Re: Fill: Arabian Nights 4B/?bronwynferchdaiDecember 28 2010, 02:02:33 UTC
The heat from John's hand oozed slowly down Sherlock's spine, leaving tingling warmth behind. Gradually his muscles went limp, arm draped bonelessly around John's leg, head lolling against his hip. John's voice quieted, as though trying not to wake him.
"For eighteen months, everything was amazing. Oh there was blood and heat and swearing and screaming. But still. I had friends and a purpose. I was useful and good at it too. Bill and me both. And still, I guess, I thought we were above it all somehow. The more fool I, really."
Another slow breath. Sherlock stayed still and silent. The time for response was long past.
"Then one Wednesday - I remember it was a Wednesday - we were walking. Just walking. From one point to another. Nothing special. And Bill stepped on a mine. Must've done. Because one instant he was standing there and the next his fifty meters up the road only most of his legs were splattered the other way. God, I'd seen so much worse, but this was Bill. I was running on autopilot, I think. It's sort of fragmented after that. Tying off his legs so he wouldn't bleed out. Loading him in the helicopters. One of the Americans. We're so bloody short of the blasted things and they've got more than they can fly. And they took him off and I stayed behind."
Sherlock's throat ached. Like something had lodged there and he couldn't clear it at all discreetly. Surely his pain medication was coming soon and he could ask about this clogging sensation. He swallowed hard around it.
"We caught up with him in Kabul. They'd done everything they could, but they'd only saved to mid-thigh on the right and nothing at all on the left. And Bill. Jesus, Bill was a right proper mess. He wouldn't talk at all. They'd already arranged for him to be invalided home. I sat with him all the night before he was to leave. And in the middle of the night, he asked me. He said. He said 'You could do it, Johnny. It wouldn't be anything. Just a little more morphine, John, please.'"
John took a shuddering breath, hand tightening on Sherlock's neck abruptly. Sherlock twitched. Instantly, tight fingers loosened.
"Shh, shh, I'm sorry," John whispered, petting carefully at Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock let himself relax again. Damn it, his throat was going to swell shut at this rate. "I almost did it. I actually went to the medicine cabinet and almost threw my career away because Bill asked me to. Instead, I sedated him. He fell asleep thanking me. He woke up as they were loading him on the transport the next day. Started screaming at me from across the tarmac. Called me a bastard. Last thing Bill Murray ever said to me was that he hoped it hurt when I died."
Quite involuntarily, Sherlock pressed his forehead hard against John's hip, clutching convulsively at his knew. John stiffened for briefly and then sagged. "That was the last time I ever saw Bill Murray," John finished.
"I don't like Bill," Sherlock croaked, opening his eyes to peer blindly at John's trousers. Sherlock sniffed hard, rubbing his face against the sheets.
"That's okay," John said softly. "You don't have to."
Sherlock swallowed hard. "My throat hurts, John."
John glanced down in concern. "Mine too," he replied. He glanced up at the wall clock, still stroking Sherlock's head absently. "Twenty more minutes."
Sherlock nodded and shut his eyes again.
AN: Dammit, I've depressed myself. But this is not over! I promise! More tomorrow. Or maybe later tonight. Who knows?
Re: Fill: Arabian Nights 4B/?gamegirl22December 28 2010, 02:33:17 UTC
I hope the update will be soon, it's just so good. Moments of Sherlock getting all cuddly is cute. But yeah, it's getting depressing story wise and it's probably going to get worse from there. Poor John.
Re: Fill: Arabian Nights 4B/?bronwynferchdaiDecember 28 2010, 23:11:20 UTC
This is absolutely lovely. Just wonderful.
I find myself sort of sucked into it, like a book you don't want to put down; I especially love that I'm simultaneously able to picture the story John is telling, and Sherlock and John on a hospital bed, like I'm actually in the room listening to the story. And your characterizations are great- finding a younger, cocky John that we only saw briefly in his utterly confident "Very good." I love your whiny, cuddly Sherlock, too.
Can't wait to see this continued. Thanks for writing!
Re: Fill: Arabian Nights 5A/?bronwynferchdaiDecember 29 2010, 03:25:31 UTC
John was right about the sisters. When the younger of the two bustled in some twenty-four minutes later, Sherlock cracked an eye open in time to see her narrow her eyes at John with a profoundly disapproving expression.
