Home
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John friendship
Kink: none
Prompt: Tl;dr Sherlock goes into a coma for three years and walks back home after waking up to be met with a hurt and angry John though Sherlock doesn't know what happened to him.
Warning: None
Link: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=79543173#t79543173
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
There was light.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound was annoying.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Where was he now?
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The smell of antiseptic, the feel of warm cotton sheets, a thin gown. The hospital?
Beep. Beep. Beep.
It hurt. Everything felt heavy and slow and stupid and boring. It hurt. He had to open his eyes though. It hurt to try. Even his eyelids didn’t want to open. Everything hurt in a sort of dull aching manner. He felt like he forgot how to blink. He forced himself to concentrate and open his eyes.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Plain walls, not white but a pastel yellow colour. He used to hate yellow. But yellow reminded him of something. That something was very important. What was it again?
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“John.” He remembered a name. He mouthed it because his throat wouldn’t work.
“John.” He rasped it, barely managing to make a sound.
He remembered all of a sudden. John was important. John was important because he was living with Sherlock at 221B Baker Street. John helped Sherlock on cases that were given to them by the Yard or sometimes he would go and find cases by himself. He was Sherlock and Sherlock solved cases. John helped to solve those cases and looked after Sherlock sometimes. John was a nice person. John had a blog. John liked dogs and jumpers and tea and milk and … and… and….
John wasn’t there.
Sherlock sat up slowly. His muscles protested. Dull. Aching. Slow. Stupid. Boring. Dumb. He felt like he was two all over again and struggling to run properly. There was an IV drip in his arm. The bag was half empty. Sherlock lifted his other hand and turned the clamp. He eased it out and left it dangling. There was something between his legs. He grimaced and reached down to pull out the tube. It burned but he had had worse.
He shorted the machine to keep it beeping. He needed to get back to the flat. The last thing he remembered was the Hound incident and attempting to apologize to John for it. He must have gotten mixed up in some other case which had taken a turn for the worse. Or maybe it was someone out for revenge. Either way, he had to let John know and he had to solve the case.
It took some time to maneuver his legs out of the bed - Did he always have such a hard time getting untangled from the sheets? - and then to find some acceptable clothes. It took some time for him to get used to walking again. He must have been out for a while to be so uncoordinated. It was strange.
Sherlock found a toilet and drank from the tap, too tired and thirsty to care. Though, what would John say? It took a bit of walking to get from the little building he was kept in, to the road. He vaguely remembered doing the same thing with John. Some higher power might have been looking out for him because he managed to flag down a well meaning young man. That reminded him of John. His washed out, tired look coupled with his strange dress and lack of shoes made his story of temporary amnesia very believable. “I can only remember a man John Watson and that I share a flat with him in London. The man dropped him off at the nearest train station and bought him a ticket to London.
The train ride was nothing short of nerve-wracking. There were so many people and Sherlock had a hard time turning off his deducing. It wasn’t so hard when John was around. He needed John. He needed John to get through crowds and people. He didn’t understand emotions sometimes but John did. John was at 221B Baker street and John was important. John was his friend.
Eight bloody overwhelming hours on the bloody slow train where Sherlock struggled to remember instead of deducing strange facts about people who passed him by in his seat.
John was there when he said Donovan was scrubbing floors. The cabbie thing, John had shot him. John was an army doctor. John had made him apologize to Molly several times. John and Mrs. Hudson competing for who made the best tea. John told him when things were ‘a bit not good’ or ‘bloody well not good!’. Sherlock recalled everything about John and his life at 221B Baker street just as the train arrived.
Sherlock had a bit of a trouble recalling his map of London. He got stuck in several places, his mind showing him blank spots instead of streets. John would have helped him remember. Nevertheless, he pieced together enough to help him figure out how to get back. John was better at remembering the public transport. It took three instances of pickpocketing, two buses and a ride on a tube for him to be able to walk back to 221B.
It started raining as he turned the corner and trudged back home. John probably would have paid attention to the weather and brought an umbrella His shirt became wet very quickly and his bare feet hurt from walking so much. He was so going to borrow John’s shoes.It hurt everywhere and he felt so heavy. Sherlock hated feeling heavy. But John would make him tea and then it would be better.
He stopped in front of the door. He had no key. John wouldn’t have made a spare, too dangerous. Sherlock stood there, steadily getting wetter and more tired as the rain pelted down. He could go to Angelo but he wanted to make sure John was alright. Sherlock turned to sit down on the step.
“What.”
Sherlock looked up through his sopping wet bangs.
John.
John and umbrella.
John and umbrella and groceries.
But more importantly.
John!
