Fic: 4 Sherlock ficlets
Various Ficlets, written for the thegameison_sh challenges, even if not all of them got posted!
Author: Trekkinthestars/Jesse_Kips
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairings: John/Sherlock, in various forms of established.
Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Sherlock, unfortunately :’(
Notes: They are pretty much all unbeta'd!
Title: Blood Drops
Rating: PG - 13, if that.
Warnings: Injured Sherlock. Angst?
Summary: John is used to washing blood off his hands.
John is well versed at cleaning blood from his hands. He knows how to scrub under his nails, at the webbing between his fingers until it is replaced with his own skin’s pink flush.
He didn’t always get the chance for gloves, in Afghanistan; not in between the frantic shouts for help, for a medic, in between the shooting and the running, his heart pounding and his lungs burning. Sometimes he had to go bare-handed, because there just wasn’t time for him to find the gloves in his pack, or he’d used his last pair hours ago. He would lean over the soldiers, the sun burning his neck, and press his hands against their skin and let their blood stain his hands as he tried to put them back together.
But this is different. This isn’t a warzone, and this blood belongs to Sherlock. This blood should be running through Sherlock’s veins, powering that mad, frantic mind of his, filling his limbs and his heart and his brain. It shouldn’t be soaked into Sherlock’s scarf, into the now stiff knees of John’s jeans, into what feels like the very whorls of his fingerprints. It seems to be clinging to his skin, unwilling to relinquish its hold and let him forget pressing down on Sherlock’s wound, the feel of Sherlock’s long fingers tight around his wrist.
The handsoap in the toilets smells overwhelmingly like flowers and is so watered down he might as well not even bother using it. John empties the sink, watches the pink water swirl down the drain, and then refills it again, until it’s brimming with fresh, clean water. He’s tempted to dip his whole head in there, and see if it will wash away the image of Sherlock’s face as the knife went in, right between sixth and seventh rib, the way the blood frothed because of his punctured lung, his eyes, wide with pain.
He doubts it.
“He’ll be fine, John,” Lestrade had said, one hand on John’s shoulder, as they moved Sherlock into the ambulance. He was very pale, and unmoving, and so unlike his usual self that John felt unsteady for a moment looking at him, as though he’d suddenly become un-tethered.
John had nodded, because that’s what you do when someone tries to comfort you, but inside he had thought you’re not a doctor, Lestrade, I am, and sometimes people aren’t fine, that knife is in deep and he’s lost a lot of blood, perhaps too much, and bodies can fail no matter how strong the mind.
His leg hurts. His hand is shaking. He watches as one drop of blood hang from the edge of his finger for a long moment, then drops into the clean water below. It is followed by another, and another, until he moves his hand away, clenches his hand around the sink. He watches the droplets disperse and eventually disappear, broken down completely by the water around it, and thinks I know just how you feel.
When he gets back to Sherlock’s room, Mycroft has gone, but only just; John can smell the man’s expensive cologne still lingering in the air. He moves to look at the chart at the end of the bed, and nothing has changed. Surgery went well, prognosis good. Sherlock should be awake sometime today, and fully healed within a month or two. He imagines the way in which Sherlock will complain and whine about being forced to rest. He imagines making twenty cups of teas for Sherlock every day, and finding them half drunk all over the flat. He imagines Sherlock halfway healed, chomping at the bit to get out there again.
He can’t wait.
Sherlock’s hands are lying above the covers, and there’s a streak of dark red along his right thumb, obviously missed when the nurses were cleaning him off. John runs one finger along it, watches as it flakes off onto the sheet below, and then places his hand over Sherlock’s. It’s cool, but not cold, and something in his stomach unclenches.
He imagines his worries and his fears are like the blood which dripped from his hand into the water, being washed away by the sounds of machines which tell him Sherlock will be fine, by the healthy flush to his skin, dispersed away into nothing by the knowledge that he hasn’t lost Sherlock; they still have time together.
He breathes in deeply, looks at the way their now clean hands press together, and starts to believe everything will be fine.
Title: End of the Line
Rating: PG - 13, if that.
Warnings: Character death, sort of.
Summary: Sherlock knew John shouldn't be here.
John was smiling at him, part knowing, part sad, and it didn’t make sense. John shouldn’t be here, Sherlock knew that, because he was... at the surgery? Out on a housecall? In London for the day? No, no, none of those sounded right, none of those explained how he knew that John shouldn’t be standing in the garden, next to the hives, smiling and welcoming and wrong.
Sherlock thought back, back to the house he’d just left, to try and find out what was off about this, about the look on John’s face. One side of the bed, untouched and neat. That bedside table, empty of everything but a clock. The sink, with just a single plate and mug housed inside. All signs of a house inhabited by one person, not two, signs he constantly tried to forget.
Sherlock looked closer at John, and realised that he was looking at the John he’d known decades ago. This John stood tall, and proud, hair more blond than grey, the only wrinkles on his face the ones spanning out from the corners of his eyes. He looked like the John who had first moved into Baker Street, not the man who had moved out to Sussex with Sherlock, who had run a small practice and shared Sherlock’s bed.
