The Ecstasy of Mr. Holmes - Sherlock fic - Chapter 2
A/N: Someone asked me where this story took place - US or UK. I replied that it didn’t matter. I hold by that. This is a fanfic. I’m going to try to keep up with the British terms and whatnot, but how the school works, the customs, will all be from my memory of British television shows and will most likely not conform to the majority of British lifestyle… or be blatantly American. I apologize if this makes reading the story hard for anyone.
Anyway - Finally back for chapter 2! This story is being posted simultaneously with two other fics so sorry for the delay. Enjoy!
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Chapter 2
The sun was holding onto the trees and trying to fight back its bedtime when John stepped outside, shrugging on his jacket for the last time that day. His shoulders ached as they usually did after a day of clinic work and hunching over journals writing lecture notes. Usually John would head straight for the bus, eager to get home and relax, but today he hesitated. It’s not important why. Maybe he had to tie his shoe. Maybe he had stared too long at the glowing outline of clouds and trees. That’s not the point. The point was that he hesitated in his usual routine, something odd in and of itself.
“John!” Molly’s voice caught him just before he moved to head off. He turned to greet her with his usual smile.
“Molly. Hey. You need something?” he asked, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“N-Not really. I just saw you and thought we could walk together,” the other nurse said. “You’re heading for the bus stop, right?”
“Yeah… But I didn’t know you rode the bus.” John’s eyes glanced down to Molly’s hands. She had moved like she meant to grab his, but he’d been preemptive and put them in his pockets. He’d let it happen once, but never again. He didn’t like Molly at all outside of a colleague and he’d like to keep it that way for her as well.
“I’m heading to a mate’s place,” she explained. “So have you seen that guy around before?”
John rolled his shoulders as they started to walk. He cast his gaze up to the sky and held back a sigh. Molly was crushing on one of the patients again. Oh God. “Which guy?”
“You know - the skinny one with the black, curly hair who was dragged in yesterday while you were talking to Sarah,” Molly explained. How could she even remember Sarah’s name? Sarah had only been there for five minutes. Then John had patched her up, given her some medicine and sent her off. She hadn’t been back or even called.
“Sherlock?” John asked, glancing down from the darkening sky. Molly beamed.
“Oh wow! You remember his name! I had a feeling the other guy said it, but I couldn’t really remember. It was only said once, you know, and they didn’t sign in at all. You have such a great memory, John. I wish-”
“Breathe, Molly,” John reminded. Molly blushed and nodded quickly. She took a slow breath and laced her fingers together in front of her.
“Yes. Well, I thought he was rather handsome. Have you ever seen him around?” Molly asked.
“No. Never,” John lied. He wasn’t about to share the information about where Sherlock was every morning like clockwork. He wasn’t about to share that moment of his routine. It felt like it was special, and Molly was trying to invade on it. “Listen, Molly. Please don’t try to flirt with him. You do remember what happened with the last guy you picked up from the waiting room, don’t you?”
“Y-Yes… Died of a drug overdose,” she murmured.
“With a note telling you to switch to decaf,” John added. “So… go find some nice guy in a bookshop or something. Stop tagging after the broken ones.”
“Yes. Of course. You’re right,” Molly agreed in the same small tone. “I’ll stop thinking about him.”
“Good. Now, are you really headed for the bus, or were you just trying to talk to me?” John asked, trying to sound kind and caring.
“Talk, I guess. Sorry,” Molly said. She took a deep breath and smiled softly. “Thank you for not being gentle with me. I’ll see you on Monday, then.” And she turned and left for her car in the opposite direction.
Now not only had John delayed on his own, but walking and talking always slowed down the process. He’d be lucky if he caught his usual ride. With a short sigh, John turned back toward the bus stop… and froze. There, sneaking past the last building before the bus, was a pack of four large black men, and several paces trailing them was none other than Sherlock. Off handedly, John thought he’d managed to send Molly away just in time. In the front of his mind, John wondered why Sherlock was following the obvious gang. He didn’t look anything like them. He couldn’t be part of their group.
No. It wasn’t any of John’s business. If he ignored the oddity, he could walk past that building and to his bus. He could see it pulling up to the stop now. He could still make it.
“Damn it,” John cursed and jogged off in the direction he’d seen Sherlock go.
This was baseless, this instinct to run after him. Still, John couldn’t help himself. Something about Sherlock drew his curiosity, drew his interest. John ignored plenty of odd things in his life in the effort to be normal, to focus on his studies and work hard, yet somehow Sherlock broke that. Even the tiniest possibility that Sherlock might be getting into trouble was enough to drag John from his usual path and into some unknown, unfamiliar back alley toward the great possibility of a gang fight.
