Down the Rabbit Hole Sherlock/John 1/2
Title: Down the Rabbit Hole
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG Pre-slash, perhaps? Or Gen, depending on your goggles....
Warnings: Madness this way lies :) Also, just a bit of cussing.
Length: 8600 words
Disclaimer: I don't own Alice and Wonderland or Sherlock BBC, but occasionally I take them out like toys and play with them...
Summary:
"Who, are you?”
“John Watson. My name is John Watson.”
“Hello John Watson. But I didn't ask for your name, I asked: who, are you?”
“I'm afraid that I don't really understand the question.”
Original Prompt HERE
“There is a reason,” a young boy mutters to himself as he wanders through the woods of a rather unkempt park, “That I don't like to go anywhere with Harry. But does mum understand?” He snorts and shakes his head, pushing aside branches and peering through the underbrush. “Noooo....”
“Harry!” he calls out. “Where are you, you nut?”
No one answers.
“Mum's going to use my guts for garters,” he continues muttering. “John Watson!” he imitates a womanly voice. “How in the world you lose your little sister in a park! I raised you better than that!”
He pushes aside more branches, wincing when smaller ones whip him in the face. “Not my fault that she ran off.”
He gathers breath for another bellow, “Harry!”
“You wanker!” she chirps from under his elbow, smiling.
He reels back. “Harriet Watson! Where have you been?”
“You needn't shout,” she scolds, scowling. “I'm standing right here.”
He grabs for her arm, hoping to pin her to his side before she can run off again, but she skips away.
“Nuh uh, I've got something to show you!”
“Harry,” he warns, nearly growling. “We need to get going, mum said to be home by four.”
“It's only three o'clock,” she dismisses, waving her hand at him just like their flighty mother does. “You must be the most boring 14 year old brother ever.”
“And you are the most infuriating nine year old sister,” he counters. “I'm the eldest, let's get going.”
“No!” She backs away. “You have to see the white rabbit!”
“And why must I do that?” he demands, nearly losing his patience.
She stutters in the face of his frustration: her stalwart brother rarely loses his patience.
“Because he's got a waist coat!”
“Harry,” he warns.
“It's true! I'll show you!” She whirls and dives into the brush. “Come on, John! You have to see. You won't believe me until you see.”
Against his will, and after he heaves a great sigh, he charges after her. He thinks that she's more like a rabbit at this point, darting ahead of him elusively, always right out of his reach. He's less intent on her goal, than catching her so that he can sling her over his shoulder and haul her home.
He might be short, but John is at least strong. He can drag her out of the park if need be.
But he has to catch her first.
“I see him!” she shouts. “Come on, John! Don't be such a slow poke!”
“Harry!” he bellows back. “Don't go too far! Mum would kill me if I lost you.”
“Don't be a worry-wart!” she yells, her voice growing fainter. “I'll be fine!”
He pushes himself faster, unwilling to lose the sound of her leaping through the brush. He can feel welts rising on his face, and scratches on his arms. Ahead of him, the sounds of her crashing through the brush slow, and stop.
“Harry?”
“He's gone into a rabbit hole!”
“Harry!”
He bursts into a little copse, just as she crawls between the roots of a tree to her “rabbit hole.”
“Harriet Watson!” he warns breathlessly. “Don't you dare!”
“I just want to show you the rabbiiiiiit!”
Before she has even properly tumbled headfirst into the hole, John has thrown himself headfirst at the tree to follow.
He falls a long, long ways.
~~~
When John awakens on his cot in his army issue tent, it's to see the dim outline of one of his comrades hovering above him. In the glow of a book-light, the man looks worried.
“Watson,” he hisses. “Are you all right?”
Automatically, John diagnoses himself before he answers. Tired. Sweaty. Heart rate up. Adrenaline pumping.
He's had a nightmare.
“Sorry if I woke you,” he whispers back. “That ambush was pretty rough, the other day. Not surprised I'm dreaming about it.”
Even in the poor light, he can see the puzzled look his friend levels him. “What's that have to do with white rabbits?”
