Scribbly Fic of Doom thingspacedmonkeyDecember 23 2011, 20:42:06 UTC
Sherlock had never expected to live. It wasn’t that he actually had a death wish; he just didn’t consider the daily struggle to stay alive worth the effort it seemed to involve. After all, his father hadn’t really considered it worth the fight, his mother spent much of his childhood speaking of suicide in the he assumed other parents spoke about the need to decorate or buy new curtains and people just stopped all the time. Why was it so important that he should live?
One very stupid rehab counsellor had said that his drug use wasn’t so much a cry for help as a cry for death. Sherlock had verbally eviscerated the man for his stupidity. If he’d been crying for death’s attention then he most assuredly would have gotten it. Sherlock always got what he wanted, one way or another.
The thing was, Sherlock was logical enough to know that when his time ran out, it ran out, and no amount of healthy eating, clean living or god fearing was going to change that. He’d seen it as a child; he’d confirmed it as an adult. Good or bad, it didn’t matter. The world would catch up with you.
The problem was, Sherlock always assumed it would be quick (a knife in the ribs, a car he didn’t see, an overdose...). He’d always figured he’d just blink out of existence. Here one minute, gone the next. He had never considered those painful hours, days of machine life; never considered bedside vigils while machines beeped and hissed. Never saw this coming.
There was always something.
John had never expected to die. Even though he was on active service in a warzone he was, as he was frequently reminded, a doctor and should not have been in the line of fire. Best laid plans, hey?
Afghanistan had been terrible and wonderful at the same time. The injuries he treated were horrific but the buzz that came from the constant challenge was amazing. You learnt quickly and you thought on your feet and for John, that was what made life worth living.
Bullet wounds, burns, traumatic amputations and all the joys that IEDs brought with them, these had been his day to day life at Camp Bastion as well as dubious infections and general illness. He thrived there! This small, polite, unassuming man with a surprisingly filthy sense of humour found his place in the world surrounded by death and blood and people you chatted with at breakfast and wrapped in bodybags by nightfall. Even so, John never expected to die.
Sherlock spent time enough in hospitals to know what all the machines went. He was, after all, a remarkably quick study. From the old days of overdoses to the new days of labs and morgues, he knew each beep and hiss and buzz. They were ultimately dull, but data was data and he was surrounded by it.
Heart rate, SpO2, temperate, ICP, blood pressure, all laid bare on a monitor up on the wall. Life painted out in coloured lines in the black of night. Such a tiny thing.
When he’d met John he saw a man that was surprised to be alive, but not in a positive way. In that first second he could almost feel the weight of the gun in his hand and the wait of the shot in his mind, as if John had weight it up against the weight of his life. It had caught his attention.
When John had gone after Sherlock, following a GPS signal and willing a taxi to go faster through London traffic, he’d seen a man who was as careless with his life as a toddler with a balloon. He could see that the world could go hang so long as Sherlock was right and, dear god, it was terrifying. A man as stunningly brilliant as that should not go about risking his life to prove that he’s clever. John was fairly willing to silently admit that if they hadn’t met he’d not have had much more distance left to run. Being with Sherlock gave him something to do, gave him a purpose and a direction in the crippling banality of the civilian world. It also gave him someone to care for, because born carers find it hard to function when they don’t have a charge.
Sherlock would never admit that John had brought any change to his world. Yes, yes, now there was food and tea and some-one to turn the heating on but he’d coped just fine without those things. No, John was a distraction from the boredom of the world but it still dulled around them...him.
Re: Scribbly Fic of Doom thingspacedmonkeyDecember 23 2011, 20:42:20 UTC
John had become something indefinable, which was proving irksome. Obviously he could still read him as clearly as his blog and never failed to exasperate him, but there were seemingly no limits to the man and that was new. John had become the constant, the fixed point who would doubtless be crowing that Sherlock now remembered what the Pole Star was if he ever made the words manifest, which he wouldn’t.
But now this.
This was different. This was the test tube not only exploding but turning into a small Bassett Hound. There had been no expectation of this, no alarm to warn him, just the surprise of reality hitting him in the face.
