Fic - Sherlock; No Shame in Being Crazy
Title: No Shame in Being Crazy
Author: bergann
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Gen (implied Holmes/Watson)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Four people who assumed Watson only stuck around for the sex, and one who assumed the same of Holmes
Word count: 2 378
Author's Notes: First time in a new sandbox, always exciting! Thanks go out to wildebrian for guiding me back on path and beating the American out of my words. ♥ Your red font and I are going to go to France together to continue our illicit love affair.
Oh, and for those who don't know, Bill Murray was the nurse who saved John's life after he got shot (I don't think he was mentioned in the series, but he does pop up on Watson's blog.)
[one]
The first time is at a crime scene, John having returned from questioning one of the neighbours as per Sherlock's request, only to find Sherlock gone. Again. He stands, feeling momentarily off balance as he always does when this happens, but he is no longer surprised -- in the thrill of a case and new clues, Sherlock can, and has, forgotten a lot of things. John just happens to be one of them, and at least this is better than Sherlock forgetting to turn the stove off before he runs out the door.
With a sigh, he starts to look for Lestrade in the hope that Sherlock might've said something before he dashed off that might serve as a clue for his destination. On a relatively normal day, he'd simply text Sherlock, but as it is, Sherlock's phone is out of commission after a chase led him to take an unexpected dip in the Thames.
One of these days, John will just have Sherlock electronically tagged and save everyone (read: mainly John) the headaches.
Instead of Lestrade, however, he gets Donovan. Donovan who, judging by her clenched jaw and stormy eyes, did see Sherlock before he went and once again failed to come out on top during their verbal spar. Before John can act on the decision to merely head back to Baker Street and await Sherlock there, Donovan has zeroed in on his presence and started towards him.
"Left you behind again, did he?" she asks, even though the answer is obvious. "I don't get why you put up with him -- you don't look like a freak."
"Thanks," John says, "It's nice to know the disguise is working." Donovan frowns at him, and it's becoming clear that whatever parting shot Sherlock left her with today annoys her enough to feel the need to take it out on John. Before she can say anything, John asks, "I don't suppose you know where he's gone?"
"No," Donovan says, "He didn't say."
"Did he maybe say something that could possibly lead to his whereabouts?" John tries again, because the mood she's in right now, he wouldn't put it past her to make that distinction.
"All he said was something about Hartlage Wine," Donovan says, "He didn't stop to explain why a wine might be relevant to our murder."
"Thank you, and it's not a wine," John says, "It's a plant. A rare one, too."
"Whatever," Donovan shrugs. John's phone beeps with a new message, and she watches him read it, her eyes narrowed. "You do know what everyone is saying about you, don't you? About why you stay with him?"
Where are you? There's a murderer to be found!
SH
"No," John says as he replies to the text, "But I also have a feeling I don't particularly want to hear it either."
"They think it's because he's so good in bed that living with a freak like him is worth it," Donovan says, her tone of voice conveying that in her opinion, no sex could be fantastic enough to make her think so.
John's phone beeps again, another text from Sherlock, this time with his requested location. "Well, at least he isn't married," John says brightly, "You wouldn't happen to know where Lestrade is, would you?"
Donovan scowls and gestures towards the ambulance behind him, where Lestrade is standing with one of the medical examiners.
"Thanks," John says, and as he's walking over to Lestrade, his phone beeps again.
Bring Lestrade. Killer may be closer than I thought. And I've borrowed his phone.
SH
"Lestrade," John calls, "Sherlock's requesting our assistance."
Lestrade curses, but not half as much as when he realizes en route to the Chelsea Flower Show that his phone has gone missing.
[two]
John has a fairly good idea of who he's dealing with from the moment he steps out of the grocery and instead of hailing a cab as intended, a sleek black Mercedes Benz idles right in front of him. "Get in, Dr. Watson," the man in the passenger seat says.
"Sorry, I've been told not to get into cars with strangers," John says, because with Sherlock helping on a case in Manchester for the weekend, he had hoped to spend the time relaxing. Maybe clean the flat a little.
The side door opens, Anthea's face barely looking up from her phone. "Then it's a good thing we're not strangers," she says, "Come along, John."
