Fic: The World on His Wrist - Epilogue (BBC Sherlock)
Title: The World on His Wrist
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 1.1k, this part, 31.6k overall
Betas: vyctori and fogbutton
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: First, he is shot in Afghanistan. Second, he wakes to a phone call in Chelmsford, Essex. Third is pain, fourth is normalcy, fifth is agony and sixth is confusion. By the eighth, he's lost track. (John-centric AU)
prologue - part one - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Epilogue
He recognizes the hospital by scent and sound and the drugs shot through his veins. His shoulder throbs with his pulse, his pain merely wounded by the chemicals rather than killed. Shifting his arms ever so slightly against the sheets, he knows his wrists are bare.
Yet again, twice within two days, John Watson prays.
He doesn’t want to start over.
He doesn’t want to be back to this, a bullet through his shoulder, a life in London yet to come. He can’t start over. He can’t do it all again.
When he forces open his eyes, the hospital ceiling is unfamiliar.
A deep gasp of a breath rushes into him, holds his mouth open, and then sighs out.
“How good of you to join us, Dr. Watson,” says a familiar voice.
John turns his head.
Between the two beds in the hospital room, there is a chair. In this chair sits Mycroft Holmes, umbrella leaning against his leg. In his right hand, Mycroft holds a book. In his left, he cradles a limp, pale hand. Also between the beds is a table. On this table, there are flowers and cards, blocking John’s view of what he most wants, most needs to see.
“How?” John asks. His voice is a dry croak.
“How very good,” Mycroft amends and it takes John a moment to sort out what in the world the older Holmes is saying. As John wonders, Mycroft snaps his book shut one-handed, sets it down, and hands him a small plastic cup of water from the table.
John’s right hand rises to take it, having little difficulty in doing so. Confused and grateful, he drinks. Much of it pours down the side of his face, pools on his pillow against his cheek. He doesn’t care.
“Sherlock shot the bomb,” he says, after.
“He missed,” Mycroft tells him. “Fortunately for you both. I must applaud you on your tackle, very well timed.”
John blinks at him slowly.
Mycroft sighs. In that moment, he’s every inch Sherlock’s brother. “As I understand it, the flashbombs were enough to disorient most of the snipers at the time-”
“Flashbombs?” John interrupts.
“Yes, of course,” Mycroft says, as if John is being mystifyingly, purposefully obtuse. “Now, although the-”
“Who had flashbombs?”
The look Mycroft gives him would make a saner man crawl beneath a rock to die, but John barely registers it.
“I’m confused and on painkillers,” John says.
“So I’ve noticed,” Mycroft replies, but has the decency to explain properly after mocking him. Mycroft monitors his younger brother’s website, naturally. When Sherlock had set the time and location for his rendezvous with Moriarty through the Science of Deduction forum, Mycroft had been apprised of it instantly. He had responded accordingly with the information he’d possessed at the time. Had Mycroft been forewarned further in advance, Moriarty might not have escaped.
“Oh,” says John.
“Admittedly,” Mycroft adds, “I didn’t foresee your abduction. For that, I do apologize. The lapse will not be repeated.” This is less an apology and more a statement of extreme arrogance. It’s the first piece of this conversation John isn’t remotely surprised by.
“Thank you,” John says, because he ought to say something and nothing else seems to fit.
Mycroft does something dismissive with his eyes. If Sherlock turns out like him, John is going to be in a heap of trouble.
As if reading his mind - it’s fully within the realm of possibility - Mycroft comes a breath short of sighing. John has no idea how he manages it. “Take care not to exacerbate that shoulder wound in the future, won’t you. That was quite a fright you gave my brother in the pool. Any deeper in the water and you might have drowned beyond recovering.”
“I didn’t mean to pass out,” John says defensively, perhaps the truest words he has ever spoken. “I thought the bomb had gone off. The semtex one.”
“And as I said,” Mycroft replies: “Sherlock missed.”
John says nothing, gazing at the hand Mycroft so effortlessly holds. There’s no question of Sherlock being unconscious, very much so.
“He was shot in the leg,” Mycroft says. “Not very badly, but perhaps he’ll learn from it.”
John makes a doubtful noise.
Mycroft smiles, a sad, taunting smile. “I quite agree. He’s always been uncommonly lucky.” The conversation now over, Mycroft opens his book and returns to his reading.
“Two things,” John says.
Mycroft looks at him mildly.
“I can’t see him. Move the flowers.”
Mycroft does so, setting them on the floor, his expression unreadable. He sets down all of the cards as well. There’s nowhere else John can look but at the occupant of the bed beside his. The dark, tousled hair. The pale, impossible cheeks, long eyelashes stark against them. The narrow chest rises and falls, steady. Alive.
“It upset him,” Mycroft says softly.
“Watching me sleep?”
“Thinking you dead.”
John’s eyes never leave Sherlock’s face. “It upset me too,” he says.
Mycroft says nothing, sees everything.
Let him. John won’t spare him a glance.