"Mister Watson, you're not allowed up there. Down this instant," she commanded, pointing a finger at the floor. John sighed and stroked his fingers through Sherlock's hair once more.
"Yes, yes, all right," he muttered, shifting his weight away from Sherlock. Sherlock closed his eyes again and hugged John's leg tightly. John stilled. "Sherlock, you need to let go now."
"No," Sherlock replied hoarsely. "I'm not injured. I'm not contagious and you're not bearing any horrible contaminants. You're not leaving just because that harpy commands it so."
John made on odd huffing noise that Sherlock identified as the one John made when he wanted to laugh, but thought he ought to voice disapproval. Sherlock turned his head further into John's hip and grinned victoriously.
"Mister Holmes, as you may not be aware, it is against hospital policy for anyone save the patient to be in the patient's bed! Now, I insist that you allow Mister Watson to get down," the sister snapped.
"No," Sherlock repeated. "It's my bed and my room and, rather unfortunately, my brother's money. This entire ordeal is made considerably less hideous with John in my bed. And do believe when I say that both Doctor Watson and I are aware of you infernally stupid hospital policy." He paused for a rasping breath or two. "It took a great deal of scheming to convince him up here in the first place so I'll thank you not to ruin my efforts."
John swiftly disengaged and slid from the mattress. He leaned in to tuck Sherlock's arm back under the covers. "Let her do her job," he murmured. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, but the corner of John's mouth quirked reassuringly. Sliding a filthy look at the sister, Sherlock subsided.
"Fine," he grumbled, wheezing a bit. The sister bustled up, pushing John aside. Briskly, she checked Sherlock's pulse and blood pressure, letting the machines beep and whir as they recorded all the pertinent data.
"I know perfectly well that the machines at your station monitor every statistic you're currently recording," Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms resentfully. "You're coming here to do anything save dispense the requisite medications is utterly redundant. And I'm sure there is some method of distribution that wouldn't require you to come in at all. Perhaps something automated. Or John could do it." The sister shoved a thermometer in his mouth, rather vengefully he thought.
"Perhaps he could, if Doctor Watson had any rights to practice in this facility. Or if, perhaps, visiting hours hadn't ended forty minutes ago. But as he'll be leaving presently . . ." she trailed off, giving Sherlock a sweetly poisonous smile.
Oh, that was bloody well it. Sherlock jerked the thermometer from his mouth and flung it as far as the cord would allow. Struggled up onto his elbows.
"Mister Holmes!" the sister exclaimed, stepping back.
"If John leaves, I leave," Sherlock gasped. His chest tightened dangerously as he levered himself fully upright.
"Sherlock, lay back down," John yelped. He stepped forward, hands up to restrain Sherlock. The sister seized Sherlock's arm.
"Oh, no you don't. You've not got permission to go anywhere. Back down you go," she ordered sternly. Sherlock jerked his arm away so hard he toppled onto his side on the bed. The sister jumped back with a squeak.
"Unhand me, you adulterous bint! Perhaps if I had any confidence in your ability to do your job, I would tolerate such manhandling from you, but since you lack the perception to even notice that the woman you're fucking behind your husband's back is the same woman he's fucking behind yours, I fail to see how your presence could be of any benefit whatsoever! I will not tolerate this!" Sherlock roared. Well, tried to. It came out more as a breathless wheeze.
Re: Fill: Arabian Nights 5B/?bronwynferchdaiDecember 29 2010, 03:30:00 UTC
John nudged the sister away hastily. "Stop it. Stop it now, Sherlock," he ordered. Sherlock wriggled away.
"I won't. I won't," he gasped. "You're the only thing that makes this insufferable place tolerable, and if they won't let me keep you then I'm not staying. I hate this place. I hate it! It's boring and awful and reeks of illness and you've not even asked me if I knew when you lied - which I did." Sherlock's volume rose a bit more with every gasped out word. "I will not STAND FOR IT!"
Sherlock's entire chest locked down on the last word. Breath caught in his throat as he tried cough, gasp and shout simultaneously. Completely unable to inhale or exhale, Sherlock hung suspended as the monitors shrieked in outrage. Familiar hands hauled him upright, propped him up and walloped him soundly between the shoulder blades until something gave way. Sherlock collapsed into a truly vicious spate of coughing. He had absolutely no idea how long it lasted, but when his vision finally cleared, he hung limply over John's left arm, lips tingling from the pressure. His throat burned horribly and sick splattered across the tile and John's stockinged feet.
