On the fourth day of Sherlockmas: To Sleep, Perchance To Dream, for mahmfic
Author: rafaela
Title: To Sleep, Perchance To Dream
A gift for: mahmfic
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Category: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: John dreams. What happens when his dreams come true?
Author's Notes: My first Sherlock fic.
St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, London.
Accident and emergency.
John Watson has been working a double; he’s stitched, swabbed, evaluated, drugged, resuscitated, held hands, wiped tears, and comforted the bereaved. This is the norm, ever since Sherlock left him. Work is the only thing that blots out despair, and work is the only thing that pays the rent at 221B Baker Street. Everyone thinks he should move out, move on, but John cannot bear to leave the place where he came to life after Afghanistan. And now his light has gone again, and only in the trenches of emergency medicine can he keep moving and keep living.
He finishes his shift and is changing into his street clothes when he feels a tap on the shoulder. He turns.
“Hi, John, can I have a quick word with you?” she says. It’s his supervisor, one Lucie Ellsworth. She stands barely five feet tall, weighs no more than seven stone, has a face that would look more at home on a bird of prey than a human, and her black hair - well streaked with grey - is held back in a severe knot at the back of her neck. Yet John respects this tiny woman, whom he suspects knows more about emergency medicine than he will ever forget.
“Certainly, Lucie. Just let me get my things straight.” He pulls on his jumper, makes sure his wallet is in his pocket, and buttons on his light jacket. It’s late spring, not too cool, not too warm. Yet.
She shepherds him into her office.
“John, you’ve worked six months now without a break,” she says.
“Oh, that’s fine. I don’t have -“
“Six months.”
“I don’t -“
“Without a break.”
“And?”
She sighs mightily. “And. You are on the brink of burnout. No - not a word. Your work is impeccable. You’re one of my best, ever since you started. I want to keep that here, not lose you to something preventable. Effective right this second, you have two weeks leave. Which you’re going to take.”
“But -“
“But nothing! That’s an order, Dr. Watson.”
He sighs. “Yes, Doctor. I just don’t have any idea how I’ll spend it.”
Lucie Ellsworth picks up a biro from her desk and chews on the end of it.
“I have a small suggestion, if you like.”
“Oh?” he responds faintly.
“You might try sleep.”
And he knows, instinctively, that the conversation is over.
******
It’s now late evening at 221B Baker Street, and John Watson is alone. He prowls the flat, muttering to himself, picking things up and tossing them down, opening books and shutting them just as quickly. It is not a mood conducive to sleep.
Damn her, he thinks.
But in his heart he knows that Lucie is right. He is perilously close to burnout. And yes, he does need sleep. No, he will not take sleeping pills - as a doctor he knows their benefit is limited at best. He needs real sleep, not something induced by drugs.
Finally, he decides that rest is as good as sleep. He’ll have a lie-down for a few hours. Who knows what will happen? The thought is immediate parent to the deed, and he heads into his bedroom. He strips off his street clothes and throws them in the hamper, pulls on his pyjamas, and lies down in his bed.
Something is different. As he stares up into his closed eyelids and listens to his own quiet breathing, he finds himself letting go of his thoughts and floating into unconsciousness. His last coherent thought:
I’ll take it. And he is asleep.
John sees whiteness all around him, loosely coalesced into a kind of corridor. He then hears it - a violin? Yes, a violin. That’s Bach’s Chaconne - and he would know the player anywhere. John knows every note, has many recordings, all in an attempt to keep the spirit of Sherlock Holmes in his life. But this isn’t Jascha Heifetz, nor is it Hilary Hahn. No. It’s Sherlock Holmes.
John is running, running. He hears the music closer now, and puts in an extra burst of speed. Just as he falters -
There. A courtyard. And there is Sherlock Holmes, tall and gaunt and beautiful as ever, eyes closed, bringing the bow across the strings with singular passion and concentration. John wants to run to him, to throw his arms around him, to speak his name, but he is transfixed by the music.
Sherlock ends the piece. He opens his eyes and sees John.
He smiles, that slightly crooked grin so rare and so precious, and John - the spell of the violin broken - runs to him.
“Sherlock,” he says hoarsely. “Sherlock, you’re -“
“Hush, John. Listen to me. I haven’t long.”