Frankly, John doesn't know.
~~
When John tips over the edge into the hole, he expects to slip slide into a burrow. Normally he would expect to slide in and hit bottom, but Harry fell through much too fast for that.
What he doesn't expect, is a hole stretching downwards like a well, with no bottom in sight.
~~
When John wakes up in Hospital back in England, for the first time clear minded and aware of his surroundings, Harry is there.
Deep down, he hates how she sits primly on the chair as though she's been there moments, and looks ridiculously together.
“I've been home to have a shower,” she answers with a smile.
His glare only deepens.
She laughs. “I hear you get a sponge bath, though.”
“You can leave now,” he growls. “I'm perfectly fine taking care of myself.”
She leans forward and inspects him closely. “Are you? I worry about you, John. You've single-mindedly pursued this army career of yours for years, and now there's word of you being invalided out.”
“Nonsense,” he rumbles back. “I'll be back on my feet in no time and back in the field.”
She levels him with a pitying stare. “Of course,” she replies, placating.
“How's the drinking, then, Harry?” He shouldn't be glad of how this makes her retreat, but he is.
After she leaves, he presses the button on the morphine drip, the sound of a watch's ticking in his ears.
~~
He can't see Harry anywhere, and the rushing air snatches his voice straight out of his throat, no matter how hard he tries to bellow.
He's falling too fast, and now there's...debris falling with him. He dodges a lamp, and a potted plant, but the rocking chair is his downfall. He slams into it headfirst, and is knocked into unconsciousness.
When he awakens, he is lying on a checkered floor in a round room, with only one door in sight.
John groans.
“Harry?” he calls out. “Where are you?”
~~
When they start him on physical therapy, it's quickly apparent that something isn't quite right. He receives a little medal, and and there's word of an honorable discharge, but it doesn't help his mood any.
He hates feeling helpless.
The first time he tries to stand after they dug the shrapnel out of his thigh, his right leg collapses right out from underneath him. Luckily, he just falls back into his wheelchair, a sympathetic nurse making calm noises about him trying again later, but he can see the looks the doctors trade over his head.
The wound on his left shoulder is nasty, the color red reminding him of a dream he had when he was a child, of some....roses. When he tries to explain this to Harry, she peers at him, perplexed, and asks “Why would dreaming of red roses be so abnormal that you would remember it after all of these years?”
“Well,” he responds promptly. “Because they were white and I had to paint them red.”
He can tell that she doesn't understand, but he doesn't expect her to. She's got enough on her plate what with alcoholism, jaundice of the eyes (her liver must be in peril), and Clara leaving her.
Why should she worry about his silly dreams?
~~
The single door on the wall opens readily enough. The problem is, that there are a trillion doors underneath it. Frantic to find his sister, John opens every last one of them.
“Probably have a concussion,” he mutters, squinting in the light. “My head is sure killing me.”
The last door is pretty small, but as he crouches down and peers through it, he thinks he can possibly fit. That's when he hears Harry crying.
“Harry!”
“I just wanted to find the white raaaabbiiit!” she wails.
He cringes, her voice at high decibels is rather piercing.
“Not another famous Harriet tantrum,” he mutters.
On hands and knees, he sticks his head through, then nearly yanks himself back.
His little sister is....not so little anymore.
And her tears are landing like water grenades on the ground. John scrambles back as water starts to flow through the door.
“Oh, bugger.”
Steeling himself, he crawls back to the door to slip through, but a wave of water crashes into him and shoves him back.
“Stop crying, girl! You'll drown me!” a voice shouts.
“Harriet!” John bellows. “Harriiiiieeet!”
He stands, backing away from the quickly submerging door, but as he spins in a circle he seems that there is nowhere to go. The water reaches his knees, then his hips. When it reaches his chin, he gives out one more desperate yell of “Harry!” before the water flows into his mouth.
It's salty, like the ocean.
All of a sudden, all of the water rushes back out of the room, and John is yanked away with it in a swirl of inexorable water.