John was a doctor, a good doctor, very good apparently. He obviously understood the effects of blunt force trauma on a person’s skull. He’d be able to catalogue the fractures, bleeds and damaged caused. John could glance up at the screen above the ICU bed and see the heart rate and blood pressure that had been increased by the insult and the oxygen that was being administered keeping the sats at 99%.
John could do all of those things if he stopped sodding around and woke up.
One very stupid rehab counsellor had said that his drug use wasn’t so much a cry for help as a cry for death. Sherlock had verbally eviscerated the man for his stupidity. If he’d been crying for death’s attention then he most assuredly would have gotten it. Sherlock always got what he wanted, one way or another.
The thing was, Sherlock was logical enough to know that when his time ran out, it ran out, and no amount of healthy eating, clean living or god fearing was going to change that. He’d seen it as a child; he’d confirmed it as an adult. Good or bad, it didn’t matter. The world would catch up with you.
The problem was, Sherlock always assumed it would be quick (a knife in the ribs, a car he didn’t see, an overdose...). He’d always figured he’d just blink out of existence. Here one minute, gone the next. He had never considered those painful hours, days of machine life; never considered bedside vigils while machines beeped and hissed. Never saw this coming.
There was always something.
John had never expected to die. Even though he was on active service in a warzone he was, as he was frequently reminded, a doctor and should not have been in the line of fire. Best laid plans, hey?
Afghanistan had been terrible and wonderful at the same time. The injuries he treated were horrific but the buzz that came from the constant challenge was amazing. You learnt quickly and you thought on your feet and for John, that was what made life worth living.
Bullet wounds, burns, traumatic amputations and all the joys that IEDs brought with them, these had been his day to day life at Camp Bastion as well as dubious infections and general illness. He thrived there! This small, polite, unassuming man with a surprisingly filthy sense of humour found his place in the world surrounded by death and blood and people you chatted with at breakfast and wrapped in bodybags by nightfall. Even so, John never expected to die.
Sherlock spent time enough in hospitals to know what all the machines went. He was, after all, a remarkably quick study. From the old days of overdoses to the new days of labs and morgues, he knew each beep and hiss and buzz. They were ultimately dull, but data was data and he was surrounded by it.
Heart rate, SpO2, temperate, ICP, blood pressure, all laid bare on a monitor up on the wall. Life painted out in coloured lines in the black of night. Such a tiny thing.
When he’d met John he saw a man that was surprised to be alive, but not in a positive way. In that first second he could almost feel the weight of the gun in his hand and the wait of the shot in his mind, as if John had weight it up against the weight of his life. It had caught his attention.
When John had gone after Sherlock, following a GPS signal and willing a taxi to go faster through London traffic, he’d seen a man who was as careless with his life as a toddler with a balloon. He could see that the world could go hang so long as Sherlock was right and, dear god, it was terrifying. A man as stunningly brilliant as that should not go about risking his life to prove that he’s clever.
John was fairly willing to silently admit that if they hadn’t met he’d not have had much more distance left to run. Being with Sherlock gave him something to do, gave him a purpose and a direction in the crippling banality of the civilian world. It also gave him someone to care for, because born carers find it hard to function when they don’t have a charge.
Sherlock would never admit that John had brought any change to his world. Yes, yes, now there was food and tea and some-one to turn the heating on but he’d coped just fine without those things. No, John was a distraction from the boredom of the world but it still dulled around them...him.
TBC
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But now this.
This was different. This was the test tube not only exploding but turning into a small Bassett Hound. There had been no expectation of this, no alarm to warn him, just the surprise of reality hitting him in the face.
John was a doctor, a good doctor, very good apparently. He obviously understood the effects of blunt force trauma on a person’s skull. He’d be able to catalogue the fractures, bleeds and damaged caused. John could glance up at the screen above the ICU bed and see the heart rate and blood pressure that had been increased by the insult and the oxygen that was being administered keeping the sats at 99%.
John could do all of those things if he stopped sodding around and woke up.
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