Fiction: Sherlock and the Angry Inch 1/2
Title: Sherlock and the Angry Inch Part 1/2
Writer: fanbot
Warnings: Physical deformity, slash. No spoilers.
Words 6,280 complete
Rated R -adult
I don’t own anything. Well, noting worth taking.
Summary: Why does Sherlock have no interest in sex? John finds out.
Betaed by the awesome c_woodhaven. Hugs! Any new mistakes are mine.
A gun fired and John Watson ran toward the sound, but the dark greenhouse was a maze of vines and branches. “Sherlock!” he called.
“Here!” There was something in his voice made John hurry. He found his flatmate in the “American Desert” room of the vast private arboretum. There were smashed pots and shattered cacti around a body in the middle of the room. Sherlock Holmes stood with his hands on his knees, as if unable to straighten up.
“Are you all right?”
Sherlock waved him off. “Check Rogers. I’m quite sure he’s dead.”
John bent over the body and quickly determined the death of the murderer they had been chasing. He shifted his concern to Sherlock Holmes who was looking pale and pained.
“What happened? May be you should sit down.”
“No!” Sherlock waved him off. “No. I’ll be okay. Look, just stay here and call in Lestrade. I last saw him running the wrong way across the west lawn. I… I have to tie up a loose end. Some.. proof will get away otherwise.”
“Are you sure? Lestrade can send a man… Sherlock! You’re bleeding!”
Sherlock fixed steely eyes on him and sternly said, “I will meet you at home shortly, understand?”
“But the ambulance…”
“No, John,” Sherlock said curtly, turned on his heel and limped away.
John made reports and excuses for Sherlock’s abrupt departure and went home as swiftly as a cab could take him. He found Sherlock on the couch. He had cut his pants away and now was laying on the couch, the closer knee up. The first aid kit was scattered on the chair beside him.
“Are you shot? What happened?” John reached to move his leg aside so he could see.
Sherlock grabbed his wrist. “Sit down. I do need your help, but the area is … rather sensitive.” He was pale and obviously in pain.
“If you were injured in the groin, I would say so.” John sat down as requested. Sherlock met his eyes.
“When I was seventeen I was dueling with Mycroft - antique rapiers off the wall. He’d made me angry and despite being the better fencer, I stumbled and his blade cut me rather badly on the penis.” He read the concern in John’s face. “It just required stitches, and looked like it would heal nicely, but I developed a staph infection. I had a wonderful doctor who saved as much… material as he could.”
John swallowed. “Got it. Now if you are hurt, I need to help you.”
Sherlock didn’t let go of his wrist just yet. “Tell no one. Only Mycroft knows. Understand?”
“I understand, Sherlock. Doctor patient confidentiality.” His face softened. “Friend confidentiality.”
Sherlock lowered his leg, wincing. Cactus spines and red bloody spots where they had been are clustered high in the inside of his left leg and around the base of his penis. John had to take a second to look at him. Sherlock’s penis was no more than a one inch mound of softened flesh. Two short, neat scars radiated from the slit in the end of it. No wonder he held some contempt for his brother.
“Right,” John said, his clinical training becoming a welcome shield'. “I need more light and the better tweezers. You shouldn’t have moved around so much, you spread out the spines and probably imbedded some deeper.” In turning away, he missed seeing Sherlock’s grateful smile at his flatmate.
He moved a high powered desk lamp from Sherlock’s workbench and clipped it to the back of a chair, then he bustled about washing his hands and getting the additional equipment he needed. Sherlock watched him silently.
He sat again and looked over the area. He picked up one of the spines Sherlock managed to get out and studied it. “Thank God they aren’t barbed. I do fear infection, though. In such a delicate area and none-to-clean prickles.”
John set about pulling out the spines with occasional apologies and requests for Sherlock to shift. He had Sherlock hold aside his testicles at one point.
When done, John sat up and stretched his back. “That would have been easier with you on the table, but I didn’t want you to move any more than you had to. I want you to go and shower. Clean the area well and feel about to see if I missed any bits. If I didn’t I want to put iodine on all the entry points, or you can do it if you wish.”
“Keep those.” Sherlock said, pointing to the spines. “I don’t have any opuntia littoralis in my collection.”
“Any what?”
“Prickly pear.” Sherlock went off to the shower and John cleaned up the sofa. He could hear the water running and scrubbed his face with his hands. What a shit hand to be dealt. It could easily explain some of the reasons Sherlock was as he was.