~~
The physical therapy goes as well as he can expect, although John can definitely say that he doesn't appreciate being on the other side of the fence when it comes to medicine. His doctors patronize him, and he's just too weary at this point to object. The bullet wound heals over, messy, but that's his fault.
He was the one who dug it out in the field with a tactical knife.
The infection wasn't his fault, but remnants of it seize him late at night in his stiff hospital bed and send him running in circles in a forest he doesn't recognize chasing after a very toothy cat.
When his left hand still trembles even after he's regained the strength in his arm, and the limp persists even though he only received a flesh wound, they officially invalided him home.
When they do, they let him know at the same time that he's being discharged from the hospital.
“We're for soldiers, you see,” the doctor gently tells him. “You'll be fine, get set up with pension and everything.”
The day before he leaves, Harry gives him her phone.
He turns it over and inspects the inscription on the back.
Harry Watson
From Clara
XXX
“The separation final, then?”
“Twat,” she replies, spinning on her heel and stalking off.
But he can't help but notice that she left behind a few jumpers and trousers for him, one an off-white with a dreadful cable knit.
It's cuddly and he loves it. Much more than the second-hand phone.
The phone buzzes in his hand, and he peers at it, glad that the message plays out across the screen.
We should meet. When you come to London. H
~~
John awakens in a bed of pine needles. His head feels heavy as a rock, and upon twitching his muscles, he discovers that the rest of his limbs feel that way as well. Deciding that anything else would be too much trouble, he blinks open his sticky and reluctant eyelids.
He's in a forest. The little little tangles one in the park, but a wild, old, dark one. Nameless birds hoot from above his head, sending little shivers down his spine. For a few minutes he just lays there, dizzily trying to remember exactly where he is, and why.
“Your name is John Watson,” he murmurs to himself, asserting reality. “You have a little sister named Harriet, who you lost in the woods. You need to find her and get her home by four, or your mum will have your head.”
His left arm is pinned under his head, so it's only a matter of rolling towards his back and dragging his wrist into view to read his watch.
The face of it is cracked and the hands seem to have stopped turning.
John groans. “Just my luck.”
He flops entirely onto his back, and gazes into the gloomy branches above his head. Dimly, he wonders how he can see anything, because he sure can't see any light streaming through the cover.
“Well, well. What do we have here?”
He rolls his head to the right, only to see a large and toothy mouth hovering above a branch. His breath catching in his throat, and he's ready to yell when his mouth seems to seal shut.
“Ah, ah,” the voice warns. “I wouldn't shout if I were you.”
John rolls to his knees, ignoring the stiffness, and tries to pry his jaw apart.
“You wouldn't want,” the sly voice oozes, “To attract the attention,” he chuckles, “Of anything here in the forest.”
Slowly, a form appears around the mouth, revealing it as belonging to a rather bright blue and striped cat.
John just stares.
“Much better,” the cat praises, languishing on the branch. “I trust that you won't shout now?”
~~
Against his better judgment, John finds himself reluctantly clicking Harry's name in the phone's address book, idly noting that it's the only number in there.
It rings twice before she picks up.
“Hullo?”
“Harry,” he greets.
“John. You called.”
John can hear the unsaid 'I thought you never would' as clear as a bell. He clears his throat.
“Yeah, about meeting up...”
“It's only been a couple of days.”
“Well, I'm in the city and my bedsit is awful so I thought I'd call you.”
He leans against his hospital issue cane, cursing the limp that makes him have to pause just to chat on the phone with his sister. His mental cursing also covers the fact that said limp is just in his head.
“I've got the afternoon off tomorrow. Forecast is good, like to enjoy the weather?”
Glad that he doesn't have to worry about small spaces, pubs, or territory issues, he quickly agrees. “Yes, let's.”
“How about that park we used to go to as kids?”
“That one where I nearly lost you in the forest because you were chasing a rabbit?”
He blinks, wondering at his prompt response when everything else from his childhood pales in comparison to the war fresh behind his eyelids.
