Meme fill - Bump in the Night (Sherlock AU)
Sherlock belongs to the BBC. The world under the bed belongs to 'Mummy'. No money is made from this.
Title: Bump in the Night
Author: szm
Characters: Sherlock and John, mentions of others
Rating: G
Prompt: AU request...Sherlock/John...one of them is the monster/creature from under the other's bed.
When John was 8 he offered to swap bedrooms with his sister because she was scared of the monster under her bed. She was almost hysterical trying to explain about the monster to their Dad who was getting increasingly frustrated.
“But Dad, it’s got snakes for hair, and really long arms, and it pinches me in the night, and it smells, and…” babbled Harry.
“I’ll swap with you,” said John calmly, two years younger than Harry and small for his age. Harry looked torn, she didn’t want to throw her little brother to the monster but she really didn’t want to ever sleep there again. Their Dad just looked relieved.
They spent a couple of hours moving their things, Harry hovering by the bedroom door reluctant to even go in. When Mum got home from work she kissed John on the forehead and called him her ‘brave little soldier’- that made John feel ten feet tall, Mum’s compliments were few and far between.
A couple of weeks went by, Harry started off being really nice to him but in the way of siblings, that faded over time. John didn’t see the monster at all, it was disappointing. He even got his torch out and searched under the bed looking for it. All he found were the few Barbie’s that Harry had discarded soon after she’d took them out of the packaging. John wondered what it was monsters ate, it didn’t seem like there was a lot available under the bed. He briefly wondered if the monster would eat him but he wasn’t too worried about it. The monster hadn’t tried to eat Harry after all, just pinch her in the night. Still it wouldn’t hurt to keep his hockey stick near the bed, just in case. In the end he made some tuna sandwiches and left them on plate next to the bed. He lay on the floor and peered under to talk to the monster.
“Hi, my name’s John, I swapped rooms with my sister Harry. You scared her quite a bit, which wasn’t very nice really. But I suppose she’s not always that nice either. I brought you a sandwich, in case you’re hungry, do you like tuna? I couldn’t get any crisps, there was only ready salted left and they’re horrible, I didn’t think you’d want them.” John lay there for a moment, not sure of what else to say. “I’ve never met a monster before, but I’d like too. If you want to come out and say hello? It must be a bit lonely, under there.” The monster didn’t answer, so John climbed up into bed.
When he woke it was still dark, it took a few moments to realise there was a darker shape leaning over the bed. He quickly sat up and switched the bedside lamp on; the shape hissed and covered its face up. The light John realised, probably not used to it, living under a bed.
“Sorry, sorry,” said John finding a discarded t-shirt on the floor and throwing it over the lamp. The room was cast in a dim glow and the monster uncurled itself and… looked just like a boy. Probably a bit taller than John, and definitely thinner, but just a boy. His hair was curly and wild round his face and he was very pale. He wore some kind of long black coat with a big collar, like a vampire maybe. “Oh,” said John.
“What?” said the ‘monster’ defensively. John thought he had a really nice voice.
“Nothing,” replied John. “It’s just, you don’t look much like a monster.”
“I can do,” replied the monster. He smiled but it didn’t look quite right on his face, like he didn’t get much practice at it. “Do you want to see?”
John nodded and angled his body to see better. The monster closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest, he seemed to grow, shadows around him deepened, his arms and legs got thinner and sharper. His hair got longer and thicker, still not snakes but John could see how Harry would make that mistake in the dark. The monster lifted his head, his features were thin and sharp, white skin highlighted in the darkness. His mouth was wide and full of sharp looking teeth, like a shark. His eyes were burning dark red points that John couldn’t stop staring at.
“That’s brilliant,” breathed John.
Suddenly the monster snapped back to his other form. “That’s not what people usually say,” he said looking a little shocked.
“What do people usually say?” asked John.
“Mostly they run away screaming,” shrugged the monster.
“Well I think it’s cool,” said John raising his chin in defiance. “Pinching people is mean though,” he added belatedly remembering his sister.
The monster rolled his eyes. “She snored, and babbled in her sleep. It was intolerable.”
John giggled. “Do you have a name?” he asked.
The monster looked at John thoughtfully. “Mycroft says I’m not to tell you my name, he says humans are stupid.”
“We’re not,” said John hotly. “Anyway, you just told me Mycroft’s name.”
The monster smirked; this expression looked a lot more at home on his face. “He didn’t say I couldn’t tell you his name.”
