Adjustment (1/?)
Title: Adjustment
Authors: skadi_zlata, tenderly_wicked
Rating: R
Category: case!fic, hurt/comfort, slash.
Warnings: abuse, description of injuries, lots of angst.
Word count: c. 2 130
Disclaimer: No profits, no rights. But it's all fine.
Summary: Written for this prompt. They were never a couple. But John somehow got used to thinking that he’d be living with Sherlock for a long, long time… Then this guy, Richard Brook, showed up - and everything went wrong.
Betas: the absolutely wonderful mygoldenbuttons and selana1505.
“I envy you, John,” Sherlock said gazing unseeingly through the café window, watching people passing by but obviously not noticing them. He looked sad. “It’s so simple for you, all these… relationships,” he waved his hand vaguely. “Getting along with people.”
John wouldn’t say that a series of affairs, with inevitable break-ups in the end, could be regarded as rewarding experience. Yet he was pleased that Sherlock decided to ask him for advice. Or more precisely, he was glad just to see Sherlock again. They hadn’t been seeing much of each other recently, after Rich Brook had moved into 221B Baker Street - and John had moved out.
“I wanted to give it a try,” Sherlock said, almost in despair. “Relationships. That’s what everyone wants, don’t they? Something lasting. Something stable. With someone who’s mad about you… But it’s like a damn riddle to me, I can’t figure out how it should work… I make him angry, constantly.” Sherlock paused, drumming his fingers against the table. He never liked riddles. Then he added, with a bitter grin, “I know I’m not the easiest person to live with. But I never felt… like a failure. Like I’m hopeless.”
“It’s just lack of practice,” John said soothingly. “Let’s be realistic about it. You never were in a relationship before. No wonder you have some difficulties adjusting yourself to another person. It’s normal. If Rich is really mad about you, it will be alright. You just need to work out some compromise. Learn to be more compliant, not so unyielding…”
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, “I’m just being myself.”
“Well, that’s the problem. This relationship thing, it’s complicated. It’s about small sacrifices. About being flexible. Sometimes you do something you don’t like, for the one you care about. You control your temper. Avoid conflicts. Otherwise, it doesn’t work.”
“I somehow managed to live with you all this time,” Sherlock burst out - and then frowned, correcting himself, “No… it’s different…”
It was different, John thought bitterly. Sherlock never tried to adjust himself to John. Now, he was asking questions about compatibility issues. It seemed that Rich Brook had changed him. Well, the guy was nice, John had to admit it. Very amiable, with an ingratiating voice. Refined, but not without a sense of humor. He was working on TV, making programs for kids. The kind of person children would certainly love. John didn’t like him, but that was a personal matter. It was a sort of jealousy, he finally realized with a pang of shame. John never fancied Sherlock - well, not after that night when Sherlock had given him the brush-off, very politely. They were not a couple. But John somehow got used to thinking that they’d be living side by side for a long, long time, solving crimes together, laughing, arguing, watching telly in the evenings. Sharing not only a flat but a life, if not a bed. He never thought Sherlock would want something else. John had dates from time to time - but he always returned to his crazy flatmate, to his best friend. Sherlock was always there for him. Until one day Rich Brook walked into their lives.
John didn’t ask how it all started. It was none of his business. Sherlock vanished for a few days once. (It was nothing out of ordinary, he texted John saying he shouldn’t be worried - not that it completely dispersed John’s anxiety, but what was to be done?) And then he reappeared together with Rich. Rich moved in very soon and, despite his charms, made John feel very, very uncomfortable. The sounds coming from Sherlock’s bedroom every night were maddening, and seeing Rich’s smug face in the mornings was even worse. John decided that it would be better to leave.
After that, Sherlock had very little time for him. At first, John was texting and calling him almost every day. But often it was Rich who texted him back or picked up the phone. Sherlock’s busy, he said. You know what he’s like. Sitting at his microscope again.
So John quit calling.
He wanted his friend to be happy, even if he wasn’t part of Sherlock’s life anymore. That’s why he was now instructing Sherlock how he should behave with Rich.
“You’ll cope, I’m sure,” he said. “It’s alright to have arguments, there’s no such thing as perfect relationships. It’s kind of unrealistic to think you’re never going to row. Just try to make it up to him when you do. Think what you’ve maybe done wrong. Say sorry. It’s simple. And you’ll be fine.” He leaned forward and reassuringly patted Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock suddenly winced at the touch, and it wasn’t just a scornful grimace.
