Fic: Bounce Back Up
Title: Bounce Back Up
Fandom: Sherlock
Author: the_improbable1
Prompt: The original prompt can be found here on sherlockbbc-fic, as well as my original posting of it.
Pairing: Not really any. Can be seen as Sherlock/John preslash if you like.
Summary: Before John's unit shipped out for Afghanistan, John saved Sherlock from himself. Years later, Sherlock returns the favour.
Additional notes: This assumes a timeskip of about a week between their meeting at Bart's and the actual case of ASIP, as it is in Study in Scarlet. Potassium nitrate and sugar make rocket fuel.
From the moment he borrowed John Watson's phone that day in the laboratory at Bart's, there was a niggling sensation of déja-vu in the back of Sherlock's head about him. He puzzled over it for a week, the longest he'd ever spent on any sort of problem other than, possibly, a particularly interesting crime scene.
Then, late one night as he was experimenting with different ratios of potassium nitrate to sugar, it hit him.
It had been almost ten years ago, now, but Sherlock could still recall nearly every detail. He'd had no job and no home at the time and had pretty much hit rock bottom, doing nearly anything for the next dose of the cocaine which had eclipsed his world. He had been sitting curled up against an alley wall, wallowing in despair, when a voice had broken through.
"Hey-are you okay?"
Sherlock had snapped viciously at the then-stranger to fuck off, he was perfectly fine, not even bothering to glance at the man's face.
The man had returned the following day and left a sandwich wrapped in paper. Sherlock had devoured half of it (after ascertaining that it was not poisonous) and saved the other half for later-food had been a bit of a scarcity for him.
The day after that, the man had come back with two paper cups of tea, handed one to Sherlock, and had sat there and talked at him for perhaps half an hour about utterly plebeian things. Sherlock had paid attention to none of it.
The next time the man had shown up, Sherlock had demanded to know why he was doing this. The man had replied: "Because I'm a person, you're a person, you need help, and I can help you, if only a little." Sherlock had snarled that he didn't need any help and that this stranger could take his high-and-mighty ideals and shove them, then he'd stalked off.
When he'd returned the following day, cautious as an alley cat, the man had been leaning on the wall, doing the crossword in that day's newspaper. Sherlock had corrected the mistakes, then fallen to sulking for the remainder of the day.
A week later, the man had bid Sherlock farewell, saying that his unit was being shipped out to Afghanistan-the man had been a soldier.
The week after that, Sherlock finally acquiesced to Mycroft's suggestions, checked himself into rehab, got clean, got a (boring) job, and got a flat. Soon after that, he'd established himself as a reliable consulting detective to Scotland Yard. He had never seen the mysterious, friendly soldier again-or so he'd thought.
It was John, he realised.
But…something had changed in John in the years between their last meeting and the current time. He was still just as friendly and personable, but there was a shadow hanging over him, obvious in his psychosomatic limp, his nightmares, and the shaking in his hands.
This was an utterly intolerable state of affairs, Sherlock decided. He did not precisely believe in gratitude, especially not from his side, but he did believe in paying his debts. John Watson had pulled him up when Sherlock was at his lowest; it was only fair that Sherlock return the favour.
With this in mind, the next time Lestrade invited him to a crime scene, Sherlock extended the invitation to his flatmate as well, figuring that a good dose of excitement could cheer anyone up. He was immensely gratified by John's fervent, "Oh god, yes," and the light that came into the doctor's eyes.
After their frantic chase after the cabbie across London's rooftops, Sherlock saw the sparkle in John's eyes, heard him laugh, and knew that his debt had been at least partially paid. He'd helped his flatmate (colleague? Best friend?) to bounce back up from his darkest days, just as John had helped Sherlock all those years before. Fair enough trade, Sherlock thought.
Fandom: Sherlock
Author: the_improbable1
Prompt: The original prompt can be found here on sherlockbbc-fic, as well as my original posting of it.
Pairing: Not really any. Can be seen as Sherlock/John preslash if you like.
Summary: Before John's unit shipped out for Afghanistan, John saved Sherlock from himself. Years later, Sherlock returns the favour.
Additional notes: This assumes a timeskip of about a week between their meeting at Bart's and the actual case of ASIP, as it is in Study in Scarlet. Potassium nitrate and sugar make rocket fuel.
From the moment he borrowed John Watson's phone that day in the laboratory at Bart's, there was a niggling sensation of déja-vu in the back of Sherlock's head about him. He puzzled over it for a week, the longest he'd ever spent on any sort of problem other than, possibly, a particularly interesting crime scene.
Then, late one night as he was experimenting with different ratios of potassium nitrate to sugar, it hit him.
It had been almost ten years ago, now, but Sherlock could still recall nearly every detail. He'd had no job and no home at the time and had pretty much hit rock bottom, doing nearly anything for the next dose of the cocaine which had eclipsed his world. He had been sitting curled up against an alley wall, wallowing in despair, when a voice had broken through.
"Hey-are you okay?"
Sherlock had snapped viciously at the then-stranger to fuck off, he was perfectly fine, not even bothering to glance at the man's face.
The man had returned the following day and left a sandwich wrapped in paper. Sherlock had devoured half of it (after ascertaining that it was not poisonous) and saved the other half for later-food had been a bit of a scarcity for him.
The day after that, the man had come back with two paper cups of tea, handed one to Sherlock, and had sat there and talked at him for perhaps half an hour about utterly plebeian things. Sherlock had paid attention to none of it.
The next time the man had shown up, Sherlock had demanded to know why he was doing this. The man had replied: "Because I'm a person, you're a person, you need help, and I can help you, if only a little." Sherlock had snarled that he didn't need any help and that this stranger could take his high-and-mighty ideals and shove them, then he'd stalked off.
When he'd returned the following day, cautious as an alley cat, the man had been leaning on the wall, doing the crossword in that day's newspaper. Sherlock had corrected the mistakes, then fallen to sulking for the remainder of the day.
A week later, the man had bid Sherlock farewell, saying that his unit was being shipped out to Afghanistan-the man had been a soldier.
The week after that, Sherlock finally acquiesced to Mycroft's suggestions, checked himself into rehab, got clean, got a (boring) job, and got a flat. Soon after that, he'd established himself as a reliable consulting detective to Scotland Yard. He had never seen the mysterious, friendly soldier again-or so he'd thought.
It was John, he realised.
But…something had changed in John in the years between their last meeting and the current time. He was still just as friendly and personable, but there was a shadow hanging over him, obvious in his psychosomatic limp, his nightmares, and the shaking in his hands.
This was an utterly intolerable state of affairs, Sherlock decided. He did not precisely believe in gratitude, especially not from his side, but he did believe in paying his debts. John Watson had pulled him up when Sherlock was at his lowest; it was only fair that Sherlock return the favour.
With this in mind, the next time Lestrade invited him to a crime scene, Sherlock extended the invitation to his flatmate as well, figuring that a good dose of excitement could cheer anyone up. He was immensely gratified by John's fervent, "Oh god, yes," and the light that came into the doctor's eyes.
After their frantic chase after the cabbie across London's rooftops, Sherlock saw the sparkle in John's eyes, heard him laugh, and knew that his debt had been at least partially paid. He'd helped his flatmate (colleague? Best friend?) to bounce back up from his darkest days, just as John had helped Sherlock all those years before. Fair enough trade, Sherlock thought.