When John got to the mouth of the alley, he saw no one in it, but he was certain he’d seen Sherlock disappear down it. There were no doors to the alley, but there were a few fire escapes. Looking up, John saw no one climbing. He could suddenly hear lots of yelling, though.
Following his ears, John hurried down the alley to the other end, which opened to a spacious, shapeless area hidden behind all the surrounding buildings. It was almost a circle and not quite a square, and all the windows visible were covered with thick blinds and curtains. Even the remaining sun rays were blocked out by the buildings, and the only light came from two dim bulbs that were positioned across from each other on either side of the opening. They cast an orange-like glow on the ground.
The group John had seen was standing with their backs to him. A different group stood facing them with six members, all as large or larger than the four John had seen first. Both groups were yelling about spies and police, but then they all fell silent. There, in the middle of it all, was Sherlock. He had his hands raised up on both sides to tell the gangs to be quiet, and he was speaking in a calm voice.
“I’m not the police,” he was saying. “And there’s no reason for me to tell them what you’re doing.”
“Damn right,” one of the other group was saying. “And I ain’t takin no chances.”
John’s heart sped as he saw the gun pulled into view. Sherlock just smirked at it. Then he opened his mouth and said “A bullet trail and another body. How boring.”
The gunshot rang out at the same time as John’s voice found its way up his throat and he managed to call out ‘Hey!’ just as the gun fired. Both gangs panicked and the leaders shouted out for the members to scatter. They must have thought John was the police, especially after thinking Sherlock was a spy, and before John could think of saying or doing anything more, the lot was empty. No one came to the windows to check on the source of the shot.
John cursed under his breath and hurried over to Sherlock, who was lying still on the ground. There was blood pooling slowly on his left side, visible despite his dark clothing and the shadows of the growing night.
“Sherlock,” John said as he bent over the other man. Sherlock stared up at him curiously, noticeable by the inclination of his eyebrows. “Look, don’t worry. I have ambulances on speed dial. I’ll have you to the hospital in no time.” He was already putting his mobile to his ear.
Sherlock’s expression relaxed into complacency and he turned his head away. He sighed out a rough breath, almost as though he were annoyed. “Hospitals. So dull.” And he closed his eyes.
“What? Whoa! No no. Keep your eyes open, Sherlock. Right. Just keep your eyes on me. I don’t know how bad the wound is, so just stay conscious,” John ordered. He turned his head to look at the alley as someone on the other end of the call picked up. Without introduction, John ranted off the location, specifically, and hung up the phone. When he looked back at Sherlock, the pale man’s eyes were barely there, barely open. “You ok? What am I talking about? Of course you’re not okay. But you will be. Besides, you can’t go and die already. We’ve only just officially met. Well, maybe not officially. I only know your name. I’m John, by the way. John Watson.”
And for the next three minutes, John ranted in circles around his words, talking about what would happen once they got to the hospital, about how the wound looked to him, and about the importance of names and introductions - anything for Sherlock to focus on. It must have worked, because when the medics found them, Sherlock was still watching him carefully, his eyes staying on John even as he was loaded into the ambulance. John hopped in too, having already missed his bus and finding this much more important, and the ambulance peeled off into the night.
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John felt his whole body relax, his world going into a beautiful, dark place. Then his head slipped off his hand and he jolted awake in his chair. For a moment he panicked. Had he fallen asleep in class? That was inexcusable! But then he took in the pale green and bright white that decorated the walls, the reclining chair he sat in, the stocky bed in the center, and the machines attached to the walls. Definitely not a classroom.
“Right. Hospital,” he groaned sleepily.
“Exactly where you fell asleep,” a sassy voice confirmed. John looked up to find a dark skinned woman leaning in the doorway. She glanced from John to the bed, where Sherlock still slept, and then back to John. “Come on then,” she said and left the room.
Grunting and rubbing his eyes, John stood and shook out his limbs as he walked after her. He felt old. The chair had aged him somehow. But then he was in the hall with the dark lady, and she was looking at him like he was a petulant child. Suddenly John felt small and uneasy.
“Can I help you?” John asked.
“How are you related to Sherlock Holmes?” she asked. Her hands were on her hips, resting the weight of her arms between her thumbs and forefingers. She was dressed professionally, but her stance was haughty.
“Hm? Oh. I’m not. I mean, I’m not family. Is there a problem?” The staff hadn’t said anything to him last night when he’d asked to stay, but he was technically breaking policy by staying when he wasn’t related. Maybe this was the hospital manager?
“I’m not hospital staff,” the woman answered, guessing his inner dilemma. “I’m with the police, Sergeant Sally Donovan, and I just thought I’d warn you. If you’re here because you saved his life, I suggest you not get any more involved.”
