mini nanowrimo, word count 411, Dead Men's Tales
So, this is actually the second thing I started writing in "avengers" fandom. Basically I thought about, "So, Coulson's "dead" and so is Sherlock. They have to be kept somewhere... wonder if Mycroft and SHIELD ever did any joint ops." And yes. This. This is the first time I've touched this in a while. Rough and slap dash and verb tense issues and. Yes.
Series: Two Households Alike In Dignity 'verse
Story Title: Dead Men's Tales
Date: 06/30/12
Author: thegirlthatisclumsy
Pairings: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, John Watson/Sherlock Holmes
Fandoms: Avengers (2012), Marvel Movie Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Dead Men's Tales
Chapter One
This is how it happens:
He wakes up with a godawful tinny sound grating his ears and an incessant throbbing pain reverberating in his chest. The pain is familiar, grounding even, but the noise is new. He expects to find Clint sitting on the edge of his bed smirking at him and demanding he get up so they can get disgusting deep fried tacos from the place on the corner.
Then he remembers.
The slick sucking sound of Loki's scepter exiting his body and the whirl of lights above his head. The soul satisfying feeling of blasting the son of a bitch through the air, through the goddamn wall of the helicarrier. Because Phil remembers the footage, the tape of how Clint's eyes had been flat, blue like cloudy ice, and not his.
Not his Clint's eyes.
Phil had felt no ounce of remorse when the Destroyer weapon had knocked him back against the wall and propelled Loki away, hopefully to Hell or Hel or wherever the fuck Norse gods went.
Phil gritted his teeth and levered himself up, the paper rustling stiffness of the sheets underneath his hand tells him he's in medical, the harsh flourescent lighting should have clued him in sooner. It's clear to him that he's been there a while if the stubble on his cheeks and chin are any indication.
He wonders if they've won or if Loki's succeeded and annihilated the Earth and he's some horribly cliched prisoner of war. His eyes adjust to the lights and he notices the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia on the wall and there's a vase of daisies next to him on the table. The details are slightly helpful, but Phil has been around long enough both as a fully functioning skeptic and agent to not take things at face value.
He's sideswiped by the gut clenching sensation of loss. Clint, he thinks, please be the stupid asshole I fell in love with. Please come back to me.
“Hello?” Phil calls out, looking for a call button, finding nothing.
There's a note card propped up against a pitcher on the tray table next to his bed.
Drink Me.
Phil snorts and shakes his head.
It's a credit to his own injuries that it only takes him a fraction of a second from reacting when he hears a voice say,
“Well, maybe you're not half as boring as the rest of them.”
The vase shatters against the wall nearly catching the man in the face.
“Should have compensated for you limited range. Your wound severed several muscles in your back and chest. It's probably impeded your throw a good five centimeters,” the voice is dry and mocking and Phil wants to hate him, but he's probably too damn drugged to do anything more than offer him the standard semi scowl.
“Thank you for your brilliant observations. Who the hell are you?” Phil's tone is as bland and dry as the other guy's and he finally turns his head to focus on his fellow prisoner (?).
The man is lanky, thin and sharp boned. The features are are all hard edged, but even Phil can appreciate the appeal of the total look. Clint would have called him heroin chic pretty. “Or Meth head hot.” Phil can hear the drawl in his head and he shuts his eyes for a second just to hold on to the image. When he opens his eyes, the man is standing at the foot of his bed, dressed in a tartan plaid robe and striped pajamas that Phil is sure that he remembers seeing something similar in his grandfather's closet.
“That's a funny question,” the head tilts and the eyes narrow slightly.
Phil, if he were like most other people he supposes, would have found it unnerving, but he's been on the receiving end of searching looks from Nick Fury. This guy doesn't quite have the scary down. He does feel like he's being weighed or taken apart. “You're not laughing. So, I imagine my humor needs work.” He finds the control for the bed looped through the hand rail and he presses the button to raise the bed so he can lay back and look at his fellow inmate (?) without putting strain on his stitches. He can feel one of them has already popped. He lets out a long breath, and is startled when there's a laugh, short and rusty sounding, but still deep.