As much as John looks, he can’t look his fill. He’ll lie here awake, as long as he can, as long as it takes, looking. When Sherlock wakes, John will yell at him, and the world will be perfect.
“Two things, you said,” Mycroft prompts.
“What? Oh. I need my watch back,” John says. “Analogue, left wrist. I need it before I sleep.” He can feel the painkillers trying to pull him back down. He’s drained and exhausted and long past questioning the madness his life has become. He refuses to feel cheated he didn’t die, for the pain and mourning he’d put himself through. He’s back. He’s here.
“I imagine it’s in your old room, with the rest of your personal effects.”
“‘Old room’?” John echoes.
“Yes,” Mycroft confirms, his tone indicating the level to which Sherlock must have been a nuisance. “Sherlock insisted. So very adamant you would need him present when you woke, only to fall asleep for it.” Mycroft does not seem at all surprised.
When Sherlock wakes, John decides, he will yell at his madman slightly less.
“I would like my watch, please,” John says.
Mycroft makes no effort to move.
“I would like a watch, please.”
There’s a pause before Mycroft stands, before he walks across the room and opens a drawer. He returns and hands John Sherlock’s watch. Analogue, black leather band, round face. John puts it on, clumsy with painkillers, attempting care with his injured, IV-sporting arm.
Mycroft settles down once more. He holds his brother’s hand, opens his book, and reads.
Sherlock sleeps, won’t stop sleeping, but that’s fine. That’s fine.
For a man constantly checking the time, John Watson knows how to wait.
calendar
On the 25th of this past July, at 12:45 AM, I began to ramble to Vyc about something that I have not shut up about since. That something became this fic. And so, as always, thanks go first to vyctori. I never know what my stories are until I tell them to you. That you've been letting me derail our conversations like this for years never fails to amaze me. Thanks also to fogbutton for her role as confusion-tester.
Yet more appreciation goes to the small roomful of people who have yet to learn to run away from me when I say "Hey, so I've had this idea." The solutions in Part Six were a result of that think tank, ditto the clarification of how awkward realizing bisexuality can be. And everyone else probably thanks you lot for glaring at me when I proposed actually killing off John in Analogue London. (I'm killing off at least one of him eventually. You can't stop me forever.)
As for all of you lovely people who have commented on and followed this fic, hats off to you. Specific mention goes to seijichan for helping me realize that I've written Maggie Wilson a bit too young in this fic. Time to go back and fix that!
For anyone who doesn't want to be finished playing in Watches 'Verse (I know I certainly don't), stay tuned.
Now continuing in Elsewhere Come Morning
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 1.1k, this part, 31.6k overall
Betas: vyctori and fogbutton
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: First, he is shot in Afghanistan. Second, he wakes to a phone call in Chelmsford, Essex. Third is pain, fourth is normalcy, fifth is agony and sixth is confusion. By the eighth, he's lost track. (John-centric AU)
prologue - part one - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Epilogue
He recognizes the hospital by scent and sound and the drugs shot through his veins. His shoulder throbs with his pulse, his pain merely wounded by the chemicals rather than killed. Shifting his arms ever so slightly against the sheets, he knows his wrists are bare.
Yet again, twice within two days, John Watson prays.
He doesn’t want to start over.
He doesn’t want to be back to this, a bullet through his shoulder, a life in London yet to come. He can’t start over. He can’t do it all again.
When he forces open his eyes, the hospital ceiling is unfamiliar.
A deep gasp of a breath rushes into him, holds his mouth open, and then sighs out.
“How good of you to join us, Dr. Watson,” says a familiar voice.
John turns his head.
Between the two beds in the hospital room, there is a chair. In this chair sits Mycroft Holmes, umbrella leaning against his leg. In his right hand, Mycroft holds a book. In his left, he cradles a limp, pale hand. Also between the beds is a table. On this table, there are flowers and cards, blocking John’s view of what he most wants, most needs to see.
“How?” John asks. His voice is a dry croak.
“How very good,” Mycroft amends and it takes John a moment to sort out what in the world the older Holmes is saying. As John wonders, Mycroft snaps his book shut one-handed, sets it down, and hands him a small plastic cup of water from the table.
John’s right hand rises to take it, having little difficulty in doing so. Confused and grateful, he drinks. Much of it pours down the side of his face, pools on his pillow against his cheek. He doesn’t care.
“Sherlock shot the bomb,” he says, after.
“He missed,” Mycroft tells him. “Fortunately for you both. I must applaud you on your tackle, very well timed.”
John blinks at him slowly.
Mycroft sighs. In that moment, he’s every inch Sherlock’s brother. “As I understand it, the flashbombs were enough to disorient most of the snipers at the time-”
“Flashbombs?” John interrupts.
“Yes, of course,” Mycroft says, as if John is being mystifyingly, purposefully obtuse. “Now, although the-”
“Who had flashbombs?”
The look Mycroft gives him would make a saner man crawl beneath a rock to die, but John barely registers it.
“I’m confused and on painkillers,” John says.