“With… with Sherlock?” John asked, pointing back to the room. “Why not?”
“He’s dangerous,” Donovan said simply, dropping her arms and taking a more relaxed stance. “He’s suicidal, you know. You hang around him, it’ll be you who’s shot next time, and he won’t call the ambulance like you did for him.”
“Um… thanks?” John tried. “I wasn’t planning on following him into anymore gang fights.”
“Good. Better keep to that. It’ll save your life,” Donovan said and turned to walk away.
“Hang on,” John called her attention back. “Why do the police know him so well?” Or maybe it was just Sally Donovan?
Sally shrugged noncommittally. “He’s our resident freak. Every once in awhile he helps out on cases. Most of the time, he’s just creepy. I hope we don’t have to cross paths again. Do stay away from Sherlock Holmes… if you know what’s good for you.”
And just like that, she left, like a creepy prophecy in a movie. John could hear her high heels clicking on the floor even after she turned the corner. Shaking his head, John re-entered the hospital room. Sherlock Holmes. Now he had a full name, and so did Sherlock if he’d been conscious enough to remember anything John said.
When John stepped into the room, he let out a tiny chuckle at the memory of his rambling, but stopped abruptly when he saw that he was being watched by the most translucent eyes he’d ever seen. It was Sherlock, lying on the bed and staring at him as he’d done the night before. John cleared his throat.
“Awake then? You want me to call the nurse?” he asked. Sherlock groaned.
“God no,” he said. “Not for this scratch. I wouldn’t have even called the ambulance.” Well he sounded fine. Sherlock leaned his head back into the pillows and sighed dramatically. “Damn, Mycroft is going to have my head for this.”
“So just don’t tell him,” John suggested.
“Impossible. He already knows and is undoubtedly on his way here,” Sherlock replied flatly. Then he turned his head to look at John and narrowed his eyes a little. “Who are you?”
“John Watson.”
“No. Not that. I knew that,” Sherlock said. “I mean why are you still here? Do I know you?”
“Well, I saved your life last night, and I’m the leading student doctor at the school abuse clinic,” John explained, taking his seat back in the recliner chair.
“Oh God. You work with addicts,” Sherlock whined. John knit his eyebrows.
“Not only. We take normal patients too,” he defended. “And what about you? You’re an addict. You should be grateful for the clinic.”
“Who says I’m an addict?” Sherlock asked, his tone suddenly serious and heavy. He was watching John carefully, like the med-student may suddenly attack. “Did Mycroft tell you that?”
“Your arm told me that,” John said matter-of-factly. He motioned to Sherlock’s elbow, which was visible in his hospital shift. “It doesn’t take a med-student to recognize the dots there. I convinced the doctor not to do anything about it, because honestly it’s your call. Not that I agree with it, but still.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a moment, and then they shot open wide as though an epiphany had struck him.
“You’re the doctor I donated a twenty to,” he said with sudden recognition and energy.
“Hang on. ‘Donated?’ What do I look like, a charity?” John asked, doing his best not to pout. Sherlock pushed himself up, winced, and fell back onto the bed. He chuckled at himself, and John thought he was a bit crazy.
“Oh don’t be like that. I did it out of thanks, and that’s more than most people I know can brag,” Sherlock said. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So why are you still here? Feeling responsible for the addict?”
“No.” John pushed himself up from the chair and rolled his shoulder. He stepped up next to the bed and looked down at the dark haired mess lying there. “This may come as a shock to you, but I was actually concerned you might die from being shot.”
It seemed the statement actually stunned Sherlock, though his expression didn’t give much away. He looked John over with miniscule eye movements and his forehead knit from the effort of his thoughts. John breathed slowly, strangely calm under the analyzing stare, and waited for Sherlock to speak next.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sherlock finally asked, and he seemed genuinely confused.
“Like what?” John asked, rubbing his cheeks.
“Like you feel sorry for me. It’s not the drugs.” Sherlock’s pupils seemed to grow smaller than they were naturally as Sherlock tried to piece together the puzzle. John took a slow breath and shrugged.
“They tell me… you’re suicidal,” he admitted. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Ugh. Suicide. Suicide is so dull. Life is so much more complex. Murder. Murder is the best,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?” John asked, looking disapprovingly down at his piece of odd routine.
Sherlock shook his head. “Not committing it. I meant solving it. Stop looking at me like that.”
“Fine. How would you like me to look at you?” John asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the bed. At first, Sherlock seemed to honestly have no idea how to respond. He sort of stared at John as though the question’s meaning had been lost on him. Then he frowned curiously.
“Disappointment over disapproving. Empathy over pity. Actually, I quite like your current look,” he said.
“Irritated?” John said more than asked. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders as best he could.