John sighs, and gets in. "Technically, we're still strangers, or at least you are to me. No doubt your boss has given you a file with all my information on it, never mind privacy. All I have is your alias, Anthea."
"Brisa," Anthea says.
"Sorry?"
"Now you know two of them," Anthea, or Brisa, says.
John doesn't really know how to respond to that, so instead he watches out the window for a while until he can't help but ask, "I don't suppose you could tell me what Mycroft wants?"
"No, I'm afraid not," Brisa says.
"Do you know?"
Brisa favours him with a look, as though he's a particularly slow child, and says, "Yes."
The car comes to a stop then, outside a Greek restaurant, and Brisa follows him out the car and leads him inside. Mycroft is sitting at a table in the back even though there is no one else in the restaurant, just a sea of empty tables with cards claiming they're reserved. From the look the waiter gives John, he'd guess that Mycroft is the one who has reserved them all.
"This does look sketchy," he tells Mycroft as he sits down. Brisa heads over to another table. "I never knew the British government was such a fan of bad mafia movies."
Mycroft smiles, almost indulgent, and says, “John, I hear my brother is out of town."
"Are you having him stalked?"
"Not anymore than usual," Mycroft says, "And had you accepted my offer, I wouldn't have to. It is still on, you know."
"Hm, spy on my flatmate?" John says, pretending to think about it. "You know, no matter how many times you offer, it still doesn't sound enticing."
"No," Mycroft sighs, "I imagine what he offers is, in the short run, more appealing than financial stability."
"I'm sorry, what he offers?" John asks, because Mycroft had said that with a peculiar look on his face.
"Murder and mystery, intrigue and danger," Mycroft says, which is true.
Those things do come with living with Sherlock -- along with body parts in the kitchen, police officers threatening their flat with a drugs bust, sporadic notes from the violin at three in the morning. He says as much to Mycroft.
"Yes, well," Mycroft says, "I understand these things are easier to cope with when the source of such annoyances are...dear to you."
"Right," John says, slightly puzzled. "Why am I here?"
"I find myself curious about the man my brother has decided to make his companion," Mycroft says. "I'm of the opinion that I cannot judge a man from his files alone."
"This is...a social call?" John asks, and Mycroft smiles.
"Got it in one, Dr. Watson."
It isn't until he's back at the flat, wondering if he's having a really bizarre dream brought on by the fumes of one of Sherlock's experiments, that the full meaning behind Mycroft's words hit him. He whips out his phone and fires off a quick text, asking Sherlock to tell his brother they're not in a sexual relationship.
The response is immediate.
Clearly you're on better speaking terms with him than I -- tell him yourself. I'm solving a crime.
SH
[three]
"That man must be one hell of un pompinaio for you to do this," John's Italian neighbour tells him as he makes his way back to 221B Baker Street at 6.30AM, smelling like the sewers, bleeding and legs barely able to support him. Sherlock went to update Lestrade on the case, but he'd insisted John head home to rest.
John hasn't slept in over thirty hours and has spent five of those hours running around in the sewers, and while that might be the state Sherlock operates in most days, John's sure if he doesn't get to a shower, some disinfectant and a bed in the next 10 minutes, he will have to be carried to his bed from where he falls.
"I'm sorry, what?" John asks, becoming aware he's merely been staring stupidly at his neighbour for the past minute. He's starting to look concerned.
He's relatively new to the neighbourhood and Mrs. Hudson doesn't like him, he remembers, says he's too small minded and a thief for never giving back Mrs. Hudson's broom. John hasn't even gotten around to learning his name yet.
"You look awful," his neighbour says, "That Holmes fellow clearly isn't good for your health."
"Nothing interesting ever is," he answers, "I'm sorry, Mr…Mario, you'll have to excuse me. I'm completely knackered."
He hears him huff as John opens the door (third time is the charm) and slips inside, hissing with pain as he bumps into the frame with his shoulder.
"Mr. Mario?" He hears his neighbour say, "Testa di cazzo!"
Well, John clearly hasn't made a friend there. Even after ten hours of sleep and three showers, he finds he can't really bring himself to care.