His flatmate returned wearing a t-shirt and his open robe, carrying his pajama bottoms. To balance his former shyness, the detective now saw no reason to hide what had been seen. “You missed one, I think. It’s hard to tell.”
‘Lay down,” John instructed. Sherlock resumed his position and indicated a place in the fold of his leg. “Oh. yes. Sorry.”
John removed the tiny bit of cacti and moved on to apply iodine.
“I’m fully functional,” Sherlock said abruptly. John looked up and met Sherlock’s pale blue eyes. Before he could deny what he was thinking, Sherlock continued. “It’s hardly worth the effort. You know of the seven thousand nerve endings in a typical penis most are in the glans. I lack that.”
“Oh,” was all John could say and returned to his task. He was struggling with compassion for his friend and the training of a doctor who had, frankly, seen much worse. “There. Watch it the next 24 hours, please. Let me see anything that doesn’t look right. Keep it clean and I want to take a look in a couple of days just in case. It’s a bad place…” John trailed off and occupied himself capping the iodine bottle.
“For an infection. I know.” Sherlock stood and pulled on his pants. He put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. I will put the appointment of your checkup in my phone and trust you to nag me into keeping it.” He walked away toward the kitchen, then paused. “If you have any questions, John, I’d rather you ask than sit and scowl at me.”
“I do have a question. There wasn’t any additional evidence you had to dash off after, was there? You didn’t want the officials to learn of your… condition.”
“Condition,” scoffed Sherlock. “You’re a doctor, use the proper term. Disfigurement. And no, of course not.”
Three days later, John came home from work to find Sherlock on the couch as usual. He did not move when John came in. “Let’s get it over with,” he said to his roommate.
“Hummmm?” Sherlock said, not taking his arm from over his eyes.
“Your check up.”
Sherlock sighed. “Very well. But only because I am not doing anything else at this moment and you will nag me until I give in.” Sherlock arched, raising his hips without moving his upper body or arm
“Now I have to undress you too? Really?” John shook his head but pulled down Sherlock’s pajama bottoms and boxers. He made an efficient clinical inspection. “Mr. Holmes, I see you are healing cleanly, and there probably will be no scars. Just don’t fight with any more cacti.” John took a half a minute to look again at Sherlock’s foreshortened penis before he stood and walked away.
“Aren’t you going to redress me?” Sherlock pouted.
“No, Sherlock. I am not, but I will order dinner. How about Chinese?”
Ten days and a hard case later Sherlock and John were once again sitting in 221B’s living room. John was at the table with his lap top open and Sherlock lounged by the empty fireplace.
“Ask, John. I told you to ask. And the answer is that I am not a virgin.”
John blinked and focused on Sherlock who was restringing his bow.
Sherlock sighed, knowing what John wanted. “You were just on your blog typing up the case where I had the encounter with the cactus. What are you calling that one anyway?”
“The Second Postman.”
“You do pick the most trivial points to glamorize. Then your eyes wandered to the couch, remembering my wounds.”
“Which I am leaving out of the report,” John broke in.
“Thank you. Which of course made you think of my deformity. Then you wanted to look at me, but resisted. Instead your eyes went to the stack of second hand books you picked up yesterday. One of them is titled ‘The Virgin Suicides’ which you picked up for Mrs. Hudson. Then you did look at me with a scowl on your face, which is something I asked you not to do.”
John flushed a bit and fiddled with his empty cup. “I was also thinking it was way too rude a question and none of my business.”
His flatmate tightened the string and picked up his violin. He ran the bow experimentally over the strings and set the instrument down again. “Anything that causes you to scowl at me and distracts you from any case you are on is our business.”
John nodded. “Ok. Thank you for telling me.” He went back to typing.
Sherlock adjusted the bow once more to his satisfaction and played a short piece of Mendelssohn before speaking again. “I was seventeen. She was the neighbor’s step daughter.” John stopped his typing. Sherlock never told him stories about his past. His delivery was the same as if he was relating the facts in a case. “She was about your height, blonde and curvy. Not unattractive. Also more than willing to sneak out with the interesting boy next door and give him a birthday present. She wanted to do it again a week later, but her simpering put me off the idea.
“After the accident while at college I did experiment with various encounters and stimulations, but I found nothing satisfactory so I put the idea of sexuality largely behind me. Honestly after seeing how many murders and other nefarious acts it leads to, not to mention diseases and unwanted children, I am surprised more people do not do the same.”
