Sherlock Fanfic: Consequences (JWP 2015 #9)
Title: Consequences
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, Crack. Humour, references to ACD: Devil's Foot, drug use, altered mental state, hallucinations, possible cruelty to Sherlocks
Warnings: none
Word Count: 925
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #9: Healer's Choice. This prompt actually caused me distress until I snapped and went the crack route.
Summary: John won't save Sherlock. Not this time. Not from a complete and deliberate failure of chemistry experiment safety, common sense, and the scientific method.
Consequences
"John! Save me!"
"Not this time."
"But there are ants in my brain, John! Ants! In my brain!" Sherlock paced in distress, clutching his hair. "I can feel their little feet pinching my medulla oblongata. They're tunneling a nest into my corpus callosum! John!"
"I'm not saving you, Sherlock."
"You must, John! You always save me!"
"YOU HUFFED A RANDOM CHEMICAL YOU FOUND AT A CRIME SCENE, SHERLOCK!" John shouted, glaring at his twitching, hair-pulling flatmate. "Probably one that killed someone and drove others mad!"
Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed.
John forced back the residue of the panic he'd felt earlier; coming in to see Sherlock sprawling insensate in a room full of acrid smoke had done nothing good to his sense of calm. "Now mind you, I have checked and you're not dying. Your heart rate and blood pressure are elevated but not dangerously. You're not showing any of the symptoms the two brothers have aside from the disconnect from reality, thank christ." The image of the dead woman's two mad brothers flicked through John's mind; the biting, scratching, slavering, wordlessly howling creatures they'd become, poor bastards. He shuddered.
"You're not nearly as bad as they are. You're still using and understanding words, communicating on some level, and everything else is as normal as you ever are." John met Sherlock's continuing wide-eyed stare. "You got a very minor dose of whatever it is and you'll recover. But you did this to yourself in a mind-blowing lack of judgement. Literally. There isn't much I could do anyway, not knowing exactly what you've dosed yourself with, so you can just deal with the consequences. What I will do is try to keep you safe and watch that you improve rather than degenerate. If you do-" John swallowed at the thought of Sherlock losing his reason permanently, "-we'll deal with that if it happens."
Sherlock - who had up to this point appeared to be paying rapt if slightly drunken attention through John's tirade - blinked his wide eyes and burbled, "John, you're speaking in bobble-hats. Why are you speaking in bobble-hats?" He shook his head and scowled. "HOW are you speaking in bobble-hats?"
John sighed heavily and reminded himself again that as long as Sherlock kept speaking it was a good sign, even if it was to relate whatever hallucination was currently plaguing him. He shook out his newspaper and continued reading, hoping Sherlock's questioning of his perceived reality was a sign the foul stuff was beginning to wear off.
Sherlock gasped and pointed at the windows. "The curtains! The curtains are coming to kill me, John! Shoot them!"
So much for the swift return of logic. "Not a chance."
"They're crawling off the curtain rods! They're going to throttle me!"
"Can't say as I blame them for the impulse," John said mildly, turning a page in his newspaper.
"I can't hide behind the sofa, it's gone transparent!"
"It's too bad you aren't stuck in a military lab. There'd be a nice cage you could lock yourself into," John said with only a little residual bitterness. "Although I suppose a barred cage wouldn't do much to stop really determined evil curtains."
Sherlock crossed the room in three panicked steps and threw himself against the closed doors of the kitchen, like a bird flying into a plate glass window and with just as much grace.
"You're not going into the kitchen in your current state, Sherlock." John barely glanced up from his paper, making sure the barricaded doors had held. "It was hard enough clearing out the more dangerous bits in here to contain you while this wears off. The kitchen is off-limits."
"But I need a banana," Sherlock said reasonably, stepping away from the doors and dusting off his shirt.
Bit of a sudden change, but maybe it's finally wearing off. Engaging in calm conversation, even surreal conversation, is definitly a good sign. "Why do you need a banana?"
"To bribe the Empress of the Shirt-Monkeys."
John sighed and noted the dusting motion was more... stroking. Soothing. "Shirt-Monkeys."
"An empire of monkeys lives in my shirt," Sherlock said in his 'explaining the patently obvious' tone, still stroking his shirt. "They'll help me fight off the curtains even if you won't, but I need that banana to gain her favour."
Running the palm of his hand down his face, John gave a helpless chuckle. "I'm tempted to let you have that banana, just to see what you'd do with it to persuade the Queen-"
"Empress!"
"-Empress of your shirt-monkeys to help you, but no."
Sherlock pouted.
"Still no." John took the pouting as a very positive indication. If Sherlock was aware enough to start using emotional manipulation, he had to be improving.
However, after a few moments of pouting, Sherlock looked down at his bare feet and screamed.
I should just stop thinking positively. He is showing improvments though, however small and fleeting. He'll come out of it just fine, with time.
Staring at his left foot, Sherlock began hopping frantically across the sitting room. "My toes! My toes are turning into tentacles, John!"
John sighed. "Are they really."
"Make it stop!"
"Nope."
Sherlock squalled and jumped up on the furniture, trying to keep his left foot as far away from himself as possible.
John glanced over at his new cell phone, propped up on the breakfast table with a view of as much of the room as possible, video recording indicator flashing. Plenty of recording time left. He wouldn't be able to upload the recording to YouTube, but he would have to turn it over to Lestrade and the Yard for a full review.
