First Fic in 10 years!!! - Sherlock Returns in A visit to the Doctors....
Hi,
I am a British woman who has solely rejoined LJ so I can start posting fanfiction: I haven't written anything in TEN years!
Please be gentle with me :)
I like various fandoms, Sherlock, Harry Potter, LOTR, Doctor Who, Blakes 7 etc etc.
However, my main poison is BBC Sherlock....
I am currently writing a long story and here is the first chapter so it is short and sweet.
The full story centres around Asexual Sherlock/Straight John and John/Molly.
This chapter is kinda sweet, I have tried to keep it canon somewhat to the Books as well as the series. It's just Sherlocks return....visiting John at his GPs Surgery. For US readers, please bare in mind, if you need to see a doctor here, you just turn up and wait your turn usually and it's free :)
A Visit to the Doctors:
Chapter 1 of ‘A Complicated Life’
Asexual Sherlock/Straight John, Fluffy, PG for Swearing (quite a bit). No sexual content.
Summary: Sherlock Returns, by visiting John at his GP surgery. - a short fic.
A Complicated Life (future Chapters contain Asexual Sherlock/Straight John, John/Molly. Scenes of drug taking violence, angst and sex).
Written by Sherlocks_Pants
Disclaimer: Sadly Sherlock and anything affiliated with the BBC UKs Sherlock is not owned by me. I just cared for them deeply. This is my first story I have written in 10 years, so be kind. I am BRITISH so please understand it will have Anglophile content and the spelling will be different! Ta
It was a month since John had blogged the details of ‘The Empty Flat’, two months since Moran had fired a shot through the lounge window, much to Mrs Hudsons dismay. Three months since Mycroft and Lestrade had worked their magic with the press declaring Sherlock not to be a fraud and that the whole thing had been some elaborate Government and Police sting. It was three months…and three days, since the homeless man had turned up at the surgery asking to see John about his methadone prescription….
The surgery had been quiet today and John had been glad, he was tired, he had not been sleeping since Mary had left. She just couldn’t cope with it anymore. At first sharing Johns grief had come easy; she wanted to care for him, to hold him when he cried. To comfort him, to love him. It had been easy to love him, but not easy to live with the ghost of his friend. Always there, always in Johns head. He had even believed he had started to see him in the street, amongst commuters on the tube. Several times he had followed strangers across London only to find he was lost, and swallowing his pride he had to ring her for a lift home. He didn’t blog anymore, but he had remained in touch with those few who still believed in Sherlock. They had become his network of belief. He couldn’t talk to Mary, but they would listen. ‘It had been three years, it had to stop’ she had said. ‘He was dead, she wasn’t’ John had no answer for that. She left in the morning.
The screen read Gary Smith, his last patient of the day. John rose slowly from his seat; he paused, took a breath, and opened the door. There were four patients left, a mother with a new baby, possibly two or three weeks old probably here for an immunisation jab, Sister could do that. A girl, 17 who had asked to see a female doctor and by way she was watching the mother and baby combined with her nervous manner that it was probably for the morning after pill, or perhaps it was too late for that. The fourth was a rough looking bloke arguing irritably with the receptionist who was looking quite distressed.
He stood with his back to Johns door and was repeating the same thing over and over in a slurred East Anglian dialect
"How longs it gonna take? How longs it gonna take"?
“Mr Smith?” John enquired in his direction. The receptionist breathed a sigh of relief. John limped back into the room to take up his rightful place at his desk. Moving his mouse to bring up the patient detail screen automatically repeating the line he had already said so many times that day.
“So, how can I help you?”
*Silence*
“Sorry, Mr Smith is there a problem?” Looking up he viewed the man slouched in the patients chair. His looked ungainly. Long legs open and twitching, he wore a pair of jeans that had the look of ones that had not been washed for a very long time, possibly ever. A short wax jacket two sizes too big sat on his thin frame, the cuffs coming down to his dirt caked finger nails. Overall he had the smell of something in between wet dog and chip fat. He wore a dirty baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, his hair hidden beneath it and several weeks of growth on his face.
“Tissue” he uttered. “Sorry, what? John enquired” “Tissue” Smith repeated nodding toward a box behind Johns head on the shelf; he always kept them there for bad news, or crying mothers or snotty children.
“Sure, here” he said as he stood turning to retrieve one.
“I see your limp has returned again, John?” This was more of a question than a statement. John paused, his back still to Smith. The voice was different, deeper, clearer, North London, Upper Middle Class, cultured. The way he had said his name…”John”.
