A Pink Apron? - Part Eight
A PINK APRON?
PART EIGHT
Genre: slash, general, hurt/comfort
Summary: It’s beyond confounding then when he walked up to me just after I’d got back from the surgery, wearing a pink apron, and happily declared that dinner was ready. Dinner? Him? Wait, a pink apron? (This chapter has a mixture really... with appearances from Sherlock, John and even Mycroft because that man just won't get out of my head! I blame the umbrella :D)
Warnings: NC-17 for whump and violence and slash!
Word Count: For this section? Um about 2’500 words. Overall? 25k - damn this is long! O.O
Spoilers: um... I don’t know, maybe the first two episodes??
A/N: This isn’t as long as I’d prefer it to be but I’ve been a bit busy with college (five subjects is a sure-fire way of taking up all your free time...). Anyway! I hope you guys are alright with this update; I’ve actually had to quickly re-read this entire fic just so I can crack on with this chapter it’s been so long since I actually updated (oopsy).
Enjoy peeps!
Kasey
~
(John’s POV)
Ohhh... my head... ohhh my shoulder... ohhh- can I smell scrambled egg? Huh? What? I’m not cooking them and it can’t be Sherlock can it? No... the man only knows how to blow food up not cook it! So... who’s cooking then? Mrs Hudson? No, the not-your-housekeeper-thing kind of rules her out. And why have I got this God-awful crick in my neck? Late night hunting the bad guys or has Sherlock melted my bed with some random bloody acid?
Wait... Sherlock... now something’s stirring in my head; I can feel like nipping away at my senses and- SHIT! SHERLOCK!
I sit bolt upright in my chair and blink stupidly, it’s bright and the windows aren’t covered so there is external illumination in the sitting area; it’s kind of weird actually, Sherlock seems to enjoy letting as little light from outside into our flat as humanly possible. You’d think he was scared that the daylight would melt him or something! Anyway, it’s strange that it’s so bright in here and it’s hurting my eyes but I’m not going to close them or cover my face because that could get me killed, or worse; I mean, what if there’s a hostile in the flat? What if they’ve made up this rouse so as to relax and confuse me and then they’re going to strike when I least expect it? And I’m obviously not paranoid at all am I?
Slowly I lever myself out of my chair, making sure that my feet make as little friction on the rug as possible and that my movements are deliberate and precise; no sense in wasting energy not long after waking up afterall. The smell of scrambled eggs is strong and coming from the kitchen; I haven’t had scrambled eggs since before shipping out to Afghanistan and God does that smell amazing. There’s also this quiet sound just audible over the sound of the egg frying, and if I’m not mistaken; which since I’ve not long woken up I could well be, is humming. Humming? Really? In Baker Street? I must be in an alternate reality or something.
Actually... I think I’m going to put emphasis on the something right now because what I’m looking at is just wrong in so many ways that I might just end up clawing my eyes out. I can just about handle Sherlock and his eccentricities but this... this takes the cake!
Sherlock would love to see this but- Sherlock’s injured. Sherlock’s hurt and I’m standing here gawping at this spectacle! God what’s wrong with me! I tear my eyes away from what I can barely believe I’m seeing and quickly scuttle towards the door and up the stairs towards my bedroom because I can dimly recall putting Sherlock to sleep in my bed because my bed’s clean and neat and doesn’t have decomposing creatures on it; at least, I don’t think it does.
When I reach my bedroom door I can’t help but pause nervously, I don’t know if it’s because I know Sherlock’s hurt or if it’s because of the fact that Sherlock’s in my room; and I think my priorities are just a little bit messed up if I can’t even sort out what I’m feeling at this point.
But just because I’m worried about what I’ll find when I open the door won’t stop me, a hardened military-doctor, from opening said door; afterall, it’s only a piece of wood with a handle right? Wrong. It’s a symbol, a God-damn annoying bloody symbol of an eternal divide between me and so many different possibilities between myself and Sherlock. It’s a bloody symbol of all the problems and divides I’ve put between myself and what I wanted. It’s a bloody door that I’m going to open regardless of whatever my feelings on the subject may be because it’s time I stopped being compliant and a chicken. Time I stepped up.
~
(Sherlock’s POV)
This is awful. Absolutely awful. Pain is irrelevant and pointless and... painful. I don’t like it. I really don’t like it. It’s quite the inconsequential thing, hardly worthy of merit, yet when you feel it, it has this inherent ability to override every basic thought-process you happen to have; which, needless to say for someone such as myself is not good. I don’t know how some people can enjoy feeling this level of pain, why they strive for it by getting into brawls and wrestling matches; not to mention the more recreational and sexually based uses of pain also. I’m not adverse to it because in some cases, certain particular cases, it can work to one’s advantage; pain is quite an effective stimulus depending on how strong it is, much like most other addictions I suppose.
I’m not entirely sure where I am if I’m honest, I recall that... room and that beastly man but much of what came after that is mixed and hazy; if I didn’t know myself as well as I do I would actually deduce that I went into shock at some point last night. It’s the middle of the day now; probably just past noon if the soft echo of Big Ben is anything to go by, and I can’t help but want to move. I’m injured, which I can point out to even the most dense of people, but I’m bored. Incredibly bored.
And scared. Incredibly scared too.