“I didn't think you'd remember that. And yes, that same park.”
“All right,” he says. “What time?”
“Let's make it one.”
“Sounds good.”
They both hang up without saying goodbye. John slips the phone into his pocket, looks up at the sunny sky, and sighs.
It figures that London is in for good weather when he's just not in the mood for it.
He's not sure he ever will be.
~~
“Who are you?” John demands quietly but earnestly. “You can't be a real cat.”
The cat rolls over, chuckling, and it's apparent that he doesn't need the branch at all as he drifts away from it.
“No,” it grins toothily. “I'm not. Shall I say that you aren't real either?” It tumbles onto its front and props its massive head on delicate but pointy paws. “Because you look awfully funny yourself.”
“I'm real,” John snaps. “How about we just agree that we are both real?”
“Oooh,” the cat rolls over, purring with glee. “What an excellent idea. I am the Cheshire cat. Who, are you?”
“John Watson. My name is John Watson.”
“Hello, John Watson. But I didn't ask for your name, I asked: who, are you?”
“I'm afraid that I don't really understand the question.”
~~
John limps down the street, resting heavily on his cane, and wishes that the tube was closer to the park. It certainly didn't feel as far away when he was a teenager and used to spend lots of time there with Harry.
He pauses.
“Used to, that's the key word,” he mutters. “Whyever did we stop going?” He shakes his head, “I doubt it's important anyways.”
“John!” Harry calls out. “Come on, slow poke!”
He jerks his head up, realizing that he has reached the park. Harry is sitting on the same old bench they used to sit at as kids, with a bag of bread resting at her side. She gestures at the little pond in front of her.
“Thought we could feed the ducks.”
“Good idea,” John agrees, and sits heavily beside her.
They sit in silence, tearing the bread apart and tossing it at the water, and John almost can't stand it.
“You know I-”
“Did you know that I-”
They stop, turn towards each other, then burst out laughing, the tension broken.
“You go first,” John urges, setting his cane to the side and relaxing for the first time since he arrived.
“All right,” she inspects her fingernails. “I remembered, the other day, what happened here the last time we came to this park.”
“Remembered?”
“Mother told me that it wasn't real,” she reminisces. “That I made it up and that it was better to put it out of my mind.”
John hms, sure that whatever she's going to say is unimportant.
“Do you know how you said the other day, that you dreamt you had to paint the roses red?”
John startles. “Yes,” he says slowly. “Why?”
“There was a rabbit, with a pocket watch. I wanted to prove to you so badly that it was real. I wanted you to believe me for once.” She looks away. “But I fell down the rabbit hole by accident.”
“Yes,” he interrupts. “I remember. I dove after you, got a concussion, and mum had to come retrieve us from the park.”
“I didn't have a concussion, John.” she says quietly. “You had to paint the roses red because that was what the Queen of Hearts demanded. She only liked the color red, and was so furious that the roses were white. There was a cat, too. The Cheshire cat. He had so many sharp teeth, but I wasn't frightened because I thought that you wouldn't have been frightened.”
“Stop it, Harry.” He grabs his cane up, tense and uncomfortable again. “Just stop it. I had a concussion, and I had a dream. A vivid one, yes, but a dream nonetheless. I don't remember telling you about it, but I must have: none of that happened.”
“Who are you, John?” She turns to face him earnestly. “Think about this seriously for me, please.” She grabs his hands and stares straight into his eyes.
“Who. Are. You?”
“I don't know, Harry,” he sighs gustily, rising from the bench. “I just, I don't know.”
~~
“Well then,” the Cheshire cat says. “If you don't know who you are, how can you be real?”
“Because I can touch me, because I know that I am here.”
“I think,” the Cheshire cat quotes, “Therefore I am.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Hm. You don't need to see Absolem, then.”
“What's that?”
“Oh, nothing. But I think you could do with a tea party.”
“A what?”
“Come along then!” The cat twirls on his tail and begins to fade away. “Follow the sound of my voice!”