“So I’ve noticed,” Mycroft replies, but has the decency to explain properly after mocking him. Mycroft monitors his younger brother’s website, naturally. When Sherlock had set the time and location for his rendezvous with Moriarty through the Science of Deduction forum, Mycroft had been apprised of it instantly. He had responded accordingly with the information he’d possessed at the time. Had Mycroft been forewarned further in advance, Moriarty might not have escaped.
“Oh,” says John.
“Admittedly,” Mycroft adds, “I didn’t foresee your abduction. For that, I do apologize. The lapse will not be repeated.” This is less an apology and more a statement of extreme arrogance. It’s the first piece of this conversation John isn’t remotely surprised by.
“Thank you,” John says, because he ought to say something and nothing else seems to fit.
Mycroft does something dismissive with his eyes. If Sherlock turns out like him, John is going to be in a heap of trouble.
As if reading his mind - it’s fully within the realm of possibility - Mycroft comes a breath short of sighing. John has no idea how he manages it. “Take care not to exacerbate that shoulder wound in the future, won’t you. That was quite a fright you gave my brother in the pool. Any deeper in the water and you might have drowned beyond recovering.”
“I didn’t mean to pass out,” John says defensively, perhaps the truest words he has ever spoken. “I thought the bomb had gone off. The semtex one.”
“And as I said,” Mycroft replies: “Sherlock missed.”
John says nothing, gazing at the hand Mycroft so effortlessly holds. There’s no question of Sherlock being unconscious, very much so.
“He was shot in the leg,” Mycroft says. “Not very badly, but perhaps he’ll learn from it.”
John makes a doubtful noise.
Mycroft smiles, a sad, taunting smile. “I quite agree. He’s always been uncommonly lucky.” The conversation now over, Mycroft opens his book and returns to his reading.
“Two things,” John says.
Mycroft looks at him mildly.
“I can’t see him. Move the flowers.”
Mycroft does so, setting them on the floor, his expression unreadable. He sets down all of the cards as well. There’s nowhere else John can look but at the occupant of the bed beside his. The dark, tousled hair. The pale, impossible cheeks, long eyelashes stark against them. The narrow chest rises and falls, steady. Alive.
“It upset him,” Mycroft says softly.
“Watching me sleep?”
“Thinking you dead.”
John’s eyes never leave Sherlock’s face. “It upset me too,” he says.
Mycroft says nothing, sees everything.
Let him. John won’t spare him a glance.
As much as John looks, he can’t look his fill. He’ll lie here awake, as long as he can, as long as it takes, looking. When Sherlock wakes, John will yell at him, and the world will be perfect.
“Two things, you said,” Mycroft prompts.
“What? Oh. I need my watch back,” John says. “Analogue, left wrist. I need it before I sleep.” He can feel the painkillers trying to pull him back down. He’s drained and exhausted and long past questioning the madness his life has become. He refuses to feel cheated he didn’t die, for the pain and mourning he’d put himself through. He’s back. He’s here.
“I imagine it’s in your old room, with the rest of your personal effects.”
“‘Old room’?” John echoes.
“Yes,” Mycroft confirms, his tone indicating the level to which Sherlock must have been a nuisance. “Sherlock insisted. So very adamant you would need him present when you woke, only to fall asleep for it.” Mycroft does not seem at all surprised.
When Sherlock wakes, John decides, he will yell at his madman slightly less.
“I would like my watch, please,” John says.
Mycroft makes no effort to move.
“I would like a watch, please.”
There’s a pause before Mycroft stands, before he walks across the room and opens a drawer. He returns and hands John Sherlock’s watch. Analogue, black leather band, round face. John puts it on, clumsy with painkillers, attempting care with his injured, IV-sporting arm.
Mycroft settles down once more. He holds his brother’s hand, opens his book, and reads.
Sherlock sleeps, won’t stop sleeping, but that’s fine. That’s fine.
For a man constantly checking the time, John Watson knows how to wait.
calendar
On the 25th of this past July, at 12:45 AM, I began to ramble to Vyc about something that I have not shut up about since. That something became this fic. And so, as always, thanks go first to vyctori. I never know what my stories are until I tell them to you. That you've been letting me derail our conversations like this for years never fails to amaze me. Thanks also to fogbutton for her role as confusion-tester.
Yet more appreciation goes to the small roomful of people who have yet to learn to run away from me when I say "Hey, so I've had this idea." The solutions in Part Six were a result of that think tank, ditto the clarification of how awkward realizing bisexuality can be. And everyone else probably thanks you lot for glaring at me when I proposed actually killing off John in Analogue London. (I'm killing off at least one of him eventually. You can't stop me forever.)
As for all of you lovely people who have commented on and followed this fic, hats off to you. Specific mention goes to seijichan for helping me realize that I've written Maggie Wilson a bit too young in this fic. Time to go back and fix that!
For anyone who doesn't want to be finished playing in Watches 'Verse (I know I certainly don't), stay tuned.
Now continuing in Elsewhere Come Morning