“I think it’s a great improvement from the others.”
John groaned exasperatedly and rubbed his hand down over his face. He was pretty sure he preferred Sherlock when he had been an interesting constant in his daily routine. He’d been too curious about Sherlock, and now he got him full force. As they say, be careful what you wish for. Sherlock seemed constantly stuck between suspicious and sarcastic, and John wasn’t sure which he preferred or which he could stand for long periods of time. Then he wondered why he was considering spending long periods of time with Sherlock. Hadn’t he just told Sergeant Donovan that he didn’t plan to hang around Sherlock?
“Do you still think I’m going to die?” the wounded man asked, regaining John’s full attention. He sounded almost touched, though John wasn’t sure why.
“No. The doctor said you’d recover fine last night, and you seem more than okay right now.” John walked back to the chair and fingered his coat, hung over the side, for lack of anything better to do.
“Do I get the pleasure of your company for much longer?” and somehow John actually believed Sherlock meant every bit of that sentence. He seemed to be seriously enjoying this back and forth word war that was draining John.
“Sadly, no. I have a clinic to run most of the afternoon and a new dorm mate to plan for.” Taking this turn in conversation as a great excuse for leaving despite the early hour, John picked his coat up and slipped it on.
“Getting a new dorm mate? Is it Sally Donovan?” Sherlock asked, and his lips twitched up into a hint of a smile. John couldn’t help it, he smiled too.
“No,” he said. “Definitely not. Actually, I’m not sure who I’ll be getting this semester. I’m meeting him tomorrow.”
“Ah. Move-in time for the new arrivals. That time already? Good Lord.” Sherlock groaned and looked toward the windows where the morning sun was teasing birds.
For a few moments, neither spoke. Sherlock watched the birds and waited for John’s inevitable departure. John’s mind was going over and over completely useless information, part of which was the ever constant question of how Sherlock’s mind functioned. Then all of a sudden, John snorted and let out a giggle, effectively catching Sherlock’s attention from the outdoors.
“What?” he asked.
John shook his head and sighed. “What kind of cop wears high heels to work?” he asked, unable to stop smiling.
It took a moment, but then Sherlock was grinning as well, shaking his head and chuckling. “She’s never been the smartest one in the force.”
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Counters wiped. Floors vacuumed. Beds made. Books organized. Dishes washed. Laundry cleaned. Dusting finished. The whole place was rather dull, but it shone brighter than it had all semester… or maybe even all year. John smiled proudly at his handiwork. His last roommate had been horribly messy, with no respect for sharing space in the main room. Hopefully he got what he requested this time - someone clean, someone quiet. His classes were crazy enough. He didn’t need an annoying roommate to make matters worse. No frat boys.
John nodded at the room and then grabbed a piece of paper off the magnet list on the fridge. Time to get some food in this place. His dorm mate would most likely have to buy his own food once he moved in, but John had a serious lack of his own food right now. His new dorm mate wasn’t due for a few hours, so John had just enough time to pop out to the store and back.
Grabbing his keys, he headed for the stairs and down one level to the bottom floor. As he pushed open the door, he bumped into someone on their way in, who was a few inches taller than him, and dropped his keys. John muttered an apology as he bent to grab his key ring. The other man dismissed the topic in a regal tone and then vanished inside before John could even stand up straight again.
“Sod,” John grumbled as he pocketed the keys and adjusted his jacket. What was someone with that kind of speech pedigree doing in school affiliated housing? He probably didn’t have to worry about paying for classes at all. That kind of speech only came when you grew up in high society. And that guy had brushed John off like nothing. Didn’t even apologize.
No. John shook his head. He shouldn’t let himself be jealous of someone just because they had more money. He had fought for his position in this school, so he should feel proud. Jealousy would get him nowhere. Neither would bitterness. He’d probably never see that guy again anyway… Although he did sound familiar.
John shook his head again as he slipped into his car. Too bad there wasn’t a bus to the store, or perhaps it was too bad John didn’t live on campus and only need a car at all to go to the store.
Two hours later, John was stepping out of his car with three shopping bags and wondering what it was about shopping that always took so long even if you had a list and knew exactly what you wanted to get and where it was in the store. Up the stairs and to his apartment, he realized the door wasn’t locked. Had his new dorm mate arrived while he was out? Had someone broken in?
John eased the door open and heard the sound of violin music coming from inside. Classical CDs? He stepped inside, his shopping rustling with his movements, and the violin cut off briefly before starting up again. No. That was someone playing the violin. John moved into the room, locking the door behind him, and moved into view of the main room.
“Sherlock?” he asked incredulously. There, dressed in a loose suit and perched on the arm of the couch, was Sherlock Holmes playing the violin. The music stopped again as Sherlock turned to face him, a smile crossing his lips.