John scrambles to his feet, and pelts down the path. “Wait!”
“Hurry, hurry! And don't shout!” the voice calls from up ahead.
“Don't leave me behind!” John cries out, running pell mell after the strange cat.
“Don't worry,” the voice murmurs right behind his ear. “I won't.”
He jolts forward, and runs as though his life depends upon it, following the sound of the Cheshire cat's laughter.
“All a mimsy, were the borogroves, teehee, and the momeraths outgrabe! Come John! Run, run!”
He's running so fast, and so furiously that he's no longer even looking where he's going. Sweat it dripping into his eyes, and his vision is blurry, which is why he doesn't see the root when it quite literally raises up out of the ground and sends him flying arse over tea-kettle.
Luckily, he plows into the ground in a neat little manicured garden near a small cottage.
“Boring,” a voice calls out. “Absolutely boring. I give you a five for dismount.” The drawl pauses, the resumes. “That's out of ten, in case you couldn't figure that out.”
~~
John wakes with a shout, shivering, and covers his ears with his hands.
They don't help.
Gunshots ring in his ears, and he can hear the death cries of soldiers, of his mates.
No one is left from his squadron, he's all alone.
Sweat drips down his face, down his back, down his chest. He is utterly soaked and is panting like he has run a race.
But his left hand isn't trembling.
He raises it up, adrenaline pumping through his veins, and holds it in front of his watery eyes.
It still isn't trembling.
He heaves himself from the tiny little bed in his dreary little room, and drags himself to his desk. He doesn't bother sitting, just opens the drawer, and slides his ride hand in.
His gun is a familiar weight in his hand.
He checks to see that it is loaded, makes sure the safety is on, then raises it and sights.
The gun holds steady.
He huffs a trembling laugh.
“Stupid quack,” he mutters, placing the gun back into the drawer. “Stupid doctors. I don't have PTSD at all.”
He looks around the tiny little room, and decides he won't miss it, not one single bit.
“Thanks, Harry. I owe you one.”
~~
“Dismount? Dismount?! That tree root nearly killed me and you're concerned with my dismount?” John demands.
“Yes,” the voice says, a pair of black leather boots stepping into John's, limited, point of view from where he's lying face down on the ground. “You could go back to the forest and try again. It won't be attempted homicide if you're aware of it and trip anyways. Might do better if you try again.”
John closes his eyes against the madness.
“Then again, if you're deliberately tossing yourself at the thing, would that change it to suicide?”
“I wish you would commit suicide,” John mutters into the dirt.
“What was that? Oh. Sorry, but no. Dull. Very dull. When I go, it will be in a...in a....burst of glory!”
John rolls over and groans, peering up at the man man standing over him.
Dark curly hair floats around his head like a halo, and pale bugged out eyes stare from the gaunt pale face, darting anxiously, as though taking in absolutely everything John has to offer.
“Not much, at that,” the man comments, looking John up and down. “To offer, I mean.” He hms considerately. “You're awful small,” he remarks.
He's wearing a purple shirt, the first few buttons unbuttoned, the shirt untucked, and the collar askew. His nice slacks taper down to the boots, but fall outside of the leather.
“Yes,” John agrees. “It's because I am still a child.”
When his mum calls him that, he objects. But when a six foot scarecrow is looming over him, he definitely feels like one.
“Oh yes, I know what those are.” The man nods agreeably, then stops, his head tilted like a bird. “Wait, what is a child again? No, wait,” he flaps his hands impatiently, turning away and walking off. “Unimportant, I don't need to know.”
John closes his eyes again, wondering where the Cheshire cat has gone.
“Well?” the voice demands from above him again, startling his eyes open. “Are you coming? Mrs. Hudson's sure to have made tea, and since it is not your birthday, you're perfectly able to attend our little tea party.”
John obligingly pushes himself to his hands and knees, then to his feet. As he brushes the dirt off of his rather worse-for-wear jumper and jeans, he asks “Not my birthday?”
