What Friends Do
What Friends Do: John is scarred after the Pool Incident. Someone verbally harasses John, Sherlock puts a stop to it. Inspired by this prompt on the kinkmeme.
Rating: PG
Word count: 1859
Pairing: John/Sarah mentioned
Warning: Swearing, abusive language, unbeta'ed/unBritpicked.
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
"Oh my god, what IS that?!"
John didn't even blink, just kept looking for the tea he liked on the shelf in front of him. This was beyond old now - when it had first started, it had hurt, and then eventually it just made him tired, and by now it barely pinged on his awareness. The scars he'd gotten from the Pool Incident (as he called it in his head) were certainly startling, but the reactions of certain others simply baffled him at this point. He'd seen horrific damage in Afghanistan - people you could hardly believe were still alive - and it had never caused him the terror and disgust others now exhibited at the sight of him, just pity and a certain queasiness that people could hurt each other like that, even accidentally.
"Jesus, how can that thing go out in public? Surely there's some law against it!"
John froze for a second in the act of reaching for the box of tea, then made himself continue the motion. That was certainly beyond any reaction he'd heard before. Anger started simmering in his belly as he placed the tea in his basket and turned to go to the register. Footsteps followed him up to the front, but he determinedly ignored them as he started ringing up his purchases. Tea, milk (how in God's name did Sherlock go through milk so quickly?), biscuits, chicken -
There was a sound of a digital camera, the sound byte of a click. Startled, John forgot himself and looked back at his harasser. The fellow was TAKING PICTURES of him!
Stunned, John blinked a few times, then shook his head slightly and went back to the chip and pin machine, sliding his items in front of the machine slightly faster now. This was beginning to go beyond what he could tolerate, and his hands were completely steady as he scanned item after item and put them in bags.
As John swiped his card, he heard gagging noises behind him. He shut his eyes for a second, then finished his purchase. Thankfully the machine was behaving today; if it had been acting up he probably would have punched something. The lady behind him was shifting uncomfortably, edging away from him, and heads all around were swiveling from him to the abuser and away, everyone clearly noticing and no one lifting a finger to make it stop. He picked up his bags and brushed by the harasser, who literally jumped back to avoid contact.
"Ew, did you see that? It almost TOUCHED me!"
Rage filmed John's eyes for a second, almost making him walk into the side of the door. Clenching his hands around the bag's handles, he took a few deep breaths to try and calm himself down. If he didn't rein in his temper, he was certainly going to touch the man, probably with his fists, and he didn't fancy explaining himself to the police.
The walk home was almost unbearable. The abuser was following him, a couple paces back, making ungodly comments and continuing to snap photos. Alternating rage and shame washed over John, as he told himself over and over that it wasn't worth hitting him, he'd just go home and flip on the telly or call Sarah, this didn't have to ruin his day, but he knew he was lying to himself. He wanted, badly, to turn around and confront the man, but he knew if he did it would turn into a short but violent little melee, and then he'd have more than an ASBO on his record. There was no doubt that he could turn the harasser into a crying, whimpering mess on the pavement - though the man was tattooed and burly, John had had enough training to be able to make a common brawler's day very short indeed - but John prided himself on not getting into trouble with the police. It was difficult, though, now that trouble was very determinedly coming after him...
As he approached 221, John saw Sherlock burst out of the house, all excitement and swirling coat, thumbs flying on his Blackberry. John's pocket buzzed, and if he hadn't been so knotted up inside he would have grinned. Another case on, then - but how was he supposed to shake his unwanted follower?
Sherlock looked up and spotted John. "John!" he cried, a wide smile cutting his face nearly in two. "Excellent, leave those upstairs, Lestrade is on his way. Two bodies found near Covent Gardens, and -"
"It's got a boyfriend? I thought it was male! How the fuck did something that horrific get a boyfriend, what kind of freak is he? Fucking faggots!"
John felt sick. It was one thing to harass him for his scars, but this...he tipped over the edge from rage into hurt with a quickness that almost made him gasp. Mid-stride, Sherlock stopped. The gray eyes narrowed very slightly, looking at John's face, and then over John's shoulder at the abuser. Flick, flick, flick went the eyes, and Sherlock's expression was very cold indeed. "I see. I was wondering..." Sherlock mused quietly.
"What are you looking at, faggot?"