“Ah, John,” he greeted. “Welcome home.”
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Masterpost
Chapter 3!
Anyway - Finally back for chapter 2! This story is being posted simultaneously with two other fics so sorry for the delay. Enjoy!
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Chapter 2
The sun was holding onto the trees and trying to fight back its bedtime when John stepped outside, shrugging on his jacket for the last time that day. His shoulders ached as they usually did after a day of clinic work and hunching over journals writing lecture notes. Usually John would head straight for the bus, eager to get home and relax, but today he hesitated. It’s not important why. Maybe he had to tie his shoe. Maybe he had stared too long at the glowing outline of clouds and trees. That’s not the point. The point was that he hesitated in his usual routine, something odd in and of itself.
“John!” Molly’s voice caught him just before he moved to head off. He turned to greet her with his usual smile.
“Molly. Hey. You need something?” he asked, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“N-Not really. I just saw you and thought we could walk together,” the other nurse said. “You’re heading for the bus stop, right?”
“Yeah… But I didn’t know you rode the bus.” John’s eyes glanced down to Molly’s hands. She had moved like she meant to grab his, but he’d been preemptive and put them in his pockets. He’d let it happen once, but never again. He didn’t like Molly at all outside of a colleague and he’d like to keep it that way for her as well.
“I’m heading to a mate’s place,” she explained. “So have you seen that guy around before?”
John rolled his shoulders as they started to walk. He cast his gaze up to the sky and held back a sigh. Molly was crushing on one of the patients again. Oh God. “Which guy?”
“You know - the skinny one with the black, curly hair who was dragged in yesterday while you were talking to Sarah,” Molly explained. How could she even remember Sarah’s name? Sarah had only been there for five minutes. Then John had patched her up, given her some medicine and sent her off. She hadn’t been back or even called.
“Sherlock?” John asked, glancing down from the darkening sky. Molly beamed.
“Oh wow! You remember his name! I had a feeling the other guy said it, but I couldn’t really remember. It was only said once, you know, and they didn’t sign in at all. You have such a great memory, John. I wish-”
“Breathe, Molly,” John reminded. Molly blushed and nodded quickly. She took a slow breath and laced her fingers together in front of her.
“Yes. Well, I thought he was rather handsome. Have you ever seen him around?” Molly asked.
“No. Never,” John lied. He wasn’t about to share the information about where Sherlock was every morning like clockwork. He wasn’t about to share that moment of his routine. It felt like it was special, and Molly was trying to invade on it. “Listen, Molly. Please don’t try to flirt with him. You do remember what happened with the last guy you picked up from the waiting room, don’t you?”
“Y-Yes… Died of a drug overdose,” she murmured.
“With a note telling you to switch to decaf,” John added. “So… go find some nice guy in a bookshop or something. Stop tagging after the broken ones.”
“Yes. Of course. You’re right,” Molly agreed in the same small tone. “I’ll stop thinking about him.”
“Good. Now, are you really headed for the bus, or were you just trying to talk to me?” John asked, trying to sound kind and caring.
“Talk, I guess. Sorry,” Molly said. She took a deep breath and smiled softly. “Thank you for not being gentle with me. I’ll see you on Monday, then.” And she turned and left for her car in the opposite direction.
Now not only had John delayed on his own, but walking and talking always slowed down the process. He’d be lucky if he caught his usual ride. With a short sigh, John turned back toward the bus stop… and froze. There, sneaking past the last building before the bus, was a pack of four large black men, and several paces trailing them was none other than Sherlock. Off handedly, John thought he’d managed to send Molly away just in time. In the front of his mind, John wondered why Sherlock was following the obvious gang. He didn’t look anything like them. He couldn’t be part of their group.
No. It wasn’t any of John’s business. If he ignored the oddity, he could walk past that building and to his bus. He could see it pulling up to the stop now. He could still make it.
“Damn it,” John cursed and jogged off in the direction he’d seen Sherlock go.
This was baseless, this instinct to run after him. Still, John couldn’t help himself. Something about Sherlock drew his curiosity, drew his interest. John ignored plenty of odd things in his life in the effort to be normal, to focus on his studies and work hard, yet somehow Sherlock broke that. Even the tiniest possibility that Sherlock might be getting into trouble was enough to drag John from his usual path and into some unknown, unfamiliar back alley toward the great possibility of a gang fight.
When John got to the mouth of the alley, he saw no one in it, but he was certain he’d seen Sherlock disappear down it. There were no doors to the alley, but there were a few fire escapes. Looking up, John saw no one climbing. He could suddenly hear lots of yelling, though.