John couldn’t help himself he yawned hugely.
The monster tutted. “Why do you humans need so much sleep? It’s so boring”
“Have you tried it?” asked John with a grin. “Dreaming’s pretty cool, sometimes.”
“I… no,” replied the monster looking confused.
John looked at his monster with concern. “I bet it’s not very comfy, living under a bed.” The monster just shrugged. John shifted over a bit. “You could sleep here with me, if you like? Give dreaming a go.”
The monster looked like he was going to say no, John tried not to be sad about that, maybe monsters really couldn’t sleep. He wondered if the monster had eaten the sandwich, he looked like he didn’t eat enough. Then the monster climbed in next to John, John beamed at him. John arranged the duvet over the both of them and moved his legs to make space for the monsters longer ones and the stupid, big coat. Then he leaned over and turned off the light.
“Night, monster,” he said sleepily.
“He’d almost dropped off to sleep when he heard the monster reply. “My name’s Sherlock.”
“Night, Sherlock,” mumbled John in return, more than halfway asleep. “Harry said you smelled bad, I think you smell nice.”
“Harry smells bad,” scoffed Sherlock, not feeling sleepy himself but oddly enjoying the warmth and weight next to him. “Mycroft says humans are stupid and boring. But I think you’re interesting.”
But by then John was asleep.
**
Sherlock was amazing, he was clever and funny and John’s very best friend. But John soon realised that talking about Sherlock made other people nervous. So John kept Sherlock to himself, like a secret, it was exciting. But there were downsides to having Sherlock around too. Sherlock hated anything that John did outside. He declared that school was stupid (which John privately more than agreed with), that hockey and rugby were pointless (which John absolutely disagreed with), and Sherlock really couldn’t see the worth in girls at all (which 8 year old John agreed with, but the older he got the more his opinion on that changed). Things went missing, text books, homework, rugby boots, his hockey stick. Sherlock always denied taking them, but somehow they always turned up weeks later under the bed.
But still John wouldn’t give Sherlock up for the world. Most nights Sherlock ‘slept’ in his bed with him, as John got bigger it became more difficult but neither of them wanted to give it up. And John could tell Sherlock things, terrible things that he kept bottled up inside away from everyone else. About his Mum and her drinking, about how brave his Dad tried to look, and how sad he actually looked. About how sometimes he hated his Mum, sometimes he even hated his Dad too. Sherlock never judged, Sherlock barely seemed to listen half the time, but he never forgot anything either. It was easier to talk to someone who didn’t seem to care, who didn’t look at him with pity.
Sherlock told him things as well, things about the world under the bed. About Mycroft and ‘Mummy’, he got the impression that Sherlock was in some trouble with them for talking to John. But when asked, Sherlock would just shrug and say “they can’t stop me.”
One night when John was 13 and he couldn’t sleep, he lay in the dark listening to Sherlock breathing. “It’s the Rugby final tomorrow, I’ve got to travel to Birmingham, I’ll be away overnight.”
“I’ll steal your boots,” said Sherlock his voice flat. “Then you won’t be able to go.”
John smiled and shook his head. “I left my kit at Evan’s, you won’t be able to.”
Sherlock sighed, loudly and heavily in John’s ear. “Evan is an idiot.”
“You think everyone’s an idiot,” replied John.
“Practically everyone is,” snorted Sherlock. “I should steal you, hide you under the bed.”
John had never been scared of Sherlock, but that made his breath catch in his chest and his heart beat a little faster. “Why don’t you?” he asked.
Sherlock shrugged, John tended to associate that gesture with Mycroft.
“You should come with me,” said John lightly, as if it was nothing.
“Outside?” asked Sherlock with scorn in his voice. “They’d never let me back home. What would be the point?”
’You’d be with me’, thought John, but he couldn’t get the words to come out. It felt like too big a thing, like some terrible rule neither of them could ever break.
**
John kept on getting older, growing up. Things from ‘outside’ kept him away from Sherlock more often. John stopped thinking of it as ‘outside’ and started thinking of it as ‘real life’, which made Sherlock something unreal.