The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up very, very slightly. The sound of a car door slamming behind him didn't seem to affect him at all as he took two measured steps toward the man, putting him next to John. "I believe I'm looking at someone who thinks they're tough. Unfortunately it's obvious that you're so riddled with neuroses that Freud would have a field day. Grew up poor, not starving but close enough to it that it affected home life, abusive parents, possibly the father, more likely both. He beat you with his fists and his belt, she used words, maybe crockery, and quite probably they both drank heavily. The tattoos suggest you affiliate yourself with some sort of gang, the swastikas suggest you follow the tiresome idea that those who look different than you are lesser than you, since you need someone to blame for how marginalized you feel by the world. Attacking others so no one sees how small you feel..."
By this time John had turned around, and the knot in his stomach unclenched a bit at the way the man's jaw was slowly dropping. Footsteps were coming up behind them, but Sherlock was still paying no attention, as he continued, "There's more. The attack on my colleague suggests you believe that people who don't retaliate are weaker than you, which is frankly idiotic beyond the norm, and suggests that you don't realize exactly how close to a broken jaw you've been skating. The suggestion that we are in a relationship probably stems from your own homophobia, which in turn is almost certainly caused by your own homosexual tendencies which you've been squashing since you were a small child, not very successfully if your pants are any indication. Given the gang ties and the camera you're holding, I'd say it's very likely you were involved in the break-in and assault last week at the electronics shop on Edgware Road, which I believe Inspector Lestrade here mentioned a few days ago..."
The footsteps had stopped a few sentences ago, and John glanced over to notice the grim face of DI Lestrade and the equally angry face of Donovan. "Brutal," Lestrade said shortly. "Donovan?"
"My pleasure, sir," Donovan said, a slightly feral gleam in her eye as she walked toward the harasser, who was looking absolutely horrified at the things Sherlock had said. The slightly glazed look on his face lasted just long enough that when he came back to himself, turned, and tried to flee, Donovan burst into a short but terrific sprint and tackled the man with more force than John had expected from her. She was particularly ungentle in her handcuffing job, and hauled the man upright with a strength that would have surprised most people, frog-marching him past them and shoving him roughly into the car.
"You all right?" Sherlock asked John, who realized he was still clutching the groceries.
"Yea - yea, I'm fine, let me take these upstairs," he replied, feeling slightly dazed. Lestrade nodded at him, and then he and Sherlock started discussing the case as John unlocked the door and hurriedly ran upstairs and put away the few items that needed refrigeration. After he came back down, locking the doors behind him, Sherlock was attempting to hail a taxi and Lestrade and Donovan were pulling away, the abuser locked in the backseat. "So, how did you know about the break-in?" John asked, as a taxi pulled up and they bundled themselves inside.
"I didn't. Bit of a shot in the dark, but a common ruffian like that owning that expensive of a camera was highly unlikely, and his reaction confirmed it. He'll be going away for some time, the shopkeeper's injuries were extensive, if nothing he won't recover from eventually." Sherlock smiled, the expression managing to look both fierce and pleased. "Certainly made Lestrade's day, word was they were having some trouble catching that particular gang. Having one inside, particularly one that off his guard, should make it easy to crack that ring wide open. If I didn't know better I'd say you deliberately trapped him."
John smiled a bit, the expression fading quickly. Sherlock glanced up and caught the look on John's face. "Oh for God's sake John, stop looking like someone kicked your puppy," he said disgustedly. "Your scars didn't lead him to harass me, his ignorance did, and if you possibly think for one second anything that moron said was true, you're almost as stupid as he is. Honestly, criminals like him make Anderson look like my brother."
The statement startled a giggle out of John, who had indeed been feeling an odd mixture of guilt, shame, and self-loathing at not simply what the man had said about himself, but about Sherlock. Dealing with people reacting to him was hard but possible; John couldn't stand the idea that his disfigurement had caused someone to try and hurt his friend. He should have realized that someone like his harasser couldn't ruffle Sherlock's serene exterior, but... "Why did you say those things, anyway?" John asked, curious to know why Sherlock had even spent that much time on the man.
Turning toward the window, Sherlock looked oddly embarrassed. "It was clear his words were upsetting you. I...thought you might feel better to hear the truth about him."
Sitting back, John tried to grapple with that statement. Sherlock had picked the man apart simply because he, John, had been upset. That was...surprising, actually.
Sherlock looked back over at John. "That is what friends do, correct? Stand up for one another?"
Huffing a small laugh, John felt the knot in his stomach come undone entirely as he squeezed Sherlock's hand in thanks. "Yes Sherlock, it is. Thank you."
"It was nothing," Sherlock dismissed, but he squeezed John's hand back, and they sat that way the rest of the cab ride to the crime scene.