[four]
"I can't believe you're gay," Harry says, then cocks her head to the side, squinting at him. "Well, actually, I'm not that surprised, I just can't believe you're shagging Sherlock Holmes portion of it."
"I am not shagging Sherlock bloody Holmes," John says, louder than he means to. He apologizes to the heads that have turned in their direction and tries again in a lower tone, "I'm not shagging Sherlock. He's my flatmate!"
"So was Angie," Harry says, "That certainly didn't stop me."
"And a man!"
Harry makes a face. "Yes, okay, that would have."
"See," John says, triumphant, and as a reward, he drinks more of his beer. He'd been against going out drinking with Harry, and he can't really remember how they ended up at the pub, but here they are anyway. "Watsons sleep with women."
"Mum didn't," Harry points out, "And I met Bill, remember? He was a murse, not a nurse."
John scowls at her. "I did not sleep with Bill."
"No, I'm sure what I saw when I dropped by the hospital was merely you having dropped something on your crotch and him graciously offering to retrieve it for you," Harry says, "I might be a bit of a drunk, John, but I'm not blind."
"This does not mean I'm sleeping with Sherlock," John says, "I don't think he has sex at all."
Harry looks utterly confused. "But if you're not sleeping with him, why do you put up with him? I could barely stand Clara leaving her books all over the place, and you have to deal with body parts in the microwave. If you're not getting sex out of this and still stick around, you're seriously fucked up."
"You know what I think?" John asks, "I think everyone in London is seriously fucked up for automatically assuming we're sleeping together just because I put up with his quirks."
"Leaving eyeballs in the microwave is not just a quirk, John," Harry shouts. "That's the sign of a psychopath."
"It was just that one time!" John shouts back, "And he's a high-functioning sociopath, not a psychopath!"
"John. John," Harry says seriously, fumbling for his hand and squeezing it once she grips it. "Do you have Stockholm Syndrome?"
"Jesus fucking Christ!" John shouts, "No, I do not fucking have bloody Stockholm Syndrome!"
"Maybe you should head out," the bartender suggests.
"Yes," John says, "Yes, we should, thank you. We're done here. Can you call a cab?"
"You're such an arsehole," Harry says as they stand on the curb outside the pub, waiting for the cab. "If you were sleeping with Holmes, at least you'd be less of one."
"Shut up."
[one]
"Why do you let this idiot follow you around everywhere?" The woman, Julie, has a gun that she's waving in John's direction while Sherlock no doubt (hopefully) calculates how to disarm her without John getting shot in the process.
Their flat had been broken into, and badly; the only thing missing being a pillow from Sherlock's room. John couldn't figure out why anyone would want to steal Sherlock's pillow other than to do a study into the new forms of bacteria coming to life on it. John would feel mean, if it wasn't for the fact that Sherlock's room truly is that bad, and if he didn't have Sherlock's crazy stalker holding a gun to his face, after said crazy stalker had snuck back into the apartment and drugged him in order to wait for Sherlock to return home.
"He has some merits," Sherlock says.
"Hey!" John says, without thinking, and then holds his hands up higher when Julie's gun twitches.
"He's an idiot," Julie says, "He doesn't understand you. Not truly. No one does. Not like me."
Sherlock tilts his head. "Perhaps I'm not looking for someone to truly understand me. Life would be boring. John...isn't."
"I thought you above other men," Julie says, clearly distressed. "You weren't supposed to care about sexual gratification!"
"For God's sake," Sherlock says, "John is not sexually gratifying me."
"Unless that means you lose interest, and leave us unharmed," John says, "In which case, I am. Every night. Twice. Every day, even. Sexual gratification all over the flat at all hours of the day."
Sherlock and Julie both stare at him. John has been drugged, he thinks he deserves some slack, especially since apparently this serves as the distraction Sherlock needed to disarm Julie. He ties her up with rope he pulls from...somewhere, and after checking on John (fine, except for the drugs), he calls for Lestrade and an ambulance.
"See," John tells her, "I am useful."
The look she gives him is pure in its hatred. "Sherlock," she says sadly, "We could have been great. I would have been a worthy colleague. I would've been deserving of your regard."
John catches Sherlock's gaze and they both start laughing, unable to stop until Lestrade shows up with the cavalry.