“A bruise,” he responded briefly to John’s worried look.
“An experiment gone wrong again?”
“Sort of. My fault. Never mind.”
John sighed. Apparently, Rich’s influence was not enough to stop brilliant Sherlock from doing foolish things every once in a while.
***
Living without Sherlock turned out to be bearable. More or less. John could handle it. He had a job, and mundane things to do. Lots of distractions. It was as if a dazzling light John had gotten used to had been suddenly switched off, leaving him in the grey ordinary world. But some people lived in it their whole life, without craving for brighter radiance. John, too, could learn to exist in the dull twilight again. He just needed time.
He’d become attracted to Sherlock so much that not seeing him hurt almost physically at first, but it was probably for the best that they didn’t meet often, John told himself. He didn’t want Sherlock to notice… damn… he couldn’t quite formulate what Sherlock was supposed to notice. Regrets maybe. The more John thought about the time he’d spent with Sherlock, the more he understood - it was true that Sherlock never tried to adjust himself to John, but he never really needed to. It didn’t seem to matter. Sherlock had brought so much light into John’s life that all the little irritating things he’d brought too somehow dissolved in the constant warm glow. And this glow… it was something more than simple physical attraction, the one John felt for Sherlock when they first met.
His single awkward attempt to make an advance on Sherlock was an impulse. John wasn’t looking for more than a shag back then. Maybe not a one-night stand, but nothing serious. Sherlock pretty much rejected him flat out, though he said he was flattered. And afterwards, John thought it would only have made things complicated if Sherlock had responded otherwise.
Perhaps he should have taken a risk and asked Sherlock again, some time later, when they knew each other much better. But what was the use of self-reproaches now?
They were so much alike, Sherlock and Rich. They looked good together. A couple. John couldn’t stop imagining their life together…
By some unhappy coincidence, the only time he decided he should get indecently drunk and stop thinking about it all he met Lestrade in a pub. Inevitably, they ended up talking about Sherlock. He took no police cases now, Greg said, busy enough with private investigations.
“Never thought I’d be missing the guy,” he chuckled. “By the way, I came across your blog recently. No updates?”
“Not much to say.”
“Who is writing up Sherlock’s cases, then?”
John had no idea. Rich had his own promising career, it was rather unlikely that he would dedicate himself to describing Sherlock’s adventures, and Sherlock didn’t bother to tell John about any of them. In fact, he didn’t bother to call or show up at all.
It was a surprise for John, therefore, to see Sherlock standing on the threshold of his flat one evening. It struck him that Sherlock looked even paler and thinner than usual. Exhausted, almost ill.
“You live in a slum,” Sherlock declared. “I’ll come in if you don’t mind.”
John belatedly stepped aside and let him in. “Yeah, not a prime spot. Sorry.”
There was something strange with the way Sherlock walked. His gait was unnaturally stiff, and he held his right arm close to his body as though he was trying not to move it much.
“Sherlock…”
“You’re alone. Weren’t you supposed to live happily ever after with that boring teacher… what was her name?”
“Jeanette. Doesn’t matter. Sherlock, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
Sherlock gingerly shook the coat off his shoulders, threw it on the only chair in the room and slowly eased himself onto the sofa. “Yes. Can I stay here for a while?”
“Sure… But Sherlock… shouldn’t we get you to hospital?”
Sherlock looked up at him. “Don’t bother. No serious damage. Just bruises, scratches, nothing life threatening…”
“Can I take a look at least?”
Sherlock didn’t answer right away, then started unbuttoning his shirt left-handed.
“And maybe we should call Richard,” John suggested. Rich was most likely going mad with anxiety while Sherlock was chasing criminals and getting himself into scuffles.
Sherlock scowled. “No. Don’t. He’ll be angry with me.”
“Of course he will,” John grumbled. “There’s nothing unusual in that. That’s the way you make everyone feel.”
It’s always infuriating when someone you love gets hurt due to his incorrigible carelessness.
“Could you please shut up,” Sherlock snapped, but without much fervour. “I know I’m to blame. I know I’ve provoked it. No need to remind me.”
He finally peeled his shirt off, and John saw what he’d called “bruises and scratches”.
It had been a cane, most likely. Judging from the angle of the welts, Sherlock must have been knocked down to the ground, or forced to his knees - and someone had been lashing his shoulders with brutal determination. Sherlock tried to guard his head with his right hand, but there were no other signs of resistance. Perhaps Sherlock couldn’t fight several armed assailants. On the whole, it looked like a punishment beating, not an attempt to kill. In the end, the cane had splintered into sharp thongs from the force of impact - there were two long cuts across Sherlock’s right forearm and palm, with crusts of dried blood.