“I'm sure that your humor serves its purpose to entertain your... lover,” he clears his throat. “Your spouse.” He corrects himself with a faint surprised look. The eyes narrow slightly. “Dead spouse.”
Phil automatically curls his fingers in and he can feel the weight of his wedding ring keenly. He doesn't give this guy ammunition and just smiles blandly and he hopes the 'fuck you' is apparent in his eyes.
The head tilts again and Phil gets slightly distracted by the shift of curls. It distracts his fellow patient (?) as well and the hand that brushes the hair back is long fingered and almost delicate looking. There are scars and callouses there. Phil's eyes narrow at the slightly thickened skin on the pads of his first two fingers and on the slight offside of his thumbs. They're not archer's callouses, Phil is familiar with those, but from holding something stringed. “Detective or musician?” He pauses. “Or both?”
Phil's question doesn't startle Guy, Phil is just going to designate him a title, so much as he seems to please him. “Not as boring as the rest. Observant even under the influence of,” he clicks his tongue softly. “Several miligrams of opiates and analgesics. Morphine and Tordol. They've stepped you down since you've been taken out of the coma.”
“Lovely,” Phil says and he nods to the pitcher. “Want a drink of water?”
There's a snort and then a chuckle. “It's safe. Well, as safe as any water is without proper filtration.” Guy starts to pace.
Phil still doesn't drink. He's thirsty, but he figures he's in no danger of dehydration if they're drugging him on IV. He's hoping at least. “Any idea where we are and who is holding us?”
The pacing continues but a hand gets waved in his direction. “Isolation. Read it as helpful containment as a joint effort from our agencies.”
That doesn't surprise Phil. Fury must have him in some kind of secured location. Standard protocol for medical emergencies. Agents sent to secured locations till containment of threats are ascertained. He really wants his tablet or a laptop.
“We are, if I am not mistaken, at a secured location across the pond,” Guy says and Phil had noted the accent before but it takes a moment for Phil to place really. He blames the morphine.
“Londoner?” Phil asks and studies his companion.
Guy stops pacing and there's a half smile. “Did you just pick the biggest British city you could think of or have you actually been?”
Phil lifts his shoulder in a shrug and he wishes he were in something more than this hospital gown or he were at least wearing anything under said gown. “All you guys sound the same,” he drawls over exaggerating the soft Carolina cadence he'd schooled out of his speech years before. “Just picked the dirtiest one I could think of,” he says consonants and vowels returning to bland, dry, and indeterminate American.
“I believe we are somewhere in the bowels of a quite large structure in a major city in America. New York if I am not mistaken. Your agency is government affliated of some kind. Shadowy no doubt if they've the same dealings with my,” Guy's face wrinkles in disdain. “Own associate.”
Phil just nods at that. There've been joint ventures with MI-6 and other UK based agencies shadowed and otherwise. It began in the 1930s and 40s. Funnily enough, just before Operation: Rebirth the solid relationship between the US government and Mother England and her isles had been fractuous. Too many cooks and a very small political kitchen, but with the threats from Hitler and the like had brought Mother Country and Rebellious Daughter to the same table.
He groans rubbing at his eyes. His internal metaphors were swimming in his head. Clint would have mocked him by now and possibly snuck him in a cherry Slurpee. The ache in his chest had nothing to do with the stitches there. He had no idea if he were wishing Clint was still alive in Loki's care or if he were dead at least free from the hold.
Some selfish part of him hopes Clint's alive. If he's alive, there's still hope to bring him back.
“You're doing it again. You're thinking of... her,” Guy says smugly. “You rub your thumb over your wedding band like a touch stone, but held close to your body. You're used to having it your trouser pocket to hide the gesture, but you're a little addled from the drugs and now it's just subconscious. Your brow furrows and your jaw tenses just so, your dental bills must be atrocious. You're worried and guilty and,” he pauses squinting at him, chin cupped in his hand. “Saddened. The loss is fresh, but the worrying is almost familiar, a comfort to worry over her.”
“His name is Clint,” the answer tumbles out and Phil hates all pharmaceuticals, cursing inwardly and striving for blankness.
“Damn, it's always one little detail. John would laugh at my similar faux paus,” Guy turns quickly, but Phil catches the flinch. He knows that look; he just made it. Guy has let his hand show. “John?”