Tina Cooksey was the most beautiful person that the 15 year old John had ever seen. She played hockey, and she liked all the same music as John, and all the same films. She was sweet and he’d never seen her have a bad word to say about anybody. It was like a miracle the day she agreed to spend a few hours with him at the park after school. John spent more and more time with her and less and less time with Sherlock. She was the first thing he couldn’t tell Sherlock about, because Sherlock would spoil it, would tell John she was stupid. John didn’t want to feel bad about this, it was perfect. Sherlock stopped sleeping in John’s bed, John wasn’t sure which one of them suggested it, he told himself it was just practical, they were too big now. Slowly Sherlock stopped visiting every day, somehow the gaps between his visits got longer. John didn’t notice, because ‘real’ life was so busy. Tina, and school, and everything else.
One afternoon, when his parents were both at work, and his sister was at piano practice, John brought Tina home. They ended up on John’s bed, talking lead to kissing and John honestly could never remember being this happy before.
“Ow!” said Tina moving away from him and shifting on the bed.
“What?” asked John feeling a little dizzy from the kissing and the feel of Tina’s skin where his hand rested just under the hem of her shirt.
“I think I sat on something, it was sharp,” she said. She smiled at him and his heart suddenly started doing backflips in his chest. “State of this room I’m not surprised! Messy boy.”
John grinned back. “Yep,” he replied, they both leaned in for another kiss.
“Ow!” exclaimed Tina again, jumping a little this time. “It’s almost like something bit me…”
“Or pinched you,” said John darkly, suddenly realising what was happening.
Tina looked a little nervous at his expression. “What would pinch me?”
John forced himself to smile and he felt her relax. “Maybe the monster under the bed?”
Tina giggled because she thought he was joking. He made excuses about his sister coming home soon and she left. John ran back up the stairs into his room, slamming the door behind him.
“Sherlock! I know it’s you, come on out,” he shouted, feeling his hands clench into fists by his side.
Sherlock unfolded himself from under the bed in full ‘monster’ get up. Red eyes, and sharp teeth, wild black hair swirling round his head. Like this he towered over John.
“Are you trying to scare me?” asked John. “Or did you think Tina was still here?”
Something flared in the depths of those inhuman eyes. “No,” said Sherlock. His voice was different like this deeper, rough and broken, sharp like the rest of him.
“You pinched her!” said John, furious and feeling a little betrayed.
“‘Pinching people is mean’” mocked Sherlock.
“Why?” asked John through his teeth.
“You left me!” Sherlock shouted back, and it was terrible, it made the things on the bedside table rattle.
“I have a life, Sherlock,” John shouted back not at all intimidated. “I wish you’d just go away.”
And just like that Sherlock was gone. He disappeared without as much as a puff of smoke. John felt his anger drain away, it left him feeling empty.
**
Sherlock never came back. John and Tina broke up a few days later, and it was the worst thing that had ever happened to John for at least a week. But Sherlock never came back. John checked under the bed with a torch, he even left tuna sandwiches out for him but nothing.
Then there were exams and college. John grew up and left home became a doctor and joined the army. Sherlock never came back. He tried to talk to Harry about Sherlock one day when he was on leave, but she couldn’t even remember the monster under the bed at all. John missed him, but it faded into the background. He even started to think that maybe Sherlock hadn’t been real at all, just an imaginary friend who’d stuck around longer than was normal. Life went on, as life tends to do.
Until it didn’t anymore.
The bullet tore through his shoulder, and suddenly it was all over, John was useless in a way he’d never been before. He found himself back in England, with no idea what to do. He’d always known where he was going before, but now he felt lost. The nightmares came nearly every night, dreams of gunfire and blood. The very worst of his time in the army compressed into his dreams. Waking up was worse, at least in the nightmares he had a purpose, he knew what he was supposed to do there.
He woke with a cry and a start more nights than he didn’t, often he dissolved into tears, more often he stayed awake watching the shadows wishing that one of them would detach itself from the others and climb into bed with him. One night he pulled all the bedding onto the floor and slept facing the darkness under the bed. It was the best night’s sleep he’d had for weeks, even if his shoulder and leg complained bitterly in the morning.
**
John stared at the screen and the stupid cursor just kept blinking, it was almost accusing. He was supposed to be writing his blog, a bit difficult when nothing happened to him anymore. So he wrote that.
Nothing happens to me.
The cursor carried on blinking.
I miss the monster under my bed.
He stared at the second line and thought about leaving it there. No doubt his therapist would have a field day over it. He deleted it and just posted the first line.
He dragged himself outside most days, staying inside with his very illegal handgun was far too tempting in so many ways, none of them very nice. He stopped at a coffee shop and brought a coffee he couldn’t really afford and wandered for a bit. Running into Mike Stamford along the way.