Following his ears, John hurried down the alley to the other end, which opened to a spacious, shapeless area hidden behind all the surrounding buildings. It was almost a circle and not quite a square, and all the windows visible were covered with thick blinds and curtains. Even the remaining sun rays were blocked out by the buildings, and the only light came from two dim bulbs that were positioned across from each other on either side of the opening. They cast an orange-like glow on the ground.
The group John had seen was standing with their backs to him. A different group stood facing them with six members, all as large or larger than the four John had seen first. Both groups were yelling about spies and police, but then they all fell silent. There, in the middle of it all, was Sherlock. He had his hands raised up on both sides to tell the gangs to be quiet, and he was speaking in a calm voice.
“I’m not the police,” he was saying. “And there’s no reason for me to tell them what you’re doing.”
“Damn right,” one of the other group was saying. “And I ain’t takin no chances.”
John’s heart sped as he saw the gun pulled into view. Sherlock just smirked at it. Then he opened his mouth and said “A bullet trail and another body. How boring.”
The gunshot rang out at the same time as John’s voice found its way up his throat and he managed to call out ‘Hey!’ just as the gun fired. Both gangs panicked and the leaders shouted out for the members to scatter. They must have thought John was the police, especially after thinking Sherlock was a spy, and before John could think of saying or doing anything more, the lot was empty. No one came to the windows to check on the source of the shot.
John cursed under his breath and hurried over to Sherlock, who was lying still on the ground. There was blood pooling slowly on his left side, visible despite his dark clothing and the shadows of the growing night.
“Sherlock,” John said as he bent over the other man. Sherlock stared up at him curiously, noticeable by the inclination of his eyebrows. “Look, don’t worry. I have ambulances on speed dial. I’ll have you to the hospital in no time.” He was already putting his mobile to his ear.
Sherlock’s expression relaxed into complacency and he turned his head away. He sighed out a rough breath, almost as though he were annoyed. “Hospitals. So dull.” And he closed his eyes.
“What? Whoa! No no. Keep your eyes open, Sherlock. Right. Just keep your eyes on me. I don’t know how bad the wound is, so just stay conscious,” John ordered. He turned his head to look at the alley as someone on the other end of the call picked up. Without introduction, John ranted off the location, specifically, and hung up the phone. When he looked back at Sherlock, the pale man’s eyes were barely there, barely open. “You ok? What am I talking about? Of course you’re not okay. But you will be. Besides, you can’t go and die already. We’ve only just officially met. Well, maybe not officially. I only know your name. I’m John, by the way. John Watson.”
And for the next three minutes, John ranted in circles around his words, talking about what would happen once they got to the hospital, about how the wound looked to him, and about the importance of names and introductions - anything for Sherlock to focus on. It must have worked, because when the medics found them, Sherlock was still watching him carefully, his eyes staying on John even as he was loaded into the ambulance. John hopped in too, having already missed his bus and finding this much more important, and the ambulance peeled off into the night.
-- -- -- -- --
John felt his whole body relax, his world going into a beautiful, dark place. Then his head slipped off his hand and he jolted awake in his chair. For a moment he panicked. Had he fallen asleep in class? That was inexcusable! But then he took in the pale green and bright white that decorated the walls, the reclining chair he sat in, the stocky bed in the center, and the machines attached to the walls. Definitely not a classroom.
“Right. Hospital,” he groaned sleepily.
“Exactly where you fell asleep,” a sassy voice confirmed. John looked up to find a dark skinned woman leaning in the doorway. She glanced from John to the bed, where Sherlock still slept, and then back to John. “Come on then,” she said and left the room.
Grunting and rubbing his eyes, John stood and shook out his limbs as he walked after her. He felt old. The chair had aged him somehow. But then he was in the hall with the dark lady, and she was looking at him like he was a petulant child. Suddenly John felt small and uneasy.
“Can I help you?” John asked.
“How are you related to Sherlock Holmes?” she asked. Her hands were on her hips, resting the weight of her arms between her thumbs and forefingers. She was dressed professionally, but her stance was haughty.
“Hm? Oh. I’m not. I mean, I’m not family. Is there a problem?” The staff hadn’t said anything to him last night when he’d asked to stay, but he was technically breaking policy by staying when he wasn’t related. Maybe this was the hospital manager?
“I’m not hospital staff,” the woman answered, guessing his inner dilemma. “I’m with the police, Sergeant Sally Donovan, and I just thought I’d warn you. If you’re here because you saved his life, I suggest you not get any more involved.”
“With… with Sherlock?” John asked, pointing back to the room. “Why not?”
“He’s dangerous,” Donovan said simply, dropping her arms and taking a more relaxed stance. “He’s suicidal, you know. You hang around him, it’ll be you who’s shot next time, and he won’t call the ambulance like you did for him.”
