Cost of Living, Chapter 2
Title: Cost of Living, Chapter 2
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: T for horror
Summary: John Watson's family has always been a little different. He never thought about it until Sherlock died. Now John is running through dreams collecting hearts.
Author's Note: My first monster!John fic. I don't usually do darker fics, so this was a bit of experiment.
He and Lestrade go and to the pub and get very drunk several times. Sometimes they reminisced about Sherlock on cases, London in the rain and snow. Cases with diamonds and giants and small dogs who accidentally stole blackmail photos. Sometimes they said nothing at all.
“I keep waiting for him to wake up, to be there, for everything to be normal again,” John said into his pint. “I just want him to come back.”
“I know what you mean mate. It was the same way for me.” Lestrade said, just drunk enough to lean forward hazily, sober enough not to slur.
‘No it’s not,’ John wants to say. ‘It’s nothing at all the same.’
***
Stroking Sherlock’s hair then down, his fingertips brushing across his face like feelers, John felt at a loss. Although Sherlock was a little warm, humming with a sort of energy, his heart wasn’t beating, he wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t awake and deducing people’s childhood dream from the length of
their fingernails. There had been so many dreams, shuffling and sliding through so many psyches. Dreams where he had to hunt, dreams where they collapse in fear, dreams where they trust him, floating in the midst of a happy little dream world. Plucking out the hearts of Moriarty’s organization in handfuls, and still Sherlock won’t wake up.
“I have a plan Sherlock,” he said conversationally, as if he was talking to a coma patient. “We’ll tell them you were travelling around taking down Moriarty’s organization. Traveling the world, fighting evil. There’s holes of course, in my plan. You’ll find them, when you wake up, you’ll make it airtight.”
There’s no response, not even a twitch, John fought the budding panic. Why won’t Sherlock wake up? Does he need special hearts? The hearts of evil men? Pure hearts? The hearts of virgins, like something out of a fairy tale? The hearts of children? How many? He’s doing everything right, John whined to himself. He’s doing everything he’s supposed to do. He knew he was getting stroppy and shook himself out of it.
More, he needed more. He checked his watch fitfully. He’s working part time now, a few hours at
a time at the surgery, building up to life again. Everyone was treating him like the grieving widow, which wasn’t accurate by half, but gave him time to sleep. John knew he can’t abandon his life he had before; he’ll need it when Sherlock comes back. Normalcy will help Sherlock along once he woke up.
***
“It’s good to see you back again,” Sarah said gently. “I know he was a good friend.”
Sarah was sweet; she had always been so kind. “Thank you Sarah,” he said softly.
“It’s hard, I know,” her hand hands are strong and soft on his, callouses of someone that works with their hands. He let their fingers overlap a little so they were almost intertwined. “If you need anything…”
John smiled at her, “I appreciate it Sarah. I’m not ready to…”
“Oh no,” she flustered and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a little tell. “I didn’t mean…”
“But later,” he smiled at her, tired from too much sleep and no rest while he’s sleeping. The anxiety and worry. “Later maybe?”
She smiled at him like he might be able to get a pity date out of this, but he didn’t feel like it would be right to press for it. He just wasn’t comfortable with taking advantage like that.
“John,” her head tilted to the side, “your eyes look strange.”
“Do they?”
“No, no,” she shook her head, laughing, “it’s just a shadow.”
Next
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: T for horror
Summary: John Watson's family has always been a little different. He never thought about it until Sherlock died. Now John is running through dreams collecting hearts.
Author's Note: My first monster!John fic. I don't usually do darker fics, so this was a bit of experiment.
He and Lestrade go and to the pub and get very drunk several times. Sometimes they reminisced about Sherlock on cases, London in the rain and snow. Cases with diamonds and giants and small dogs who accidentally stole blackmail photos. Sometimes they said nothing at all.
“I keep waiting for him to wake up, to be there, for everything to be normal again,” John said into his pint. “I just want him to come back.”
“I know what you mean mate. It was the same way for me.” Lestrade said, just drunk enough to lean forward hazily, sober enough not to slur.
‘No it’s not,’ John wants to say. ‘It’s nothing at all the same.’
***
Stroking Sherlock’s hair then down, his fingertips brushing across his face like feelers, John felt at a loss. Although Sherlock was a little warm, humming with a sort of energy, his heart wasn’t beating, he wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t awake and deducing people’s childhood dream from the length of
their fingernails. There had been so many dreams, shuffling and sliding through so many psyches. Dreams where he had to hunt, dreams where they collapse in fear, dreams where they trust him, floating in the midst of a happy little dream world. Plucking out the hearts of Moriarty’s organization in handfuls, and still Sherlock won’t wake up.
“I have a plan Sherlock,” he said conversationally, as if he was talking to a coma patient. “We’ll tell them you were travelling around taking down Moriarty’s organization. Traveling the world, fighting evil. There’s holes of course, in my plan. You’ll find them, when you wake up, you’ll make it airtight.”
There’s no response, not even a twitch, John fought the budding panic. Why won’t Sherlock wake up? Does he need special hearts? The hearts of evil men? Pure hearts? The hearts of virgins, like something out of a fairy tale? The hearts of children? How many? He’s doing everything right, John whined to himself. He’s doing everything he’s supposed to do. He knew he was getting stroppy and shook himself out of it.
More, he needed more. He checked his watch fitfully. He’s working part time now, a few hours at
a time at the surgery, building up to life again. Everyone was treating him like the grieving widow, which wasn’t accurate by half, but gave him time to sleep. John knew he can’t abandon his life he had before; he’ll need it when Sherlock comes back. Normalcy will help Sherlock along once he woke up.
***
“It’s good to see you back again,” Sarah said gently. “I know he was a good friend.”
Sarah was sweet; she had always been so kind. “Thank you Sarah,” he said softly.
“It’s hard, I know,” her hand hands are strong and soft on his, callouses of someone that works with their hands. He let their fingers overlap a little so they were almost intertwined. “If you need anything…”
John smiled at her, “I appreciate it Sarah. I’m not ready to…”
“Oh no,” she flustered and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a little tell. “I didn’t mean…”
“But later,” he smiled at her, tired from too much sleep and no rest while he’s sleeping. The anxiety and worry. “Later maybe?”
She smiled at him like he might be able to get a pity date out of this, but he didn’t feel like it would be right to press for it. He just wasn’t comfortable with taking advantage like that.
“John,” her head tilted to the side, “your eyes look strange.”
“Do they?”
“No, no,” she shook her head, laughing, “it’s just a shadow.”
Next