Fill: A Thorough Examination 5a/?
anonymous
September 27 2010, 01:03:30 UTC
Thanks for the encouragement, guys! I really appreciate it! :D
______
The fifth time, it was late. Sherlock stopped at John's office on the way home from a crime scene (world's most boring murder-suicide), and John was the only one there.
"Almost done," John said. "Just a bit of paperwork, be right with you." He handed Sherlock a cup of tea and sat at his desk, head bent down, light from his desk lamp splashed down his neck and shoulders in a warm haze.
Sherlock drank the tea and changed into the wretched little gown and thought about where he could get John to take him for dinner tonight. Five minutes passed. "Are you going to take all night?" he called.
"Not long now."
Ten minutes. Sherlock stretched out on the table. The room felt warmer than usual, and his eyelids were heavy. Odd. He'd slept last night, a solid four hours. He let them close.
Next: his arms were stretched tight over his head, both his feet were touching cold metal, and when he pried his eyes open he saw John fastening his left ankle to a metal stirrup with a leather strap.
He swallowed hard. "Something in the tea," he said.
"A mild sedative. Would you like some water?"
Sherlock nodded, cautious, certain this was not a good situation at all, and yet everything in John's stance and expression said this was...fine. Normal. John was Sherlock's touchstone for normality, for what was fine and what was not, for right and wrong. No one ever looked at John and said, "A bit not good."
"What is this?" Sherlock said.
John cupped the back of his head and tipped a glass to his lips. The water was cool and welcome, his mouth so dry it seemed to absorb it on contact.
"I thought it was time for a more in-depth examination," John said lightly.
He pulled up a wheeled tray filled with instruments. Sherlock recognized perhaps half of them. The speculum and the scalpel were the most worrying.
"In depth," he repeated.
"Mm." John unwound a length of gauze and wrapped it around Sherlock's eyes, round the back of his head, over his eyes, again and again until the world went from blurred to white to entirely black. "Just a few tests." He flipped the edges of Sherlock's gown open, baring him entirely.
"John..."
"A few questions first. You're not currently sexually active, correct?"
"That's-- Yes, that's correct."
"You never have been."
Five months of data rushed through Sherlock's head, bright and sharp and suddenly coalescing into quite a different picture than the one he'd had so firmly in mind since last time.
"You've spent all this time--
"Preparing you," John said.
"Manipulating me."
"It was easier than I thought it would be." He paused and laid a hand on Sherlock's thigh. "But this isn't really your area, is it?"
His hand left Sherlock's skin, and he made some adjustment--sound of metal on metal, in need of oil--and the stirrups moved out and away from each other, spreading Sherlock's legs wide.
"I must learn not to theorize ahead of data."
"There are a few other things you need to learn, too," John said.
"And you mean to teach me?"
"Of course. This is my area." He was standing between Sherlock's legs, hands resting lightly on Sherlock's knees. "And I am your doctor. Only a fool doesn't listen to his doctor, right?"
John's heat vanished from between his legs, and Sherlock heard footsteps, the shift of something not metal on something metal. What he felt was cold, and it took him a second to interpret it as the stethoscope, now pressed over his nipple and held there.
"The body's more than transport, Sherlock. You can make your voice do what you like, but I can hear your heart. Coming up on ninety beats per second. You do run fast, but that's excessive even for you."
There was a moment of silence, or a moment which neither of them tried to fill. Sherlock heard traffic outside, the faint sound of an ambulance siren, the wind-driven rain against the roof and the window.
"Well. Where were we? Oh, yeah. Never been sexually active. Correct?"
"John..."
"Sherlock. It's an important question. I need to know these things to determine your treatment."
______
The fifth time, it was late. Sherlock stopped at John's office on the way home from a crime scene (world's most boring murder-suicide), and John was the only one there.
"Almost done," John said. "Just a bit of paperwork, be right with you." He handed Sherlock a cup of tea and sat at his desk, head bent down, light from his desk lamp splashed down his neck and shoulders in a warm haze.
Sherlock drank the tea and changed into the wretched little gown and thought about where he could get John to take him for dinner tonight. Five minutes passed. "Are you going to take all night?" he called.
"Not long now."
Ten minutes. Sherlock stretched out on the table. The room felt warmer than usual, and his eyelids were heavy. Odd. He'd slept last night, a solid four hours. He let them close.
Next: his arms were stretched tight over his head, both his feet were touching cold metal, and when he pried his eyes open he saw John fastening his left ankle to a metal stirrup with a leather strap.
He swallowed hard. "Something in the tea," he said.
"A mild sedative. Would you like some water?"
Sherlock nodded, cautious, certain this was not a good situation at all, and yet everything in John's stance and expression said this was...fine. Normal. John was Sherlock's touchstone for normality, for what was fine and what was not, for right and wrong. No one ever looked at John and said, "A bit not good."
"What is this?" Sherlock said.
John cupped the back of his head and tipped a glass to his lips. The water was cool and welcome, his mouth so dry it seemed to absorb it on contact.
"I thought it was time for a more in-depth examination," John said lightly.
He pulled up a wheeled tray filled with instruments. Sherlock recognized perhaps half of them. The speculum and the scalpel were the most worrying.
"In depth," he repeated.
"Mm." John unwound a length of gauze and wrapped it around Sherlock's eyes, round the back of his head, over his eyes, again and again until the world went from blurred to white to entirely black. "Just a few tests." He flipped the edges of Sherlock's gown open, baring him entirely.
"John..."
"A few questions first. You're not currently sexually active, correct?"
"That's-- Yes, that's correct."
"You never have been."
Five months of data rushed through Sherlock's head, bright and sharp and suddenly coalescing into quite a different picture than the one he'd had so firmly in mind since last time.
"You've spent all this time--
"Preparing you," John said.
"Manipulating me."
"It was easier than I thought it would be." He paused and laid a hand on Sherlock's thigh. "But this isn't really your area, is it?"
His hand left Sherlock's skin, and he made some adjustment--sound of metal on metal, in need of oil--and the stirrups moved out and away from each other, spreading Sherlock's legs wide.
"I must learn not to theorize ahead of data."
"There are a few other things you need to learn, too," John said.
"And you mean to teach me?"
"Of course. This is my area." He was standing between Sherlock's legs, hands resting lightly on Sherlock's knees. "And I am your doctor. Only a fool doesn't listen to his doctor, right?"
John's heat vanished from between his legs, and Sherlock heard footsteps, the shift of something not metal on something metal. What he felt was cold, and it took him a second to interpret it as the stethoscope, now pressed over his nipple and held there.
"The body's more than transport, Sherlock. You can make your voice do what you like, but I can hear your heart. Coming up on ninety beats per second. You do run fast, but that's excessive even for you."
There was a moment of silence, or a moment which neither of them tried to fill. Sherlock heard traffic outside, the faint sound of an ambulance siren, the wind-driven rain against the roof and the window.
"Well. Where were we? Oh, yeah. Never been sexually active. Correct?"
"John..."
"Sherlock. It's an important question. I need to know these things to determine your treatment."
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