"Did I vomit?" Sherlock whispered. John let out a shaky breath.
"Yes. Yes, you great git, you coughed until you vomited on my feet," he replied. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head against John's shoulder. His entire body shook uncontrollably.
"Let's get you up again," John said. He shifted his grip. "Sister, if you please." Sherlock's eyes shot open, ready to spit venom and vitriol when firm hands caught him round the ribs.
"Right then," a new voice said. Sherlock blinked his eyes open to find the other sister, lifting him carefully from John's grasp. She helped him flop back onto the pillow and tucked the blankets back round him like she was stapling him into the bed. Eying her warily, Sherlock huddled down into the sheets.
"John's not leaving," he announced as firmly as his voice would permit. The sister didn't even glance at him, choosing instead to watch his heart monitor slowly beep its way back down into acceptable ranges.
"I said, 'John's not leaving'," Sherlock repeated more emphatically. She shoved a thermometer in his mouth and tugged the covers up again.
"Well not if his leaving causes your heart to burst, no," she allowed. "But I won't have anymore such nonsense, Mister Holmes. Or I will call Doctor Llewellyn to sedate you and send Doctor Watson home until morning. Ah! Don't you move until that beeps."
Re: Fill: Arabian Nights 5C/?bronwynferchdaiDecember 29 2010, 03:31:23 UTC
Subsiding resentfully, Sherlock waited until the thermometer beeped. The sister retrieved it deftly.
"Thirty-eight point two," she said, glancing at the readout. "I supposed that might be courtesy of you little outburst, hmm?"
"If I," Sherlock felt his lip curl up in a sneer, "behave myself, John may stay?"
The sister glanced up from her records. "Yes," she confirmed.
"And sit on the bed," Sherlock pressed. This earned a more considering glance, first at Sherlock, then at John, then at the spot of sick on the floor.
"Once he's washed his feet and changed his socks. D'you need some fresh trousers, Doctor?" she said, with a look at John.
"That would be lovely, thanks," John replied, already heading for the lav to scrub his feet, and possibly his shins. The sister nodded brusquely.
"I'll have the sick up in the minute," she said to John's back. John called muffled thanks through the door. As soon as the door clicked, the sister jabbed a needle into Sherlock's IV port.
"There's your dose then," she said. She raised an eyebrow. "Not another peep from you, clear?" Sherlock nodded mutely. She nodded back and strode for the door. "Off for the mop."
"Floris," Sherlock croaked as she reached the threshold. She jerked to a stop.
"I beg your pardon?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him dangerously.
"Your fragrance," Sherlock explained. "Floris, special No. 127. A gift from your husband for your birthday."
"What of it?" the sister demanded. Sherlock quirked a lip upward.
"An excellent choice. It suits you," he wheezed. The sister's mouth quirked up and she rolled her eyes.
"I've already said your friend can stay," she replied. "No need to go closing the gate since the horses are out."
"My mother wore it," Sherlock said as she turned away. "And it does suit you."
She paused in the doorway to study him thoughtfully. "Oh, go on with you," she muttered, and bustled out the door. Sherlock sank back into the pillow and listened to the sounds of John banging around in the loo.
AN: Back to the Bill Murray story next. *looks at clock* In about half an hour actually. I have to go check on the baby. Back soon!
Re: Fill: Arabian Nights 5C/?gamegirl22December 29 2010, 04:51:43 UTC
Sweet, we'll have another update very soon!
I didn't expect there to be more to the story than just John telling one. I like that. It works so well how there seem to be two sides of this than just what the prompt asked for.
Re: Fill: Arabian Nights 6A/?bronwynferchdaiDecember 29 2010, 07:18:50 UTC
Sherlock drifted fuzzily on the leading edge of his recent dose of antibiotics, painkillers and God-only-knew what else. Well, God and John, Sherlock was certain.
John had hidden in the lav until the sister had returned with a pair of scrub trousers and an orderly with a mop. They'd tidied swiftly and vanished along their way. As the door clicked softly shut behind them, John padded over in his jumper and scrub trousers. He climbed back onto the bed, mindful of Sherlock, huddling on the other side.