It was evidence for the case after all.
-.-.-
(that's it)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, Crack. Humour, references to ACD: Devil's Foot, drug use, altered mental state, hallucinations, possible cruelty to Sherlocks
Warnings: none
Word Count: 925
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #9: Healer's Choice. This prompt actually caused me distress until I snapped and went the crack route.
Summary: John won't save Sherlock. Not this time. Not from a complete and deliberate failure of chemistry experiment safety, common sense, and the scientific method.
Consequences
"John! Save me!"
"Not this time."
"But there are ants in my brain, John! Ants! In my brain!" Sherlock paced in distress, clutching his hair. "I can feel their little feet pinching my medulla oblongata. They're tunneling a nest into my corpus callosum! John!"
"I'm not saving you, Sherlock."
"You must, John! You always save me!"
"YOU HUFFED A RANDOM CHEMICAL YOU FOUND AT A CRIME SCENE, SHERLOCK!" John shouted, glaring at his twitching, hair-pulling flatmate. "Probably one that killed someone and drove others mad!"
Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed.
John forced back the residue of the panic he'd felt earlier; coming in to see Sherlock sprawling insensate in a room full of acrid smoke had done nothing good to his sense of calm. "Now mind you, I have checked and you're not dying. Your heart rate and blood pressure are elevated but not dangerously. You're not showing any of the symptoms the two brothers have aside from the disconnect from reality, thank christ." The image of the dead woman's two mad brothers flicked through John's mind; the biting, scratching, slavering, wordlessly howling creatures they'd become, poor bastards. He shuddered.
"You're not nearly as bad as they are. You're still using and understanding words, communicating on some level, and everything else is as normal as you ever are." John met Sherlock's continuing wide-eyed stare. "You got a very minor dose of whatever it is and you'll recover. But you did this to yourself in a mind-blowing lack of judgement. Literally. There isn't much I could do anyway, not knowing exactly what you've dosed yourself with, so you can just deal with the consequences. What I will do is try to keep you safe and watch that you improve rather than degenerate. If you do-" John swallowed at the thought of Sherlock losing his reason permanently, "-we'll deal with that if it happens."
Sherlock - who had up to this point appeared to be paying rapt if slightly drunken attention through John's tirade - blinked his wide eyes and burbled, "John, you're speaking in bobble-hats. Why are you speaking in bobble-hats?" He shook his head and scowled. "HOW are you speaking in bobble-hats?"
John sighed heavily and reminded himself again that as long as Sherlock kept speaking it was a good sign, even if it was to relate whatever hallucination was currently plaguing him. He shook out his newspaper and continued reading, hoping Sherlock's questioning of his perceived reality was a sign the foul stuff was beginning to wear off.
Sherlock gasped and pointed at the windows. "The curtains! The curtains are coming to kill me, John! Shoot them!"
So much for the swift return of logic. "Not a chance."
"They're crawling off the curtain rods! They're going to throttle me!"
"Can't say as I blame them for the impulse," John said mildly, turning a page in his newspaper.
"I can't hide behind the sofa, it's gone transparent!"
"It's too bad you aren't stuck in a military lab. There'd be a nice cage you could lock yourself into," John said with only a little residual bitterness. "Although I suppose a barred cage wouldn't do much to stop really determined evil curtains."
Sherlock crossed the room in three panicked steps and threw himself against the closed doors of the kitchen, like a bird flying into a plate glass window and with just as much grace.
"You're not going into the kitchen in your current state, Sherlock." John barely glanced up from his paper, making sure the barricaded doors had held. "It was hard enough clearing out the more dangerous bits in here to contain you while this wears off. The kitchen is off-limits."
"But I need a banana," Sherlock said reasonably, stepping away from the doors and dusting off his shirt.
Bit of a sudden change, but maybe it's finally wearing off. Engaging in calm conversation, even surreal conversation, is definitly a good sign. "Why do you need a banana?"
"To bribe the Empress of the Shirt-Monkeys."
John sighed and noted the dusting motion was more... stroking. Soothing. "Shirt-Monkeys."
"An empire of monkeys lives in my shirt," Sherlock said in his 'explaining the patently obvious' tone, still stroking his shirt. "They'll help me fight off the curtains even if you won't, but I need that banana to gain her favour."
Running the palm of his hand down his face, John gave a helpless chuckle. "I'm tempted to let you have that banana, just to see what you'd do with it to persuade the Queen-"
"Empress!"
"-Empress of your shirt-monkeys to help you, but no."
Sherlock pouted.
"Still no." John took the pouting as a very positive indication. If Sherlock was aware enough to start using emotional manipulation, he had to be improving.
However, after a few moments of pouting, Sherlock looked down at his bare feet and screamed.
I should just stop thinking positively. He is showing improvments though, however small and fleeting. He'll come out of it just fine, with time.
Staring at his left foot, Sherlock began hopping frantically across the sitting room. "My toes! My toes are turning into tentacles, John!"
John sighed. "Are they really."
"Make it stop!"
"Nope."
Sherlock squalled and jumped up on the furniture, trying to keep his left foot as far away from himself as possible.
John glanced over at his new cell phone, propped up on the breakfast table with a view of as much of the room as possible, video recording indicator flashing. Plenty of recording time left. He wouldn't be able to upload the recording to YouTube, but he would have to turn it over to Lestrade and the Yard for a full review.
It was evidence for the case after all.
-.-.-
(that's it)