“John Watson! I thought you were overseas getting shot at, what happened?” said Mike cheerfully.
“I got shot,” said John, shamefully enjoying the way Mike’s face fell and then feeling bad about it.
Somehow that conversation led to Mike dragging him to St Bart’s to meet a potential flatmate.
Walking into the lab and seeing him was like a punch in the gut. But the man just looked up, seemingly dismissed John and returned to his microscope. John leant heavily on his cane and hobbled towards the table. “A bit different to my day,” he managed to say for Mike’s benefit. John threw Mike a weak smile, there was no way the man could be Sherlock, he just looked a bit like him was all. He was asking to borrow Mike’s phone so John handed his over.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” asked the man. It took John a long moment to work out what he was asking. Then he was reeling of a long list of facts about John that he couldn’t possibly know, even if he was Sherlock. In fact the only thing he got wrong was calling Harry his brother instead of his sister. And Sherlock would know that. John had just convinced himself that it was nothing more than an odd likeness when the man told him his name.
“The address is 221 Baker Street and the name is, Sherlock Holmes.”
Then with a wink he was gone, leaving John stunned.
**
The next day when John met up with Sherlock at Baker St he decided to play along with Sherlock and pretend they didn’t know each other. After all it was possible that this was all some horrible trauma based hallucination. So he took Sherlock’s hand and called him Mr Holmes, went through all the social pleasantries that - if this was his Sherlock, would be grating on his very last nerve.
Mrs Hudson seemed like a lovely, if slightly dotty, old lady. When she said “There’s another bedroom, if you’ll be needing two?” John really couldn’t help himself, it was too good an opening to miss.
“Of course we’ll be needing two, unless Sherlock’s planning on living under my bed?” said John, smiling at Mrs Hudson and carefully not looking to Sherlock for a reaction.
“Oh, I should imagine your both a bit old for that now,” said Mrs Hudson with a wink. At John’s shocked look she said. “Oh don’t worry, dear, we get all sorts round here. Mrs Turner’s got a pair of married ones next door. Well I’ll leave you to talk, shall I?”
“She’s like me,” said Sherlock, his voice broken and rough like it had been when he was in ‘monster’ form.
John didn’t turn round, because he didn’t want to be wrong. “You told me if you went outside they wouldn’t let you home again.”
“They don’t. But it turns out I wasn’t the first to leave; there’s more of us Outside than you’d think. John, turn around,” said Sherlock.
John turned and Sherlock looked like something out of a nightmare, teeth, and claws, and burning eyes. John felt the relief well up in his chest, he felt the stupid grin on his face but he couldn’t do a thing to stop it. “That didn’t scare me when I was 8. It’s not going to work now.”
Sherlock snapped back to ‘human’ and smirked back. “I never even tried to scare you John Watson.”
“Yeah, whatever,” said John. He took a step forward, he wanted to reach out and touch, to make sure Sherlock was real, but he could quite bring himself to. “You went away, we had a row and you just left. Sometimes I even doubted you were real…”
Sherlock shrugged. “Humans are stupid, they tend to forget us after a while. Of course you didn’t. Stubborn.”
“Seeing as it’s you, I’ll take that as a compliment. Why did you go?” asked John.
“You sent me away,” said Sherlock, his voice was even but his eyes flashed red for a moment. “You wished me away, and you used my name…”
John’s mouth went suddenly dry. He’d said it, but he’d been 15 and upset, he hadn’t meant it. “I didn’t know…” he started.
“I worked that out,” said Sherlock. “I’m not some idiot human.”
“Where did you go?” asked John.
“Home,” replied Sherlock. “At first. Then I found another bedroom. But, god John, it was so boring. I reasoned that there had to be more humans like you Outside, so I went. Mummy was quite cross.”
John couldn’t work out why he felt so sad about that. “So you found some other friends, human ones?”
“John, everything Mycroft ever told me about humans was true. Dull, stupid, boring creatures every last one,” Sherlock said throwing his hands up like the human race was doing it to spite him. “Except you, you quite ruined me for the rest of humanity. But it turned out there were others like me about. Exiles and runaways. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade…”
“Who’s Lestrade?” asked John.
Sherlock grinned. “He’s a policeman! He says humans are better monsters then we ever were.”
“You were a terrible monster,” agreed John, his grin now threatening to spilt his face open.
Sherlock leant down to whisper in John’s ear. “You are staying, aren’t you John. Down here with the monsters?”