There's no ring on Guy's finger, no tan line or indication of a ring or token.
“Damn constant sleep patterns. Makes me dull. Makes me slower. No decent tea either and the recycled air is probably poisoning my intelligence,” Guy mutters and turns again, robe flaring out like a cape behind him. “John is no consequence to you.”
Phil rests back and he eyes Guy. “Maybe not to me, but he means a whole hell of a lot to you, Guy.”
The eyes narrow and the pacing stops; Guy stills and pins him down with a look. “What would you know? Your Clint is dead.”
Phil doesn't even bother to hide the flinch. “You don't know that yet and neither do I. All I know is I'm stuck in this room with a private dick who plays the cello.” The guy is too stuck up to play anything pedestrian like a guitar. Cello seems just about this guy's speed, heavy and present telling the story.
“Violin and I'm a consulting detective not a private investigator,” Guy says nonchalantly. There's a beat of silence and he looks over his shoulder at Phil. “Name's Holmes. Sherlock Holmes of London proper. What is your name agent?”
Phil sighs feeling tired. If the guy is some interrogator, he's oddly too annoying to be a good one. “Phil Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D. What's your agency?” Consulting detective isn't anything he's ever heard of, but the Brits do things differently.
Sherlock sneers at that. “No agency. Not for want of trying though. I'm here at the leisure of my brother who is his own agency.”
Holmes, Phil thinks, brain still fuzzed around the edges. “Mycroft Holmes?”
Sherlock pours two glasses of water from the pitcher and with a rather forceful push sets one glass within Phil's reach. He sips his glass and grimaces but keeps drinking. “Yes, yes. To the outside world, a simple government paper pusher, but to the others in the shadows he's THE Mycroft Holmes. Did you meet him at some clandestine convention of shadow agency operation?”
Phil laughs, hard enough to make him shift against the sheets. “I met him in the elevator actually. He nearly skewered him with his umbrella.”
That makes Sherlock set down his glass and laugh. “You are surprising, Agent Phil Coulson.”
Phil laughs at that and closes his eyes. “Last guy I surprised I shot through a wall of a flying ship.” He expects Sherlock to make fun of him or laugh at the statement.
There's silence and Phil can feel himself drifting on the push and pull of morphine and other meds.
“Huh. Fascinating,” Phil hears before the tinny sound of, what he's figured out is the machine counting out the beats of his heart, drowns out the rest of the noise and Sherlock's muttering.
Chapter Two
Agent Phil Coulson is a puzzle. Sherlock taps his chin and drags the lone chair from his partitioned off section and sets it near the foot of Coulson's bed to look at the man. Slight, but not weak even with his obvious grave injury, similar in build to John's and that thought makes Sherlock frown. He shakes his head to clear it and settles back in the stiff backed chair, ankle crossing over his knee. He supposes he should be lucky that Mycroft deemed it acceptable to house him with another. One never knew what one would get when asking of Mycroft. The housing is more amenable than some shack in the woods or some anonymous apartment in Denmark or the like.
He even has a companion of sorts. A puzzle, he amends.
A puzzling companion, Sherlock thinks again. He can hear John in his head just sighing at his lack of social niceties. “People are not puzzles or toys for you to take apart like some kind of builder set, Sherlock.” John does understand that it is what Sherlock does, so the exasperation is fond and comfortable. He frowns and crosses his arms over his chest, shoving his worry for John into the box in the corner of his mind. His worry will not help him here.
He has no idea what Mycroft has told this S.H.I.E.L.D. Agency, but they (Coulson and himself) have been restricted to these quarters for, by his count, three weeks. Sherlock is able to leave, as told by his nurse, but the leaving only gets him two rooms further out. A small library and en suite bathroom. It's a rather plush holding cell, but a containment nonetheless. He knows the precautions are valid as the threats to John, Mrs. Hudson, and even Lestrade are not yet... taken care of. Mycroft was succinct in his explanation as they left the cemetery. This holding cell is the third in his stays.
