Fic - Thanks For The Adventure - John/Sherlock - PG-13
Title: Thanks For The Adventure
Prompt: Over at sherlockbbc_fic: Something like the beginning of "Up", with Sherlock and John in place of Carl and Ellie. Make me weep, authors. Make me weep.
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft's daughter (OC)
Summary: Sherlock's fingers brushed over the item that Mycroft had left without explanation. The words My Adventure Book were across the front in multicoloured lettering, and the book bulged with things clearly that little bit too big for its pages.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to The Moff, Godtiss and the BBC. Up belongs to Disney/Pixar. This is just for fun.
Rating: PG-13
Contains: Character death, angst, bereavement, mentions of terminal illness and terrorism.
Word Count: ~1500
Notes: Written as a fill on the kink meme. I felt compelled to write it seeing as I'd watched Up a few hours previously!
Sherlock returned to 221b Baker Street, plastic carrier in hand, to find Mycroft sitting in his chair, and his six-year-old niece sitting in John’s.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he roared, ignoring Mycroft entirely, throwing the carrier bag onto the table still strewn with John’s receipts, his change, his post-it notes and rounding on his niece. ‘Get out of there, that’s John’s chair!’ he bellowed, his eyes wild, his curls falling into his eyes.
Margaret whimpered and jumped out of the chair, darting around Sherlock and over to Mycroft, who pulled her onto his lap and into his chest. ‘There, there,’ he murmured, stroking her hair. ‘Sherlock.’
Ignoring him, Sherlock shifted the angle of John’s chair a fraction of an inch and plumped the Union Jack cushion up, resting it against the back of the armchair. ‘It’s not right, it’s not right,’ he muttered frantically under his breath, tugging his hair. He straightened up and grabbed his box of nicotine patches off the mantelpiece, his hands trembling as he slapped a fourth one onto his forearm, gritting his teeth. ‘Why did you sit there?’ he roared again, whirling round and towering over Margaret, who curled tighter into Mycroft. ‘You know that’s John’s seat, you know you’re not to sit there, you stupid--’
‘Enough,’ Mycroft said, his tone even, though it had a dangerous edge. He stood up, keeping one hand on the top of Margaret’s head as he stared Sherlock down. ‘That is enough, Sherlock,’ he said, taking hold of Sherlock’s upper arm and tightening his grip when Sherlock tried to pull away.
‘What are you doing here?’ Sherlock spat, glaring, his chest heaving.
‘Margaret was concerned about you,’ Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows. ‘As was I.’
‘I have no need for your pity,’ Sherlock snapped, wrenching his arm out of Mycroft’s grip and grabbing the carrier bag off the living room table, stalking into the kitchen with it, shoving the milk in the fridge and the bread into a cupboard, slamming its door hard, his palm resting flat against it.
‘Come along, Peggy,’ Mycroft murmured, picking his daughter up and pressing a kiss to her damp cheek. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Sherlock,’ he said, walking into the kitchen and leaving a thick book on the counter next to Sherlock’s hip. He picked up his umbrella that had been resting against the coat stand and left the flat, still holding onto Margaret tightly, talking to her very quietly.
A choked sob escaped Sherlock’s throat as he glanced over at John’s chair again, dropping his hands to the counter to hold himself up as he breathed in deeply. His fingers brushed over the item that Mycroft had left without explanation. The words My Adventure Book were across the front in multicoloured lettering, and the book bulged with things clearly that little bit too big for its pages.
He opened it.
When I am bigger, a childish hand had written, I am going to be a doctor so that I can make Granny Watson better.
Sherlock bit his lip when he realised who the book belonged to, a lump appearing in his throat and his eyes pricking uncomfortably. He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs slowly, holding the book with both hands, resting it on the table with more care than he’d ever taken with anything before.
A drawing accompanied John’s statement of intent regarding his career; John (labelled, with an arrow), administering medicine to an elderly lady.
I am going to be a doctor and also a soldier so I can save people if there’s been a bomb.