I may write an epilogue to this, which I'll probably post on its own.
Rating: PG
Word count: 1859
Pairing: John/Sarah mentioned
Warning: Swearing, abusive language, unbeta'ed/unBritpicked.
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
"Oh my god, what IS that?!"
John didn't even blink, just kept looking for the tea he liked on the shelf in front of him. This was beyond old now - when it had first started, it had hurt, and then eventually it just made him tired, and by now it barely pinged on his awareness. The scars he'd gotten from the Pool Incident (as he called it in his head) were certainly startling, but the reactions of certain others simply baffled him at this point. He'd seen horrific damage in Afghanistan - people you could hardly believe were still alive - and it had never caused him the terror and disgust others now exhibited at the sight of him, just pity and a certain queasiness that people could hurt each other like that, even accidentally.
"Jesus, how can that thing go out in public? Surely there's some law against it!"
John froze for a second in the act of reaching for the box of tea, then made himself continue the motion. That was certainly beyond any reaction he'd heard before. Anger started simmering in his belly as he placed the tea in his basket and turned to go to the register. Footsteps followed him up to the front, but he determinedly ignored them as he started ringing up his purchases. Tea, milk (how in God's name did Sherlock go through milk so quickly?), biscuits, chicken -
There was a sound of a digital camera, the sound byte of a click. Startled, John forgot himself and looked back at his harasser. The fellow was TAKING PICTURES of him!
Stunned, John blinked a few times, then shook his head slightly and went back to the chip and pin machine, sliding his items in front of the machine slightly faster now. This was beginning to go beyond what he could tolerate, and his hands were completely steady as he scanned item after item and put them in bags.
As John swiped his card, he heard gagging noises behind him. He shut his eyes for a second, then finished his purchase. Thankfully the machine was behaving today; if it had been acting up he probably would have punched something. The lady behind him was shifting uncomfortably, edging away from him, and heads all around were swiveling from him to the abuser and away, everyone clearly noticing and no one lifting a finger to make it stop. He picked up his bags and brushed by the harasser, who literally jumped back to avoid contact.
"Ew, did you see that? It almost TOUCHED me!"
Rage filmed John's eyes for a second, almost making him walk into the side of the door. Clenching his hands around the bag's handles, he took a few deep breaths to try and calm himself down. If he didn't rein in his temper, he was certainly going to touch the man, probably with his fists, and he didn't fancy explaining himself to the police.
The walk home was almost unbearable. The abuser was following him, a couple paces back, making ungodly comments and continuing to snap photos. Alternating rage and shame washed over John, as he told himself over and over that it wasn't worth hitting him, he'd just go home and flip on the telly or call Sarah, this didn't have to ruin his day, but he knew he was lying to himself. He wanted, badly, to turn around and confront the man, but he knew if he did it would turn into a short but violent little melee, and then he'd have more than an ASBO on his record. There was no doubt that he could turn the harasser into a crying, whimpering mess on the pavement - though the man was tattooed and burly, John had had enough training to be able to make a common brawler's day very short indeed - but John prided himself on not getting into trouble with the police. It was difficult, though, now that trouble was very determinedly coming after him...
As he approached 221, John saw Sherlock burst out of the house, all excitement and swirling coat, thumbs flying on his Blackberry. John's pocket buzzed, and if he hadn't been so knotted up inside he would have grinned. Another case on, then - but how was he supposed to shake his unwanted follower?
Sherlock looked up and spotted John. "John!" he cried, a wide smile cutting his face nearly in two. "Excellent, leave those upstairs, Lestrade is on his way. Two bodies found near Covent Gardens, and -"
"It's got a boyfriend? I thought it was male! How the fuck did something that horrific get a boyfriend, what kind of freak is he? Fucking faggots!"
John felt sick. It was one thing to harass him for his scars, but this...he tipped over the edge from rage into hurt with a quickness that almost made him gasp. Mid-stride, Sherlock stopped. The gray eyes narrowed very slightly, looking at John's face, and then over John's shoulder at the abuser. Flick, flick, flick went the eyes, and Sherlock's expression was very cold indeed. "I see. I was wondering..." Sherlock mused quietly.
"What are you looking at, faggot?"