But John was furious.
“John.” Sherlock managed to say with relief. His throat still wasn’t working right.
“You.” John said, dead eyed and full of anger.
“You’re a bloody tosser. A fucking lunatic.” John said quietly. “Get out.”
Sherlock stared.
“But John.” He coughed again.
“You bloody wanker, I’d skin you alive and string you up by your toe nails for putting me through all that, I can’t believe your nerve showing up here again.” John snarled.
Sherlock backpedalled, having never been on the receiving side of John’s fury. Fear gripped his heart inexplicably. What did he do? Did he do something just before he passed out? Or was John referring to the fact that he was in a hospital somewhere when John wasn’t told about it. The military training in his doctor was showing. His stance, his taut frame, the downward curve of his mouth and the set in his brow all pointed to imminent violence.
“John, I’m sorry.” Sherlock forced his throat to obey. His arms and legs on the other hand, failed to defend him when John punched him in the mouth hard. Sherlock sprawled onto the pavement, scraping his hands. He was dizzy. The sudden change in position from standing to lying down made his head spin.
“Three. Three fucking- I don’t even- not even a word!” John snarled, pulling Sherlock up by the front of his shirt to spit in his face.
Three weeks? Three months was more likely, Sherlock thought, that would explain why he felt so heavy and boring.
“I’m sorry.” Sherlock said meekly.
“You’re sorry.” John sneered. “That’s all you have to say?” He all but roared.
Sherlock flinched and John let go, letting the taller man sink to the ground again. John strode into the house, slammed and locked the door without a backward glance.
Sherlock stared at the door then settled down in front of it with a tired sigh. John would forgive him eventually and let him in. He hoped.
At least John was in tip-top condition, Sherlock consoled himself with a tiny smile.
It was nine at night when the door unlocked and parted a little. Sherlock stood up in a hurry, falling through the doorway when his vision blacked out for a few seconds. He closed the door and hurried upstairs. He stopped short at the sight of John. The ex-army doctor was making tea.
“I.”
“Shut up.”
Sherlock obeyed, just glad to be back and in familiar territory. John would forgive him in due time. John had let Sherlock in and John would help Sherlock to remember what happened. John had probably blogged about it too. The detective sneezed and hastily disappeared into the bathroom.
The hot water felt like bliss against his skin. It soothed all the aching muscles that he had been steadily ignoring for the entire day. He looked for his robe but it wasn’t there so he wrapped himself in a towel and headed into his room.
It was bare. Everything that he had was gone. What happened in that three months? Why would John move all of his stuff? Surely John couldn’t be sore that Sherlock had gotten himself knocked out again? Or maybe, they moved it into the other room.
Sherlock ambled over to the other room. There were boxes labeled SH there. Sherlock opened one and pulled out a jumper. This one was the one Mrs. Hudson’s relative had made for him so that he and John could match. He had worn it once but kept it in pristine condition after that. He pulled it on and sighed in relief when he felt his body warm.
He couldn’t find any pants so he decided to just find some socks and then curl up on the sofa.
John was sitting at the table, typing on his laptop.
They sat in silence for what felt like ages. There were a lot of tiny changes in the flat but Sherlock was just happy to have a familiar face and a place to stay for now.
“You don’t have anything to say.” John stated flatly, looking at Sherlock over the top of his laptop.
“I’m sorry?” Sherlock offered again. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. I came back as soon as….”
“As soon as what?” John demanded, slamming his laptop shut and standing up violently, the chair clattered on the floor.
“As soon as you pranced around deducing the shit out of other people? As soon as you finished playing the white knight who solves everyone’s problems? Three, Sherlock. Not one, not two, but three fucking- do you know what it did to me?!” John shouted.
“As soon as I woke up.” Sherlock said as loudly as he could. John fell silent immediately.
“I woke up this morning.” Sherlock said desperately, he hated when John was angry at him. Angry John wouldn’t tell him when things were ‘a bit not good’ anymore. Angry John didn’t help him on cases or patch him afterwards.
“I swear the first thing I did was to find my way back here.” Sherlock said desperately.
“Here, the drip marks are still fresh.” Sherlock pulled up his sleeve. John stared at the needle mark and the bruised surrounding area. He touched his fingers to it and let out a shuddering sigh.
“Sherlock. I thought you were dead.” John said quietly. “For three years. I thought my best friend had died.”
Sherlock breathed in sharply. That long? No wonder John was a mess. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and hugged him tight.
“Never do that again. Never ever die on me.” He whispered. Sherlock hesitated.
“Okay.” He said with a relieved smile. He wasn’t going anywhere.
This was Home.