Author: bergann
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Gen (implied Holmes/Watson)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Four people who assumed Watson only stuck around for the sex, and one who assumed the same of Holmes
Word count: 2 378
Author's Notes: First time in a new sandbox, always exciting! Thanks go out to wildebrian for guiding me back on path and beating the American out of my words. ♥ Your red font and I are going to go to France together to continue our illicit love affair.
Oh, and for those who don't know, Bill Murray was the nurse who saved John's life after he got shot (I don't think he was mentioned in the series, but he does pop up on Watson's blog.)
[one]
The first time is at a crime scene, John having returned from questioning one of the neighbours as per Sherlock's request, only to find Sherlock gone. Again. He stands, feeling momentarily off balance as he always does when this happens, but he is no longer surprised -- in the thrill of a case and new clues, Sherlock can, and has, forgotten a lot of things. John just happens to be one of them, and at least this is better than Sherlock forgetting to turn the stove off before he runs out the door.
With a sigh, he starts to look for Lestrade in the hope that Sherlock might've said something before he dashed off that might serve as a clue for his destination. On a relatively normal day, he'd simply text Sherlock, but as it is, Sherlock's phone is out of commission after a chase led him to take an unexpected dip in the Thames.
One of these days, John will just have Sherlock electronically tagged and save everyone (read: mainly John) the headaches.
Instead of Lestrade, however, he gets Donovan. Donovan who, judging by her clenched jaw and stormy eyes, did see Sherlock before he went and once again failed to come out on top during their verbal spar. Before John can act on the decision to merely head back to Baker Street and await Sherlock there, Donovan has zeroed in on his presence and started towards him.
"Left you behind again, did he?" she asks, even though the answer is obvious. "I don't get why you put up with him -- you don't look like a freak."
"Thanks," John says, "It's nice to know the disguise is working." Donovan frowns at him, and it's becoming clear that whatever parting shot Sherlock left her with today annoys her enough to feel the need to take it out on John. Before she can say anything, John asks, "I don't suppose you know where he's gone?"
"No," Donovan says, "He didn't say."
"Did he maybe say something that could possibly lead to his whereabouts?" John tries again, because the mood she's in right now, he wouldn't put it past her to make that distinction.
"All he said was something about Hartlage Wine," Donovan says, "He didn't stop to explain why a wine might be relevant to our murder."
"Thank you, and it's not a wine," John says, "It's a plant. A rare one, too."
"Whatever," Donovan shrugs. John's phone beeps with a new message, and she watches him read it, her eyes narrowed. "You do know what everyone is saying about you, don't you? About why you stay with him?"
Where are you? There's a murderer to be found!
SH
"No," John says as he replies to the text, "But I also have a feeling I don't particularly want to hear it either."
"They think it's because he's so good in bed that living with a freak like him is worth it," Donovan says, her tone of voice conveying that in her opinion, no sex could be fantastic enough to make her think so.
John's phone beeps again, another text from Sherlock, this time with his requested location. "Well, at least he isn't married," John says brightly, "You wouldn't happen to know where Lestrade is, would you?"
Donovan scowls and gestures towards the ambulance behind him, where Lestrade is standing with one of the medical examiners.
"Thanks," John says, and as he's walking over to Lestrade, his phone beeps again.
Bring Lestrade. Killer may be closer than I thought. And I've borrowed his phone.
SH
"Lestrade," John calls, "Sherlock's requesting our assistance."
Lestrade curses, but not half as much as when he realizes en route to the Chelsea Flower Show that his phone has gone missing.
[two]
John has a fairly good idea of who he's dealing with from the moment he steps out of the grocery and instead of hailing a cab as intended, a sleek black Mercedes Benz idles right in front of him. "Get in, Dr. Watson," the man in the passenger seat says.
"Sorry, I've been told not to get into cars with strangers," John says, because with Sherlock helping on a case in Manchester for the weekend, he had hoped to spend the time relaxing. Maybe clean the flat a little.
The side door opens, Anthea's face barely looking up from her phone. "Then it's a good thing we're not strangers," she says, "Come along, John."