John was very careful checking Sherlock’s collarbones, shoulder-blades, ribs on both sides. Nothing life threatening, that was true. Still he was in a pretty bad way.
“Hurts much?”
Sherlock made an attempt to shrug his shoulders - and failed, with a painful wince. “A little. Mostly, I’m just tired. Couldn’t you find a flat closer to a tube station?”
“You went on a tube like that?!”
“I couldn’t hail a cab. Went out without my wallet. No cash, just a few coins in my pockets.”
He came to you, a voice whispered in John’s mind. To you, not to his Richard.
“Right…” John said aloud, ignoring it. “What do we need… Sterile gauze, antiseptic… A cold compress for your bruises…”
When John had finished with the cuts, he couldn’t resist an urge to take Sherlock’s hand in both of his, rubbing gently at his fingers.
“You should be more cautious with your hands. How will you be playing your violin if you damage them?”
Sherlock snorted, “Rich says Bach would be appalled if he heard me playing.”
“I liked the way you played.”
“Then you are probably tone-deaf, unlike Rich and Bach.”
“Lucky me.”
Sherlock smiled, holding his gaze. “Lucky you.”
What would happen if I leaned in and kissed him, right now, John suddenly thought.
He let go of Sherlock’s hand. “I think we should call Rich,” he said, after an awkward pause. “That’s not right. To ignore him, I mean. He’ll be looking for you.”
“He will,” Sherlock agreed and closed his eyes wearily. “Alright. If you insist. Call him.”
Richard was indeed anxious, as John had expected. He bombarded John with questions - had Sherlock told him what had happened, who’d assaulted him? - and said he would come to take Sherlock home.
Sherlock nodded dispassionately at the news. He looked worn out and listless.
Rich arrived very soon. He was concerned, maybe a bit offended that it wasn’t Sherlock who’d called him, but still very gentle and affectionate.
“You should never hide from me,” John heard him whispering softly to Sherlock. “You know I’ll always find you, so what’s the use of this secrecy. Now, the taxi’s waiting. Let’s not impose on John’s hospitality anymore.”
Part 2
Authors: skadi_zlata, tenderly_wicked
Rating: R
Category: case!fic, hurt/comfort, slash.
Warnings: abuse, description of injuries, lots of angst.
Word count: c. 2 130
Disclaimer: No profits, no rights. But it's all fine.
Summary: Written for this prompt. They were never a couple. But John somehow got used to thinking that he’d be living with Sherlock for a long, long time… Then this guy, Richard Brook, showed up - and everything went wrong.
Betas: the absolutely wonderful mygoldenbuttons and selana1505.
“I envy you, John,” Sherlock said gazing unseeingly through the café window, watching people passing by but obviously not noticing them. He looked sad. “It’s so simple for you, all these… relationships,” he waved his hand vaguely. “Getting along with people.”
John wouldn’t say that a series of affairs, with inevitable break-ups in the end, could be regarded as rewarding experience. Yet he was pleased that Sherlock decided to ask him for advice. Or more precisely, he was glad just to see Sherlock again. They hadn’t been seeing much of each other recently, after Rich Brook had moved into 221B Baker Street - and John had moved out.
“I wanted to give it a try,” Sherlock said, almost in despair. “Relationships. That’s what everyone wants, don’t they? Something lasting. Something stable. With someone who’s mad about you… But it’s like a damn riddle to me, I can’t figure out how it should work… I make him angry, constantly.” Sherlock paused, drumming his fingers against the table. He never liked riddles. Then he added, with a bitter grin, “I know I’m not the easiest person to live with. But I never felt… like a failure. Like I’m hopeless.”
“It’s just lack of practice,” John said soothingly. “Let’s be realistic about it. You never were in a relationship before. No wonder you have some difficulties adjusting yourself to another person. It’s normal. If Rich is really mad about you, it will be alright. You just need to work out some compromise. Learn to be more compliant, not so unyielding…”
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, “I’m just being myself.”
“Well, that’s the problem. This relationship thing, it’s complicated. It’s about small sacrifices. About being flexible. Sometimes you do something you don’t like, for the one you care about. You control your temper. Avoid conflicts. Otherwise, it doesn’t work.”