“Oh god, yes.”
Title: Bump in the Night
Author: szm
Characters: Sherlock and John, mentions of others
Rating: G
Prompt: AU request...Sherlock/John...one of them is the monster/creature from under the other's bed.
When John was 8 he offered to swap bedrooms with his sister because she was scared of the monster under her bed. She was almost hysterical trying to explain about the monster to their Dad who was getting increasingly frustrated.
“But Dad, it’s got snakes for hair, and really long arms, and it pinches me in the night, and it smells, and…” babbled Harry.
“I’ll swap with you,” said John calmly, two years younger than Harry and small for his age. Harry looked torn, she didn’t want to throw her little brother to the monster but she really didn’t want to ever sleep there again. Their Dad just looked relieved.
They spent a couple of hours moving their things, Harry hovering by the bedroom door reluctant to even go in. When Mum got home from work she kissed John on the forehead and called him her ‘brave little soldier’- that made John feel ten feet tall, Mum’s compliments were few and far between.
A couple of weeks went by, Harry started off being really nice to him but in the way of siblings, that faded over time. John didn’t see the monster at all, it was disappointing. He even got his torch out and searched under the bed looking for it. All he found were the few Barbie’s that Harry had discarded soon after she’d took them out of the packaging. John wondered what it was monsters ate, it didn’t seem like there was a lot available under the bed. He briefly wondered if the monster would eat him but he wasn’t too worried about it. The monster hadn’t tried to eat Harry after all, just pinch her in the night. Still it wouldn’t hurt to keep his hockey stick near the bed, just in case. In the end he made some tuna sandwiches and left them on plate next to the bed. He lay on the floor and peered under to talk to the monster.
“Hi, my name’s John, I swapped rooms with my sister Harry. You scared her quite a bit, which wasn’t very nice really. But I suppose she’s not always that nice either. I brought you a sandwich, in case you’re hungry, do you like tuna? I couldn’t get any crisps, there was only ready salted left and they’re horrible, I didn’t think you’d want them.” John lay there for a moment, not sure of what else to say. “I’ve never met a monster before, but I’d like too. If you want to come out and say hello? It must be a bit lonely, under there.” The monster didn’t answer, so John climbed up into bed.
When he woke it was still dark, it took a few moments to realise there was a darker shape leaning over the bed. He quickly sat up and switched the bedside lamp on; the shape hissed and covered its face up. The light John realised, probably not used to it, living under a bed.
“Sorry, sorry,” said John finding a discarded t-shirt on the floor and throwing it over the lamp. The room was cast in a dim glow and the monster uncurled itself and… looked just like a boy. Probably a bit taller than John, and definitely thinner, but just a boy. His hair was curly and wild round his face and he was very pale. He wore some kind of long black coat with a big collar, like a vampire maybe. “Oh,” said John.
“What?” said the ‘monster’ defensively. John thought he had a really nice voice.
“Nothing,” replied John. “It’s just, you don’t look much like a monster.”
“I can do,” replied the monster. He smiled but it didn’t look quite right on his face, like he didn’t get much practice at it. “Do you want to see?”
John nodded and angled his body to see better. The monster closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest, he seemed to grow, shadows around him deepened, his arms and legs got thinner and sharper. His hair got longer and thicker, still not snakes but John could see how Harry would make that mistake in the dark. The monster lifted his head, his features were thin and sharp, white skin highlighted in the darkness. His mouth was wide and full of sharp looking teeth, like a shark. His eyes were burning dark red points that John couldn’t stop staring at.
“That’s brilliant,” breathed John.
Suddenly the monster snapped back to his other form. “That’s not what people usually say,” he said looking a little shocked.
“What do people usually say?” asked John.
“Mostly they run away screaming,” shrugged the monster.
“Well I think it’s cool,” said John raising his chin in defiance. “Pinching people is mean though,” he added belatedly remembering his sister.
The monster rolled his eyes. “She snored, and babbled in her sleep. It was intolerable.”
John giggled. “Do you have a name?” he asked.
The monster looked at John thoughtfully. “Mycroft says I’m not to tell you my name, he says humans are stupid.”
“We’re not,” said John hotly. “Anyway, you just told me Mycroft’s name.”
The monster smirked; this expression looked a lot more at home on his face. “He didn’t say I couldn’t tell you his name.”
John couldn’t help himself he yawned hugely.