“Sherlock - I just wanted -“
“Yes?” says Sherlock. Sherlock holds the smaller man in his arms awkwardly but fondly, as if he’s not quite sure how to embrace someone but wants desperately to do so.
“I love you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock starts, and John sees something so startling - he never, ever thought he’d see it -
Tears. Tears, from the almost terminally detached consulting detective. John can’t help but join him in crying.
“John, you must understand that I love you, as well. Because you are going to have to go through hell for me.”
“I’ve been,” says John. “I’ve been alone. I’ve been without you. Seeing you raked through the coals, posthumously. And I don’t care - I’ll do anything.”
Sherlock clings to John, and John does the same. Finally, Sherlock pulls John’s face up and kisses him full on the mouth.
“I’ll come back for you, John,” said Sherlock. “I don’t know when, exactly. But I will. In some form or another.”
They kiss again, and John feels the marvelous softness of Sherlock’s mouth, tastes tea and mint and a faint underlying tobacco, smells the citrus and lavender and musk and rosin that is Sherlock’s perpetual scent. He holds onto it as long as he can....
John sits bolt upright and blinks.
Dear God, he thinks.
He feels a suspicious dampness in the blankets, and blushes for a moment, feeling once again like a randy teenager - wet dreams for him are usually the stuff of adolescent comedy, not something that happens to men pushing forty!
And yet - and yet - he wants to relive that dream.
For the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.
Perhaps not, but John had realized a long time ago that he loves Sherlock Holmes. Now he knows that he desires Sherlock Holmes.
And that is fine. But what about the rest of the dream? Who can unpack the meaning in that?
******
John showers, dresses, and heads over to Barts. He’s not sure who can make sense of what’s going on in his unconscious mind. John had done a rotation in psychiatry, long enough to make him despise everything that Sigmund Freud ever touched - certainly John agrees with his therapist Ella that most dreams are merely the mind working through the most recent events - but this dream feels different. Perhaps someone else can. Stamford, perhaps? He discards that notion out of hand. Stamford is a lot of fun, great for having coffee or else a pint, but that’s it. Who the hell else -
“Hello, John.”
He turns around and sees Molly Hooper, lab coat thrown carelessly over jeans and jumper.
“Molly.”
“I’ve been expecting you, John,” she says.
His eyebrows fly up practically to his hairline.
“What?”
“You would have something happen that brought you back to Barts. Something to do with Sherlock. Come back to where you met, find the answer. Was it a dream, then? A whim?”
“A dream.”
“All right.”
“So you can help me?” he says.
“Yes. It’s nearly time.”
“What?”
“I’ll email you,” she says. And purposefully, with clipboard in hand, heads off.
He walks out in a bit of a daze. That evening he gets the email.
Gay Hussar. 2 Greek Street, Soho. Saturday. 19.45.
He doesn’t quite know what has happened.
******
John checks his watch for the last time and enters the restaurant. He likes what he sees; it’s spacious and homey, with whimsical art and pottery as decor. He gives his name to the maître d’ and is ushered to a private room. There’s a carafe of red wine already on the table; Molly sits there already, sipping it.
“Hello, John,” she says. She’s dressed up - a black lace cocktail dress, pearls, silver earrings, and - yes, red lipstick.
“You look lovely,” he says.
“Thank you. Have some of the wine,” she says. He doesn’t wait for a further invite, but pours himself a glass and takes a few sips. It’s good, full-bodied, a real pleasure on the tongue.
“Molly, can we just get to business?”
“What business?” she says, her voice soft, her expression - odd, usually Molly is an open book, but tonight she’s closed off. The eyes are the windows of the soul, usually - and hers have the shutters firmly closed.
“Why the hell you’ve dragged me to a Hungarian restaurant in Soho.”
She looks up, seeing something that John is not - he has his back to the door.
“I think you’ll find it’s here, now,” she says.
John stands up and turns around. And his eyes widen, he sees Sherlock Holmes.
It’s too much. John faints.
He comes around to Molly wiping his brow with a damp cloth. But the arms around him are clearly Sherlock’s, long and lanky and yes, bony.
John doesn’t know what to do first. He wants to kiss Sherlock, to confess his love right here and now. He also wants to hurt him, dammit, for forcing on him the loneliness and hurt and nights upon nights of overwork as a bulwark against the pain of loss. But all that will happen in the next moment. Just for this moment, in Sherlock’s arms, he knows that all will - eventually - be well.