John sighs, and gets in. "Technically, we're still strangers, or at least you are to me. No doubt your boss has given you a file with all my information on it, never mind privacy. All I have is your alias, Anthea."
"Brisa," Anthea says.
"Sorry?"
"Now you know two of them," Anthea, or Brisa, says.
John doesn't really know how to respond to that, so instead he watches out the window for a while until he can't help but ask, "I don't suppose you could tell me what Mycroft wants?"
"No, I'm afraid not," Brisa says.
"Do you know?"
Brisa favours him with a look, as though he's a particularly slow child, and says, "Yes."
The car comes to a stop then, outside a Greek restaurant, and Brisa follows him out the car and leads him inside. Mycroft is sitting at a table in the back even though there is no one else in the restaurant, just a sea of empty tables with cards claiming they're reserved. From the look the waiter gives John, he'd guess that Mycroft is the one who has reserved them all.
"This does look sketchy," he tells Mycroft as he sits down. Brisa heads over to another table. "I never knew the British government was such a fan of bad mafia movies."
Mycroft smiles, almost indulgent, and says, “John, I hear my brother is out of town."
"Are you having him stalked?"
"Not anymore than usual," Mycroft says, "And had you accepted my offer, I wouldn't have to. It is still on, you know."
"Hm, spy on my flatmate?" John says, pretending to think about it. "You know, no matter how many times you offer, it still doesn't sound enticing."
"No," Mycroft sighs, "I imagine what he offers is, in the short run, more appealing than financial stability."
"I'm sorry, what he offers?" John asks, because Mycroft had said that with a peculiar look on his face.
"Murder and mystery, intrigue and danger," Mycroft says, which is true.
Those things do come with living with Sherlock -- along with body parts in the kitchen, police officers threatening their flat with a drugs bust, sporadic notes from the violin at three in the morning. He says as much to Mycroft.
"Yes, well," Mycroft says, "I understand these things are easier to cope with when the source of such annoyances are...dear to you."
"Right," John says, slightly puzzled. "Why am I here?"
"I find myself curious about the man my brother has decided to make his companion," Mycroft says. "I'm of the opinion that I cannot judge a man from his files alone."
"This is...a social call?" John asks, and Mycroft smiles.
"Got it in one, Dr. Watson."
It isn't until he's back at the flat, wondering if he's having a really bizarre dream brought on by the fumes of one of Sherlock's experiments, that the full meaning behind Mycroft's words hit him. He whips out his phone and fires off a quick text, asking Sherlock to tell his brother they're not in a sexual relationship.
The response is immediate.
Clearly you're on better speaking terms with him than I -- tell him yourself. I'm solving a crime.
SH
[three]
"That man must be one hell of un pompinaio for you to do this," John's Italian neighbour tells him as he makes his way back to 221B Baker Street at 6.30AM, smelling like the sewers, bleeding and legs barely able to support him. Sherlock went to update Lestrade on the case, but he'd insisted John head home to rest.
John hasn't slept in over thirty hours and has spent five of those hours running around in the sewers, and while that might be the state Sherlock operates in most days, John's sure if he doesn't get to a shower, some disinfectant and a bed in the next 10 minutes, he will have to be carried to his bed from where he falls.
"I'm sorry, what?" John asks, becoming aware he's merely been staring stupidly at his neighbour for the past minute. He's starting to look concerned.
He's relatively new to the neighbourhood and Mrs. Hudson doesn't like him, he remembers, says he's too small minded and a thief for never giving back Mrs. Hudson's broom. John hasn't even gotten around to learning his name yet.
"You look awful," his neighbour says, "That Holmes fellow clearly isn't good for your health."
"Nothing interesting ever is," he answers, "I'm sorry, Mr…Mario, you'll have to excuse me. I'm completely knackered."
He hears him huff as John opens the door (third time is the charm) and slips inside, hissing with pain as he bumps into the frame with his shoulder.
"Mr. Mario?" He hears his neighbour say, "Testa di cazzo!"
Well, John clearly hasn't made a friend there. Even after ten hours of sleep and three showers, he finds he can't really bring himself to care.
