Fic
Title: Creature
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Could be Sherlock/John if you squint.
Rating: can I just go with PG-15/16 here?
Warnings: some nasty implications of nasty wounds (I don't think the descriptions are terribly graphic, but are vivid). also, implied torture.
Note: I started writing this after the production stills came out for Frankenstein, so it's inspired by those pictures (though I definitely didn't use them as reference) and by that entire production.This is not Britpicked or properly beta-ed. Here's me, being an American. Sorry. Oh, and I expect the tenses jump around a bit. I've tried to keep them consistent, but you know how it is -- difficult. Also, originally posted to sherlockbbc.
Summary: Moriarty is missing, after the pool, and presumed dead, and so Sebastian Moran takes a knife to Sherlock Holmes. Snatches him up and holds onto him and destroys him.
By the time Sherlock is well enough to tell them what happened to him, the man who did it, that second most dangerous man, Sebastian Moran, is out of the country and long gone. Or at least, that's the assumption. If he's not, no one can find a trace of him and Sherlock isn't in any shape to do heavy investigating.
So he gets away.
And Sherlock remains. He's scarred, damaged, and when John finally brings him home from the hospital, he's covered in bandages.
Moriarty is missing, after the pool, and presumed dead, and so Sebastian Moran takes a knife to Sherlock Holmes. Snatches him up and holds onto him and destroys him. Moran slices into him, for revenge.
Sherlock was missing for three days, three days where no one thought anything of his mysterious disappearance, because Sherlock Holmes did tend to do that. In fact, in those three days, John almost enjoyed having the flat to himself. Not having to tidy up new body parts, or be wary of on-going experiments. But then John gets a phone call from Lestrade and he rushes to the hospital and sits by Sherlock's bedside for the better part of a week.
Moran had destroyed him and then abandoned him, bleeding and wretched and mewling like an injured kitten, outside the crumbled remains of the pool where Moriarty had disappeared.
Lestrade explains to John that the first officer on the scene thought Sherlock was, initially, a dying dog. He explains how Sherlock's entire body was doused in his own blood, head to toe, how he was barely moving, but very much alive.
Sebastian Moran was careful not to kill him, just to hurt him terribly.
Now Sherlock lays at home quietly and John feeds him and washes him and cares for him. The bandages cover most of his face and chest. His arms are wrapped, and his left hand. His left leg will never be the same, Moran mauled it so. Even his hair has been shredded.
John had carried him up the stairs and put him in bed.
After two days, the bandages need to be changed. The wounds beneath are oozing and John, despite his churning stomach, recognizes the need for fresh gauze. He probably should have changed the gauze earlier. Sherlock isn't restless yet, which worries John more than the detective's poorly functioning leg, his damaged shoulder, or his bruised right eye.
It takes twenty minutes of pleading and prying to get Sherlock to roll over and spread out. And then he peels off the first piece of gauze on Sherlock's forehead.
He hadn't seen it properly before.
The deep cuts on his face are stitched together with thin, black threads and surrounded by bruises. The stitching is well done, but there will be scars. There's no avoiding it.
With each strip of gauze John removes, the complete picture becomes more and more ghastly. His entire face is swollen, a black and blue, green and yellow mockery of Sherlock's features.
There's one line of stitches that trace from his hair line to his eyebrow, another from the corner of his eye to the square of his jaw. A third traces the curve of his chin just under his lip. Another slice tears down his neck. Then there's a deep slice down the center of his chest, a series of lines stem out, like branches on a tree...
The list goes on. Moran kept at him for all that time, three days of torture and digging.
Sherlock sits on his bed as John replaces his bandages. He's been sitting there for days, in only his ever-so-fancy designer boxer-briefs, and hasn't spoken. The moment John is done with his task, Sherlock rolls over onto his side.
He can speak, John knows that, he's heard it, but he won't.
Sherlock spoke briefly in the hospital, just enough to say "It was Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's second", in a voice deeper and more graveled than usual. A voice raw from exhaustion and screaming and disuse. And then he had closed his mouth and remained quiet.