"I'm going to slide under," John announced quietly. "Seem to be missing my socks." Sherlock hummed agreeably as John lifted the edge of the topmost blanket and slipped his bare feet under. Once John was settled, Sherlock crept a hand across the bed to poke at his knee again.
"You're awfully clingy this evening," John observed as he took Sherlock's hand in his own.
"This is possibly the worst I've ever felt in my life, and yes, I am counting the time at the kebab stand," Sherlock retorted. He tugged at John's hand until John scooted close enough for Sherlock to resume his earlier position: head against hip, arm over thigh. "I'm entitled to some tactile reassurance."
"Translation: you feel like shite and you want a hug," John snickered.
"I believe I said that," Sherlock said. He coughed once and subsided before John could so more than tense. "Fine, I'm fine." Slumping back against the pillow behind his back, John drew idle circles along Sherlock's back.
"All right then. You'll tell me when you're not," John ordered quietly.
Shooting him a baleful look, Sherlock huffed a bit. "Given the volume and violence of my coughing fits, I rather think you'll notice," he drawled. "And don't think you can distract me. I caught you."
"Caught me what?" John said, sounding amused and tolerant. It was one of Sherlock's favorite moods.
"Lying. You said to catch you lying, so I did. Two times," Sherlock replied. "Perhaps three, but the last will be determined by the remainder of the story."
John shifted comfortably. "So? Come on then. Tell me," he said.
"Given that I've read your blog - puerile thing that it is - I know that Afghanistan was neither the last time you saw or spoke to Bill Murray. So far, so obvious," Sherlock said, making a small hash mark along the blanket.
"Well done you," John agreed. Sherlock could hear the smile in John's voice.
"Oh please, John, don't patronize. Second, I don't think Bill Murray was your best mate," Sherlock announced. John startled a bit.
"Hang on, now, Sherlock," he started.
"I think he was your lover," Sherlock overrode him. John went very still, his breathing slow and deliberate. His hand tapped restlessly against Sherlock's shoulder. "John?"
"Close. You're . . . close," John said finally. "He wasn't though. We never were."
Wrinkling his forehead, Sherlock risked a look up at John's face - pale and pensive but not angry. Good then.
"You weren't," Sherlock mused. He breath hitched a bit and John resumed rubbing slowly at his back.
Re: Fill: Arabian Nights 6B/?bronwynferchdaiDecember 29 2010, 07:19:35 UTC
"How's the cannula?" he asked, stretching past Sherlock to check the line.
"What? Oh, it's fine," Sherlock replied. "You weren't lovers, but he wanted to be? It would explain his reaction to your decision to continue into surgery - thus leaving him behind. It might also explain the warm welcome you received in Afghanistan. In his mind at least, the long-lost lover had come back." John said nothing. Sherlock wriggled a bit closer, impatiently. "Well? John?"
"You know, I've no idea if that's what he thought," John admitted finally. "I don't know if he knew that's what he thought. If he actually thought that. Bill . . . wouldn't have dealt with the idea well, actually. If he thought any of that, then he didn't know he thought it. That is a certainty."
"I don't think you could be less coherent if you tried," Sherlock observed. John tugged his hair sharply.
"Be nice. I'm just saying. If Bill ever felt that way, he'd never let himself know it," John explained. His hand stayed in Sherlock's hair, rubbing idly at his scalp.
Groaning, Sherlock let his head drop back into John's hand. "Bit of a headache?" John asked, rubbing more purposefully.
"Mmm. A bit," Sherlock admitted, eyes at half-mast. "What about you then?"
The hand in Sherlock's hair never faltered, though John frowned into the distance unhappily. He blinked at something Sherlock couldn't see before glancing back down at him.
"I never would've let myself think it, either. Not then. Not with Harry about," John said finally. "Young and stupid, like I said." Something cold and a bit lumpy settled in Sherlock's stomach.
"Do you regret - " he started, cursing inwardly at the hesitance in his voice.
"No," John said sharply. "I don't. I really don't. I much prefer thinking it now." He tipped Sherlock's head back until he met John's eyes. "You're much more interesting to think about." Sherlock felt himself smiling dopily. Too much morphine, damn it all. John smiled back. letting Sherlock's head droop back to the pillow. "So that's one right and one wrong. What's the one you're uncertain about?"