Being able to see John was the last time he'd been outside. The last time he'd been in England as far as Sherlock is aware. Oddly and ironically enough, his stay within the confines of whatever safe house Mycroft had provided after his “fall” from St. Bart's had been weeks or months. The paralytic and combinations of drugs he'd administered to himself had incapacitated him where he'd actually been in danger of dying and slipping into a coma. Molly Hooper, competent with the dead, less than brilliant when administering a drug regiment for subterfuge.
He does hope that Mycroft remembers to alert Molly that he is indeed alive and she did not result in his death. He feels like her guilt would be troublesome later when he returns to the “living” as it were.
Sherlock is unaccustomed to feeling guilt. It is a waste of energy and he rather loathes it. The whole issue of feeling things in general is rather bothersome. He scratches at his arm, the crook of his elbow is red. He's been agitated for the past few days just monitoring his suite mate and bored out of his mind. There isn't even a proper firing weapon to take to the walls. He growls under his breath and makes his way to the outer most door. He bangs on it twice and counts out the thirty three seconds it takes for a response.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes?” The voice is tinny over the intercom but it is the same one he has heard for his stay. It is the same voice at whatever hour he decides to knock.
“I require a pistol. Small caliber if need be and something to shoot.”
The pause at the other end of the speaker is weighty.
“You do know you can not shoot Agent Coulson. Especially while he is recuperating.”
Sherlock makes a face at the screen. “Of course. I wouldn't shoot a man who was in a room with oxygen. It is liable to create some incident and explode.”
The sigh is not unexpected. Boring. Sherlock taps his finger on the door. “At least bring me a paper or something. You people won't allow me a phone for fear I may contact the very people I concocted this ruse for to keep them safe.” Sherlock mutters a few brief disparaging comments on the combined intelligence of their keepers before continuing. “Your American journalism is so droll. I can at least pretend to be kept current on events.”
The last time he received news from Mycroft it came in an envelope with photographs of John and Mrs. Hudson visiting his grave. Sherlock ruthlessly shoved the flaps of the box closed on that welling of guilt. He was right in his thinking.
“Tell them to bring me some donuts too,” a voice calls out from the other room.
“Mr. Coulson requires pastries,” Sherlock says rolling his eyes. “A bit of tea would not go amiss either if you can be bothered. Please do not brew it yourself. Just hot water and leaves. I'll make sure not to bollocks it up.”
The resulting click of the intercom was also expected.
“Predictable.”
It was meant and said like a curse.
7983 / 18000
(44.35%)
Series: Two Households Alike In Dignity 'verse
Story Title: Dead Men's Tales
Date: 06/30/12
Author: thegirlthatisclumsy
Pairings: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, John Watson/Sherlock Holmes
Fandoms: Avengers (2012), Marvel Movie Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Dead Men's Tales
Chapter One
This is how it happens:
He wakes up with a godawful tinny sound grating his ears and an incessant throbbing pain reverberating in his chest. The pain is familiar, grounding even, but the noise is new. He expects to find Clint sitting on the edge of his bed smirking at him and demanding he get up so they can get disgusting deep fried tacos from the place on the corner.
Then he remembers.
The slick sucking sound of Loki's scepter exiting his body and the whirl of lights above his head. The soul satisfying feeling of blasting the son of a bitch through the air, through the goddamn wall of the helicarrier. Because Phil remembers the footage, the tape of how Clint's eyes had been flat, blue like cloudy ice, and not his.
Not his Clint's eyes.
Phil had felt no ounce of remorse when the Destroyer weapon had knocked him back against the wall and propelled Loki away, hopefully to Hell or Hel or wherever the fuck Norse gods went.
Phil gritted his teeth and levered himself up, the paper rustling stiffness of the sheets underneath his hand tells him he's in medical, the harsh flourescent lighting should have clued him in sooner. It's clear to him that he's been there a while if the stubble on his cheeks and chin are any indication.
He wonders if they've won or if Loki's succeeded and annihilated the Earth and he's some horribly cliched prisoner of war. His eyes adjust to the lights and he notices the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia on the wall and there's a vase of daisies next to him on the table. The details are slightly helpful, but Phil has been around long enough both as a fully functioning skeptic and agent to not take things at face value.
He's sideswiped by the gut clenching sensation of loss. Clint, he thinks, please be the stupid asshole I fell in love with. Please come back to me.
“Hello?” Phil calls out, looking for a call button, finding nothing.