He turned slowly, tissue still in hand, heart thumping at his chest. Smith was stood now, straight and at full height a good six foot, The baseball cap removed there was a mop of black ruffled curls with pale blue eyes set slightly too far back in his face. Under that growth of beard there was a face he recognised.
“John?” Sherlock questioning the look of shock on Johns’ face.
“John could not speak, his head was hot, his heart thumping painfully in his chest and blood rushing to his face he felt dizzy, faint even. He lowered himself slowly into his chair dropping the tissue he pushed his fingers to the side of his throat to take his pulse. Handing him a glass of water from the desk, Sherlock did the only thing he could, he said
“Sorry”.
“Sorry” John repeated, quietly at first, “Sorry?” He began to rise and so did his voice “Fucking Sorry?” Sherlock had been expecting this but he had not been quite expecting the connection between John’s right hook and his nose to be quite so hard.
Sherlock lay on the consulting room floor staring at a children’s map of the Solar System blu tacked to the ceiling presumably to keep children quiet whilst John examined them ‘ Oh so this is Irony’ he thought. Sitting up he watched John as he paced the office floor up and down, the limp had disappeared again.
“Dissue?” Sherlock said slightly muffled by the blood coming from his nose. John out stretched his hand at first with a tissue, and then another to help him rise from the floor. Sherlock dabbed at his nose and winced.
“Three years” John was clutching his wrist, he really had hit him hard.
“I’m sorry”
“Sorry, you are fucking unbelievable, three fucking years!”
“I couldn’t tell you” Sherlock stated calmly
“We grieved for you, I grieved for you”
“I know”
“NO, YOU don’t know, YOU don’t know. he said pointedly. "I prayed for this, for YOU to be alive for this to be just a trick, that’s what you said wasn’t it, on the roof; that’s why you said it, isn’t it? It’s all magic tricks, John” He waved his hands around angrily mimicking a bad stage magician.
“Yes”
“Is this real he said gesturing to Sherlock’s appearance…” Is this you, have you been living rough, where did you go?”
“No...I’m real”
“Wait, what do you mean you know?” only just registering what Sherlock had said.
“I was there, sometimes, I came back…” his voice trailed off he knew this would not give John any comfort.
“I KNEW it, I knew it!” John started to pace the floor again hands thrust into his hips. ”I saw you, I saw you didn’t I? I wasn’t fucking mad. Mary said I was wrong.”
“Probably, I don’t know what to say John; if I had told you Moran may have killed you anyway and I couldn’t risk it”.
“Mary.. Mary, you know I lost Mary because of you, I pushed her away, I loved her” he paused “wait, who’s Moran? NO don’t tell me” He shook his head and waved a finger at Sherlock who stood their dumbly.
“How did you? Mycroft wasn’t it?” There were so many questions John wanted answers to, everything was swimming in his head.
“Yes, and Molly”
“But Molly and I talked, we met for coffee, hell Mary and I even had her round for New Years Eve” John was becoming exasperated.
Sherlock shrugged. “She’s very loyal”
John sat down with a thump into his chair again, and rested his head in his hands elbows on his desk.
There was loud knock at the door and the receptionist’s voice drifted through it. “Dr Watson are you okay? Shall I call the police”? “NO, John urgently shouted a little louder than he had meant to. “No it’s fine Mrs Tailor, everything is fine”.
“Everything is… going to be…fine” he drifted off.
Suddenly he rose from the chair. The two friends stared at each other for what seemed like eternity. John moved towards Sherlock before he could think about what he was doing and embraced him tightly, arms clenched like he was testing Sherlock really was physically there. Sherlock stood stock still, arms crushed against his sides. Gently he nudged his elbows out slightly and John relaxed his grip. Completely against what Sherlock considered being the norm. He raised his arms and clasped them about John’s shoulders, holding him tentatively. John’s face was buried in Sherlock’s shoulder, he shuddered slightly and Sherlock could not tell whether he was laughing or crying; so he coughed to get his attention. John sniffed loudly and pulling away he wiped away any ‘manly’ tears with his jumper sleeve. “Well” John said, “That was awkward”. His face was red and puffy.
“We better go and make sure Mrs Tailor doesn’t ring the Police” Sherlock nodded to the door. “I think there are things we need to talk about; we could go get some dinner?”
John gave in, and laughed. “Yes, but not dressed like that, you smell terrible, and the beard looks ridiculous.”
“I borrowed the ‘rags’ off someone who owed me a favour, I quite like the beard though” Sherlock smiled.
This definitely was Sherlock, infuriating, amazing and alive.
