(no subject)
Fandom: Sherlock (2010)
Title: It's All Fine
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Notes: slight spoilers for Episode 1; a small piece of dialogue lifted from the story The Speckled Band.
Synopsis: John's not sure everything is all fine, after all.
“It’s all fine.”
That was what he had said in the restaurant two weeks ago, trying to ignore the jolt of alarm that passed through him after Sherlock made that comment about being married to my work.
It wasn’t all fine, not at all. Because there’s fine for civvy street and there’s fine for the real world, alright? That was something he wouldn’t be admitting to his therapist, especially since she was so very interested in his new living situation and the fact that he’d left his cane behind. He wished he’d thought to bring it to the appointment with him. It was much easier not to answer questions.
John turned over in bed, remembering what Mycroft had said to him. About how his hands didn’t shake when he was in danger. How he missed the warzone. He had wanted to say he was wrong, that he had nightmares about getting shot, that he was glad to be out of the heat and dust and away from watching men younger than him get shot to pieces. But he’d been reduced to silence by the shocking jolt of recognition he had felt at Mycroft’s words. The army was the real world, the place that had made him, a society that he understood, a place where he was useful, and now -
(Please God, let me live and the pain which was so much worse after the operation than it was before, a thin high whine all through him as machines had beeped by his bedside, and then the dreams that morphine had brought him. He saw the things that had crawled out of the walls in his nightmares now, and he would wake in his bed with his sheets clinging to him like he had a fever, like the night in the hospital when his wound had got infected and his temperature soared, and behind him things in the wall chittered in an alien and hungry language.)
Now was better than the long grey days after he had got back to England, shivering as he readjusted to the climate, ache all through his leg and shoulder. He felt now like the colour had come back into things, that he could see again as clearly as he had in Afghanistan, where even after twenty hour shifts in the fifty degree heat he had felt entirely present. These days he felt as awake as he had done as a soldier, and that was where it all stopped being fine. Because of why he felt fine.
“You’re an idiot,” he said aloud, and then his bedroom door opened and Sherlock came in. John pulled the sheets up to his chest, rather absurdly, and sat up.
“What are you doing?” he said. “It’s three in the morning.”
“I heard you talking to yourself, so I surmised you were not asleep,” Sherlock observed. He was still dressed. With the hall light behind him his skin looked very pale. “I still can’t find my skull - Mrs Hudson can be stubborn - and I wanted to talk to it about this speckled band business.”
“And I will do, I suppose,” John replied drily.
“In a pinch, if you stay quiet.”
“Not a problem,” said John, affecting disinterest, and he lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes. Sherlock began pacing around the room, his shoes making a soft sound on the carpet.
“Miss Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place. I think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines…”
Although John had only intended to simulate sleep, there was something - comforting about his flatmate’s voice. And when Sherlock was with him, it was easier to ignore the other questions in his mind, to stop wondering about why this felt quite so much how things were supposed to be. It’s all fine, Sherlock’s steady narrative seemed to tell him, and John at last drifted into dreamless sleep.
Title: It's All Fine
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Notes: slight spoilers for Episode 1; a small piece of dialogue lifted from the story The Speckled Band.
Synopsis: John's not sure everything is all fine, after all.
“It’s all fine.”
That was what he had said in the restaurant two weeks ago, trying to ignore the jolt of alarm that passed through him after Sherlock made that comment about being married to my work.
It wasn’t all fine, not at all. Because there’s fine for civvy street and there’s fine for the real world, alright? That was something he wouldn’t be admitting to his therapist, especially since she was so very interested in his new living situation and the fact that he’d left his cane behind. He wished he’d thought to bring it to the appointment with him. It was much easier not to answer questions.
John turned over in bed, remembering what Mycroft had said to him. About how his hands didn’t shake when he was in danger. How he missed the warzone. He had wanted to say he was wrong, that he had nightmares about getting shot, that he was glad to be out of the heat and dust and away from watching men younger than him get shot to pieces. But he’d been reduced to silence by the shocking jolt of recognition he had felt at Mycroft’s words. The army was the real world, the place that had made him, a society that he understood, a place where he was useful, and now -
(Please God, let me live and the pain which was so much worse after the operation than it was before, a thin high whine all through him as machines had beeped by his bedside, and then the dreams that morphine had brought him. He saw the things that had crawled out of the walls in his nightmares now, and he would wake in his bed with his sheets clinging to him like he had a fever, like the night in the hospital when his wound had got infected and his temperature soared, and behind him things in the wall chittered in an alien and hungry language.)
Now was better than the long grey days after he had got back to England, shivering as he readjusted to the climate, ache all through his leg and shoulder. He felt now like the colour had come back into things, that he could see again as clearly as he had in Afghanistan, where even after twenty hour shifts in the fifty degree heat he had felt entirely present. These days he felt as awake as he had done as a soldier, and that was where it all stopped being fine. Because of why he felt fine.
“You’re an idiot,” he said aloud, and then his bedroom door opened and Sherlock came in. John pulled the sheets up to his chest, rather absurdly, and sat up.
“What are you doing?” he said. “It’s three in the morning.”
“I heard you talking to yourself, so I surmised you were not asleep,” Sherlock observed. He was still dressed. With the hall light behind him his skin looked very pale. “I still can’t find my skull - Mrs Hudson can be stubborn - and I wanted to talk to it about this speckled band business.”
“And I will do, I suppose,” John replied drily.
“In a pinch, if you stay quiet.”
“Not a problem,” said John, affecting disinterest, and he lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes. Sherlock began pacing around the room, his shoes making a soft sound on the carpet.
“Miss Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place. I think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines…”
Although John had only intended to simulate sleep, there was something - comforting about his flatmate’s voice. And when Sherlock was with him, it was easier to ignore the other questions in his mind, to stop wondering about why this felt quite so much how things were supposed to be. It’s all fine, Sherlock’s steady narrative seemed to tell him, and John at last drifted into dreamless sleep.