There's a note card propped up against a pitcher on the tray table next to his bed.
Drink Me.
Phil snorts and shakes his head.
It's a credit to his own injuries that it only takes him a fraction of a second from reacting when he hears a voice say,
“Well, maybe you're not half as boring as the rest of them.”
The vase shatters against the wall nearly catching the man in the face.
“Should have compensated for you limited range. Your wound severed several muscles in your back and chest. It's probably impeded your throw a good five centimeters,” the voice is dry and mocking and Phil wants to hate him, but he's probably too damn drugged to do anything more than offer him the standard semi scowl.
“Thank you for your brilliant observations. Who the hell are you?” Phil's tone is as bland and dry as the other guy's and he finally turns his head to focus on his fellow prisoner (?).
The man is lanky, thin and sharp boned. The features are are all hard edged, but even Phil can appreciate the appeal of the total look. Clint would have called him heroin chic pretty. “Or Meth head hot.” Phil can hear the drawl in his head and he shuts his eyes for a second just to hold on to the image. When he opens his eyes, the man is standing at the foot of his bed, dressed in a tartan plaid robe and striped pajamas that Phil is sure that he remembers seeing something similar in his grandfather's closet.
“That's a funny question,” the head tilts and the eyes narrow slightly.
Phil, if he were like most other people he supposes, would have found it unnerving, but he's been on the receiving end of searching looks from Nick Fury. This guy doesn't quite have the scary down. He does feel like he's being weighed or taken apart. “You're not laughing. So, I imagine my humor needs work.” He finds the control for the bed looped through the hand rail and he presses the button to raise the bed so he can lay back and look at his fellow inmate (?) without putting strain on his stitches. He can feel one of them has already popped. He lets out a long breath, and is startled when there's a laugh, short and rusty sounding, but still deep.
“I'm sure that your humor serves its purpose to entertain your... lover,” he clears his throat. “Your spouse.” He corrects himself with a faint surprised look. The eyes narrow slightly. “Dead spouse.”
Phil automatically curls his fingers in and he can feel the weight of his wedding ring keenly. He doesn't give this guy ammunition and just smiles blandly and he hopes the 'fuck you' is apparent in his eyes.
The head tilts again and Phil gets slightly distracted by the shift of curls. It distracts his fellow patient (?) as well and the hand that brushes the hair back is long fingered and almost delicate looking. There are scars and callouses there. Phil's eyes narrow at the slightly thickened skin on the pads of his first two fingers and on the slight offside of his thumbs. They're not archer's callouses, Phil is familiar with those, but from holding something stringed. “Detective or musician?” He pauses. “Or both?”
Phil's question doesn't startle Guy, Phil is just going to designate him a title, so much as he seems to please him. “Not as boring as the rest. Observant even under the influence of,” he clicks his tongue softly. “Several miligrams of opiates and analgesics. Morphine and Tordol. They've stepped you down since you've been taken out of the coma.”
“Lovely,” Phil says and he nods to the pitcher. “Want a drink of water?”
There's a snort and then a chuckle. “It's safe. Well, as safe as any water is without proper filtration.” Guy starts to pace.
Phil still doesn't drink. He's thirsty, but he figures he's in no danger of dehydration if they're drugging him on IV. He's hoping at least. “Any idea where we are and who is holding us?”
The pacing continues but a hand gets waved in his direction. “Isolation. Read it as helpful containment as a joint effort from our agencies.”
That doesn't surprise Phil. Fury must have him in some kind of secured location. Standard protocol for medical emergencies. Agents sent to secured locations till containment of threats are ascertained. He really wants his tablet or a laptop.
“We are, if I am not mistaken, at a secured location across the pond,” Guy says and Phil had noted the accent before but it takes a moment for Phil to place really. He blames the morphine.
“Londoner?” Phil asks and studies his companion.
Guy stops pacing and there's a half smile. “Did you just pick the biggest British city you could think of or have you actually been?”
Phil lifts his shoulder in a shrug and he wishes he were in something more than this hospital gown or he were at least wearing anything under said gown. “All you guys sound the same,” he drawls over exaggerating the soft Carolina cadence he'd schooled out of his speech years before. “Just picked the dirtiest one I could think of,” he says consonants and vowels returning to bland, dry, and indeterminate American.