Everything really was going to be fine.
I am a British woman who has solely rejoined LJ so I can start posting fanfiction: I haven't written anything in TEN years!
Please be gentle with me :)
I like various fandoms, Sherlock, Harry Potter, LOTR, Doctor Who, Blakes 7 etc etc.
However, my main poison is BBC Sherlock....
I am currently writing a long story and here is the first chapter so it is short and sweet.
The full story centres around Asexual Sherlock/Straight John and John/Molly.
This chapter is kinda sweet, I have tried to keep it canon somewhat to the Books as well as the series. It's just Sherlocks return....visiting John at his GPs Surgery. For US readers, please bare in mind, if you need to see a doctor here, you just turn up and wait your turn usually and it's free :)
A Visit to the Doctors:
Chapter 1 of ‘A Complicated Life’
Asexual Sherlock/Straight John, Fluffy, PG for Swearing (quite a bit). No sexual content.
Summary: Sherlock Returns, by visiting John at his GP surgery. - a short fic.
A Complicated Life (future Chapters contain Asexual Sherlock/Straight John, John/Molly. Scenes of drug taking violence, angst and sex).
Written by Sherlocks_Pants
Disclaimer: Sadly Sherlock and anything affiliated with the BBC UKs Sherlock is not owned by me. I just cared for them deeply. This is my first story I have written in 10 years, so be kind. I am BRITISH so please understand it will have Anglophile content and the spelling will be different! Ta
It was a month since John had blogged the details of ‘The Empty Flat’, two months since Moran had fired a shot through the lounge window, much to Mrs Hudsons dismay. Three months since Mycroft and Lestrade had worked their magic with the press declaring Sherlock not to be a fraud and that the whole thing had been some elaborate Government and Police sting. It was three months…and three days, since the homeless man had turned up at the surgery asking to see John about his methadone prescription….
The surgery had been quiet today and John had been glad, he was tired, he had not been sleeping since Mary had left. She just couldn’t cope with it anymore. At first sharing Johns grief had come easy; she wanted to care for him, to hold him when he cried. To comfort him, to love him. It had been easy to love him, but not easy to live with the ghost of his friend. Always there, always in Johns head. He had even believed he had started to see him in the street, amongst commuters on the tube. Several times he had followed strangers across London only to find he was lost, and swallowing his pride he had to ring her for a lift home. He didn’t blog anymore, but he had remained in touch with those few who still believed in Sherlock. They had become his network of belief. He couldn’t talk to Mary, but they would listen. ‘It had been three years, it had to stop’ she had said. ‘He was dead, she wasn’t’ John had no answer for that. She left in the morning.
The screen read Gary Smith, his last patient of the day. John rose slowly from his seat; he paused, took a breath, and opened the door. There were four patients left, a mother with a new baby, possibly two or three weeks old probably here for an immunisation jab, Sister could do that. A girl, 17 who had asked to see a female doctor and by way she was watching the mother and baby combined with her nervous manner that it was probably for the morning after pill, or perhaps it was too late for that. The fourth was a rough looking bloke arguing irritably with the receptionist who was looking quite distressed.
He stood with his back to Johns door and was repeating the same thing over and over in a slurred East Anglian dialect
"How longs it gonna take? How longs it gonna take"?
“Mr Smith?” John enquired in his direction. The receptionist breathed a sigh of relief. John limped back into the room to take up his rightful place at his desk. Moving his mouse to bring up the patient detail screen automatically repeating the line he had already said so many times that day.
“So, how can I help you?”
*Silence*
“Sorry, Mr Smith is there a problem?” Looking up he viewed the man slouched in the patients chair. His looked ungainly. Long legs open and twitching, he wore a pair of jeans that had the look of ones that had not been washed for a very long time, possibly ever. A short wax jacket two sizes too big sat on his thin frame, the cuffs coming down to his dirt caked finger nails. Overall he had the smell of something in between wet dog and chip fat. He wore a dirty baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, his hair hidden beneath it and several weeks of growth on his face.
“Tissue” he uttered. “Sorry, what? John enquired” “Tissue” Smith repeated nodding toward a box behind Johns head on the shelf; he always kept them there for bad news, or crying mothers or snotty children.
“Sure, here” he said as he stood turning to retrieve one.
“I see your limp has returned again, John?” This was more of a question than a statement. John paused, his back still to Smith. The voice was different, deeper, clearer, North London, Upper Middle Class, cultured. The way he had said his name…”John”.