Title: To Sleep, Perchance To Dream
A gift for: mahmfic
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Category: Slash
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: John dreams. What happens when his dreams come true?
Author's Notes: My first Sherlock fic.
St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, London.
Accident and emergency.
John Watson has been working a double; he’s stitched, swabbed, evaluated, drugged, resuscitated, held hands, wiped tears, and comforted the bereaved. This is the norm, ever since Sherlock left him. Work is the only thing that blots out despair, and work is the only thing that pays the rent at 221B Baker Street. Everyone thinks he should move out, move on, but John cannot bear to leave the place where he came to life after Afghanistan. And now his light has gone again, and only in the trenches of emergency medicine can he keep moving and keep living.
He finishes his shift and is changing into his street clothes when he feels a tap on the shoulder. He turns.
“Hi, John, can I have a quick word with you?” she says. It’s his supervisor, one Lucie Ellsworth. She stands barely five feet tall, weighs no more than seven stone, has a face that would look more at home on a bird of prey than a human, and her black hair - well streaked with grey - is held back in a severe knot at the back of her neck. Yet John respects this tiny woman, whom he suspects knows more about emergency medicine than he will ever forget.
“Certainly, Lucie. Just let me get my things straight.” He pulls on his jumper, makes sure his wallet is in his pocket, and buttons on his light jacket. It’s late spring, not too cool, not too warm. Yet.
She shepherds him into her office.
“John, you’ve worked six months now without a break,” she says.
“Oh, that’s fine. I don’t have -“
“Six months.”
“I don’t -“
“Without a break.”
“And?”
She sighs mightily. “And. You are on the brink of burnout. No - not a word. Your work is impeccable. You’re one of my best, ever since you started. I want to keep that here, not lose you to something preventable. Effective right this second, you have two weeks leave. Which you’re going to take.”
“But -“
“But nothing! That’s an order, Dr. Watson.”
He sighs. “Yes, Doctor. I just don’t have any idea how I’ll spend it.”
Lucie Ellsworth picks up a biro from her desk and chews on the end of it.
“I have a small suggestion, if you like.”
“Oh?” he responds faintly.
“You might try sleep.”
And he knows, instinctively, that the conversation is over.
******
It’s now late evening at 221B Baker Street, and John Watson is alone. He prowls the flat, muttering to himself, picking things up and tossing them down, opening books and shutting them just as quickly. It is not a mood conducive to sleep.
Damn her, he thinks.
But in his heart he knows that Lucie is right. He is perilously close to burnout. And yes, he does need sleep. No, he will not take sleeping pills - as a doctor he knows their benefit is limited at best. He needs real sleep, not something induced by drugs.
Finally, he decides that rest is as good as sleep. He’ll have a lie-down for a few hours. Who knows what will happen? The thought is immediate parent to the deed, and he heads into his bedroom. He strips off his street clothes and throws them in the hamper, pulls on his pyjamas, and lies down in his bed.
Something is different. As he stares up into his closed eyelids and listens to his own quiet breathing, he finds himself letting go of his thoughts and floating into unconsciousness. His last coherent thought:
I’ll take it. And he is asleep.
John sees whiteness all around him, loosely coalesced into a kind of corridor. He then hears it - a violin? Yes, a violin. That’s Bach’s Chaconne - and he would know the player anywhere. John knows every note, has many recordings, all in an attempt to keep the spirit of Sherlock Holmes in his life. But this isn’t Jascha Heifetz, nor is it Hilary Hahn. No. It’s Sherlock Holmes.
John is running, running. He hears the music closer now, and puts in an extra burst of speed. Just as he falters -
There. A courtyard. And there is Sherlock Holmes, tall and gaunt and beautiful as ever, eyes closed, bringing the bow across the strings with singular passion and concentration. John wants to run to him, to throw his arms around him, to speak his name, but he is transfixed by the music.
Sherlock ends the piece. He opens his eyes and sees John.
He smiles, that slightly crooked grin so rare and so precious, and John - the spell of the violin broken - runs to him.
“Sherlock,” he says hoarsely. “Sherlock, you’re -“
“Hush, John. Listen to me. I haven’t long.”
“Sherlock - I just wanted -“
“Yes?” says Sherlock. Sherlock holds the smaller man in his arms awkwardly but fondly, as if he’s not quite sure how to embrace someone but wants desperately to do so.