The monster tutted. “Why do you humans need so much sleep? It’s so boring”
“Have you tried it?” asked John with a grin. “Dreaming’s pretty cool, sometimes.”
“I… no,” replied the monster looking confused.
John looked at his monster with concern. “I bet it’s not very comfy, living under a bed.” The monster just shrugged. John shifted over a bit. “You could sleep here with me, if you like? Give dreaming a go.”
The monster looked like he was going to say no, John tried not to be sad about that, maybe monsters really couldn’t sleep. He wondered if the monster had eaten the sandwich, he looked like he didn’t eat enough. Then the monster climbed in next to John, John beamed at him. John arranged the duvet over the both of them and moved his legs to make space for the monsters longer ones and the stupid, big coat. Then he leaned over and turned off the light.
“Night, monster,” he said sleepily.
“He’d almost dropped off to sleep when he heard the monster reply. “My name’s Sherlock.”
“Night, Sherlock,” mumbled John in return, more than halfway asleep. “Harry said you smelled bad, I think you smell nice.”
“Harry smells bad,” scoffed Sherlock, not feeling sleepy himself but oddly enjoying the warmth and weight next to him. “Mycroft says humans are stupid and boring. But I think you’re interesting.”
But by then John was asleep.
**
Sherlock was amazing, he was clever and funny and John’s very best friend. But John soon realised that talking about Sherlock made other people nervous. So John kept Sherlock to himself, like a secret, it was exciting. But there were downsides to having Sherlock around too. Sherlock hated anything that John did outside. He declared that school was stupid (which John privately more than agreed with), that hockey and rugby were pointless (which John absolutely disagreed with), and Sherlock really couldn’t see the worth in girls at all (which 8 year old John agreed with, but the older he got the more his opinion on that changed). Things went missing, text books, homework, rugby boots, his hockey stick. Sherlock always denied taking them, but somehow they always turned up weeks later under the bed.
But still John wouldn’t give Sherlock up for the world. Most nights Sherlock ‘slept’ in his bed with him, as John got bigger it became more difficult but neither of them wanted to give it up. And John could tell Sherlock things, terrible things that he kept bottled up inside away from everyone else. About his Mum and her drinking, about how brave his Dad tried to look, and how sad he actually looked. About how sometimes he hated his Mum, sometimes he even hated his Dad too. Sherlock never judged, Sherlock barely seemed to listen half the time, but he never forgot anything either. It was easier to talk to someone who didn’t seem to care, who didn’t look at him with pity.
Sherlock told him things as well, things about the world under the bed. About Mycroft and ‘Mummy’, he got the impression that Sherlock was in some trouble with them for talking to John. But when asked, Sherlock would just shrug and say “they can’t stop me.”
One night when John was 13 and he couldn’t sleep, he lay in the dark listening to Sherlock breathing. “It’s the Rugby final tomorrow, I’ve got to travel to Birmingham, I’ll be away overnight.”
“I’ll steal your boots,” said Sherlock his voice flat. “Then you won’t be able to go.”
John smiled and shook his head. “I left my kit at Evan’s, you won’t be able to.”
Sherlock sighed, loudly and heavily in John’s ear. “Evan is an idiot.”
“You think everyone’s an idiot,” replied John.
“Practically everyone is,” snorted Sherlock. “I should steal you, hide you under the bed.”
John had never been scared of Sherlock, but that made his breath catch in his chest and his heart beat a little faster. “Why don’t you?” he asked.
Sherlock shrugged, John tended to associate that gesture with Mycroft.
“You should come with me,” said John lightly, as if it was nothing.
“Outside?” asked Sherlock with scorn in his voice. “They’d never let me back home. What would be the point?”
’You’d be with me’, thought John, but he couldn’t get the words to come out. It felt like too big a thing, like some terrible rule neither of them could ever break.
**
John kept on getting older, growing up. Things from ‘outside’ kept him away from Sherlock more often. John stopped thinking of it as ‘outside’ and started thinking of it as ‘real life’, which made Sherlock something unreal.
Tina Cooksey was the most beautiful person that the 15 year old John had ever seen. She played hockey, and she liked all the same music as John, and all the same films. She was sweet and he’d never seen her have a bad word to say about anybody. It was like a miracle the day she agreed to spend a few hours with him at the park after school. John spent more and more time with her and less and less time with Sherlock. She was the first thing he couldn’t tell Sherlock about, because Sherlock would spoil it, would tell John she was stupid. John didn’t want to feel bad about this, it was perfect. Sherlock stopped sleeping in John’s bed, John wasn’t sure which one of them suggested it, he told himself it was just practical, they were too big now. Slowly Sherlock stopped visiting every day, somehow the gaps between his visits got longer. John didn’t notice, because ‘real’ life was so busy. Tina, and school, and everything else.