Firmly ignoring the fizzing feeling under his skin, Sherlock mustered his thoughts. "I'm not certain Bill Murray actually asked you to assist him in suicide. I have trouble reconciling the current bonhomie you seem to share with him - again using your blog as an indicator - if he had abused your trust in such a manner, especially with such a violent subsequent reaction."
John laughed sadly and somehow painfully. "Well, things change, I believe you said. Let me assure you that he did. He most assuredly did both." The odd, thick feeling gathered at the base of Sherlock's throat again.
"Water," he demanded, clearing his throat. John stretched over to the table and retrieved the glass. Held the straw against Sherlock's lips as he sipped away the tightness. Sherlock nodded as John pulled it away and returned it to the beside.
"You missed one," John said as he leaned back. Sherlock tipped his head back in surprise. "The paint wasn't red. It was yellow." Startled, Sherlock laughed until he coughed and John had to pat his back soothingly for the next few minutes.
Re: Fill: Arabian Nights 6B/?bronwynferchdaiDecember 29 2010, 13:06:21 UTC
This is excellent. I'm loving John getting lost in his memories, and the way he's telling his story, but I'm loving the interaction between them (and the nursing staff) at the hospital just as much.
"For eighteen months, everything was amazing. Oh there was blood and heat and swearing and screaming. But still. I had friends and a purpose. I was useful and good at it too. Bill and me both. And still, I guess, I thought we were above it all somehow. The more fool I, really."
Another slow breath. Sherlock stayed still and silent. The time for response was long past.
"Then one Wednesday - I remember it was a Wednesday - we were walking. Just walking. From one point to another. Nothing special. And Bill stepped on a mine. Must've done. Because one instant he was standing there and the next his fifty meters up the road only most of his legs were splattered the other way. God, I'd seen so much worse, but this was Bill. I was running on autopilot, I think. It's sort of fragmented after that. Tying off his legs so he wouldn't bleed out. Loading him in the helicopters. One of the Americans. We're so bloody short of the blasted things and they've got more than they can fly. And they took him off and I stayed behind."
Sherlock's throat ached. Like something had lodged there and he couldn't clear it at all discreetly. Surely his pain medication was coming soon and he could ask about this clogging sensation. He swallowed hard around it.
"We caught up with him in Kabul. They'd done everything they could, but they'd only saved to mid-thigh on the right and nothing at all on the left. And Bill. Jesus, Bill was a right proper mess. He wouldn't talk at all. They'd already arranged for him to be invalided home. I sat with him all the night before he was to leave. And in the middle of the night, he asked me. He said. He said 'You could do it, Johnny. It wouldn't be anything. Just a little more morphine, John, please.'"
John took a shuddering breath, hand tightening on Sherlock's neck abruptly. Sherlock twitched. Instantly, tight fingers loosened.
"Shh, shh, I'm sorry," John whispered, petting carefully at Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock let himself relax again. Damn it, his throat was going to swell shut at this rate. "I almost did it. I actually went to the medicine cabinet and almost threw my career away because Bill asked me to. Instead, I sedated him. He fell asleep thanking me. He woke up as they were loading him on the transport the next day. Started screaming at me from across the tarmac. Called me a bastard. Last thing Bill Murray ever said to me was that he hoped it hurt when I died."
Quite involuntarily, Sherlock pressed his forehead hard against John's hip, clutching convulsively at his knew. John stiffened for briefly and then sagged. "That was the last time I ever saw Bill Murray," John finished.
"I don't like Bill," Sherlock croaked, opening his eyes to peer blindly at John's trousers. Sherlock sniffed hard, rubbing his face against the sheets.
"That's okay," John said softly. "You don't have to."
Sherlock swallowed hard. "My throat hurts, John."
John glanced down in concern. "Mine too," he replied. He glanced up at the wall clock, still stroking Sherlock's head absently. "Twenty more minutes."
Sherlock nodded and shut his eyes again.
AN: Dammit, I've depressed myself. But this is not over! I promise! More tomorrow. Or maybe later tonight. Who knows?
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*waits impatiently for the next installment*
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I find myself sort of sucked into it, like a book you don't want to put down; I especially love that I'm simultaneously able to picture the story John is telling, and Sherlock and John on a hospital bed, like I'm actually in the room listening to the story. And your characterizations are great- finding a younger, cocky John that we only saw briefly in his utterly confident "Very good." I love your whiny, cuddly Sherlock, too.