The John who had died almost two years ago, taking Sherlock’s heart with him when he left.
“You aren’t here, are you?” Sherlock asked, and John smiled, that quirk of his lips which meant Sherlock was close, but not quite there.
“Neither are you, really,” he said quietly, and took a step forward. The scenery flashed behind him, bleached of colour for a moment, a beeping noise filling Sherlock’s ears. He hadn’t heard anything so clearly since his hearing had started to fail, almost five years ago now.
“What was that?” Sherlock asked, eyes flitting over the field, searching out any strangeness between the beehives.
John stepped closer, then closer, until he was close enough to touch, until the flickering colours and beeping in Sherlock’s ears was constant. “You’re dying,” he said, quiet. “That sound is your heartbeat, and it’s about to stop.”
Sherlock focused on the noise, sharp and constant, and found he could remember. He’d been walking in his gardens, about to check on the hives, perhaps gather some honey, when there’d been a pain in his chest, which stole away his breath and made him fall to the floor. He remembered crawling back to the house, calling for John, for John to help him, please, and then nothing.
John reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand, and when Sherlock looked down it was to see his hands as they’d been fifty years ago - pale and smooth and powerful, free from liver-spots and arthritis. He entwined his fingers with John’s, and when he looked up he was breathing with more ease than he had in years, could see so much clearer than since he was forced to wear glasses. He could see John’s smile, the one which meant he was proud and happy, all those emotions contained in the twist at the corner of his mouth. The mouth he hadn’t kissed in far too long.
He squeezed John’s hand, and they stood there as the beeping sped up and then stopped, sudden and final. The ground around them rumbled, the colours flashed and sparked, and then everything settled.
“Are you real?” he asked, because if he was having a near-death hallucination, of course it would be about John.
John rolled his eyes. “As real as you are, you great git,” he replied. “And I’ve been waiting here for you too long to have to convince you I exist.”
Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, familiar and beloved, and so long gone, considering. John had never lied to him before, so there was no way a John created in his mind would be the John who did, which meant this must be real. “What now?” Sherlock asked, eyes locked onto John’s warm ones.
John shrugged. “Anything we want, I reckon,” he replied, and then used his grip on Sherlock’s hand to pull Sherlock close. His next words were spoken across Sherlock’s lips, warm and intimate. “Although, if you don’t kiss me soon, I don’t think I’ll be held responsible for my actions.”
Sherlock smiled, huge and happy, and pressed their lips together, the sound of bees in his ears and the knowledge of forever stretched out in front of them.
Title: 3 Gifts Which Made Sherlock Feel Loved, and 1 Which Didn't
Rating: PG - 13, if that.
Warnings: Injured John. Angst?
Summary: Affection can be shown in many different ways.
1.
His mother is not an affectionate women. It’s not that she doesn’t love him, not that, but that she doesn’t know how to show it. Where his father drew Sherlock up into large, warm hugs, smelling of tobacco and chemicals, his mother simply straightens his collar, and occasionally attempts to bring some sort of order to his hair.
But every time he picks up his violin, to play or pluck or tune, he thinks of his mother, the way she had left it lying on his bed as though it had always been there, as though she had not just plucked his ideal gift out of the air and presented him with it.
She had said nothing when he came downstairs with it, started to play in the drawing room where she had been reading, but she had smiled, that fond smile she so often directs at him. The one which makes his chest warm, and the negative views of other people melt away like ice.
2.
The note is not a surprise. The content, however, is.
You will need something to keep you warm, if you intend to remain a Consulting Detective.
MH.
It’s not what Sherlock has been expecting. He’s been expecting Mycroft to appear since he first posted his new website, but only to point out the many flaws in his plan, to inform him how this career choice is foolish and beneath him, and attempt to employ him within the Government once more. Instead, Mycroft has sent him a coat, and a note which is as close to a blessing as his brother will ever write.
He runs one finger over the fabric, and it feels expensive and warm, and will suit him so much better than the coat he is currently wearing. He wraps is around himself, feels the weight of it on his shoulders, and allows himself a small smile.
3.
John is a deep sleeper. Sherlock enjoys this, because it gives him the chance to observe John while he’s unaware. John remains, even now, a mystery to Sherlock; he’s been here for a year and instead of leaving, he’s pushed himself even further into Sherlock’s life with each passing day.
John’s company, his affection, his smiles and his tea and the way he pulls Sherlock close, have all quickly become irreplaceable to Sherlock. That John sees something in Sherlock which he is willing to invest in makes Sherlock feel lucky and loved in a way he had always assumed was impossible.
He runs a hand down John’s side, and smiles as his lover shifts in his sleep, face shoved into his pillow. He moves closer to John, presses his face into John’s neck, and lets the familiar scent, and the sound of John’s breathing, lull him to sleep.
+1
John is found after four days missing, on Valentine’s day, in the dumpster behind Angelo’s restaurant.
Sherlock is slowly, slowly, following the trail which will lead him to John when he receives a picture message of Moriarty stood outside Angelo’s in the middle of the day, smiling widely and waving at the camera. He flies down the stairs of 221b, texting Lestrade and Mycroft even as he storms into Angelo’s and demands help finding John.