“Yes,” the man frowns. “Mycroft, my brother, likes to call it an un-birthday party. But I thoroughly disapprove of anything that comes out of his mouth.”
John nods. “I feel that way about Harry sometimes, too.”
“Very well then,” the man looks him up and down. “Small talk over, it's time to impose upon Mrs. Hudson.”
John follows to the cottage, but stops just outside the door after the man goes inside.
“Well?”
“I don't even know your name!” John exclaims. “My mum always taught me not to talk to strangers,” he folds his arms over his chest defiantly, “And I think that going into their houses nearly counts.”
“Only nearly?”
“Definitely. Definitely counts.”
“I know plenty about you. I know that you are 15, no, 14, and that you have a younger brother whom you mostly dislike, but love dearly anyways. Your mother is in poor health, perhaps your father died recently? And you don't feel much inclined to do anything she says, and aren't quite sure whether you actually love her or not anymore because she blames the both of you for the accident that took your father's life.”
The man tilts his head in its bird-like maneuver again. “There, satisfied? I know plenty about you, so we aren't strangers. Come along. Mrs. Hudson! We require tea!”
“Brilliant,” John proclaims, shaking his head in wonder. “Absolutely brilliant.”
“What is?” the man demands. “What are you talking about?”
“You,” John laughs. “You're bloody brilliant. How you...did that.”
Sherlock eyes him warily. “Really, that's not what people normally say.”
“What do they normally say?”
“Piss off,” he replies promptly.
Laughing, John steps over the threshold, and the door shuts behind him.
“I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock!”
Part Two HERE
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG Pre-slash, perhaps? Or Gen, depending on your goggles....
Warnings: Madness this way lies :) Also, just a bit of cussing.
Length: 8600 words
Disclaimer: I don't own Alice and Wonderland or Sherlock BBC, but occasionally I take them out like toys and play with them...
Summary:
"Who, are you?”
“John Watson. My name is John Watson.”
“Hello John Watson. But I didn't ask for your name, I asked: who, are you?”
“I'm afraid that I don't really understand the question.”
Original Prompt HERE
“There is a reason,” a young boy mutters to himself as he wanders through the woods of a rather unkempt park, “That I don't like to go anywhere with Harry. But does mum understand?” He snorts and shakes his head, pushing aside branches and peering through the underbrush. “Noooo....”
“Harry!” he calls out. “Where are you, you nut?”
No one answers.
“Mum's going to use my guts for garters,” he continues muttering. “John Watson!” he imitates a womanly voice. “How in the world you lose your little sister in a park! I raised you better than that!”
He pushes aside more branches, wincing when smaller ones whip him in the face. “Not my fault that she ran off.”
He gathers breath for another bellow, “Harry!”
“You wanker!” she chirps from under his elbow, smiling.
He reels back. “Harriet Watson! Where have you been?”
“You needn't shout,” she scolds, scowling. “I'm standing right here.”
He grabs for her arm, hoping to pin her to his side before she can run off again, but she skips away.
“Nuh uh, I've got something to show you!”
“Harry,” he warns, nearly growling. “We need to get going, mum said to be home by four.”
“It's only three o'clock,” she dismisses, waving her hand at him just like their flighty mother does. “You must be the most boring 14 year old brother ever.”
“And you are the most infuriating nine year old sister,” he counters. “I'm the eldest, let's get going.”
“No!” She backs away. “You have to see the white rabbit!”
“And why must I do that?” he demands, nearly losing his patience.
She stutters in the face of his frustration: her stalwart brother rarely loses his patience.
“Because he's got a waist coat!”
“Harry,” he warns.
“It's true! I'll show you!” She whirls and dives into the brush. “Come on, John! You have to see. You won't believe me until you see.”
Against his will, and after he heaves a great sigh, he charges after her. He thinks that she's more like a rabbit at this point, darting ahead of him elusively, always right out of his reach. He's less intent on her goal, than catching her so that he can sling her over his shoulder and haul her home.
He might be short, but John is at least strong. He can drag her out of the park if need be.
