Fic: ...And Carry On (Sherlock, PG-13)
title: ...And Carry On
author: ilovetakahana
word count: 682
fandom: Sherlock [2010 BBC series]
characters: John Watson. Mention of Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Hudson.
rating: PG-13
notes: My first actual [as in, not a crossover or an AU] fic for Sherlock. Spoilers for John Watson's background.
Written for
kink_bingo. Kink: Object penetration. My card is here.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
Incoming!
I've lost my leg I don't want to lose my leg where is the medic mum!
Sssh, sssh, will someone help him calm down so I can work.
There is a soft moan, and John Watson only suddenly realizes that it's coming from him when he opens his eyes, and there is a dull throbbing pain in his shoulder, and he looks out the window and he lets out a loud sigh.
Rain. Of course. Blasted London rain that never really goes away. Umbrellas walking on the streets, shoes and wellies splashing in the puddles.
John massages his left shoulder in vain, shakes away the dreams and memories. He grunts, and gets up to look for his hot water bottle.
Sherlock is sleeping or unconscious or dead on the couch, and John tiptoes past with all the dexterity of a man dodging mines, with the sure step of a man used to making rounds of wards filled with patients.
Bullet deep beneath his skin, buried in muscle and nerve, impossible to dig it out without risking permanent paralysis. Without risking his own life and livelihood and quite possibly his sanity as well.
Sometimes, he dreams about hearing the shot. Yelling at the assisting medics to get down as the firefight started up again, his hands still steady as he sewed up his patient's arm, and then, a blinding pain and being knocked right onto his arse, into the hard-packed sand. His turn to be screamed over, people yelling for a medic for him. Muttering, “I'm the medic. I'm the doctor.”
And, his voice full of shame and barely-contained shrieks of pain: “Help me.”
Here, now, he wraps the hot water bottle in the cozy that Mrs. Hudson had given him, and he suddenly feels so tired and he manages to tiptoe into one of the armchairs, collapsing with a quiet sigh.
His shoulder hurts when the rain's falling particularly hard, and when he looks out the window it's difficult to make out the opposite side of the street for the downpour.
The hot water bottle gurgles as he shifts in the armchair, which is not exactly uncomfortable but he can feel the springs, and he wonders if his pension can cover the cost of reupholstery. Not everything in here, goodness no - Sherlock will complain and worse if anyone so much as breathes on his battered couch - but the armchairs will do for starters, given that John spends a lot of time in them, reading or amusing himself while the world's only consulting detective picks at, annoys, and generally is infuriating toward his infrequent visitors.
Warmth is hard to find, these days, with the summer gone so quickly that he thinks he never actually felt it. Too many cases to get through, the rounds at the clinic, trying to scrape by in a strange life filled with sociopaths and just plain strange people.
He remembers to jog his arm and stretch it out a little, and he grits his teeth against the hot surge of pain. He carefully extends his left arm to rotate it, hand on shoulder and up and down. Every movement is still agony, never mind that he's already been carrying the bullet for a year. It still takes a long time for the pain to ebb away into a facsimile of nothing that allows him to actually use the arm, if not properly.
It's so hard to sleep, on a day like this, when the rain is falling and his shoulder hurts like fury, but John starts awake a few hours later and he's warm. Blanket and a familiar dressing-gown draped over him, and the hot water bottle feels steaming against his pyjama shirt.
Sherlock is missing, but there is a note propped up next to John's arm. Have gone out on case. If indisposed, stay home. If not, ring me - SH
And John thinks he'll go and get dressed and join Sherlock, of course, but he'll stay here and try to get warm first. No sense in wasting the hot water bottle.
author: ilovetakahana
word count: 682
fandom: Sherlock [2010 BBC series]
characters: John Watson. Mention of Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Hudson.
rating: PG-13
notes: My first actual [as in, not a crossover or an AU] fic for Sherlock. Spoilers for John Watson's background.
Written for
kink_bingo. Kink: Object penetration. My card is here.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
Incoming!
I've lost my leg I don't want to lose my leg where is the medic mum!
Sssh, sssh, will someone help him calm down so I can work.
There is a soft moan, and John Watson only suddenly realizes that it's coming from him when he opens his eyes, and there is a dull throbbing pain in his shoulder, and he looks out the window and he lets out a loud sigh.
Rain. Of course. Blasted London rain that never really goes away. Umbrellas walking on the streets, shoes and wellies splashing in the puddles.
John massages his left shoulder in vain, shakes away the dreams and memories. He grunts, and gets up to look for his hot water bottle.
Sherlock is sleeping or unconscious or dead on the couch, and John tiptoes past with all the dexterity of a man dodging mines, with the sure step of a man used to making rounds of wards filled with patients.
Bullet deep beneath his skin, buried in muscle and nerve, impossible to dig it out without risking permanent paralysis. Without risking his own life and livelihood and quite possibly his sanity as well.
Sometimes, he dreams about hearing the shot. Yelling at the assisting medics to get down as the firefight started up again, his hands still steady as he sewed up his patient's arm, and then, a blinding pain and being knocked right onto his arse, into the hard-packed sand. His turn to be screamed over, people yelling for a medic for him. Muttering, “I'm the medic. I'm the doctor.”
And, his voice full of shame and barely-contained shrieks of pain: “Help me.”
Here, now, he wraps the hot water bottle in the cozy that Mrs. Hudson had given him, and he suddenly feels so tired and he manages to tiptoe into one of the armchairs, collapsing with a quiet sigh.
His shoulder hurts when the rain's falling particularly hard, and when he looks out the window it's difficult to make out the opposite side of the street for the downpour.
The hot water bottle gurgles as he shifts in the armchair, which is not exactly uncomfortable but he can feel the springs, and he wonders if his pension can cover the cost of reupholstery. Not everything in here, goodness no - Sherlock will complain and worse if anyone so much as breathes on his battered couch - but the armchairs will do for starters, given that John spends a lot of time in them, reading or amusing himself while the world's only consulting detective picks at, annoys, and generally is infuriating toward his infrequent visitors.
Warmth is hard to find, these days, with the summer gone so quickly that he thinks he never actually felt it. Too many cases to get through, the rounds at the clinic, trying to scrape by in a strange life filled with sociopaths and just plain strange people.
He remembers to jog his arm and stretch it out a little, and he grits his teeth against the hot surge of pain. He carefully extends his left arm to rotate it, hand on shoulder and up and down. Every movement is still agony, never mind that he's already been carrying the bullet for a year. It still takes a long time for the pain to ebb away into a facsimile of nothing that allows him to actually use the arm, if not properly.
It's so hard to sleep, on a day like this, when the rain is falling and his shoulder hurts like fury, but John starts awake a few hours later and he's warm. Blanket and a familiar dressing-gown draped over him, and the hot water bottle feels steaming against his pyjama shirt.
Sherlock is missing, but there is a note propped up next to John's arm. Have gone out on case. If indisposed, stay home. If not, ring me - SH
And John thinks he'll go and get dressed and join Sherlock, of course, but he'll stay here and try to get warm first. No sense in wasting the hot water bottle.