Can't wait to see this continued. Thanks for writing!
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"Mister Watson, you're not allowed up there. Down this instant," she commanded, pointing a finger at the floor. John sighed and stroked his fingers through Sherlock's hair once more.
"Yes, yes, all right," he muttered, shifting his weight away from Sherlock. Sherlock closed his eyes again and hugged John's leg tightly. John stilled. "Sherlock, you need to let go now."
"No," Sherlock replied hoarsely. "I'm not injured. I'm not contagious and you're not bearing any horrible contaminants. You're not leaving just because that harpy commands it so."
John made on odd huffing noise that Sherlock identified as the one John made when he wanted to laugh, but thought he ought to voice disapproval. Sherlock turned his head further into John's hip and grinned victoriously.
"Mister Holmes, as you may not be aware, it is against hospital policy for anyone save the patient to be in the patient's bed! Now, I insist that you allow Mister Watson to get down," the sister snapped.
"No," Sherlock repeated. "It's my bed and my room and, rather unfortunately, my brother's money. This entire ordeal is made considerably less hideous with John in my bed. And do believe when I say that both Doctor Watson and I are aware of you infernally stupid hospital policy." He paused for a rasping breath or two. "It took a great deal of scheming to convince him up here in the first place so I'll thank you not to ruin my efforts."
John swiftly disengaged and slid from the mattress. He leaned in to tuck Sherlock's arm back under the covers. "Let her do her job," he murmured. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, but the corner of John's mouth quirked reassuringly. Sliding a filthy look at the sister, Sherlock subsided.
"Fine," he grumbled, wheezing a bit. The sister bustled up, pushing John aside. Briskly, she checked Sherlock's pulse and blood pressure, letting the machines beep and whir as they recorded all the pertinent data.
"I know perfectly well that the machines at your station monitor every statistic you're currently recording," Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms resentfully. "You're coming here to do anything save dispense the requisite medications is utterly redundant. And I'm sure there is some method of distribution that wouldn't require you to come in at all. Perhaps something automated. Or John could do it." The sister shoved a thermometer in his mouth, rather vengefully he thought.
"Perhaps he could, if Doctor Watson had any rights to practice in this facility. Or if, perhaps, visiting hours hadn't ended forty minutes ago. But as he'll be leaving presently . . ." she trailed off, giving Sherlock a sweetly poisonous smile.
Oh, that was bloody well it. Sherlock jerked the thermometer from his mouth and flung it as far as the cord would allow. Struggled up onto his elbows.
"Mister Holmes!" the sister exclaimed, stepping back.
"If John leaves, I leave," Sherlock gasped. His chest tightened dangerously as he levered himself fully upright.
"Sherlock, lay back down," John yelped. He stepped forward, hands up to restrain Sherlock. The sister seized Sherlock's arm.
"Oh, no you don't. You've not got permission to go anywhere. Back down you go," she ordered sternly. Sherlock jerked his arm away so hard he toppled onto his side on the bed. The sister jumped back with a squeak.
"Unhand me, you adulterous bint! Perhaps if I had any confidence in your ability to do your job, I would tolerate such manhandling from you, but since you lack the perception to even notice that the woman you're fucking behind your husband's back is the same woman he's fucking behind yours, I fail to see how your presence could be of any benefit whatsoever! I will not tolerate this!" Sherlock roared. Well, tried to. It came out more as a breathless wheeze.
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"I won't. I won't," he gasped. "You're the only thing that makes this insufferable place tolerable, and if they won't let me keep you then I'm not staying. I hate this place. I hate it! It's boring and awful and reeks of illness and you've not even asked me if I knew when you lied - which I did." Sherlock's volume rose a bit more with every gasped out word. "I will not STAND FOR IT!"
Sherlock's entire chest locked down on the last word. Breath caught in his throat as he tried cough, gasp and shout simultaneously. Completely unable to inhale or exhale, Sherlock hung suspended as the monitors shrieked in outrage. Familiar hands hauled him upright, propped him up and walloped him soundly between the shoulder blades until something gave way. Sherlock collapsed into a truly vicious spate of coughing. He had absolutely no idea how long it lasted, but when his vision finally cleared, he hung limply over John's left arm, lips tingling from the pressure. His throat burned horribly and sick splattered across the tile and John's stockinged feet.