The consulting detective picked up his violin and started playing, effectively ending the conversation.
Some days later, Sherlock was bored and John was avoiding him as much as he could. And not just because Sherlock on a boredom run was tedious company at best. After a restless night he woke up an hour before his alarm went off, gave up on trying to sleep, dressed, and headed downstairs.
“Don’t turn on the light!” John jumped at the voice which came out of the darkened living room.
“Why?” he asked once he’d picked Sherlock’s shape from the shadows by the window.
“I am watching the policeman. He’s walked past our door four times more than is normal for his patrol. He keeps looking at the building beside ours.”
John let go of the tension he was holding. “Is he skinny, ginger, and has no chin to speak of?”
“That’s the man.”
“He’s sweet on Milly. The sister of the boy renting the flat next door. She’s supposed to come visit this week.”
“How on earth do you know that?’ Sherlock snapped.
“If you went out to the shops once in a while and talked to people you’d be up on it.” John turned on the kitchen light and Sherlock jerked back from the window.
An empty doughnut box lay on the counter, the post it note with “John’s Doughnut! Do not eat or experiment on” written on it stuck to the lid. John was trying a pad of garish neon colored paper for effect. Apparently not even that helped.
“Damn it all, Sherlock!” John exploded, batting the box to the floor. “I put up with a lot from you and all I ask is the last doughnut! How could you not see the large neon yellow note?”
“The lights were out.” Sherlock said calmly, folding himself on the dark couch. John was a silhouette in the kitchen door.
“You don’t eat much for days then you eat the one thing, out of cupboards of food,” he jerked open a door to show him, “the one thing I ask you not to eat!”
“John,” Sherlock said calmly. “I will buy you more.”
“I. Wanted. It. Now. I’m a simple man. I look forward to little, simple events in my life. Like a doughnut from my favorite bakery across town when I first wake up. You had at least seven of the dozen, as I recall. I had just asked for one more!”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, John? You’ve been skittish for a month.”
“I’m going to work. I have several extra stops to take now that I have to get another doughnut.” He slammed the door behind him, leaving Sherlock puzzled.
Part 2
Writer: fanbot
Warnings: Physical deformity, slash. No spoilers.
Words 6,280 complete
Rated R -adult
I don’t own anything. Well, noting worth taking.
Summary: Why does Sherlock have no interest in sex? John finds out.
Betaed by the awesome c_woodhaven. Hugs! Any new mistakes are mine.
A gun fired and John Watson ran toward the sound, but the dark greenhouse was a maze of vines and branches. “Sherlock!” he called.
“Here!” There was something in his voice made John hurry. He found his flatmate in the “American Desert” room of the vast private arboretum. There were smashed pots and shattered cacti around a body in the middle of the room. Sherlock Holmes stood with his hands on his knees, as if unable to straighten up.
“Are you all right?”
Sherlock waved him off. “Check Rogers. I’m quite sure he’s dead.”
John bent over the body and quickly determined the death of the murderer they had been chasing. He shifted his concern to Sherlock Holmes who was looking pale and pained.
“What happened? May be you should sit down.”
“No!” Sherlock waved him off. “No. I’ll be okay. Look, just stay here and call in Lestrade. I last saw him running the wrong way across the west lawn. I… I have to tie up a loose end. Some.. proof will get away otherwise.”
“Are you sure? Lestrade can send a man… Sherlock! You’re bleeding!”
Sherlock fixed steely eyes on him and sternly said, “I will meet you at home shortly, understand?”
“But the ambulance…”
“No, John,” Sherlock said curtly, turned on his heel and limped away.
John made reports and excuses for Sherlock’s abrupt departure and went home as swiftly as a cab could take him. He found Sherlock on the couch. He had cut his pants away and now was laying on the couch, the closer knee up. The first aid kit was scattered on the chair beside him.
“Are you shot? What happened?” John reached to move his leg aside so he could see.
Sherlock grabbed his wrist. “Sit down. I do need your help, but the area is … rather sensitive.” He was pale and obviously in pain.
“If you were injured in the groin, I would say so.” John sat down as requested. Sherlock met his eyes.