Sherlock frowned as he looked inside an envelope that had been glued to the page, full of newspaper cuttings, yellowed with age. He scanned the lines of text and sighed heavily when he pieced the story together. Juliet Watson, thirty-five, Provisional IRA, justice, bombing, Juliet Watson, court case, Juliet Watson, mother of two, justice, IRA, bomb, twenty-three dead, Juliet Watson, central London, twenty-three, terrorist activity, leaves behind Harriet, eight, and John, six.
Closing his eyes, Sherlock swallowed before returning the cuttings to their envelope. He turned the page and smiled at the photographs of seven, eight, nine-year-old John that had been stuck into the book, his eyes just as kind and knowing then as they had been when he was grown. Sherlock watched as John grew up across the pages, anything from a rugby match to a walk in the woods to a trip to the shopping centre being classed as an adventure and documented in the book. Photocopies of John’s exam results, old Valentine’s cards, receipts, post-its, letters, train and bus tickets were all stuck down alongside photos and the occasional comment from John in his neat-for-a-doctor handwriting that changed along with his appearance throughout the years.
Holding back another sob, Sherlock clutched at his hair as he looked at John at university, John in his first white coat, John after a shift at the hospital, John in his first picture in his army uniform, John in Afghanistan with his shirt off, skin not yet marked with the scars that Sherlock had traced with his fingertips, with his mouth, his nose, his eyelashes. Hand trembling, Sherlock sniffed wetly and turned the page, the single photograph of John’s room before Baker Street and the small, miserable note of no more adventures making his stomach twist.
He turned the page again, his stomach twisting once more as he looked at the double page devoted to the interior of their flat, photographs of each room pasted down along with comments from John: Skull a bit disconcerting, head in the fridge more than a bit disconcerting but let’s not go into that, telly decent, room nice, bathroom functional, kitchen would be better without the human body parts but we’ve got to keep Sherlock occupied somehow. Sherlock laughed despite himself, tears rolling down his cheeks as he gripped the book tightly, turning over.
Sherlock is an adventure all by himself. Sherlock is wonderful, John had written next to a picture of Sherlock bent over his microscope in the kitchen. Another note had been added at a later date, in a different pen: and the things I’m going to do to that arse...
Tube tickets, bits of disguises, cyphers, case notes scrawled in Sherlock’s own hand, typed-up and published versions of events from John, photographs of the kitchen after a couple of particularly volatile experiments, a lock of Sherlock’s hair and a lock of John’s taped down next to one another, a condom wrapper glued next to a date and the word incredible, a page from TV Choice magazine proving Sherlock wrong over the paternity of a child from the Jeremy Kyle Show and apparently it’s not all in the turn-ups, Sherlock filled the pages after that. There were two pages of photos of Sherlock and John; a couple of candids that Lestrade had taken when John had forced Sherlock to the pub one Friday when, remarkably, nothing was happening; one in the entrance hall of the Holmes family’s house small palace of them both in a suit for a dinner they’d both been forced to by Mycroft, one that Sherlock had screencapped and John had printed from a video they’d accidentally taken of the two of them cuddling on the sofa together.
Sherlock was crying openly, taking huge, shuddering breaths as he sobbed at the unfairness of it all, how unfair it was that someone as extraordinary and resilient as John Watson, who could survive getting shot and blown up and stabbed would succumb to something as ordinary, something as dull and horrendous as cancer. He sobbed at the fact he was alone, again, that he’d never be able to fill the spaces left by John in the flat and his head and his heart, that he’d had something, someone sure and steady and understanding for ten years before having him snatched away not six weeks after ’I’m afraid it’s very advanced, Doctor Watson, there’s very little we can do for you at this stage.’ He sobbed and sobbed as he looked at John’s smiling face and read his comments and notes and captions.
He turned the page and screwed his eyes shut at the few words written in a hand that was unsteady, but recognisably John’s.