When they find him, half buried in rubbish, John is unconscious, covered in cuts and dirt, with a label wrapped around one bloodied wrist. Sherlock’s too distracted to take much notice of it until John’s safe and healing in his hospital bed, and Lestrade hands it over in an evidence bag.
Sherlock, darling.
I hope you enjoy the upgrades I made to your loyal mutt. He was ever so brave, I can see why you like him.
I thought I would return him to you on Valentine’s day, since it’s the day for grand gestures of love and romantic gifts.
You know how much I adore you and that wonderful mind of yours, Sherlock, so do enjoy your puppy while you can.
One day I’ll grow tired of sharing.
M xx
Sherlock’s suddenly clenched fist crumples the note as he reads the intended message between the sweetly written words. It’s now only a matter of time before Moriarty targets John for what will be the final time, and all because Moriarty doesn’t want to share Sherlock’s attention.
John’s broken and still, and it makes Sherlock’s rage ignite. He fully intends to repay Moriarty for this ‘gift.’
It’s Moriarty’s turn to burn.
Title: Prince Sherlock, HRH.
Rating: PG - 13, if that.
Warnings: None, really.
Summary: Sherlock's a Prince. He's not really a typical one.
“People are going to talk,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock threw him a glare over his shoulder. His brother did like his silent entrances.
“People do nothing but talk about me, Mycroft,” he said quietly, before turning his attention back to his blackberry. “You will have to be more specific.”
“John,” Mycroft said, and that one single word made Sherlock’s hands freeze on his phone. He started moving them after only a moment, but he knew that Mycroft would have noticed it. He always did.
“Do tell, Mycroft. What about John?”
“The fact that you’re having an affair with a common Doctor.”
“There’s nothing common about him,” Sherlock shot back. John was unique and interesting and someone who understood Sherlock and the way his mind worked. John’s smile and steady hands and warm eyes, they were something special, to be treasured. It was absurd, for no-one to recognise it just because he wasn’t born into the upper classes. But then again, Sherlock had always known that other people were idiots.
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “So, you don’t deny it?” he asked, and Sherlock snorted.
“For you to be confronting me, you must have proof. Most likely from a variety of sources, all collaborated and double-checked.”
His brother said nothing, which meant Sherlock was right.
“What does it matter anyway?” Sherlock asked, and rolled his head to the side so he could look at Mycroft. “You’re the heir to the throne. You have Andrea, and soon enough, no doubt, a little brood of Mycrofts.” He shuddered dramatically at the thought. “I can do what I like.”
Mycroft tilted his head in false acquiescence. “There is that. Although you know, of course, that Mummy won’t see it that way.”
Sherlock grinned, despite a sharp pang of unease. “You must be desperate if you’re pulling out that threat.”
Mycroft’s face darkened. “I won’t have you bring scandal upon this family for no good reason, Sherlock! If you must have your dalliances, then at least keep them in the right class. Even Sebastian would be better than -”
“Shut up,” Sherlock growled, unable to stop himself. “Don’t speak about him that way. John is worth ten of Sebastian, if not more. That man is an arrogant fool.”
Mycroft looked at him then, deep and probing, and Sherlock had the hideous feeling that he was discovering things about his relationship with John which he wasn’t ready to even admit to himself.
Sherlock stood. “Tell who you like, Mycroft,” he said, well aware that his casual act wasn’t fooling either of them. “I won’t be the one to back down.”
“No. I suppose you won’t,” Mycroft muttered, and Sherlock left without looking back.
The trip to John’s flat was longer than usual, due to the fact he’d had to sneak out of the palace, and lose Lestrade’s tail. When he finally slipped into the hallway of John’s building he unwrapped the scarf which was covering his face and knocked on the door. The way in which John’s eyes lit up when he saw it was Sherlock made the tension still left in his shoulders unwind.
“Come in,” John said as he moved into the flat, careful as ever not to say Sherlock’s name where he might be overheard.
Ever since he’d first met John, been surprised by the man with kind eyes and steady hands who had shot the man who had attempted to assassinate Sherlock during his check up, he’d been unable to let go. John kept his attention; Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever get tired of learning the man’s many nuances.
As soon as the door fell shut behind them, he pulled John into a hug.
“Mycroft?” John asked knowingly, and Sherlock nodded into John’s warm, comfortable shoulder. “What’s he done now?”
For a moment, Sherlock was tempted to tell John about Mycroft, and the fact that he knew about them, but he dismissed it. All it would do was worry John - he held doubts about their relationship as it was, never wanting to assume that Sherlock would hold him dearer than his chance at the throne, no matter how many times Sherlock told him that he didn’t want to be King. Dull.
Mycroft wouldn’t reveal anything, it wasn’t his style. He’d use the information against Sherlock until he was finally forced to make a decision - John, or an easy life. He smiled into John’s neck, and one of John’s hands came up to run through his hair. He’d never been the sort who enjoyed an easy life.
So, there we have it. It seems I lean towards the angsty, but it all works out in the end?
Enjoy!