Sherlock 100 Table 3/100 #64 Fall
Title: 5 Times Sherlock fainted and 1 time John just smacked him in the face
Characters: Sherlock/John
Prompt: I remember awhile back for someone prompting John delivering a baby and Sherlock fainting by the sight of it. It got a lot of responses saying that Sherlock wouldn't faint over that. It got me thinking. If there's anything that genuinely could cause Sherlock to faint what would it be?
Perhaps nothing since he's a strong bloke but for the sake of having fun let's think up some things, even if it's crack (especially if it's crack).
Word Count (if fiction): 1713 (Awesome)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Exactly as the title seys ^^
Spoilers: First season
Warnings: Blood, other gross bodily fluids...heads getting smacked around, non-graphic kidnapping escapades, violence
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“John, it’s happened again.”
John blinked. “What’s happened?”
There was a pause over the phone. “Sherlock has fainted again,” said Lestrade.
“Again?” John wondered. It was no surprise that the man had fallen out, but it was the first time John had heard of such an occurrence.
“You’ve never seen him go down?” Lestrade asked, an inappropriate hint of mirth in his voice.
“I’ve seen him get knocked out, but I’ve never--Lestrade, what do you need me to do?” John suddenly demanded, the implied seriousness of the occasion hitting him.
“I thought you might…that is…well, he’s going to be kind of useless after this,” Lestrade tried explaining. “I mean, once he passes out, it’s pretty much a sign that he needs to rest for a day or two.”
“And you’d like me to make him rest?”
“Shut up, all of you! I’m FINE! I don’t need to sit down, I’m going to cling to this chair and do ten times the work that you lot do with your bipedal abilities!!”
“No,” Lestrade sighed into the phone. “I want you to make him go home…”
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Everyone was shocked to find that Sherlock wasn’t good with children. After all, he held all the promise of being a spotless role model, with his intense stare and propensity to maniacal laughter, not to mention the dead animals he collected and the lethal poisons he kept unorganized and haphazard.
The shock came when the only witness to a suicide-homicide case was a seven-year-old boy named Tim. Tim with one-inch thick glasses, bowl-shaped hair and a nasty head cold.
Lestrade had given the boy an honorary policeman’s badge and a teddy bear for being so brave. Sally had offered to give him a ride in her squad car for answering all of their questions so helpfully. Sherlock took a Q-tip and stuck it into the boy’s ear without asking.
As everyone stared at the back of Sherlock’s head and Tim scratched his ear, Sherlock bagged the Q-tip into an evidence container and towered over the boy. “Did you hear anything strange right before the man entered the flat?” he asked, his tone allowing no nonsense.
The boy’s lip quivered a little and he backed up into John. John patted him on the shoulder and gave Sherlock an exasperated look. “Sherlock, it may help if you get down on his level,” said John’s mouth, while John’s eyes were clearly saying, Will you stop that? You’re frightening him.
Sherlock went down on one knee in an awkward crouch. “Tim,” he said in false sweetness. “I’m very interested to know if you heard the sound of a bell or some kind of ringing right before the gunshot.”
“Um…” said Tim. It looked as though he was concentrating fiercely. “I don’t remember,” he said. Suddenly a greenish-yellow liquid seeped out of Tim’s nose like a little droplet of water or an icicle.
Sherlock felt all the blood leave his face as he stared at the snot coming out of the little boy’s nose. “EW,” people heard him say before he went over sideways.
Tim looked concerned, but was soon led away by Sally with promises of sweets and trying out her car’s siren. John knelt beside Sherlock and took a pulse.
“What happened?” asked Lestrade, holding his hands up in confusion.
John held a perfectly straight face, as he quipped, “S’not a big deal.”
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“Just hold still, Sherlock, and you will live,” John said, sniffing. The frigid outside temperature bombarded with the blasting heat inside was giving him a runny nose, which he tempered with a handkerchief. The only reason he’d been outside in minus 20 degrees was to prevent Sherlock getting hurt or catching cold.
Now, Sherlock was hurt, and John was catching a cold. Granted, Sherlock wasn’t very hurt, just cut up on his forearm from slamming himself bodily into a brick wall to avoid being shot. John was carefully picking out debris and dabbing antiseptic here and there while Sherlock cringed and hissed intermittently.
“John,” Sherlock whispered, horrified.
John looked up at him, frowning. “I know that didn’t hurt, Sherlock,” John murmured. “I was just wrapping the cut…”
“No…no, it’s just…it’s…it’s…your…your thing, oh my god…”
John tilted his head to suggest that Sherlock was talking gibberish when he felt a trickle of warmth go over his top lip and then down his chin. He dabbed at the wetness with his handkerchief and the spot was red. Nosebleed, then. “It’s all right, sometimes in the winter, my sinuses get dried out and--”
Sherlock was standing up away from the little folding chair John had set for him in the bathroom. “Yep,” he said. “Nosebleed, very common…it’s just…oh my god…”
John was about two inches from grabbing the man’s wavering arm when suddenly Sherlock toppled over backwards and into the tub, grasping desperately at the shower curtain as he fainted once again. Now John was cringing and hissing as he heard the clank-thud of Sherlock’s head hitting the lip of the porcelain.