Pairing: Sherlock/John friendship
Kink: none
Prompt: Tl;dr Sherlock goes into a coma for three years and walks back home after waking up to be met with a hurt and angry John though Sherlock doesn't know what happened to him.
Warning: None
Link: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=79543173#t79543173
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
There was light.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound was annoying.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Where was he now?
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The smell of antiseptic, the feel of warm cotton sheets, a thin gown. The hospital?
Beep. Beep. Beep.
It hurt. Everything felt heavy and slow and stupid and boring. It hurt. He had to open his eyes though. It hurt to try. Even his eyelids didn’t want to open. Everything hurt in a sort of dull aching manner. He felt like he forgot how to blink. He forced himself to concentrate and open his eyes.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Plain walls, not white but a pastel yellow colour. He used to hate yellow. But yellow reminded him of something. That something was very important. What was it again?
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“John.” He remembered a name. He mouthed it because his throat wouldn’t work.
“John.” He rasped it, barely managing to make a sound.
He remembered all of a sudden. John was important. John was important because he was living with Sherlock at 221B Baker Street. John helped Sherlock on cases that were given to them by the Yard or sometimes he would go and find cases by himself. He was Sherlock and Sherlock solved cases. John helped to solve those cases and looked after Sherlock sometimes. John was a nice person. John had a blog. John liked dogs and jumpers and tea and milk and … and… and….
John wasn’t there.
Sherlock sat up slowly. His muscles protested. Dull. Aching. Slow. Stupid. Boring. Dumb. He felt like he was two all over again and struggling to run properly. There was an IV drip in his arm. The bag was half empty. Sherlock lifted his other hand and turned the clamp. He eased it out and left it dangling. There was something between his legs. He grimaced and reached down to pull out the tube. It burned but he had had worse.
He shorted the machine to keep it beeping. He needed to get back to the flat. The last thing he remembered was the Hound incident and attempting to apologize to John for it. He must have gotten mixed up in some other case which had taken a turn for the worse. Or maybe it was someone out for revenge. Either way, he had to let John know and he had to solve the case.
It took some time to maneuver his legs out of the bed - Did he always have such a hard time getting untangled from the sheets? - and then to find some acceptable clothes. It took some time for him to get used to walking again. He must have been out for a while to be so uncoordinated. It was strange.
Sherlock found a toilet and drank from the tap, too tired and thirsty to care. Though, what would John say? It took a bit of walking to get from the little building he was kept in, to the road. He vaguely remembered doing the same thing with John. Some higher power might have been looking out for him because he managed to flag down a well meaning young man. That reminded him of John. His washed out, tired look coupled with his strange dress and lack of shoes made his story of temporary amnesia very believable. “I can only remember a man John Watson and that I share a flat with him in London. The man dropped him off at the nearest train station and bought him a ticket to London.
The train ride was nothing short of nerve-wracking. There were so many people and Sherlock had a hard time turning off his deducing. It wasn’t so hard when John was around. He needed John. He needed John to get through crowds and people. He didn’t understand emotions sometimes but John did. John was at 221B Baker street and John was important. John was his friend.
Eight bloody overwhelming hours on the bloody slow train where Sherlock struggled to remember instead of deducing strange facts about people who passed him by in his seat.
John was there when he said Donovan was scrubbing floors. The cabbie thing, John had shot him. John was an army doctor. John had made him apologize to Molly several times. John and Mrs. Hudson competing for who made the best tea. John told him when things were ‘a bit not good’ or ‘bloody well not good!’. Sherlock recalled everything about John and his life at 221B Baker street just as the train arrived.
Sherlock had a bit of a trouble recalling his map of London. He got stuck in several places, his mind showing him blank spots instead of streets. John would have helped him remember. Nevertheless, he pieced together enough to help him figure out how to get back. John was better at remembering the public transport. It took three instances of pickpocketing, two buses and a ride on a tube for him to be able to walk back to 221B.
It started raining as he turned the corner and trudged back home. John probably would have paid attention to the weather and brought an umbrella His shirt became wet very quickly and his bare feet hurt from walking so much. He was so going to borrow John’s shoes.It hurt everywhere and he felt so heavy. Sherlock hated feeling heavy. But John would make him tea and then it would be better.
He stopped in front of the door. He had no key. John wouldn’t have made a spare, too dangerous. Sherlock stood there, steadily getting wetter and more tired as the rain pelted down. He could go to Angelo but he wanted to make sure John was alright. Sherlock turned to sit down on the step.
“What.”
Sherlock looked up through his sopping wet bangs.
John.
John and umbrella.
John and umbrella and groceries.
But more importantly.
