Disguise, part 7a/?
anonymous
May 8 2011, 17:34:18 UTC
a/n: this part is divided into four comments. It appears that we're finally getting to the actual meat of the prompt. :) Thank you so much for all of the encouragement (and links to gorgeous arses!) so far. ♥
~*~
John whistles to himself as he moves around the kitchen, putting away dishes and taking great pleasure in binning various leftover experiments that Sherlock's long abandoned.
Even though he's had, maybe, four hours of sleep, John feels great. His muscles are pleasantly sentient to their excursion last night and he's well aware that he's got a stupid grin on his face.
The kettle's just started boiling when John hears Sherlock's footsteps moving to the loo upstairs. He pours water into two cups and starts fixing them each a cup of tea.
"I've got a cuppa for you," he calls when he hears Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs. "I wasn't sure when you'd be coming down, but I heard you coming and deduced that you'd want one."
"How maddeningly clever you are," Sherlock drawls.
"Just one of the perks of living with a reclusive genius," John says. He picks up the teacups and turns to face Sherlock in the entryway. "I'm on two shifts today, so I won't be back until--"
John's blood runs into ice. Both cups slip from his hand and crash to the floor.
"You," he says coldly.
Sherlock looks at him blankly; the warm smile on his face fades.
"I'm sorry?"
"You're the--" John's anger is a white storm inside him. That face. That smile. And god, all those words, words, words that he'd tried so hard to forget. It's been so long -- so bloody long -- but it all comes rushing back. Rushing back and crowding into his mind with memories, wishes, desires ... all dashed in the blink of an eye. John's vision starts to tunnel and he can barely see. He has to -- needs to -- get out of here.
"John? What is it?"
John won't look at him, can't look at him. It's all been a lie. A fucking lie. All those years and now it's happening all over again.
"I can't do this," John says. He moves past Sherlock in the doorway, his skin crawling, and walks out. Leaves everything behind.
~*~
John is more than preoccupied during his entire shift.
Even after walking the entire way to the surgery. Recently he'd been splurging on cabs more often than not, but his mind had been churning so viciously as he walked out of their flat and he knew that he would bite someone's head off if he didn't find a way to calm himself down.
Sarah waves at him as he comes in. John can do more than nod at her, escaping to the examination room and brewing a stiff cup of tea, then discarding it in anger.
The first patient he sees (a young woman, clearly in Uni) is for nothing more complicated than a shot, but his mind feels foggy throughout the entire consultation. Twice the woman rouses him from his reverie with a gentle: "Doctor?" as he's poised in mid-injection. Once he finds himself poised with the needle dangerously close to her chin. That won't do. At all.
He is able to rouse himself just enough to administer the shot, make some notes on her chart, offer a falsely cheerful pleasantry or two, and send her off to Prudence with a note that he needs a few minutes to call the lab for some other patient's results.
As the woman (he can't remember her name) walks out, the sharp ginger of her hair swirls in his vision and his mind closes in on itself, blocking out everything but John's belaboured thoughts.
~*~
John whistles to himself as he moves around the kitchen, putting away dishes and taking great pleasure in binning various leftover experiments that Sherlock's long abandoned.
Even though he's had, maybe, four hours of sleep, John feels great. His muscles are pleasantly sentient to their excursion last night and he's well aware that he's got a stupid grin on his face.
The kettle's just started boiling when John hears Sherlock's footsteps moving to the loo upstairs. He pours water into two cups and starts fixing them each a cup of tea.
"I've got a cuppa for you," he calls when he hears Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs. "I wasn't sure when you'd be coming down, but I heard you coming and deduced that you'd want one."
"How maddeningly clever you are," Sherlock drawls.
"Just one of the perks of living with a reclusive genius," John says. He picks up the teacups and turns to face Sherlock in the entryway. "I'm on two shifts today, so I won't be back until--"
John's blood runs into ice. Both cups slip from his hand and crash to the floor.
"You," he says coldly.
Sherlock looks at him blankly; the warm smile on his face fades.
"I'm sorry?"
"You're the--" John's anger is a white storm inside him. That face. That smile. And god, all those words, words, words that he'd tried so hard to forget. It's been so long -- so bloody long -- but it all comes rushing back. Rushing back and crowding into his mind with memories, wishes, desires ... all dashed in the blink of an eye. John's vision starts to tunnel and he can barely see. He has to -- needs to -- get out of here.
"John? What is it?"
John won't look at him, can't look at him. It's all been a lie. A fucking lie. All those years and now it's happening all over again.
"I can't do this," John says. He moves past Sherlock in the doorway, his skin crawling, and walks out. Leaves everything behind.
~*~
John is more than preoccupied during his entire shift.
Even after walking the entire way to the surgery. Recently he'd been splurging on cabs more often than not, but his mind had been churning so viciously as he walked out of their flat and he knew that he would bite someone's head off if he didn't find a way to calm himself down.
Sarah waves at him as he comes in. John can do more than nod at her, escaping to the examination room and brewing a stiff cup of tea, then discarding it in anger.
The first patient he sees (a young woman, clearly in Uni) is for nothing more complicated than a shot, but his mind feels foggy throughout the entire consultation. Twice the woman rouses him from his reverie with a gentle: "Doctor?" as he's poised in mid-injection. Once he finds himself poised with the needle dangerously close to her chin. That won't do. At all.
He is able to rouse himself just enough to administer the shot, make some notes on her chart, offer a falsely cheerful pleasantry or two, and send her off to Prudence with a note that he needs a few minutes to call the lab for some other patient's results.
As the woman (he can't remember her name) walks out, the sharp ginger of her hair swirls in his vision and his mind closes in on itself, blocking out everything but John's belaboured thoughts.
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