The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up very, very slightly. The sound of a car door slamming behind him didn't seem to affect him at all as he took two measured steps toward the man, putting him next to John. "I believe I'm looking at someone who thinks they're tough. Unfortunately it's obvious that you're so riddled with neuroses that Freud would have a field day. Grew up poor, not starving but close enough to it that it affected home life, abusive parents, possibly the father, more likely both. He beat you with his fists and his belt, she used words, maybe crockery, and quite probably they both drank heavily. The tattoos suggest you affiliate yourself with some sort of gang, the swastikas suggest you follow the tiresome idea that those who look different than you are lesser than you, since you need someone to blame for how marginalized you feel by the world. Attacking others so no one sees how small you feel..."
By this time John had turned around, and the knot in his stomach unclenched a bit at the way the man's jaw was slowly dropping. Footsteps were coming up behind them, but Sherlock was still paying no attention, as he continued, "There's more. The attack on my colleague suggests you believe that people who don't retaliate are weaker than you, which is frankly idiotic beyond the norm, and suggests that you don't realize exactly how close to a broken jaw you've been skating. The suggestion that we are in a relationship probably stems from your own homophobia, which in turn is almost certainly caused by your own homosexual tendencies which you've been squashing since you were a small child, not very successfully if your pants are any indication. Given the gang ties and the camera you're holding, I'd say it's very likely you were involved in the break-in and assault last week at the electronics shop on Edgware Road, which I believe Inspector Lestrade here mentioned a few days ago..."
The footsteps had stopped a few sentences ago, and John glanced over to notice the grim face of DI Lestrade and the equally angry face of Donovan. "Brutal," Lestrade said shortly. "Donovan?"
"My pleasure, sir," Donovan said, a slightly feral gleam in her eye as she walked toward the harasser, who was looking absolutely horrified at the things Sherlock had said. The slightly glazed look on his face lasted just long enough that when he came back to himself, turned, and tried to flee, Donovan burst into a short but terrific sprint and tackled the man with more force than John had expected from her. She was particularly ungentle in her handcuffing job, and hauled the man upright with a strength that would have surprised most people, frog-marching him past them and shoving him roughly into the car.
"You all right?" Sherlock asked John, who realized he was still clutching the groceries.
"Yea - yea, I'm fine, let me take these upstairs," he replied, feeling slightly dazed. Lestrade nodded at him, and then he and Sherlock started discussing the case as John unlocked the door and hurriedly ran upstairs and put away the few items that needed refrigeration. After he came back down, locking the doors behind him, Sherlock was attempting to hail a taxi and Lestrade and Donovan were pulling away, the abuser locked in the backseat. "So, how did you know about the break-in?" John asked, as a taxi pulled up and they bundled themselves inside.
"I didn't. Bit of a shot in the dark, but a common ruffian like that owning that expensive of a camera was highly unlikely, and his reaction confirmed it. He'll be going away for some time, the shopkeeper's injuries were extensive, if nothing he won't recover from eventually." Sherlock smiled, the expression managing to look both fierce and pleased. "Certainly made Lestrade's day, word was they were having some trouble catching that particular gang. Having one inside, particularly one that off his guard, should make it easy to crack that ring wide open. If I didn't know better I'd say you deliberately trapped him."
John smiled a bit, the expression fading quickly. Sherlock glanced up and caught the look on John's face. "Oh for God's sake John, stop looking like someone kicked your puppy," he said disgustedly. "Your scars didn't lead him to harass me, his ignorance did, and if you possibly think for one second anything that moron said was true, you're almost as stupid as he is. Honestly, criminals like him make Anderson look like my brother."
The statement startled a giggle out of John, who had indeed been feeling an odd mixture of guilt, shame, and self-loathing at not simply what the man had said about himself, but about Sherlock. Dealing with people reacting to him was hard but possible; John couldn't stand the idea that his disfigurement had caused someone to try and hurt his friend. He should have realized that someone like his harasser couldn't ruffle Sherlock's serene exterior, but... "Why did you say those things, anyway?" John asked, curious to know why Sherlock had even spent that much time on the man.
Turning toward the window, Sherlock looked oddly embarrassed. "It was clear his words were upsetting you. I...thought you might feel better to hear the truth about him."
Sitting back, John tried to grapple with that statement. Sherlock had picked the man apart simply because he, John, had been upset. That was...surprising, actually.
Sherlock looked back over at John. "That is what friends do, correct? Stand up for one another?"
Huffing a small laugh, John felt the knot in his stomach come undone entirely as he squeezed Sherlock's hand in thanks. "Yes Sherlock, it is. Thank you."
"It was nothing," Sherlock dismissed, but he squeezed John's hand back, and they sat that way the rest of the cab ride to the crime scene.
I may write an epilogue to this, which I'll probably post on its own.