“I somehow managed to live with you all this time,” Sherlock burst out - and then frowned, correcting himself, “No… it’s different…”
It was different, John thought bitterly. Sherlock never tried to adjust himself to John. Now, he was asking questions about compatibility issues. It seemed that Rich Brook had changed him. Well, the guy was nice, John had to admit it. Very amiable, with an ingratiating voice. Refined, but not without a sense of humor. He was working on TV, making programs for kids. The kind of person children would certainly love. John didn’t like him, but that was a personal matter. It was a sort of jealousy, he finally realized with a pang of shame. John never fancied Sherlock - well, not after that night when Sherlock had given him the brush-off, very politely. They were not a couple. But John somehow got used to thinking that they’d be living side by side for a long, long time, solving crimes together, laughing, arguing, watching telly in the evenings. Sharing not only a flat but a life, if not a bed. He never thought Sherlock would want something else. John had dates from time to time - but he always returned to his crazy flatmate, to his best friend. Sherlock was always there for him. Until one day Rich Brook walked into their lives.
John didn’t ask how it all started. It was none of his business. Sherlock vanished for a few days once. (It was nothing out of ordinary, he texted John saying he shouldn’t be worried - not that it completely dispersed John’s anxiety, but what was to be done?) And then he reappeared together with Rich. Rich moved in very soon and, despite his charms, made John feel very, very uncomfortable. The sounds coming from Sherlock’s bedroom every night were maddening, and seeing Rich’s smug face in the mornings was even worse. John decided that it would be better to leave.
After that, Sherlock had very little time for him. At first, John was texting and calling him almost every day. But often it was Rich who texted him back or picked up the phone. Sherlock’s busy, he said. You know what he’s like. Sitting at his microscope again.
So John quit calling.
He wanted his friend to be happy, even if he wasn’t part of Sherlock’s life anymore. That’s why he was now instructing Sherlock how he should behave with Rich.
“You’ll cope, I’m sure,” he said. “It’s alright to have arguments, there’s no such thing as perfect relationships. It’s kind of unrealistic to think you’re never going to row. Just try to make it up to him when you do. Think what you’ve maybe done wrong. Say sorry. It’s simple. And you’ll be fine.” He leaned forward and reassuringly patted Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock suddenly winced at the touch, and it wasn’t just a scornful grimace.
“A bruise,” he responded briefly to John’s worried look.
“An experiment gone wrong again?”
“Sort of. My fault. Never mind.”
John sighed. Apparently, Rich’s influence was not enough to stop brilliant Sherlock from doing foolish things every once in a while.
***
Living without Sherlock turned out to be bearable. More or less. John could handle it. He had a job, and mundane things to do. Lots of distractions. It was as if a dazzling light John had gotten used to had been suddenly switched off, leaving him in the grey ordinary world. But some people lived in it their whole life, without craving for brighter radiance. John, too, could learn to exist in the dull twilight again. He just needed time.
He’d become attracted to Sherlock so much that not seeing him hurt almost physically at first, but it was probably for the best that they didn’t meet often, John told himself. He didn’t want Sherlock to notice… damn… he couldn’t quite formulate what Sherlock was supposed to notice. Regrets maybe. The more John thought about the time he’d spent with Sherlock, the more he understood - it was true that Sherlock never tried to adjust himself to John, but he never really needed to. It didn’t seem to matter. Sherlock had brought so much light into John’s life that all the little irritating things he’d brought too somehow dissolved in the constant warm glow. And this glow… it was something more than simple physical attraction, the one John felt for Sherlock when they first met.
His single awkward attempt to make an advance on Sherlock was an impulse. John wasn’t looking for more than a shag back then. Maybe not a one-night stand, but nothing serious. Sherlock pretty much rejected him flat out, though he said he was flattered. And afterwards, John thought it would only have made things complicated if Sherlock had responded otherwise.
Perhaps he should have taken a risk and asked Sherlock again, some time later, when they knew each other much better. But what was the use of self-reproaches now?
They were so much alike, Sherlock and Rich. They looked good together. A couple. John couldn’t stop imagining their life together…
By some unhappy coincidence, the only time he decided he should get indecently drunk and stop thinking about it all he met Lestrade in a pub. Inevitably, they ended up talking about Sherlock. He took no police cases now, Greg said, busy enough with private investigations.
“Never thought I’d be missing the guy,” he chuckled. “By the way, I came across your blog recently. No updates?”
“Not much to say.”
“Who is writing up Sherlock’s cases, then?”