"Did I vomit?" Sherlock whispered. John let out a shaky breath.
"Yes. Yes, you great git, you coughed until you vomited on my feet," he replied. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head against John's shoulder. His entire body shook uncontrollably.
"Let's get you up again," John said. He shifted his grip. "Sister, if you please." Sherlock's eyes shot open, ready to spit venom and vitriol when firm hands caught him round the ribs.
"Right then," a new voice said. Sherlock blinked his eyes open to find the other sister, lifting him carefully from John's grasp. She helped him flop back onto the pillow and tucked the blankets back round him like she was stapling him into the bed. Eying her warily, Sherlock huddled down into the sheets.
"John's not leaving," he announced as firmly as his voice would permit. The sister didn't even glance at him, choosing instead to watch his heart monitor slowly beep its way back down into acceptable ranges.
"I said, 'John's not leaving'," Sherlock repeated more emphatically. She shoved a thermometer in his mouth and tugged the covers up again.
"Well not if his leaving causes your heart to burst, no," she allowed. "But I won't have anymore such nonsense, Mister Holmes. Or I will call Doctor Llewellyn to sedate you and send Doctor Watson home until morning. Ah! Don't you move until that beeps."
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"Thirty-eight point two," she said, glancing at the readout. "I supposed that might be courtesy of you little outburst, hmm?"
"If I," Sherlock felt his lip curl up in a sneer, "behave myself, John may stay?"
The sister glanced up from her records. "Yes," she confirmed.
"And sit on the bed," Sherlock pressed. This earned a more considering glance, first at Sherlock, then at John, then at the spot of sick on the floor.
"Once he's washed his feet and changed his socks. D'you need some fresh trousers, Doctor?" she said, with a look at John.
"That would be lovely, thanks," John replied, already heading for the lav to scrub his feet, and possibly his shins. The sister nodded brusquely.
"I'll have the sick up in the minute," she said to John's back. John called muffled thanks through the door. As soon as the door clicked, the sister jabbed a needle into Sherlock's IV port.
"There's your dose then," she said. She raised an eyebrow. "Not another peep from you, clear?" Sherlock nodded mutely. She nodded back and strode for the door. "Off for the mop."
"Floris," Sherlock croaked as she reached the threshold. She jerked to a stop.
"I beg your pardon?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him dangerously.
"Your fragrance," Sherlock explained. "Floris, special No. 127. A gift from your husband for your birthday."
"What of it?" the sister demanded. Sherlock quirked a lip upward.
"An excellent choice. It suits you," he wheezed. The sister's mouth quirked up and she rolled her eyes.
"I've already said your friend can stay," she replied. "No need to go closing the gate since the horses are out."
"My mother wore it," Sherlock said as she turned away. "And it does suit you."
She paused in the doorway to study him thoughtfully. "Oh, go on with you," she muttered, and bustled out the door. Sherlock sank back into the pillow and listened to the sounds of John banging around in the loo.
AN: Back to the Bill Murray story next. *looks at clock* In about half an hour actually. I have to go check on the baby. Back soon!
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I didn't expect there to be more to the story than just John telling one. I like that. It works so well how there seem to be two sides of this than just what the prompt asked for.
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John had hidden in the lav until the sister had returned with a pair of scrub trousers and an orderly with a mop. They'd tidied swiftly and vanished along their way. As the door clicked softly shut behind them, John padded over in his jumper and scrub trousers. He climbed back onto the bed, mindful of Sherlock, huddling on the other side.
"I'm going to slide under," John announced quietly. "Seem to be missing my socks." Sherlock hummed agreeably as John lifted the edge of the topmost blanket and slipped his bare feet under. Once John was settled, Sherlock crept a hand across the bed to poke at his knee again.
"You're awfully clingy this evening," John observed as he took Sherlock's hand in his own.
"This is possibly the worst I've ever felt in my life, and yes, I am counting the time at the kebab stand," Sherlock retorted. He tugged at John's hand until John scooted close enough for Sherlock to resume his earlier position: head against hip, arm over thigh. "I'm entitled to some tactile reassurance."
"Translation: you feel like shite and you want a hug," John snickered.