My right arm is rather painful and I can see out of the corner of my eye bandages on it and I’m guessing if I could manage to lift my head up enough, then I’d see similar bandages on my left arm as well as my torso. All expertly wrapped; neat, precise, and just tight enough. I know whose done it, there’s only one person I know who has the necessary skill to be so exact with this... and he’s standing outside the door if I’m not mistaken.
Soft, light footfalls were what I heard, but they had that familiarity that I experience in regards to anything to do with John. The lightness of the footfalls came as a bit of a surprise to me, but I do know that John has been trained in stealth tactics; I suppose that those pieces of ingrained training have come to the fore and thus he is being more like a soldier weary of his surroundings and less like a doctor comfortable in his own home. How strange.
I do wonder why he hasn’t entered yet and I’m still not one hundred percent certain where I am; but I have got an inkling. The deduction’s simple really but in my defense pain is very distracting for me; you can’t ignore pain like you can hunger or the requirement of sleep. You can’t combat pain because every move you make creates more pain so the exertion in finding pain-relief seems like too much bother. Oh how I suddenly miss the times when all I had to worry about was John force-feeding me during a case; I’m relatively sure he would have done so as well. Perhaps I could perform an experiment of sorts based on that?
There’s a single set of Chester-draws in this rather small room, the room isn’t the size of a prison cell but it is much smaller than my own, which from what I can tell contains only basic clothing since there’s a thin layer of dust settling on the last three draws; so someone lives here who doesn’t have many belongings and is neat and organised with whatever they do own. The bed I’m on from what I can gather was originally perfect; the bedding made perfectly, crisp and angled, which leads me to the idea that someone from a military background is the inhabitant of this room. And if none of that was enough of a give-away for me the rather noticeable jumper folded up on the top of the Chester-draws just seals the deal.
I am in John Watson’s bedroom.
Oh dear... perhaps I shouldn’t have deduced where I was... my mind is all a flutter with some less than pure thoughts about John and this bed...
I close my eyes as these... fantasies I suppose you’d call them, are conjured up and so I miss the door opening almost silently; in fact I wouldn’t have known the door had opened had it not been for a single creaking floorboard situated directly in front of the door. Thank God for those floorboards. My eyes snap open and I know my face is flushed, which is a rarity for me due to my rather pale complexion, but I’m not overly concerned about me right now; no, the short man standing just inside the room is what has my concern.
He looks awful, as though he’s had a rough couple of days; which I suppose he has really, what with my kidnapping and all. There are bags under his eyes which tells me he’s not been sleeping properly, his left shoulder is all tensed up which tells me that he’s recently fell asleep in a rather uncomfortable position, and his left hand is as steady as a rock so that means he’s still in his own unique version of a fight-or-flight response.
He smiles at me though, crookedly and there’s something there, hidden beneath it that I can’t discern from this distance; and the dim lighting in the room isn’t really helping either, but... if I were to hazard a guess, and I never do such a thing since I’m Sherlock Holmes, I would say that what I was seeing in John’s smile, in his eyes... was wanton lust...
How very interesting.
~
(Mycroft’s POV)
I do wonder if the good doctor thinks I didn’t notice him waking up; it wouldn’t entirely surprise me if he does think that since his concern isn’t with me right now. No. Sherlock is the priority for the doctor; and rightly so. My brother does so often need a carer, a friend, a lover even. Though I’m quite sure both Sherlock and John would protest immensely at the designation of carer and lover; though I do wonder which one they’d be against moreso.
If I recall correctly the last time I ever cooked was not long after I turned twenty, since then it’s mostly been restaurants and personal chefs who have supplied me with sustenance; but that doesn’t mean the concept of cooking is lost on me. Mummy did so love baking cakes, and muffins, and other things with chocolate on them... alas, nothing seems to compare to mummy’s baking skills. Not even some of the most famous bakers hold a candle to mummy. Scrambled eggs I suppose doesn’t entirely constitute as cooking though does it? It’s quite a simple, basic and straightforward thing to prepare; well, it’s supposed to be but Sherlock always could make something more difficult than what it really was.
I wonder whether John’s opened the door to his bedroom yet, or if he’s still standing before it staring at it as though it holds all the answers to the questions he’s been asking himself these past few weeks. The irony of that of course if that the door holds no answers, but what is behind the door however most definitely does.
Ah! He’s entered now, the tell-tale sound of a single creaking floorboard is loud enough for me to hear as I turn the ring off on the over and move the pan over in order to let the scrambled egg cool. I hope this goes well; I would hate to have made this breakfast for them in vain.
I’ll give them a few minutes before I go up and interrupt. And I’m fully expecting, hoping really, to be glared at but reluctantly thanked then unceremoniously kicked out whilst they resolve their little problem. I’ve never known a pair like them really; even my own brother, who is a handful in himself, is dwarfed by his would-be lover, I’ve read Doctor Watson’s file afterall. The term handful doesn’t even begin to cover what John Watson is; he’s a blasted PR nightmare with everything he knows and has done in the past.
Oddly enough that seems to make him the perfect partner for my brother. How very interesting...
~
To Be Continued...
Well... this is quite a turn of events... uh, no not really :p
Just feel free to ignore me as a person but please do read this and comment (I like comments... as long as they have some praise; I don’t like comments only criticising me... it makes me cry :p)
Anyway, I’m not sure when I’ll be updating this but it might be tomorrow, it might be next week, heck for all I know it could be some time next month! You’ll just have to wait and see... for which I apologise profusely for.
Kasey