"Sherlock", John finally says. He touches his friends shoulder. "Sherlock, come on. Talk to me, please." He looks at the uneven strands of dark hair that brush over the bandages in some places and are cropped close in others. If Sherlock were a child, John would be stroking that hair. But he's not, so he isn't.
When there's no response, John leaves to make a cup of tea in the kitchen. He returns with two, and a plate of biscuits gingerly balanced on his forearm.
"Come on Frankenstein, sit up and have some tea." Sherlock groans and sighs, but does sit up. That's a start. He looks weak, drained. John hands him the tea cup and watches Sherlock maneuver with it. His left thumb was nearly disconnected, and so his entire hand is wrapped up. They sit quietly, just sitting and nibbling.
"Frankenstein's creature." Sherlock's little voice groans. The words are so quiet John nearly misses them.
"What?"
Sherlock's free hand, his bandaged hand, starts to flit delicately over his face and neck. "I look like the creature, not the doctor."
"Oh. Right." John never thought he'd be relieved to be corrected. Sherlock's mouth cracks into a tiny smile. There's a long pause, as Sherlock drinks his tea and stares at John.
"Do I really look so bad?" Sherlock asks. His voice is heartbreaking, quiet and tremulous, and completely unfamiliar.
Under all that bruising, and all those soon-to-be scars, it's still Sherlock Holmes. His eyes are still the same, that curious blue-green-gray, even surrounded by deeply shadowed skin. His cheekbones are still sharp and defined, his lips are still shapely and soft. His dark hair is so much shorter now, but it still curls around his ears and forehead. His body may be mangled, but the long, lean shape is still the same.
"I thought you didn't care about your looks."
Sherlock has the decency to avert his eyes sheepishly.
Yes, his chest is sunken, and maybe his skin will never be as smooth as it was, and his gait will never be as graceful. But he's still Sherlock Holmes, and he's still brilliant.
"No," John says, "you don't look bad at all."
(And they laugh, quietly, because, of course he looks bad. He looks very bad. But John doesn't care. And for that Sherlock is very thankful.)
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Could be Sherlock/John if you squint.
Rating: can I just go with PG-15/16 here?
Warnings: some nasty implications of nasty wounds (I don't think the descriptions are terribly graphic, but are vivid). also, implied torture.
Note: I started writing this after the production stills came out for Frankenstein, so it's inspired by those pictures (though I definitely didn't use them as reference) and by that entire production.This is not Britpicked or properly beta-ed. Here's me, being an American. Sorry. Oh, and I expect the tenses jump around a bit. I've tried to keep them consistent, but you know how it is -- difficult. Also, originally posted to sherlockbbc.
Summary: Moriarty is missing, after the pool, and presumed dead, and so Sebastian Moran takes a knife to Sherlock Holmes. Snatches him up and holds onto him and destroys him.
By the time Sherlock is well enough to tell them what happened to him, the man who did it, that second most dangerous man, Sebastian Moran, is out of the country and long gone. Or at least, that's the assumption. If he's not, no one can find a trace of him and Sherlock isn't in any shape to do heavy investigating.
So he gets away.
And Sherlock remains. He's scarred, damaged, and when John finally brings him home from the hospital, he's covered in bandages.
Moriarty is missing, after the pool, and presumed dead, and so Sebastian Moran takes a knife to Sherlock Holmes. Snatches him up and holds onto him and destroys him. Moran slices into him, for revenge.
Sherlock was missing for three days, three days where no one thought anything of his mysterious disappearance, because Sherlock Holmes did tend to do that. In fact, in those three days, John almost enjoyed having the flat to himself. Not having to tidy up new body parts, or be wary of on-going experiments. But then John gets a phone call from Lestrade and he rushes to the hospital and sits by Sherlock's bedside for the better part of a week.
Moran had destroyed him and then abandoned him, bleeding and wretched and mewling like an injured kitten, outside the crumbled remains of the pool where Moriarty had disappeared.
Lestrade explains to John that the first officer on the scene thought Sherlock was, initially, a dying dog. He explains how Sherlock's entire body was doused in his own blood, head to toe, how he was barely moving, but very much alive.