One afternoon, when his parents were both at work, and his sister was at piano practice, John brought Tina home. They ended up on John’s bed, talking lead to kissing and John honestly could never remember being this happy before.
“Ow!” said Tina moving away from him and shifting on the bed.
“What?” asked John feeling a little dizzy from the kissing and the feel of Tina’s skin where his hand rested just under the hem of her shirt.
“I think I sat on something, it was sharp,” she said. She smiled at him and his heart suddenly started doing backflips in his chest. “State of this room I’m not surprised! Messy boy.”
John grinned back. “Yep,” he replied, they both leaned in for another kiss.
“Ow!” exclaimed Tina again, jumping a little this time. “It’s almost like something bit me…”
“Or pinched you,” said John darkly, suddenly realising what was happening.
Tina looked a little nervous at his expression. “What would pinch me?”
John forced himself to smile and he felt her relax. “Maybe the monster under the bed?”
Tina giggled because she thought he was joking. He made excuses about his sister coming home soon and she left. John ran back up the stairs into his room, slamming the door behind him.
“Sherlock! I know it’s you, come on out,” he shouted, feeling his hands clench into fists by his side.
Sherlock unfolded himself from under the bed in full ‘monster’ get up. Red eyes, and sharp teeth, wild black hair swirling round his head. Like this he towered over John.
“Are you trying to scare me?” asked John. “Or did you think Tina was still here?”
Something flared in the depths of those inhuman eyes. “No,” said Sherlock. His voice was different like this deeper, rough and broken, sharp like the rest of him.
“You pinched her!” said John, furious and feeling a little betrayed.
“‘Pinching people is mean’” mocked Sherlock.
“Why?” asked John through his teeth.
“You left me!” Sherlock shouted back, and it was terrible, it made the things on the bedside table rattle.
“I have a life, Sherlock,” John shouted back not at all intimidated. “I wish you’d just go away.”
And just like that Sherlock was gone. He disappeared without as much as a puff of smoke. John felt his anger drain away, it left him feeling empty.
**
Sherlock never came back. John and Tina broke up a few days later, and it was the worst thing that had ever happened to John for at least a week. But Sherlock never came back. John checked under the bed with a torch, he even left tuna sandwiches out for him but nothing.
Then there were exams and college. John grew up and left home became a doctor and joined the army. Sherlock never came back. He tried to talk to Harry about Sherlock one day when he was on leave, but she couldn’t even remember the monster under the bed at all. John missed him, but it faded into the background. He even started to think that maybe Sherlock hadn’t been real at all, just an imaginary friend who’d stuck around longer than was normal. Life went on, as life tends to do.
Until it didn’t anymore.
The bullet tore through his shoulder, and suddenly it was all over, John was useless in a way he’d never been before. He found himself back in England, with no idea what to do. He’d always known where he was going before, but now he felt lost. The nightmares came nearly every night, dreams of gunfire and blood. The very worst of his time in the army compressed into his dreams. Waking up was worse, at least in the nightmares he had a purpose, he knew what he was supposed to do there.
He woke with a cry and a start more nights than he didn’t, often he dissolved into tears, more often he stayed awake watching the shadows wishing that one of them would detach itself from the others and climb into bed with him. One night he pulled all the bedding onto the floor and slept facing the darkness under the bed. It was the best night’s sleep he’d had for weeks, even if his shoulder and leg complained bitterly in the morning.
**
John stared at the screen and the stupid cursor just kept blinking, it was almost accusing. He was supposed to be writing his blog, a bit difficult when nothing happened to him anymore. So he wrote that.
Nothing happens to me.
The cursor carried on blinking.
I miss the monster under my bed.
He stared at the second line and thought about leaving it there. No doubt his therapist would have a field day over it. He deleted it and just posted the first line.
He dragged himself outside most days, staying inside with his very illegal handgun was far too tempting in so many ways, none of them very nice. He stopped at a coffee shop and brought a coffee he couldn’t really afford and wandered for a bit. Running into Mike Stamford along the way.