“When I was seventeen I was dueling with Mycroft - antique rapiers off the wall. He’d made me angry and despite being the better fencer, I stumbled and his blade cut me rather badly on the penis.” He read the concern in John’s face. “It just required stitches, and looked like it would heal nicely, but I developed a staph infection. I had a wonderful doctor who saved as much… material as he could.”
John swallowed. “Got it. Now if you are hurt, I need to help you.”
Sherlock didn’t let go of his wrist just yet. “Tell no one. Only Mycroft knows. Understand?”
“I understand, Sherlock. Doctor patient confidentiality.” His face softened. “Friend confidentiality.”
Sherlock lowered his leg, wincing. Cactus spines and red bloody spots where they had been are clustered high in the inside of his left leg and around the base of his penis. John had to take a second to look at him. Sherlock’s penis was no more than a one inch mound of softened flesh. Two short, neat scars radiated from the slit in the end of it. No wonder he held some contempt for his brother.
“Right,” John said, his clinical training becoming a welcome shield'. “I need more light and the better tweezers. You shouldn’t have moved around so much, you spread out the spines and probably imbedded some deeper.” In turning away, he missed seeing Sherlock’s grateful smile at his flatmate.
He moved a high powered desk lamp from Sherlock’s workbench and clipped it to the back of a chair, then he bustled about washing his hands and getting the additional equipment he needed. Sherlock watched him silently.
He sat again and looked over the area. He picked up one of the spines Sherlock managed to get out and studied it. “Thank God they aren’t barbed. I do fear infection, though. In such a delicate area and none-to-clean prickles.”
John set about pulling out the spines with occasional apologies and requests for Sherlock to shift. He had Sherlock hold aside his testicles at one point.
When done, John sat up and stretched his back. “That would have been easier with you on the table, but I didn’t want you to move any more than you had to. I want you to go and shower. Clean the area well and feel about to see if I missed any bits. If I didn’t I want to put iodine on all the entry points, or you can do it if you wish.”
“Keep those.” Sherlock said, pointing to the spines. “I don’t have any opuntia littoralis in my collection.”
“Any what?”
“Prickly pear.” Sherlock went off to the shower and John cleaned up the sofa. He could hear the water running and scrubbed his face with his hands. What a shit hand to be dealt. It could easily explain some of the reasons Sherlock was as he was.
His flatmate returned wearing a t-shirt and his open robe, carrying his pajama bottoms. To balance his former shyness, the detective now saw no reason to hide what had been seen. “You missed one, I think. It’s hard to tell.”
‘Lay down,” John instructed. Sherlock resumed his position and indicated a place in the fold of his leg. “Oh. yes. Sorry.”
John removed the tiny bit of cacti and moved on to apply iodine.
“I’m fully functional,” Sherlock said abruptly. John looked up and met Sherlock’s pale blue eyes. Before he could deny what he was thinking, Sherlock continued. “It’s hardly worth the effort. You know of the seven thousand nerve endings in a typical penis most are in the glans. I lack that.”
“Oh,” was all John could say and returned to his task. He was struggling with compassion for his friend and the training of a doctor who had, frankly, seen much worse. “There. Watch it the next 24 hours, please. Let me see anything that doesn’t look right. Keep it clean and I want to take a look in a couple of days just in case. It’s a bad place…” John trailed off and occupied himself capping the iodine bottle.
“For an infection. I know.” Sherlock stood and pulled on his pants. He put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Thank you, Dr. Watson. I will put the appointment of your checkup in my phone and trust you to nag me into keeping it.” He walked away toward the kitchen, then paused. “If you have any questions, John, I’d rather you ask than sit and scowl at me.”
“I do have a question. There wasn’t any additional evidence you had to dash off after, was there? You didn’t want the officials to learn of your… condition.”
“Condition,” scoffed Sherlock. “You’re a doctor, use the proper term. Disfigurement. And no, of course not.”
Three days later, John came home from work to find Sherlock on the couch as usual. He did not move when John came in. “Let’s get it over with,” he said to his roommate.
“Hummmm?” Sherlock said, not taking his arm from over his eyes.
“Your check up.”
Sherlock sighed. “Very well. But only because I am not doing anything else at this moment and you will nag me until I give in.” Sherlock arched, raising his hips without moving his upper body or arm
“Now I have to undress you too? Really?” John shook his head but pulled down Sherlock’s pajama bottoms and boxers. He made an efficient clinical inspection. “Mr. Holmes, I see you are healing cleanly, and there probably will be no scars. Just don’t fight with any more cacti.” John took a half a minute to look again at Sherlock’s foreshortened penis before he stood and walked away.