"I believe I said that," Sherlock said. He coughed once and subsided before John could so more than tense. "Fine, I'm fine." Slumping back against the pillow behind his back, John drew idle circles along Sherlock's back.
"All right then. You'll tell me when you're not," John ordered quietly.
Shooting him a baleful look, Sherlock huffed a bit. "Given the volume and violence of my coughing fits, I rather think you'll notice," he drawled. "And don't think you can distract me. I caught you."
"Caught me what?" John said, sounding amused and tolerant. It was one of Sherlock's favorite moods.
"Lying. You said to catch you lying, so I did. Two times," Sherlock replied. "Perhaps three, but the last will be determined by the remainder of the story."
John shifted comfortably. "So? Come on then. Tell me," he said.
"Given that I've read your blog - puerile thing that it is - I know that Afghanistan was neither the last time you saw or spoke to Bill Murray. So far, so obvious," Sherlock said, making a small hash mark along the blanket.
"Well done you," John agreed. Sherlock could hear the smile in John's voice.
"Oh please, John, don't patronize. Second, I don't think Bill Murray was your best mate," Sherlock announced. John startled a bit.
"Hang on, now, Sherlock," he started.
"I think he was your lover," Sherlock overrode him. John went very still, his breathing slow and deliberate. His hand tapped restlessly against Sherlock's shoulder. "John?"
"Close. You're . . . close," John said finally. "He wasn't though. We never were."
Wrinkling his forehead, Sherlock risked a look up at John's face - pale and pensive but not angry. Good then.
"You weren't," Sherlock mused. He breath hitched a bit and John resumed rubbing slowly at his back.
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"What? Oh, it's fine," Sherlock replied. "You weren't lovers, but he wanted to be? It would explain his reaction to your decision to continue into surgery - thus leaving him behind. It might also explain the warm welcome you received in Afghanistan. In his mind at least, the long-lost lover had come back." John said nothing. Sherlock wriggled a bit closer, impatiently. "Well? John?"
"You know, I've no idea if that's what he thought," John admitted finally. "I don't know if he knew that's what he thought. If he actually thought that. Bill . . . wouldn't have dealt with the idea well, actually. If he thought any of that, then he didn't know he thought it. That is a certainty."
"I don't think you could be less coherent if you tried," Sherlock observed. John tugged his hair sharply.
"Be nice. I'm just saying. If Bill ever felt that way, he'd never let himself know it," John explained. His hand stayed in Sherlock's hair, rubbing idly at his scalp.
Groaning, Sherlock let his head drop back into John's hand. "Bit of a headache?" John asked, rubbing more purposefully.
"Mmm. A bit," Sherlock admitted, eyes at half-mast. "What about you then?"
The hand in Sherlock's hair never faltered, though John frowned into the distance unhappily. He blinked at something Sherlock couldn't see before glancing back down at him.
"I never would've let myself think it, either. Not then. Not with Harry about," John said finally. "Young and stupid, like I said." Something cold and a bit lumpy settled in Sherlock's stomach.
"Do you regret - " he started, cursing inwardly at the hesitance in his voice.
"No," John said sharply. "I don't. I really don't. I much prefer thinking it now." He tipped Sherlock's head back until he met John's eyes. "You're much more interesting to think about." Sherlock felt himself smiling dopily. Too much morphine, damn it all. John smiled back. letting Sherlock's head droop back to the pillow. "So that's one right and one wrong. What's the one you're uncertain about?"
Firmly ignoring the fizzing feeling under his skin, Sherlock mustered his thoughts. "I'm not certain Bill Murray actually asked you to assist him in suicide. I have trouble reconciling the current bonhomie you seem to share with him - again using your blog as an indicator - if he had abused your trust in such a manner, especially with such a violent subsequent reaction."
John laughed sadly and somehow painfully. "Well, things change, I believe you said. Let me assure you that he did. He most assuredly did both." The odd, thick feeling gathered at the base of Sherlock's throat again.
"Water," he demanded, clearing his throat. John stretched over to the table and retrieved the glass. Held the straw against Sherlock's lips as he sipped away the tightness. Sherlock nodded as John pulled it away and returned it to the beside.
"You missed one," John said as he leaned back. Sherlock tipped his head back in surprise. "The paint wasn't red. It was yellow." Startled, Sherlock laughed until he coughed and John had to pat his back soothingly for the next few minutes.
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This really is so, so good, thank you.
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