“I believe we are somewhere in the bowels of a quite large structure in a major city in America. New York if I am not mistaken. Your agency is government affliated of some kind. Shadowy no doubt if they've the same dealings with my,” Guy's face wrinkles in disdain. “Own associate.”
Phil just nods at that. There've been joint ventures with MI-6 and other UK based agencies shadowed and otherwise. It began in the 1930s and 40s. Funnily enough, just before Operation: Rebirth the solid relationship between the US government and Mother England and her isles had been fractuous. Too many cooks and a very small political kitchen, but with the threats from Hitler and the like had brought Mother Country and Rebellious Daughter to the same table.
He groans rubbing at his eyes. His internal metaphors were swimming in his head. Clint would have mocked him by now and possibly snuck him in a cherry Slurpee. The ache in his chest had nothing to do with the stitches there. He had no idea if he were wishing Clint was still alive in Loki's care or if he were dead at least free from the hold.
Some selfish part of him hopes Clint's alive. If he's alive, there's still hope to bring him back.
“You're doing it again. You're thinking of... her,” Guy says smugly. “You rub your thumb over your wedding band like a touch stone, but held close to your body. You're used to having it your trouser pocket to hide the gesture, but you're a little addled from the drugs and now it's just subconscious. Your brow furrows and your jaw tenses just so, your dental bills must be atrocious. You're worried and guilty and,” he pauses squinting at him, chin cupped in his hand. “Saddened. The loss is fresh, but the worrying is almost familiar, a comfort to worry over her.”
“His name is Clint,” the answer tumbles out and Phil hates all pharmaceuticals, cursing inwardly and striving for blankness.
“Damn, it's always one little detail. John would laugh at my similar faux paus,” Guy turns quickly, but Phil catches the flinch. He knows that look; he just made it. Guy has let his hand show. “John?”
There's no ring on Guy's finger, no tan line or indication of a ring or token.
“Damn constant sleep patterns. Makes me dull. Makes me slower. No decent tea either and the recycled air is probably poisoning my intelligence,” Guy mutters and turns again, robe flaring out like a cape behind him. “John is no consequence to you.”
Phil rests back and he eyes Guy. “Maybe not to me, but he means a whole hell of a lot to you, Guy.”
The eyes narrow and the pacing stops; Guy stills and pins him down with a look. “What would you know? Your Clint is dead.”
Phil doesn't even bother to hide the flinch. “You don't know that yet and neither do I. All I know is I'm stuck in this room with a private dick who plays the cello.” The guy is too stuck up to play anything pedestrian like a guitar. Cello seems just about this guy's speed, heavy and present telling the story.
“Violin and I'm a consulting detective not a private investigator,” Guy says nonchalantly. There's a beat of silence and he looks over his shoulder at Phil. “Name's Holmes. Sherlock Holmes of London proper. What is your name agent?”
Phil sighs feeling tired. If the guy is some interrogator, he's oddly too annoying to be a good one. “Phil Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D. What's your agency?” Consulting detective isn't anything he's ever heard of, but the Brits do things differently.
Sherlock sneers at that. “No agency. Not for want of trying though. I'm here at the leisure of my brother who is his own agency.”
Holmes, Phil thinks, brain still fuzzed around the edges. “Mycroft Holmes?”
Sherlock pours two glasses of water from the pitcher and with a rather forceful push sets one glass within Phil's reach. He sips his glass and grimaces but keeps drinking. “Yes, yes. To the outside world, a simple government paper pusher, but to the others in the shadows he's THE Mycroft Holmes. Did you meet him at some clandestine convention of shadow agency operation?”
Phil laughs, hard enough to make him shift against the sheets. “I met him in the elevator actually. He nearly skewered him with his umbrella.”
That makes Sherlock set down his glass and laugh. “You are surprising, Agent Phil Coulson.”
Phil laughs at that and closes his eyes. “Last guy I surprised I shot through a wall of a flying ship.” He expects Sherlock to make fun of him or laugh at the statement.
There's silence and Phil can feel himself drifting on the push and pull of morphine and other meds.