Thanks for the adventure, now go and have some more!
All my love, always.
John.
Prompt: Over at sherlockbbc_fic: Something like the beginning of "Up", with Sherlock and John in place of Carl and Ellie. Make me weep, authors. Make me weep.
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft's daughter (OC)
Summary: Sherlock's fingers brushed over the item that Mycroft had left without explanation. The words My Adventure Book were across the front in multicoloured lettering, and the book bulged with things clearly that little bit too big for its pages.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to The Moff, Godtiss and the BBC. Up belongs to Disney/Pixar. This is just for fun.
Rating: PG-13
Contains: Character death, angst, bereavement, mentions of terminal illness and terrorism.
Word Count: ~1500
Notes: Written as a fill on the kink meme. I felt compelled to write it seeing as I'd watched Up a few hours previously!
Sherlock returned to 221b Baker Street, plastic carrier in hand, to find Mycroft sitting in his chair, and his six-year-old niece sitting in John’s.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he roared, ignoring Mycroft entirely, throwing the carrier bag onto the table still strewn with John’s receipts, his change, his post-it notes and rounding on his niece. ‘Get out of there, that’s John’s chair!’ he bellowed, his eyes wild, his curls falling into his eyes.
Margaret whimpered and jumped out of the chair, darting around Sherlock and over to Mycroft, who pulled her onto his lap and into his chest. ‘There, there,’ he murmured, stroking her hair. ‘Sherlock.’
Ignoring him, Sherlock shifted the angle of John’s chair a fraction of an inch and plumped the Union Jack cushion up, resting it against the back of the armchair. ‘It’s not right, it’s not right,’ he muttered frantically under his breath, tugging his hair. He straightened up and grabbed his box of nicotine patches off the mantelpiece, his hands trembling as he slapped a fourth one onto his forearm, gritting his teeth. ‘Why did you sit there?’ he roared again, whirling round and towering over Margaret, who curled tighter into Mycroft. ‘You know that’s John’s seat, you know you’re not to sit there, you stupid--’
‘Enough,’ Mycroft said, his tone even, though it had a dangerous edge. He stood up, keeping one hand on the top of Margaret’s head as he stared Sherlock down. ‘That is enough, Sherlock,’ he said, taking hold of Sherlock’s upper arm and tightening his grip when Sherlock tried to pull away.
‘What are you doing here?’ Sherlock spat, glaring, his chest heaving.
‘Margaret was concerned about you,’ Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows. ‘As was I.’
‘I have no need for your pity,’ Sherlock snapped, wrenching his arm out of Mycroft’s grip and grabbing the carrier bag off the living room table, stalking into the kitchen with it, shoving the milk in the fridge and the bread into a cupboard, slamming its door hard, his palm resting flat against it.
‘Come along, Peggy,’ Mycroft murmured, picking his daughter up and pressing a kiss to her damp cheek. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Sherlock,’ he said, walking into the kitchen and leaving a thick book on the counter next to Sherlock’s hip. He picked up his umbrella that had been resting against the coat stand and left the flat, still holding onto Margaret tightly, talking to her very quietly.
A choked sob escaped Sherlock’s throat as he glanced over at John’s chair again, dropping his hands to the counter to hold himself up as he breathed in deeply. His fingers brushed over the item that Mycroft had left without explanation. The words My Adventure Book were across the front in multicoloured lettering, and the book bulged with things clearly that little bit too big for its pages.
He opened it.
When I am bigger, a childish hand had written, I am going to be a doctor so that I can make Granny Watson better.
Sherlock bit his lip when he realised who the book belonged to, a lump appearing in his throat and his eyes pricking uncomfortably. He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs slowly, holding the book with both hands, resting it on the table with more care than he’d ever taken with anything before.
A drawing accompanied John’s statement of intent regarding his career; John (labelled, with an arrow), administering medicine to an elderly lady.
I am going to be a doctor and also a soldier so I can save people if there’s been a bomb.