“Um… thanks?” John tried. “I wasn’t planning on following him into anymore gang fights.”
“Good. Better keep to that. It’ll save your life,” Donovan said and turned to walk away.
“Hang on,” John called her attention back. “Why do the police know him so well?” Or maybe it was just Sally Donovan?
Sally shrugged noncommittally. “He’s our resident freak. Every once in awhile he helps out on cases. Most of the time, he’s just creepy. I hope we don’t have to cross paths again. Do stay away from Sherlock Holmes… if you know what’s good for you.”
And just like that, she left, like a creepy prophecy in a movie. John could hear her high heels clicking on the floor even after she turned the corner. Shaking his head, John re-entered the hospital room. Sherlock Holmes. Now he had a full name, and so did Sherlock if he’d been conscious enough to remember anything John said.
When John stepped into the room, he let out a tiny chuckle at the memory of his rambling, but stopped abruptly when he saw that he was being watched by the most translucent eyes he’d ever seen. It was Sherlock, lying on the bed and staring at him as he’d done the night before. John cleared his throat.
“Awake then? You want me to call the nurse?” he asked. Sherlock groaned.
“God no,” he said. “Not for this scratch. I wouldn’t have even called the ambulance.” Well he sounded fine. Sherlock leaned his head back into the pillows and sighed dramatically. “Damn, Mycroft is going to have my head for this.”
“So just don’t tell him,” John suggested.
“Impossible. He already knows and is undoubtedly on his way here,” Sherlock replied flatly. Then he turned his head to look at John and narrowed his eyes a little. “Who are you?”
“John Watson.”
“No. Not that. I knew that,” Sherlock said. “I mean why are you still here? Do I know you?”
“Well, I saved your life last night, and I’m the leading student doctor at the school abuse clinic,” John explained, taking his seat back in the recliner chair.
“Oh God. You work with addicts,” Sherlock whined. John knit his eyebrows.
“Not only. We take normal patients too,” he defended. “And what about you? You’re an addict. You should be grateful for the clinic.”
“Who says I’m an addict?” Sherlock asked, his tone suddenly serious and heavy. He was watching John carefully, like the med-student may suddenly attack. “Did Mycroft tell you that?”
“Your arm told me that,” John said matter-of-factly. He motioned to Sherlock’s elbow, which was visible in his hospital shift. “It doesn’t take a med-student to recognize the dots there. I convinced the doctor not to do anything about it, because honestly it’s your call. Not that I agree with it, but still.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a moment, and then they shot open wide as though an epiphany had struck him.
“You’re the doctor I donated a twenty to,” he said with sudden recognition and energy.
“Hang on. ‘Donated?’ What do I look like, a charity?” John asked, doing his best not to pout. Sherlock pushed himself up, winced, and fell back onto the bed. He chuckled at himself, and John thought he was a bit crazy.
“Oh don’t be like that. I did it out of thanks, and that’s more than most people I know can brag,” Sherlock said. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So why are you still here? Feeling responsible for the addict?”
“No.” John pushed himself up from the chair and rolled his shoulder. He stepped up next to the bed and looked down at the dark haired mess lying there. “This may come as a shock to you, but I was actually concerned you might die from being shot.”
It seemed the statement actually stunned Sherlock, though his expression didn’t give much away. He looked John over with miniscule eye movements and his forehead knit from the effort of his thoughts. John breathed slowly, strangely calm under the analyzing stare, and waited for Sherlock to speak next.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sherlock finally asked, and he seemed genuinely confused.
“Like what?” John asked, rubbing his cheeks.
“Like you feel sorry for me. It’s not the drugs.” Sherlock’s pupils seemed to grow smaller than they were naturally as Sherlock tried to piece together the puzzle. John took a slow breath and shrugged.
“They tell me… you’re suicidal,” he admitted. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Ugh. Suicide. Suicide is so dull. Life is so much more complex. Murder. Murder is the best,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?” John asked, looking disapprovingly down at his piece of odd routine.
Sherlock shook his head. “Not committing it. I meant solving it. Stop looking at me like that.”
“Fine. How would you like me to look at you?” John asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the bed. At first, Sherlock seemed to honestly have no idea how to respond. He sort of stared at John as though the question’s meaning had been lost on him. Then he frowned curiously.
“Disappointment over disapproving. Empathy over pity. Actually, I quite like your current look,” he said.
“Irritated?” John said more than asked. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders as best he could.
“I think it’s a great improvement from the others.”