“I love you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock starts, and John sees something so startling - he never, ever thought he’d see it -
Tears. Tears, from the almost terminally detached consulting detective. John can’t help but join him in crying.
“John, you must understand that I love you, as well. Because you are going to have to go through hell for me.”
“I’ve been,” says John. “I’ve been alone. I’ve been without you. Seeing you raked through the coals, posthumously. And I don’t care - I’ll do anything.”
Sherlock clings to John, and John does the same. Finally, Sherlock pulls John’s face up and kisses him full on the mouth.
“I’ll come back for you, John,” said Sherlock. “I don’t know when, exactly. But I will. In some form or another.”
They kiss again, and John feels the marvelous softness of Sherlock’s mouth, tastes tea and mint and a faint underlying tobacco, smells the citrus and lavender and musk and rosin that is Sherlock’s perpetual scent. He holds onto it as long as he can....
John sits bolt upright and blinks.
Dear God, he thinks.
He feels a suspicious dampness in the blankets, and blushes for a moment, feeling once again like a randy teenager - wet dreams for him are usually the stuff of adolescent comedy, not something that happens to men pushing forty!
And yet - and yet - he wants to relive that dream.
For the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.
Perhaps not, but John had realized a long time ago that he loves Sherlock Holmes. Now he knows that he desires Sherlock Holmes.
And that is fine. But what about the rest of the dream? Who can unpack the meaning in that?
******
John showers, dresses, and heads over to Barts. He’s not sure who can make sense of what’s going on in his unconscious mind. John had done a rotation in psychiatry, long enough to make him despise everything that Sigmund Freud ever touched - certainly John agrees with his therapist Ella that most dreams are merely the mind working through the most recent events - but this dream feels different. Perhaps someone else can. Stamford, perhaps? He discards that notion out of hand. Stamford is a lot of fun, great for having coffee or else a pint, but that’s it. Who the hell else -
“Hello, John.”
He turns around and sees Molly Hooper, lab coat thrown carelessly over jeans and jumper.
“Molly.”
“I’ve been expecting you, John,” she says.
His eyebrows fly up practically to his hairline.
“What?”
“You would have something happen that brought you back to Barts. Something to do with Sherlock. Come back to where you met, find the answer. Was it a dream, then? A whim?”
“A dream.”
“All right.”
“So you can help me?” he says.
“Yes. It’s nearly time.”
“What?”
“I’ll email you,” she says. And purposefully, with clipboard in hand, heads off.
He walks out in a bit of a daze. That evening he gets the email.
Gay Hussar. 2 Greek Street, Soho. Saturday. 19.45.
He doesn’t quite know what has happened.
******
John checks his watch for the last time and enters the restaurant. He likes what he sees; it’s spacious and homey, with whimsical art and pottery as decor. He gives his name to the maître d’ and is ushered to a private room. There’s a carafe of red wine already on the table; Molly sits there already, sipping it.
“Hello, John,” she says. She’s dressed up - a black lace cocktail dress, pearls, silver earrings, and - yes, red lipstick.
“You look lovely,” he says.
“Thank you. Have some of the wine,” she says. He doesn’t wait for a further invite, but pours himself a glass and takes a few sips. It’s good, full-bodied, a real pleasure on the tongue.
“Molly, can we just get to business?”
“What business?” she says, her voice soft, her expression - odd, usually Molly is an open book, but tonight she’s closed off. The eyes are the windows of the soul, usually - and hers have the shutters firmly closed.
“Why the hell you’ve dragged me to a Hungarian restaurant in Soho.”
She looks up, seeing something that John is not - he has his back to the door.
“I think you’ll find it’s here, now,” she says.
John stands up and turns around. And his eyes widen, he sees Sherlock Holmes.
It’s too much. John faints.
He comes around to Molly wiping his brow with a damp cloth. But the arms around him are clearly Sherlock’s, long and lanky and yes, bony.
John doesn’t know what to do first. He wants to kiss Sherlock, to confess his love right here and now. He also wants to hurt him, dammit, for forcing on him the loneliness and hurt and nights upon nights of overwork as a bulwark against the pain of loss. But all that will happen in the next moment. Just for this moment, in Sherlock’s arms, he knows that all will - eventually - be well.