John!
But John was furious.
“John.” Sherlock managed to say with relief. His throat still wasn’t working right.
“You.” John said, dead eyed and full of anger.
“You’re a bloody tosser. A fucking lunatic.” John said quietly. “Get out.”
Sherlock stared.
“But John.” He coughed again.
“You bloody wanker, I’d skin you alive and string you up by your toe nails for putting me through all that, I can’t believe your nerve showing up here again.” John snarled.
Sherlock backpedalled, having never been on the receiving side of John’s fury. Fear gripped his heart inexplicably. What did he do? Did he do something just before he passed out? Or was John referring to the fact that he was in a hospital somewhere when John wasn’t told about it. The military training in his doctor was showing. His stance, his taut frame, the downward curve of his mouth and the set in his brow all pointed to imminent violence.
“John, I’m sorry.” Sherlock forced his throat to obey. His arms and legs on the other hand, failed to defend him when John punched him in the mouth hard. Sherlock sprawled onto the pavement, scraping his hands. He was dizzy. The sudden change in position from standing to lying down made his head spin.
“Three. Three fucking- I don’t even- not even a word!” John snarled, pulling Sherlock up by the front of his shirt to spit in his face.
Three weeks? Three months was more likely, Sherlock thought, that would explain why he felt so heavy and boring.
“I’m sorry.” Sherlock said meekly.
“You’re sorry.” John sneered. “That’s all you have to say?” He all but roared.
Sherlock flinched and John let go, letting the taller man sink to the ground again. John strode into the house, slammed and locked the door without a backward glance.
Sherlock stared at the door then settled down in front of it with a tired sigh. John would forgive him eventually and let him in. He hoped.
At least John was in tip-top condition, Sherlock consoled himself with a tiny smile.
It was nine at night when the door unlocked and parted a little. Sherlock stood up in a hurry, falling through the doorway when his vision blacked out for a few seconds. He closed the door and hurried upstairs. He stopped short at the sight of John. The ex-army doctor was making tea.
“I.”
“Shut up.”
Sherlock obeyed, just glad to be back and in familiar territory. John would forgive him in due time. John had let Sherlock in and John would help Sherlock to remember what happened. John had probably blogged about it too. The detective sneezed and hastily disappeared into the bathroom.
The hot water felt like bliss against his skin. It soothed all the aching muscles that he had been steadily ignoring for the entire day. He looked for his robe but it wasn’t there so he wrapped himself in a towel and headed into his room.
It was bare. Everything that he had was gone. What happened in that three months? Why would John move all of his stuff? Surely John couldn’t be sore that Sherlock had gotten himself knocked out again? Or maybe, they moved it into the other room.
Sherlock ambled over to the other room. There were boxes labeled SH there. Sherlock opened one and pulled out a jumper. This one was the one Mrs. Hudson’s relative had made for him so that he and John could match. He had worn it once but kept it in pristine condition after that. He pulled it on and sighed in relief when he felt his body warm.
He couldn’t find any pants so he decided to just find some socks and then curl up on the sofa.
John was sitting at the table, typing on his laptop.
They sat in silence for what felt like ages. There were a lot of tiny changes in the flat but Sherlock was just happy to have a familiar face and a place to stay for now.
“You don’t have anything to say.” John stated flatly, looking at Sherlock over the top of his laptop.
“I’m sorry?” Sherlock offered again. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. I came back as soon as….”
“As soon as what?” John demanded, slamming his laptop shut and standing up violently, the chair clattered on the floor.
“As soon as you pranced around deducing the shit out of other people? As soon as you finished playing the white knight who solves everyone’s problems? Three, Sherlock. Not one, not two, but three fucking- do you know what it did to me?!” John shouted.
“As soon as I woke up.” Sherlock said as loudly as he could. John fell silent immediately.
“I woke up this morning.” Sherlock said desperately, he hated when John was angry at him. Angry John wouldn’t tell him when things were ‘a bit not good’ anymore. Angry John didn’t help him on cases or patch him afterwards.
“I swear the first thing I did was to find my way back here.” Sherlock said desperately.
“Here, the drip marks are still fresh.” Sherlock pulled up his sleeve. John stared at the needle mark and the bruised surrounding area. He touched his fingers to it and let out a shuddering sigh.
“Sherlock. I thought you were dead.” John said quietly. “For three years. I thought my best friend had died.”
Sherlock breathed in sharply. That long? No wonder John was a mess. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and hugged him tight.
“Never do that again. Never ever die on me.” He whispered. Sherlock hesitated.
“Okay.” He said with a relieved smile. He wasn’t going anywhere.
This was Home.