John groaned exasperatedly and rubbed his hand down over his face. He was pretty sure he preferred Sherlock when he had been an interesting constant in his daily routine. He’d been too curious about Sherlock, and now he got him full force. As they say, be careful what you wish for. Sherlock seemed constantly stuck between suspicious and sarcastic, and John wasn’t sure which he preferred or which he could stand for long periods of time. Then he wondered why he was considering spending long periods of time with Sherlock. Hadn’t he just told Sergeant Donovan that he didn’t plan to hang around Sherlock?
“Do you still think I’m going to die?” the wounded man asked, regaining John’s full attention. He sounded almost touched, though John wasn’t sure why.
“No. The doctor said you’d recover fine last night, and you seem more than okay right now.” John walked back to the chair and fingered his coat, hung over the side, for lack of anything better to do.
“Do I get the pleasure of your company for much longer?” and somehow John actually believed Sherlock meant every bit of that sentence. He seemed to be seriously enjoying this back and forth word war that was draining John.
“Sadly, no. I have a clinic to run most of the afternoon and a new dorm mate to plan for.” Taking this turn in conversation as a great excuse for leaving despite the early hour, John picked his coat up and slipped it on.
“Getting a new dorm mate? Is it Sally Donovan?” Sherlock asked, and his lips twitched up into a hint of a smile. John couldn’t help it, he smiled too.
“No,” he said. “Definitely not. Actually, I’m not sure who I’ll be getting this semester. I’m meeting him tomorrow.”
“Ah. Move-in time for the new arrivals. That time already? Good Lord.” Sherlock groaned and looked toward the windows where the morning sun was teasing birds.
For a few moments, neither spoke. Sherlock watched the birds and waited for John’s inevitable departure. John’s mind was going over and over completely useless information, part of which was the ever constant question of how Sherlock’s mind functioned. Then all of a sudden, John snorted and let out a giggle, effectively catching Sherlock’s attention from the outdoors.
“What?” he asked.
John shook his head and sighed. “What kind of cop wears high heels to work?” he asked, unable to stop smiling.
It took a moment, but then Sherlock was grinning as well, shaking his head and chuckling. “She’s never been the smartest one in the force.”
-- -- -- -- --
Counters wiped. Floors vacuumed. Beds made. Books organized. Dishes washed. Laundry cleaned. Dusting finished. The whole place was rather dull, but it shone brighter than it had all semester… or maybe even all year. John smiled proudly at his handiwork. His last roommate had been horribly messy, with no respect for sharing space in the main room. Hopefully he got what he requested this time - someone clean, someone quiet. His classes were crazy enough. He didn’t need an annoying roommate to make matters worse. No frat boys.
John nodded at the room and then grabbed a piece of paper off the magnet list on the fridge. Time to get some food in this place. His dorm mate would most likely have to buy his own food once he moved in, but John had a serious lack of his own food right now. His new dorm mate wasn’t due for a few hours, so John had just enough time to pop out to the store and back.
Grabbing his keys, he headed for the stairs and down one level to the bottom floor. As he pushed open the door, he bumped into someone on their way in, who was a few inches taller than him, and dropped his keys. John muttered an apology as he bent to grab his key ring. The other man dismissed the topic in a regal tone and then vanished inside before John could even stand up straight again.
“Sod,” John grumbled as he pocketed the keys and adjusted his jacket. What was someone with that kind of speech pedigree doing in school affiliated housing? He probably didn’t have to worry about paying for classes at all. That kind of speech only came when you grew up in high society. And that guy had brushed John off like nothing. Didn’t even apologize.
No. John shook his head. He shouldn’t let himself be jealous of someone just because they had more money. He had fought for his position in this school, so he should feel proud. Jealousy would get him nowhere. Neither would bitterness. He’d probably never see that guy again anyway… Although he did sound familiar.
John shook his head again as he slipped into his car. Too bad there wasn’t a bus to the store, or perhaps it was too bad John didn’t live on campus and only need a car at all to go to the store.
Two hours later, John was stepping out of his car with three shopping bags and wondering what it was about shopping that always took so long even if you had a list and knew exactly what you wanted to get and where it was in the store. Up the stairs and to his apartment, he realized the door wasn’t locked. Had his new dorm mate arrived while he was out? Had someone broken in?
John eased the door open and heard the sound of violin music coming from inside. Classical CDs? He stepped inside, his shopping rustling with his movements, and the violin cut off briefly before starting up again. No. That was someone playing the violin. John moved into the room, locking the door behind him, and moved into view of the main room.
“Sherlock?” he asked incredulously. There, dressed in a loose suit and perched on the arm of the couch, was Sherlock Holmes playing the violin. The music stopped again as Sherlock turned to face him, a smile crossing his lips.
“Ah, John,” he greeted. “Welcome home.”
-- -- -- --
Masterpost
Chapter 3!