“Aren’t you going to redress me?” Sherlock pouted.
“No, Sherlock. I am not, but I will order dinner. How about Chinese?”
Ten days and a hard case later Sherlock and John were once again sitting in 221B’s living room. John was at the table with his lap top open and Sherlock lounged by the empty fireplace.
“Ask, John. I told you to ask. And the answer is that I am not a virgin.”
John blinked and focused on Sherlock who was restringing his bow.
Sherlock sighed, knowing what John wanted. “You were just on your blog typing up the case where I had the encounter with the cactus. What are you calling that one anyway?”
“The Second Postman.”
“You do pick the most trivial points to glamorize. Then your eyes wandered to the couch, remembering my wounds.”
“Which I am leaving out of the report,” John broke in.
“Thank you. Which of course made you think of my deformity. Then you wanted to look at me, but resisted. Instead your eyes went to the stack of second hand books you picked up yesterday. One of them is titled ‘The Virgin Suicides’ which you picked up for Mrs. Hudson. Then you did look at me with a scowl on your face, which is something I asked you not to do.”
John flushed a bit and fiddled with his empty cup. “I was also thinking it was way too rude a question and none of my business.”
His flatmate tightened the string and picked up his violin. He ran the bow experimentally over the strings and set the instrument down again. “Anything that causes you to scowl at me and distracts you from any case you are on is our business.”
John nodded. “Ok. Thank you for telling me.” He went back to typing.
Sherlock adjusted the bow once more to his satisfaction and played a short piece of Mendelssohn before speaking again. “I was seventeen. She was the neighbor’s step daughter.” John stopped his typing. Sherlock never told him stories about his past. His delivery was the same as if he was relating the facts in a case. “She was about your height, blonde and curvy. Not unattractive. Also more than willing to sneak out with the interesting boy next door and give him a birthday present. She wanted to do it again a week later, but her simpering put me off the idea.
“After the accident while at college I did experiment with various encounters and stimulations, but I found nothing satisfactory so I put the idea of sexuality largely behind me. Honestly after seeing how many murders and other nefarious acts it leads to, not to mention diseases and unwanted children, I am surprised more people do not do the same.”
The consulting detective picked up his violin and started playing, effectively ending the conversation.
Some days later, Sherlock was bored and John was avoiding him as much as he could. And not just because Sherlock on a boredom run was tedious company at best. After a restless night he woke up an hour before his alarm went off, gave up on trying to sleep, dressed, and headed downstairs.
“Don’t turn on the light!” John jumped at the voice which came out of the darkened living room.
“Why?” he asked once he’d picked Sherlock’s shape from the shadows by the window.
“I am watching the policeman. He’s walked past our door four times more than is normal for his patrol. He keeps looking at the building beside ours.”
John let go of the tension he was holding. “Is he skinny, ginger, and has no chin to speak of?”
“That’s the man.”
“He’s sweet on Milly. The sister of the boy renting the flat next door. She’s supposed to come visit this week.”
“How on earth do you know that?’ Sherlock snapped.
“If you went out to the shops once in a while and talked to people you’d be up on it.” John turned on the kitchen light and Sherlock jerked back from the window.
An empty doughnut box lay on the counter, the post it note with “John’s Doughnut! Do not eat or experiment on” written on it stuck to the lid. John was trying a pad of garish neon colored paper for effect. Apparently not even that helped.
“Damn it all, Sherlock!” John exploded, batting the box to the floor. “I put up with a lot from you and all I ask is the last doughnut! How could you not see the large neon yellow note?”
“The lights were out.” Sherlock said calmly, folding himself on the dark couch. John was a silhouette in the kitchen door.
“You don’t eat much for days then you eat the one thing, out of cupboards of food,” he jerked open a door to show him, “the one thing I ask you not to eat!”
“John,” Sherlock said calmly. “I will buy you more.”
“I. Wanted. It. Now. I’m a simple man. I look forward to little, simple events in my life. Like a doughnut from my favorite bakery across town when I first wake up. You had at least seven of the dozen, as I recall. I had just asked for one more!”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, John? You’ve been skittish for a month.”
“I’m going to work. I have several extra stops to take now that I have to get another doughnut.” He slammed the door behind him, leaving Sherlock puzzled.
Part 2