“Huh. Fascinating,” Phil hears before the tinny sound of, what he's figured out is the machine counting out the beats of his heart, drowns out the rest of the noise and Sherlock's muttering.
Chapter Two
Agent Phil Coulson is a puzzle. Sherlock taps his chin and drags the lone chair from his partitioned off section and sets it near the foot of Coulson's bed to look at the man. Slight, but not weak even with his obvious grave injury, similar in build to John's and that thought makes Sherlock frown. He shakes his head to clear it and settles back in the stiff backed chair, ankle crossing over his knee. He supposes he should be lucky that Mycroft deemed it acceptable to house him with another. One never knew what one would get when asking of Mycroft. The housing is more amenable than some shack in the woods or some anonymous apartment in Denmark or the like.
He even has a companion of sorts. A puzzle, he amends.
A puzzling companion, Sherlock thinks again. He can hear John in his head just sighing at his lack of social niceties. “People are not puzzles or toys for you to take apart like some kind of builder set, Sherlock.” John does understand that it is what Sherlock does, so the exasperation is fond and comfortable. He frowns and crosses his arms over his chest, shoving his worry for John into the box in the corner of his mind. His worry will not help him here.
He has no idea what Mycroft has told this S.H.I.E.L.D. Agency, but they (Coulson and himself) have been restricted to these quarters for, by his count, three weeks. Sherlock is able to leave, as told by his nurse, but the leaving only gets him two rooms further out. A small library and en suite bathroom. It's a rather plush holding cell, but a containment nonetheless. He knows the precautions are valid as the threats to John, Mrs. Hudson, and even Lestrade are not yet... taken care of. Mycroft was succinct in his explanation as they left the cemetery. This holding cell is the third in his stays.
Being able to see John was the last time he'd been outside. The last time he'd been in England as far as Sherlock is aware. Oddly and ironically enough, his stay within the confines of whatever safe house Mycroft had provided after his “fall” from St. Bart's had been weeks or months. The paralytic and combinations of drugs he'd administered to himself had incapacitated him where he'd actually been in danger of dying and slipping into a coma. Molly Hooper, competent with the dead, less than brilliant when administering a drug regiment for subterfuge.
He does hope that Mycroft remembers to alert Molly that he is indeed alive and she did not result in his death. He feels like her guilt would be troublesome later when he returns to the “living” as it were.
Sherlock is unaccustomed to feeling guilt. It is a waste of energy and he rather loathes it. The whole issue of feeling things in general is rather bothersome. He scratches at his arm, the crook of his elbow is red. He's been agitated for the past few days just monitoring his suite mate and bored out of his mind. There isn't even a proper firing weapon to take to the walls. He growls under his breath and makes his way to the outer most door. He bangs on it twice and counts out the thirty three seconds it takes for a response.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes?” The voice is tinny over the intercom but it is the same one he has heard for his stay. It is the same voice at whatever hour he decides to knock.
“I require a pistol. Small caliber if need be and something to shoot.”
The pause at the other end of the speaker is weighty.
“You do know you can not shoot Agent Coulson. Especially while he is recuperating.”
Sherlock makes a face at the screen. “Of course. I wouldn't shoot a man who was in a room with oxygen. It is liable to create some incident and explode.”
The sigh is not unexpected. Boring. Sherlock taps his finger on the door. “At least bring me a paper or something. You people won't allow me a phone for fear I may contact the very people I concocted this ruse for to keep them safe.” Sherlock mutters a few brief disparaging comments on the combined intelligence of their keepers before continuing. “Your American journalism is so droll. I can at least pretend to be kept current on events.”
The last time he received news from Mycroft it came in an envelope with photographs of John and Mrs. Hudson visiting his grave. Sherlock ruthlessly shoved the flaps of the box closed on that welling of guilt. He was right in his thinking.
“Tell them to bring me some donuts too,” a voice calls out from the other room.
“Mr. Coulson requires pastries,” Sherlock says rolling his eyes. “A bit of tea would not go amiss either if you can be bothered. Please do not brew it yourself. Just hot water and leaves. I'll make sure not to bollocks it up.”
The resulting click of the intercom was also expected.
“Predictable.”
It was meant and said like a curse.
7983 / 18000
(44.35%)