This prompt made me sad.
Title: Forgotten But Not Gone
Characters: Sherlock, John
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Not mine, which is probably to their benefit.
Author's Notes: A short kinkmeme fill (which seems to be all I have the inspiration for nowadays) for this prompt here. In short, it asks for an AU where "Sherlock's in a home, John is his caregiver who writes fictional stories where they have adventures together."
The original prompt is far more detailed and heart wrenching, and definitely deserves more than I could squeeze out for it (luckily another author is filling, too).
"I'd call you a private detective," John says thoughtfully, tapping the end of his pen against his notepad, "but that's all sulking in cars and taking pictures of fat, unfaithful husbands. Doesn't seem like your style, Mr. Holmes."
In his peripheral vision, John can see Sally roll her eyes as she shuffles past with Mrs.Pembleton. She'd poke at him later, when their shifts ended, he knew. Would wonder, loudly, why he bothered to have a conversation with someone who had officially checked out. John had long since given up trying to convince her otherwise; ignoring her was far easier.
Besides, had John been paying attention to Sally and not Mr. Holmes, he would have missed him entirely. Would have missed his eyes sharpen to focus on him, not into the distance over his shoulder. Would have entirely not noticed the subtle facial twitches, the small shift of his jaw that somewhat coordinated with a relatively forceful exhalation. Had he been capable of pressing his teeth together, John knows a shushing sound would have escaped; as it is, he's only able to produce a light huff.
"Right, right- Sherlock. Don't know how I could forget that; I wouldn't want to be associated with your brother, either."
Sherlock Holmes lowers his eyelids halfway. John's seen this expression enough to know that it's what currently suffices for a scathing glare. He grins back.
"Tell you what, I'll write it down. Won't forget then, will I?"
-----
"Did I tell you I'm in the story, too?"
It was probably a bad idea to bring Sherlock out; yesterday had been nothing but rain, and if the wheelchair got stuck, it would be an utter mess. Granted, John is fairly certain he could carry Sherlock back- though he is ridiculously tall, he isn't particularly heavy- but John really doesn't want to subject him to that.
Instead he sticks to the brick paved lanes crisscrossing the courtyard, rather than risk taking some of the less well-kept footpaths along the northern edge of the property. It's too bad, really; wild flowers grow rampant in that area, and John knows Sherlock enjoys watching the bees; he's seen those knife-metal eyes flick from flower to flower and follow the drones to and from their hive. Then again, the forecast predicts a damp day with more rain coming- the bees wouldn't be out, anyway.
"I thought I'd make myself a doctor- Doctor John Watson, has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Inches from his hand gripping the wheelchair handle, Sherlock's left shoulder moves ever so slightly upwards.
"Well, I thought so. You have to admit it'd be handy, having someone follow around who can patch you up after a dramatic shoot out."
Sherlock tilts his head, his long neck bending into an unspoken 'yes, go on' position. John appreciates the effort, but still stops pushing while Sherlock struggles to bring his head back upright.
"But then I thought," John grips the handles in hopes of resisting the urge to straighten Sherlock's neck himself; he won't appreciate that, John knows. "I thought about the doctors I know. Around here, I mean. They wouldn't be able to keep up with you, running across London. The most exercise they get is walking too and from their cars every day."
John mumbles that last bit, and resumes pushing. "So then I figured I ought to be somebody who prevented you from getting hurt, right? Someone fit and handy with a weapon- avoid the need for doctors all together. Like, I don't know, a bodyguard. A solider."
Nothing from Sherlock.
"Just a thought."
-----
"It's supposed to rain all day today." John sighs as he rejoins Sherlock by the large bay window in the front sitting room. He flops heavily onto the thin cushion covering the sill, and watches Sherlock as he puts his paper cup full of weak tea on the floor and pulls his notepad and pen into his lap.
Another sigh heaves into the air at the complete lack of reaction; Sherlock's eyes are half focused on the distant gray horizon; John gives the end of his pen a nibble as he flips through the pages filled with his scratchy handwriting.
"So I figured out your title."
A slow blink is his only response; Sherlock is still very far away.
"See, I was visiting my sister this weekend, and she kept going on and on about her job. She's an interior design consultant, horrid stuff, really." John pitched his voice high in the imitation of Harry that would earn him a punch in the arm had she been there, "You should see some of these people, Johnny, they need me, they'd be utterly lost without my expertise."
The corners of Sherlock's mouth give the tiniest pull downwards at that- it makes John smile, just a bit, because a bad reaction is better than no reaction.
"Anyway," back to his normal voice, "consulting detective. What do you think?"
It's a subtle thing, watching someone's eyes refocus, but John has had lots of practice. His smile grows as Sherlock slowly brings himself into the present, he even lets a chuckle escape as Sherlock meets his eyes.
"When the police are out of their element- and with a smart bloke like you, that'd be always, wouldn't it?- they'd consult you."
The edge's of Sherlock's mouth pull again, not so much upwards as sideways, but it's close enough to a smile that John's cheeks hurt, smiling back.
"I'm not entirely sure the job exists, but who the hell cares- we can invent a job, right? Just think, you'd be the only one in the world."
Sherlock's lips continue their pull as he draws his eyes along the horizon and shifts just the slightest bit in his chair. His shoulders go back, his spine straightens, and for the briefest of moments, John can almost see him; he can see Sherlock Holmes standing tall, ready to take on the criminal masses plaguing London, until he sags back into his previous position.
John clears his throat, and blinks rapidly. "Knew you'd like it."