It would be hours later, with Sherlock tucked into bed sporting white cotton bandages around his head like a soap opera amnesia victim, that John would finally get the chance to ask him, “Is it always things coming out of people’s noses that makes you do that?”
At which point Sherlock tried to kill him by repeatedly slapping him in the face with a wet flannel.
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John soon learned that his assumption about Sherlock only fainting at nose drippings was definitely false.
He’d been abducted. Again. He tried to be prepared, but dammit, kidnappers kept getting more and more clever and able-bodied. So, he sat there in a cellar for about thirty hours, his hands and feet numb from the harsh rope bindings around them. He was given water every 8 hours or so, and couldn’t help but hope that the situation would end amiably, especially with Sherlock out there looking for him.
As John was about to drift off to sleep, he heard shouting and heavy footfalls on the floor above him. The unmistakable sound of Lestrade’s booming voice was so gratifying. Then, there was a sound that confused him. It sounded like someone hammering the floor. John strained his neck toward the door to figure out what was happening, but the noises abruptly stopped and someone was jiggling the lock to his prison.
Two officers, guns training at different spots around the room, entered. “All clear!” one of the announced, and then Sherlock was in the room and leaping down the stairs like a suddenly freed panther.
He dropped to his knees in front of John, touching his shoulders and his face, as if in disbelief. John noticed how waxy and pale Sherlock‘s face was and saw bleeding cuts across his hands and fingers. “John…they said…they killed you,” he gasped. He tentatively reached for the bindings around the doctor’s wrists, his depleted strength obvious as he could barely hold himself up to paw at John‘s bound arms. “There was blood…there was so much blood…I thought it was yours, I couldn’t see…” and then he keeled over like a rotten log.
“Sherlock,” John said softly.
“Oh, boy are we glad to see you, Dr. Watson!” said an officer that John wasn’t very familiar with. “Sherlock sure gave those guys upstairs a walloping before they told him you were down here.” The man cut the ropes on John’s hands and feet with a pocket knife. “Do you need the paramedics, Dr. Watson?”
John looked at Sherlock’s ashen complexion and cut and bruised knuckles. He didn’t really know how to answer the question.
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A week later, it was Sherlock’s turn to be kidnapped. Snatched right off the street on his way back from Mycroft’s office. A foreign convict facing extradition apparently planned on using Sherlock as leverage in exchange for Mycroft’s people erasing the charges against him.
Mycroft had the location in thirty minutes. It took seven more hours before he could manage to get it secured.
John even got to kick in the front door himself.
Sherlock had been locked in a sauna 90 centimetres across and 190 centimetres tall. The bloody thing had been turned up to its highest temperature, and John had tried to warn Sherlock not to stand up too quickly, but he never listened. Sweat-soaked and dehydrated, Sherlock’s body went down, his head following in its wake. This time, John caught him.
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“This is fantastic!” Sherlock crowed. “Can you believe how lucky we are, John, to be witness to three hostage deliberations going on at once! Not to mention Moriarty and the little message he left this morning. Things are definitely, definitely looking up!!” Sherlock was shouting and John began to wonder how long it had been since the man had had any B12 in his diet.
“Well, let’s not forget the hostages and the fourteen prisoners Moriarty threatened to off,” John said, shrugging into his jacket.
“Oh, sod them,” Sherlock said carelessly. He paused for a moment. Then he jumped in the air. “Oh, this is just so exciting!!” He landed on the ground and paused, swaying a bit. “Woah…think I may have gotten a little too excited.” He had that look of “About to faint!” written all over him.
And then John hit him. Right in the face.
It was enough.
When Sherlock came to, he looked around at the room dazedly. “Wha--What happened?”
John frowned sympathetically. “You fainted again, mate.”
Sherlock rubbed his cheek. “But why does my face hurt?”
John picked up an object from the floor. “You must’ve fallen on top of your skull,” he said, holding up the macabre decoration. “Or perhaps you just fell onto my fist,” he muttered.
“What?” Sherlock asked, hitching an eyebrow.
“You’re going on a diet!” John yelled.
“But--I never eat as it is!” Sherlock protested.
“Think of it as a reverse of your brother‘s diet,” John explained. “Everything Mycroft isn’t allowed to eat, you’re going to eat. Whenever Mycroft must strictly keep to two meals a day, you will eat four.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Sherlock snapped. “That’s why Mycroft is so fat!”
“Well, I’m sure Mycroft’s assistants don’t have to worry about him toppling over all the time either.”
Sherlock just pouted.
…..
Marill: And that’s the end! :D