John had no idea. Rich had his own promising career, it was rather unlikely that he would dedicate himself to describing Sherlock’s adventures, and Sherlock didn’t bother to tell John about any of them. In fact, he didn’t bother to call or show up at all.
It was a surprise for John, therefore, to see Sherlock standing on the threshold of his flat one evening. It struck him that Sherlock looked even paler and thinner than usual. Exhausted, almost ill.
“You live in a slum,” Sherlock declared. “I’ll come in if you don’t mind.”
John belatedly stepped aside and let him in. “Yeah, not a prime spot. Sorry.”
There was something strange with the way Sherlock walked. His gait was unnaturally stiff, and he held his right arm close to his body as though he was trying not to move it much.
“Sherlock…”
“You’re alone. Weren’t you supposed to live happily ever after with that boring teacher… what was her name?”
“Jeanette. Doesn’t matter. Sherlock, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
Sherlock gingerly shook the coat off his shoulders, threw it on the only chair in the room and slowly eased himself onto the sofa. “Yes. Can I stay here for a while?”
“Sure… But Sherlock… shouldn’t we get you to hospital?”
Sherlock looked up at him. “Don’t bother. No serious damage. Just bruises, scratches, nothing life threatening…”
“Can I take a look at least?”
Sherlock didn’t answer right away, then started unbuttoning his shirt left-handed.
“And maybe we should call Richard,” John suggested. Rich was most likely going mad with anxiety while Sherlock was chasing criminals and getting himself into scuffles.
Sherlock scowled. “No. Don’t. He’ll be angry with me.”
“Of course he will,” John grumbled. “There’s nothing unusual in that. That’s the way you make everyone feel.”
It’s always infuriating when someone you love gets hurt due to his incorrigible carelessness.
“Could you please shut up,” Sherlock snapped, but without much fervour. “I know I’m to blame. I know I’ve provoked it. No need to remind me.”
He finally peeled his shirt off, and John saw what he’d called “bruises and scratches”.
It had been a cane, most likely. Judging from the angle of the welts, Sherlock must have been knocked down to the ground, or forced to his knees - and someone had been lashing his shoulders with brutal determination. Sherlock tried to guard his head with his right hand, but there were no other signs of resistance. Perhaps Sherlock couldn’t fight several armed assailants. On the whole, it looked like a punishment beating, not an attempt to kill. In the end, the cane had splintered into sharp thongs from the force of impact - there were two long cuts across Sherlock’s right forearm and palm, with crusts of dried blood.
John was very careful checking Sherlock’s collarbones, shoulder-blades, ribs on both sides. Nothing life threatening, that was true. Still he was in a pretty bad way.
“Hurts much?”
Sherlock made an attempt to shrug his shoulders - and failed, with a painful wince. “A little. Mostly, I’m just tired. Couldn’t you find a flat closer to a tube station?”
“You went on a tube like that?!”
“I couldn’t hail a cab. Went out without my wallet. No cash, just a few coins in my pockets.”
He came to you, a voice whispered in John’s mind. To you, not to his Richard.
“Right…” John said aloud, ignoring it. “What do we need… Sterile gauze, antiseptic… A cold compress for your bruises…”
When John had finished with the cuts, he couldn’t resist an urge to take Sherlock’s hand in both of his, rubbing gently at his fingers.
“You should be more cautious with your hands. How will you be playing your violin if you damage them?”
Sherlock snorted, “Rich says Bach would be appalled if he heard me playing.”
“I liked the way you played.”
“Then you are probably tone-deaf, unlike Rich and Bach.”
“Lucky me.”
Sherlock smiled, holding his gaze. “Lucky you.”
What would happen if I leaned in and kissed him, right now, John suddenly thought.
He let go of Sherlock’s hand. “I think we should call Rich,” he said, after an awkward pause. “That’s not right. To ignore him, I mean. He’ll be looking for you.”
“He will,” Sherlock agreed and closed his eyes wearily. “Alright. If you insist. Call him.”
Richard was indeed anxious, as John had expected. He bombarded John with questions - had Sherlock told him what had happened, who’d assaulted him? - and said he would come to take Sherlock home.
Sherlock nodded dispassionately at the news. He looked worn out and listless.
Rich arrived very soon. He was concerned, maybe a bit offended that it wasn’t Sherlock who’d called him, but still very gentle and affectionate.
“You should never hide from me,” John heard him whispering softly to Sherlock. “You know I’ll always find you, so what’s the use of this secrecy. Now, the taxi’s waiting. Let’s not impose on John’s hospitality anymore.”
Part 2