[four]
"I can't believe you're gay," Harry says, then cocks her head to the side, squinting at him. "Well, actually, I'm not that surprised, I just can't believe you're shagging Sherlock Holmes portion of it."
"I am not shagging Sherlock bloody Holmes," John says, louder than he means to. He apologizes to the heads that have turned in their direction and tries again in a lower tone, "I'm not shagging Sherlock. He's my flatmate!"
"So was Angie," Harry says, "That certainly didn't stop me."
"And a man!"
Harry makes a face. "Yes, okay, that would have."
"See," John says, triumphant, and as a reward, he drinks more of his beer. He'd been against going out drinking with Harry, and he can't really remember how they ended up at the pub, but here they are anyway. "Watsons sleep with women."
"Mum didn't," Harry points out, "And I met Bill, remember? He was a murse, not a nurse."
John scowls at her. "I did not sleep with Bill."
"No, I'm sure what I saw when I dropped by the hospital was merely you having dropped something on your crotch and him graciously offering to retrieve it for you," Harry says, "I might be a bit of a drunk, John, but I'm not blind."
"This does not mean I'm sleeping with Sherlock," John says, "I don't think he has sex at all."
Harry looks utterly confused. "But if you're not sleeping with him, why do you put up with him? I could barely stand Clara leaving her books all over the place, and you have to deal with body parts in the microwave. If you're not getting sex out of this and still stick around, you're seriously fucked up."
"You know what I think?" John asks, "I think everyone in London is seriously fucked up for automatically assuming we're sleeping together just because I put up with his quirks."
"Leaving eyeballs in the microwave is not just a quirk, John," Harry shouts. "That's the sign of a psychopath."
"It was just that one time!" John shouts back, "And he's a high-functioning sociopath, not a psychopath!"
"John. John," Harry says seriously, fumbling for his hand and squeezing it once she grips it. "Do you have Stockholm Syndrome?"
"Jesus fucking Christ!" John shouts, "No, I do not fucking have bloody Stockholm Syndrome!"
"Maybe you should head out," the bartender suggests.
"Yes," John says, "Yes, we should, thank you. We're done here. Can you call a cab?"
"You're such an arsehole," Harry says as they stand on the curb outside the pub, waiting for the cab. "If you were sleeping with Holmes, at least you'd be less of one."
"Shut up."
[one]
"Why do you let this idiot follow you around everywhere?" The woman, Julie, has a gun that she's waving in John's direction while Sherlock no doubt (hopefully) calculates how to disarm her without John getting shot in the process.
Their flat had been broken into, and badly; the only thing missing being a pillow from Sherlock's room. John couldn't figure out why anyone would want to steal Sherlock's pillow other than to do a study into the new forms of bacteria coming to life on it. John would feel mean, if it wasn't for the fact that Sherlock's room truly is that bad, and if he didn't have Sherlock's crazy stalker holding a gun to his face, after said crazy stalker had snuck back into the apartment and drugged him in order to wait for Sherlock to return home.
"He has some merits," Sherlock says.
"Hey!" John says, without thinking, and then holds his hands up higher when Julie's gun twitches.
"He's an idiot," Julie says, "He doesn't understand you. Not truly. No one does. Not like me."
Sherlock tilts his head. "Perhaps I'm not looking for someone to truly understand me. Life would be boring. John...isn't."
"I thought you above other men," Julie says, clearly distressed. "You weren't supposed to care about sexual gratification!"
"For God's sake," Sherlock says, "John is not sexually gratifying me."
"Unless that means you lose interest, and leave us unharmed," John says, "In which case, I am. Every night. Twice. Every day, even. Sexual gratification all over the flat at all hours of the day."
Sherlock and Julie both stare at him. John has been drugged, he thinks he deserves some slack, especially since apparently this serves as the distraction Sherlock needed to disarm Julie. He ties her up with rope he pulls from...somewhere, and after checking on John (fine, except for the drugs), he calls for Lestrade and an ambulance.
"See," John tells her, "I am useful."
The look she gives him is pure in its hatred. "Sherlock," she says sadly, "We could have been great. I would have been a worthy colleague. I would've been deserving of your regard."
John catches Sherlock's gaze and they both start laughing, unable to stop until Lestrade shows up with the cavalry.