“John Watson! I thought you were overseas getting shot at, what happened?” said Mike cheerfully.
“I got shot,” said John, shamefully enjoying the way Mike’s face fell and then feeling bad about it.
Somehow that conversation led to Mike dragging him to St Bart’s to meet a potential flatmate.
Walking into the lab and seeing him was like a punch in the gut. But the man just looked up, seemingly dismissed John and returned to his microscope. John leant heavily on his cane and hobbled towards the table. “A bit different to my day,” he managed to say for Mike’s benefit. John threw Mike a weak smile, there was no way the man could be Sherlock, he just looked a bit like him was all. He was asking to borrow Mike’s phone so John handed his over.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” asked the man. It took John a long moment to work out what he was asking. Then he was reeling of a long list of facts about John that he couldn’t possibly know, even if he was Sherlock. In fact the only thing he got wrong was calling Harry his brother instead of his sister. And Sherlock would know that. John had just convinced himself that it was nothing more than an odd likeness when the man told him his name.
“The address is 221 Baker Street and the name is, Sherlock Holmes.”
Then with a wink he was gone, leaving John stunned.
**
The next day when John met up with Sherlock at Baker St he decided to play along with Sherlock and pretend they didn’t know each other. After all it was possible that this was all some horrible trauma based hallucination. So he took Sherlock’s hand and called him Mr Holmes, went through all the social pleasantries that - if this was his Sherlock, would be grating on his very last nerve.
Mrs Hudson seemed like a lovely, if slightly dotty, old lady. When she said “There’s another bedroom, if you’ll be needing two?” John really couldn’t help himself, it was too good an opening to miss.
“Of course we’ll be needing two, unless Sherlock’s planning on living under my bed?” said John, smiling at Mrs Hudson and carefully not looking to Sherlock for a reaction.
“Oh, I should imagine your both a bit old for that now,” said Mrs Hudson with a wink. At John’s shocked look she said. “Oh don’t worry, dear, we get all sorts round here. Mrs Turner’s got a pair of married ones next door. Well I’ll leave you to talk, shall I?”
“She’s like me,” said Sherlock, his voice broken and rough like it had been when he was in ‘monster’ form.
John didn’t turn round, because he didn’t want to be wrong. “You told me if you went outside they wouldn’t let you home again.”
“They don’t. But it turns out I wasn’t the first to leave; there’s more of us Outside than you’d think. John, turn around,” said Sherlock.
John turned and Sherlock looked like something out of a nightmare, teeth, and claws, and burning eyes. John felt the relief well up in his chest, he felt the stupid grin on his face but he couldn’t do a thing to stop it. “That didn’t scare me when I was 8. It’s not going to work now.”
Sherlock snapped back to ‘human’ and smirked back. “I never even tried to scare you John Watson.”
“Yeah, whatever,” said John. He took a step forward, he wanted to reach out and touch, to make sure Sherlock was real, but he could quite bring himself to. “You went away, we had a row and you just left. Sometimes I even doubted you were real…”
Sherlock shrugged. “Humans are stupid, they tend to forget us after a while. Of course you didn’t. Stubborn.”
“Seeing as it’s you, I’ll take that as a compliment. Why did you go?” asked John.
“You sent me away,” said Sherlock, his voice was even but his eyes flashed red for a moment. “You wished me away, and you used my name…”
John’s mouth went suddenly dry. He’d said it, but he’d been 15 and upset, he hadn’t meant it. “I didn’t know…” he started.
“I worked that out,” said Sherlock. “I’m not some idiot human.”
“Where did you go?” asked John.
“Home,” replied Sherlock. “At first. Then I found another bedroom. But, god John, it was so boring. I reasoned that there had to be more humans like you Outside, so I went. Mummy was quite cross.”
John couldn’t work out why he felt so sad about that. “So you found some other friends, human ones?”
“John, everything Mycroft ever told me about humans was true. Dull, stupid, boring creatures every last one,” Sherlock said throwing his hands up like the human race was doing it to spite him. “Except you, you quite ruined me for the rest of humanity. But it turned out there were others like me about. Exiles and runaways. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade…”
“Who’s Lestrade?” asked John.
Sherlock grinned. “He’s a policeman! He says humans are better monsters then we ever were.”
“You were a terrible monster,” agreed John, his grin now threatening to spilt his face open.
Sherlock leant down to whisper in John’s ear. “You are staying, aren’t you John. Down here with the monsters?”
“Oh god, yes.”