feels, almost as though it were completely normal, Sherlock gently take his hand, tracing circles across the back of it. They're probably just waiting for an ambulance now.
His thoughts are slowing down now too, becoming sluggish now like his heart, the beating has slowed and he feels it more for it having been racing before then, it feels like his mind is gently folding in on itself, curling up to go to sleep and the doctor in him scolds himself, he should be trying to stay away. He tries to find something to focus on but even his hand in Sherlock's has gone numb now. Just as he thinks that'll be the end of it till he wakes up in a hospital bed or not movement takes him again, not someone else the time but convulsions rattling through him, his body rebelling against the poison.
Some conscious thought flitters through the back of his mind, wondering if Sherlock is panicking again now or if he is calm, practicing some obscure knowledge of first aid he's picked up over the years or if the paramedics are here now, trying to move him to a stretcher. He forgets to gasp in breathe as he shakes violently. One Christmas visiting his grandmother in Scotland when they were children Harry had buried him in snow as though they were at the beach and then afterwards when he'd spent the rest of the holiday banished to their room, sick in bed with pneumonia, she'd sat with her arms around him both of them wracked by his harsh shivering and then giggling at it together. John's last clear though before he fully slips out of consciousness is whether Sherlock is wearing that long, dark scarf of his, it's ever so cold out.
------
John wakes up what he thinks could easily be hours or days later in a white room in a uncomfortable single bed and immediately places himself hospital. For a moment he thinks he's back in the infirmary, in Afghanistan, and is immediately irritated with himself for thinking so; the room is cool, a product of the fan whirring in the corner, not stiflingly humid, it's also bright, clean and clinical, exactly how Afghanistan wasn't. He tries to move a little to get a better view of his surroundings but his chest aches and the rest of him feels like lead. His memories slowly come back to him in drips and his head hurts when he tries to think too much.
It's when John starts to catalogue the sounds of the room - the distant hospital sounds only partially muffled by the glass, the steady buzz of the fan and the soft beeps of a heart monitor, that he notices Sherlock in the chair beside his bed, breathing deeply as he slept with his head propped at an awkward angle against the wall. His shirt was creased, the same as John had last saw him wearing and his jaw was dark with a few days worth of stubble. John's never seen Sherlock sleep before, he knew he must do at some point whenever he did it certainly wasn't for long, and it made the younger man look much more vulnerable.
John reaches across to the other man, ignoring the pain in his chest and stomach as he does so, and takes hold of his hand, lightly tracing circles across the back of it, remembering Sherlock doing the same for him. Sherlock stays asleep for a few more minutes before he starts awake, staring at John in shock before jumping to his feet.
"John! I'll go get a doctor, or..." he trails off, his voice is rough and now that his eyes are open John can see they're red-rimmed, from lack of sleep and maybe even from... crying? For once Sherlock's face is an open book and he looks uncertain, terrified and the most human John has ever seen him. He quickly grabs Sherlock's hand, keeping him in place.
"Wait." John says or tries to, it comes out as more of a painful croak and the back of his throat burns from the effort, Sherlock seems to understand what he means though as he falls back into the chair, giving him another wide-eyed look that mingles with something in his expression that looks completely stricken.
"John I didn't mean for you to get hurt, I'm sorry, I'm so- I should've realised. Please, next time I'll keep you safer." The words rush out one after the other and for a few seconds it's as though Sherlock's been speaking another language and John just blinks and then he starts to feel relieved, as it registers that he has somehow managed to not die again and Sherlock is here with him.
"No, no, shh. It's okay." John rasps quietly, squeezing the other man's hand. For a moment Sherlock's expression matches John's relief and then it changes to outrage, the energy of his usual self reappearing with it.
"No it is not okay John what the hell were you thinking! I know it must be difficult to get by with your level of intelligence but really you aren't that stupid, what on earth possessed you to drink what you clearly knew was poison! I'm the one who's meant to be a sociopath, do have any idea how-" He stops, sharply cutting himself off and glares at John.
John feels a little guilt simmering with affection and annoyance and restrains the slight smile that he knows would only piss Sherlock off even more. "You must know why I did it." John replies, but he quickly continues at the look he gets for that response. "I was just... I acted on impulse. It's something you do when someone you care about could get hurt."
Sherlock's expression softens and some of the tension eases out of his shoulders. "I care. About you too. I thought you were going to die. Because of me. I didn't realise that..." He trails off looking lost again and John laces his fingers through Sherlock's.
"I'm sorry." He offers, he knows that Sherlock will know he'd do it again, any day, and that he still mostly means it anyway, and gives his friend a slight smile which is slowly returned.
After a few moments of silence Sherlock lets out a bark of laughter. "You know that Mrs Hudson with have a field day when we get home. She's been here trying to mother me every day I've been here. And Mycroft was here." Sherlock adds, making a face as though he'd suddenly tasted something bitter. John replies with a small grin and thinks that everything will probably be quite good.
End.
(AN.2: Wow, that one got away from me a bit, lol! My first Sherlock fic so please let me know what you think, constructive criticism would be lovley thank you :) Also I understand it's quite jumpy, especially in the middle section which is a product of this being through John's POV while he's under the effects of the poison, just to clarify.)