THE END.
Characters: Sherlock, John
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Not mine, which is probably to their benefit.
Author's Notes: A short kinkmeme fill (which seems to be all I have the inspiration for nowadays) for this prompt here. In short, it asks for an AU where "Sherlock's in a home, John is his caregiver who writes fictional stories where they have adventures together."
The original prompt is far more detailed and heart wrenching, and definitely deserves more than I could squeeze out for it (luckily another author is filling, too).
"I'd call you a private detective," John says thoughtfully, tapping the end of his pen against his notepad, "but that's all sulking in cars and taking pictures of fat, unfaithful husbands. Doesn't seem like your style, Mr. Holmes."
In his peripheral vision, John can see Sally roll her eyes as she shuffles past with Mrs.Pembleton. She'd poke at him later, when their shifts ended, he knew. Would wonder, loudly, why he bothered to have a conversation with someone who had officially checked out. John had long since given up trying to convince her otherwise; ignoring her was far easier.
Besides, had John been paying attention to Sally and not Mr. Holmes, he would have missed him entirely. Would have missed his eyes sharpen to focus on him, not into the distance over his shoulder. Would have entirely not noticed the subtle facial twitches, the small shift of his jaw that somewhat coordinated with a relatively forceful exhalation. Had he been capable of pressing his teeth together, John knows a shushing sound would have escaped; as it is, he's only able to produce a light huff.
"Right, right- Sherlock. Don't know how I could forget that; I wouldn't want to be associated with your brother, either."
Sherlock Holmes lowers his eyelids halfway. John's seen this expression enough to know that it's what currently suffices for a scathing glare. He grins back.
"Tell you what, I'll write it down. Won't forget then, will I?"
-----
"Did I tell you I'm in the story, too?"
It was probably a bad idea to bring Sherlock out; yesterday had been nothing but rain, and if the wheelchair got stuck, it would be an utter mess. Granted, John is fairly certain he could carry Sherlock back- though he is ridiculously tall, he isn't particularly heavy- but John really doesn't want to subject him to that.
Instead he sticks to the brick paved lanes crisscrossing the courtyard, rather than risk taking some of the less well-kept footpaths along the northern edge of the property. It's too bad, really; wild flowers grow rampant in that area, and John knows Sherlock enjoys watching the bees; he's seen those knife-metal eyes flick from flower to flower and follow the drones to and from their hive. Then again, the forecast predicts a damp day with more rain coming- the bees wouldn't be out, anyway.
"I thought I'd make myself a doctor- Doctor John Watson, has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Inches from his hand gripping the wheelchair handle, Sherlock's left shoulder moves ever so slightly upwards.
"Well, I thought so. You have to admit it'd be handy, having someone follow around who can patch you up after a dramatic shoot out."
Sherlock tilts his head, his long neck bending into an unspoken 'yes, go on' position. John appreciates the effort, but still stops pushing while Sherlock struggles to bring his head back upright.
"But then I thought," John grips the handles in hopes of resisting the urge to straighten Sherlock's neck himself; he won't appreciate that, John knows. "I thought about the doctors I know. Around here, I mean. They wouldn't be able to keep up with you, running across London. The most exercise they get is walking too and from their cars every day."
John mumbles that last bit, and resumes pushing. "So then I figured I ought to be somebody who prevented you from getting hurt, right? Someone fit and handy with a weapon- avoid the need for doctors all together. Like, I don't know, a bodyguard. A solider."
Nothing from Sherlock.
"Just a thought."
-----
"It's supposed to rain all day today." John sighs as he rejoins Sherlock by the large bay window in the front sitting room. He flops heavily onto the thin cushion covering the sill, and watches Sherlock as he puts his paper cup full of weak tea on the floor and pulls his notepad and pen into his lap.
Another sigh heaves into the air at the complete lack of reaction; Sherlock's eyes are half focused on the distant gray horizon; John gives the end of his pen a nibble as he flips through the pages filled with his scratchy handwriting.
"So I figured out your title."
A slow blink is his only response; Sherlock is still very far away.
"See, I was visiting my sister this weekend, and she kept going on and on about her job. She's an interior design consultant, horrid stuff, really." John pitched his voice high in the imitation of Harry that would earn him a punch in the arm had she been there, "You should see some of these people, Johnny, they need me, they'd be utterly lost without my expertise."
The corners of Sherlock's mouth give the tiniest pull downwards at that- it makes John smile, just a bit, because a bad reaction is better than no reaction.
"Anyway," back to his normal voice, "consulting detective. What do you think?"
It's a subtle thing, watching someone's eyes refocus, but John has had lots of practice. His smile grows as Sherlock slowly brings himself into the present, he even lets a chuckle escape as Sherlock meets his eyes.
"When the police are out of their element- and with a smart bloke like you, that'd be always, wouldn't it?- they'd consult you."
The edge's of Sherlock's mouth pull again, not so much upwards as sideways, but it's close enough to a smile that John's cheeks hurt, smiling back.
"I'm not entirely sure the job exists, but who the hell cares- we can invent a job, right? Just think, you'd be the only one in the world."
Sherlock's lips continue their pull as he draws his eyes along the horizon and shifts just the slightest bit in his chair. His shoulders go back, his spine straightens, and for the briefest of moments, John can almost see him; he can see Sherlock Holmes standing tall, ready to take on the criminal masses plaguing London, until he sags back into his previous position.
John clears his throat, and blinks rapidly. "Knew you'd like it."
THE END.