Sebastian Moran was careful not to kill him, just to hurt him terribly.
Now Sherlock lays at home quietly and John feeds him and washes him and cares for him. The bandages cover most of his face and chest. His arms are wrapped, and his left hand. His left leg will never be the same, Moran mauled it so. Even his hair has been shredded.
John had carried him up the stairs and put him in bed.
After two days, the bandages need to be changed. The wounds beneath are oozing and John, despite his churning stomach, recognizes the need for fresh gauze. He probably should have changed the gauze earlier. Sherlock isn't restless yet, which worries John more than the detective's poorly functioning leg, his damaged shoulder, or his bruised right eye.
It takes twenty minutes of pleading and prying to get Sherlock to roll over and spread out. And then he peels off the first piece of gauze on Sherlock's forehead.
He hadn't seen it properly before.
The deep cuts on his face are stitched together with thin, black threads and surrounded by bruises. The stitching is well done, but there will be scars. There's no avoiding it.
With each strip of gauze John removes, the complete picture becomes more and more ghastly. His entire face is swollen, a black and blue, green and yellow mockery of Sherlock's features.
There's one line of stitches that trace from his hair line to his eyebrow, another from the corner of his eye to the square of his jaw. A third traces the curve of his chin just under his lip. Another slice tears down his neck. Then there's a deep slice down the center of his chest, a series of lines stem out, like branches on a tree...
The list goes on. Moran kept at him for all that time, three days of torture and digging.
Sherlock sits on his bed as John replaces his bandages. He's been sitting there for days, in only his ever-so-fancy designer boxer-briefs, and hasn't spoken. The moment John is done with his task, Sherlock rolls over onto his side.
He can speak, John knows that, he's heard it, but he won't.
Sherlock spoke briefly in the hospital, just enough to say "It was Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's second", in a voice deeper and more graveled than usual. A voice raw from exhaustion and screaming and disuse. And then he had closed his mouth and remained quiet.
"Sherlock", John finally says. He touches his friends shoulder. "Sherlock, come on. Talk to me, please." He looks at the uneven strands of dark hair that brush over the bandages in some places and are cropped close in others. If Sherlock were a child, John would be stroking that hair. But he's not, so he isn't.
When there's no response, John leaves to make a cup of tea in the kitchen. He returns with two, and a plate of biscuits gingerly balanced on his forearm.
"Come on Frankenstein, sit up and have some tea." Sherlock groans and sighs, but does sit up. That's a start. He looks weak, drained. John hands him the tea cup and watches Sherlock maneuver with it. His left thumb was nearly disconnected, and so his entire hand is wrapped up. They sit quietly, just sitting and nibbling.
"Frankenstein's creature." Sherlock's little voice groans. The words are so quiet John nearly misses them.
"What?"
Sherlock's free hand, his bandaged hand, starts to flit delicately over his face and neck. "I look like the creature, not the doctor."
"Oh. Right." John never thought he'd be relieved to be corrected. Sherlock's mouth cracks into a tiny smile. There's a long pause, as Sherlock drinks his tea and stares at John.
"Do I really look so bad?" Sherlock asks. His voice is heartbreaking, quiet and tremulous, and completely unfamiliar.
Under all that bruising, and all those soon-to-be scars, it's still Sherlock Holmes. His eyes are still the same, that curious blue-green-gray, even surrounded by deeply shadowed skin. His cheekbones are still sharp and defined, his lips are still shapely and soft. His dark hair is so much shorter now, but it still curls around his ears and forehead. His body may be mangled, but the long, lean shape is still the same.
"I thought you didn't care about your looks."
Sherlock has the decency to avert his eyes sheepishly.
Yes, his chest is sunken, and maybe his skin will never be as smooth as it was, and his gait will never be as graceful. But he's still Sherlock Holmes, and he's still brilliant.
"No," John says, "you don't look bad at all."
(And they laugh, quietly, because, of course he looks bad. He looks very bad. But John doesn't care. And for that Sherlock is very thankful.)