Fic: Black Star
Title: Black Star
Genre: Angst
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Words: 628
Summary: Due to some trauma, Sherlock becomes catatonic. John looks after him, but knows the old Sherlock is gone.
Warning: lots of angst.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money earned.
AN: Written to the song Black Star by Radiohead, but does not require the song for understanding. Requested by skyway ;. I hadn't planned on writing it today, but leave it to Radiohead to be so inspiring. Hope you enjoy!
John's face is pulled in a grimace, hands balled into fists over his eyes. He will not, absofuckinglutely will NOT have a melt-down in the middle of work.
It is happening more and more often. A glimpse of the back of a long coat, a boy with curly black hair, a baby with big light eyes, and memories would swim up to the surface, memories of before Moriarty, before the kidnapping.
He remembers the days when he would come back home to Sherlock, clad in those infuriatingly well-fitted dressing gowns, hyperactive and sulking at the same time. He would sigh, put on a kettle, and try to get Sherlock engaged enough to settle on dinner plans.
What have they done to you?
During the first few months, John had tried everything. He tried being gentle, being rough. He had rattled and hugged him, shouted at and kissed him, but nothing, nothing happened. He had researched until he had bags under his eyes, consulted psychologists, psychiatrists, neurologists, even a mystic. He shoved stimuli after stimuli at the unmoving body on the couch.
-
A few months after the incident, a black car had pulled alongside John on his way home. He did not want to meet Mycroft, so Mycroft came to meet him. The older man hadn't tried the persuasions others did, merely explained the facts of the situation, and implored John to 'do the reasonable thing'. John told him what Sherlock would have said, even gave a gibe about his weight that Sherlock would have been proud of. Mycroft looked down and sighed. He took out a notepad, scribbled something, tore it out, and handed it to John.
“Anytime you're ready, Dr. Watson.”
John grabbed the paper roughly, and carelessly stuffed it in his pocket without looking. He would not give in. He would never betray Sherlock like that.
“Can I go now, Sherlock's waiting.”
Mycroft gave one curt nod, then shrugged back into his car.
-
Time passed and John's desperation had turned into resignation. The sympathetic visits from Sarah, Lestrade, Molly had turned into courtesy small-talk and pitying glances. Even Mrs. Hudson had stopped dropping by with cuppa, not even to hassle for rent. Eventually his savings ran out, and he went to Sarah to seek one last favor.
Now he goes to work at eight and comes home at five. He leaves tip for the sitter on the dining table and wraps a blanket around Sherlock before he goes. When he comes home he prepares a simple meal, a microwaved burger for him, and protein mush for Sherlock. He bathes Sherlock with a sponge, reads him a bedtime story, and falls asleep holding a limp hand.
Sometimes he turns on the telly and tunes it into a random news channel for Sherlock. Today, he had put a chemistry textbook into Sherlock's lap, and placed his hand over the cover. When he came home, Sherlock hadn't moved from his sitting position, eyes staring straight ahead and unfocused. The book is still firmly closed on his lap.
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, so John looks into Sherlock's startling grey-blue orbs. And he pretends that he can see the brilliance trapped behind them, pretends that amazing consciousness is whirling away, secretly laughing at John and the world.
Come back to me. He whispers in vain. Empty pale eyes gaze back, unblinking. John screws his eyes shut, but can not prevent the hot tears trickling down his cheeks. He tenderly brushes away the dark curls from Sherlock's forehead and lays down a gentle kiss. Then, he pulls out the scrap of paper Mycroft had given him, and dials the number written there.
Genre: Angst
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Words: 628
Summary: Due to some trauma, Sherlock becomes catatonic. John looks after him, but knows the old Sherlock is gone.
Warning: lots of angst.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money earned.
AN: Written to the song Black Star by Radiohead, but does not require the song for understanding. Requested by skyway ;. I hadn't planned on writing it today, but leave it to Radiohead to be so inspiring. Hope you enjoy!
John's face is pulled in a grimace, hands balled into fists over his eyes. He will not, absofuckinglutely will NOT have a melt-down in the middle of work.
It is happening more and more often. A glimpse of the back of a long coat, a boy with curly black hair, a baby with big light eyes, and memories would swim up to the surface, memories of before Moriarty, before the kidnapping.
He remembers the days when he would come back home to Sherlock, clad in those infuriatingly well-fitted dressing gowns, hyperactive and sulking at the same time. He would sigh, put on a kettle, and try to get Sherlock engaged enough to settle on dinner plans.
What have they done to you?
During the first few months, John had tried everything. He tried being gentle, being rough. He had rattled and hugged him, shouted at and kissed him, but nothing, nothing happened. He had researched until he had bags under his eyes, consulted psychologists, psychiatrists, neurologists, even a mystic. He shoved stimuli after stimuli at the unmoving body on the couch.
-
A few months after the incident, a black car had pulled alongside John on his way home. He did not want to meet Mycroft, so Mycroft came to meet him. The older man hadn't tried the persuasions others did, merely explained the facts of the situation, and implored John to 'do the reasonable thing'. John told him what Sherlock would have said, even gave a gibe about his weight that Sherlock would have been proud of. Mycroft looked down and sighed. He took out a notepad, scribbled something, tore it out, and handed it to John.
“Anytime you're ready, Dr. Watson.”
John grabbed the paper roughly, and carelessly stuffed it in his pocket without looking. He would not give in. He would never betray Sherlock like that.
“Can I go now, Sherlock's waiting.”
Mycroft gave one curt nod, then shrugged back into his car.
-
Time passed and John's desperation had turned into resignation. The sympathetic visits from Sarah, Lestrade, Molly had turned into courtesy small-talk and pitying glances. Even Mrs. Hudson had stopped dropping by with cuppa, not even to hassle for rent. Eventually his savings ran out, and he went to Sarah to seek one last favor.
Now he goes to work at eight and comes home at five. He leaves tip for the sitter on the dining table and wraps a blanket around Sherlock before he goes. When he comes home he prepares a simple meal, a microwaved burger for him, and protein mush for Sherlock. He bathes Sherlock with a sponge, reads him a bedtime story, and falls asleep holding a limp hand.
Sometimes he turns on the telly and tunes it into a random news channel for Sherlock. Today, he had put a chemistry textbook into Sherlock's lap, and placed his hand over the cover. When he came home, Sherlock hadn't moved from his sitting position, eyes staring straight ahead and unfocused. The book is still firmly closed on his lap.
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, so John looks into Sherlock's startling grey-blue orbs. And he pretends that he can see the brilliance trapped behind them, pretends that amazing consciousness is whirling away, secretly laughing at John and the world.
Come back to me. He whispers in vain. Empty pale eyes gaze back, unblinking. John screws his eyes shut, but can not prevent the hot tears trickling down his cheeks. He tenderly brushes away the dark curls from Sherlock's forehead and lays down a gentle kiss. Then, he pulls out the scrap of paper Mycroft had given him, and dials the number written there.