He turned slowly, tissue still in hand, heart thumping at his chest. Smith was stood now, straight and at full height a good six foot, The baseball cap removed there was a mop of black ruffled curls with pale blue eyes set slightly too far back in his face. Under that growth of beard there was a face he recognised.
“John?” Sherlock questioning the look of shock on Johns’ face.
“John could not speak, his head was hot, his heart thumping painfully in his chest and blood rushing to his face he felt dizzy, faint even. He lowered himself slowly into his chair dropping the tissue he pushed his fingers to the side of his throat to take his pulse. Handing him a glass of water from the desk, Sherlock did the only thing he could, he said
“Sorry”.
“Sorry” John repeated, quietly at first, “Sorry?” He began to rise and so did his voice “Fucking Sorry?” Sherlock had been expecting this but he had not been quite expecting the connection between John’s right hook and his nose to be quite so hard.
Sherlock lay on the consulting room floor staring at a children’s map of the Solar System blu tacked to the ceiling presumably to keep children quiet whilst John examined them ‘ Oh so this is Irony’ he thought. Sitting up he watched John as he paced the office floor up and down, the limp had disappeared again.
“Dissue?” Sherlock said slightly muffled by the blood coming from his nose. John out stretched his hand at first with a tissue, and then another to help him rise from the floor. Sherlock dabbed at his nose and winced.
“Three years” John was clutching his wrist, he really had hit him hard.
“I’m sorry”
“Sorry, you are fucking unbelievable, three fucking years!”
“I couldn’t tell you” Sherlock stated calmly
“We grieved for you, I grieved for you”
“I know”
“NO, YOU don’t know, YOU don’t know. he said pointedly. "I prayed for this, for YOU to be alive for this to be just a trick, that’s what you said wasn’t it, on the roof; that’s why you said it, isn’t it? It’s all magic tricks, John” He waved his hands around angrily mimicking a bad stage magician.
“Yes”
“Is this real he said gesturing to Sherlock’s appearance…” Is this you, have you been living rough, where did you go?”
“No...I’m real”
“Wait, what do you mean you know?” only just registering what Sherlock had said.
“I was there, sometimes, I came back…” his voice trailed off he knew this would not give John any comfort.
“I KNEW it, I knew it!” John started to pace the floor again hands thrust into his hips. ”I saw you, I saw you didn’t I? I wasn’t fucking mad. Mary said I was wrong.”
“Probably, I don’t know what to say John; if I had told you Moran may have killed you anyway and I couldn’t risk it”.
“Mary.. Mary, you know I lost Mary because of you, I pushed her away, I loved her” he paused “wait, who’s Moran? NO don’t tell me” He shook his head and waved a finger at Sherlock who stood their dumbly.
“How did you? Mycroft wasn’t it?” There were so many questions John wanted answers to, everything was swimming in his head.
“Yes, and Molly”
“But Molly and I talked, we met for coffee, hell Mary and I even had her round for New Years Eve” John was becoming exasperated.
Sherlock shrugged. “She’s very loyal”
John sat down with a thump into his chair again, and rested his head in his hands elbows on his desk.
There was loud knock at the door and the receptionist’s voice drifted through it. “Dr Watson are you okay? Shall I call the police”? “NO, John urgently shouted a little louder than he had meant to. “No it’s fine Mrs Tailor, everything is fine”.
“Everything is… going to be…fine” he drifted off.
Suddenly he rose from the chair. The two friends stared at each other for what seemed like eternity. John moved towards Sherlock before he could think about what he was doing and embraced him tightly, arms clenched like he was testing Sherlock really was physically there. Sherlock stood stock still, arms crushed against his sides. Gently he nudged his elbows out slightly and John relaxed his grip. Completely against what Sherlock considered being the norm. He raised his arms and clasped them about John’s shoulders, holding him tentatively. John’s face was buried in Sherlock’s shoulder, he shuddered slightly and Sherlock could not tell whether he was laughing or crying; so he coughed to get his attention. John sniffed loudly and pulling away he wiped away any ‘manly’ tears with his jumper sleeve. “Well” John said, “That was awkward”. His face was red and puffy.
“We better go and make sure Mrs Tailor doesn’t ring the Police” Sherlock nodded to the door. “I think there are things we need to talk about; we could go get some dinner?”
John gave in, and laughed. “Yes, but not dressed like that, you smell terrible, and the beard looks ridiculous.”
“I borrowed the ‘rags’ off someone who owed me a favour, I quite like the beard though” Sherlock smiled.
This definitely was Sherlock, infuriating, amazing and alive.
Everything really was going to be fine.