Sherlock frowned as he looked inside an envelope that had been glued to the page, full of newspaper cuttings, yellowed with age. He scanned the lines of text and sighed heavily when he pieced the story together. Juliet Watson, thirty-five, Provisional IRA, justice, bombing, Juliet Watson, court case, Juliet Watson, mother of two, justice, IRA, bomb, twenty-three dead, Juliet Watson, central London, twenty-three, terrorist activity, leaves behind Harriet, eight, and John, six.
Closing his eyes, Sherlock swallowed before returning the cuttings to their envelope. He turned the page and smiled at the photographs of seven, eight, nine-year-old John that had been stuck into the book, his eyes just as kind and knowing then as they had been when he was grown. Sherlock watched as John grew up across the pages, anything from a rugby match to a walk in the woods to a trip to the shopping centre being classed as an adventure and documented in the book. Photocopies of John’s exam results, old Valentine’s cards, receipts, post-its, letters, train and bus tickets were all stuck down alongside photos and the occasional comment from John in his neat-for-a-doctor handwriting that changed along with his appearance throughout the years.
Holding back another sob, Sherlock clutched at his hair as he looked at John at university, John in his first white coat, John after a shift at the hospital, John in his first picture in his army uniform, John in Afghanistan with his shirt off, skin not yet marked with the scars that Sherlock had traced with his fingertips, with his mouth, his nose, his eyelashes. Hand trembling, Sherlock sniffed wetly and turned the page, the single photograph of John’s room before Baker Street and the small, miserable note of no more adventures making his stomach twist.
He turned the page again, his stomach twisting once more as he looked at the double page devoted to the interior of their flat, photographs of each room pasted down along with comments from John: Skull a bit disconcerting, head in the fridge more than a bit disconcerting but let’s not go into that, telly decent, room nice, bathroom functional, kitchen would be better without the human body parts but we’ve got to keep Sherlock occupied somehow. Sherlock laughed despite himself, tears rolling down his cheeks as he gripped the book tightly, turning over.
Sherlock is an adventure all by himself. Sherlock is wonderful, John had written next to a picture of Sherlock bent over his microscope in the kitchen. Another note had been added at a later date, in a different pen: and the things I’m going to do to that arse...
Tube tickets, bits of disguises, cyphers, case notes scrawled in Sherlock’s own hand, typed-up and published versions of events from John, photographs of the kitchen after a couple of particularly volatile experiments, a lock of Sherlock’s hair and a lock of John’s taped down next to one another, a condom wrapper glued next to a date and the word incredible, a page from TV Choice magazine proving Sherlock wrong over the paternity of a child from the Jeremy Kyle Show and apparently it’s not all in the turn-ups, Sherlock filled the pages after that. There were two pages of photos of Sherlock and John; a couple of candids that Lestrade had taken when John had forced Sherlock to the pub one Friday when, remarkably, nothing was happening; one in the entrance hall of the Holmes family’s house small palace of them both in a suit for a dinner they’d both been forced to by Mycroft, one that Sherlock had screencapped and John had printed from a video they’d accidentally taken of the two of them cuddling on the sofa together.
Sherlock was crying openly, taking huge, shuddering breaths as he sobbed at the unfairness of it all, how unfair it was that someone as extraordinary and resilient as John Watson, who could survive getting shot and blown up and stabbed would succumb to something as ordinary, something as dull and horrendous as cancer. He sobbed at the fact he was alone, again, that he’d never be able to fill the spaces left by John in the flat and his head and his heart, that he’d had something, someone sure and steady and understanding for ten years before having him snatched away not six weeks after ’I’m afraid it’s very advanced, Doctor Watson, there’s very little we can do for you at this stage.’ He sobbed and sobbed as he looked at John’s smiling face and read his comments and notes and captions.
He turned the page and screwed his eyes shut at the few words written in a hand that was unsteady, but recognisably John’s.
Thanks for the adventure, now go and have some more!
All my love, always.
John.