But he has to catch her first.
“I see him!” she shouts. “Come on, John! Don't be such a slow poke!”
“Harry!” he bellows back. “Don't go too far! Mum would kill me if I lost you.”
“Don't be a worry-wart!” she yells, her voice growing fainter. “I'll be fine!”
He pushes himself faster, unwilling to lose the sound of her leaping through the brush. He can feel welts rising on his face, and scratches on his arms. Ahead of him, the sounds of her crashing through the brush slow, and stop.
“Harry?”
“He's gone into a rabbit hole!”
“Harry!”
He bursts into a little copse, just as she crawls between the roots of a tree to her “rabbit hole.”
“Harriet Watson!” he warns breathlessly. “Don't you dare!”
“I just want to show you the rabbiiiiiit!”
Before she has even properly tumbled headfirst into the hole, John has thrown himself headfirst at the tree to follow.
He falls a long, long ways.
~~~
When John awakens on his cot in his army issue tent, it's to see the dim outline of one of his comrades hovering above him. In the glow of a book-light, the man looks worried.
“Watson,” he hisses. “Are you all right?”
Automatically, John diagnoses himself before he answers. Tired. Sweaty. Heart rate up. Adrenaline pumping.
He's had a nightmare.
“Sorry if I woke you,” he whispers back. “That ambush was pretty rough, the other day. Not surprised I'm dreaming about it.”
Even in the poor light, he can see the puzzled look his friend levels him. “What's that have to do with white rabbits?”
Frankly, John doesn't know.
~~
When John tips over the edge into the hole, he expects to slip slide into a burrow. Normally he would expect to slide in and hit bottom, but Harry fell through much too fast for that.
What he doesn't expect, is a hole stretching downwards like a well, with no bottom in sight.
~~
When John wakes up in Hospital back in England, for the first time clear minded and aware of his surroundings, Harry is there.
Deep down, he hates how she sits primly on the chair as though she's been there moments, and looks ridiculously together.
“I've been home to have a shower,” she answers with a smile.
His glare only deepens.
She laughs. “I hear you get a sponge bath, though.”
“You can leave now,” he growls. “I'm perfectly fine taking care of myself.”
She leans forward and inspects him closely. “Are you? I worry about you, John. You've single-mindedly pursued this army career of yours for years, and now there's word of you being invalided out.”
“Nonsense,” he rumbles back. “I'll be back on my feet in no time and back in the field.”
She levels him with a pitying stare. “Of course,” she replies, placating.
“How's the drinking, then, Harry?” He shouldn't be glad of how this makes her retreat, but he is.
After she leaves, he presses the button on the morphine drip, the sound of a watch's ticking in his ears.
~~
He can't see Harry anywhere, and the rushing air snatches his voice straight out of his throat, no matter how hard he tries to bellow.
He's falling too fast, and now there's...debris falling with him. He dodges a lamp, and a potted plant, but the rocking chair is his downfall. He slams into it headfirst, and is knocked into unconsciousness.
When he awakens, he is lying on a checkered floor in a round room, with only one door in sight.
John groans.
“Harry?” he calls out. “Where are you?”
~~
When they start him on physical therapy, it's quickly apparent that something isn't quite right. He receives a little medal, and and there's word of an honorable discharge, but it doesn't help his mood any.
He hates feeling helpless.
The first time he tries to stand after they dug the shrapnel out of his thigh, his right leg collapses right out from underneath him. Luckily, he just falls back into his wheelchair, a sympathetic nurse making calm noises about him trying again later, but he can see the looks the doctors trade over his head.
The wound on his left shoulder is nasty, the color red reminding him of a dream he had when he was a child, of some....roses. When he tries to explain this to Harry, she peers at him, perplexed, and asks “Why would dreaming of red roses be so abnormal that you would remember it after all of these years?”
“Well,” he responds promptly. “Because they were white and I had to paint them red.”
He can tell that she doesn't understand, but he doesn't expect her to. She's got enough on her plate what with alcoholism, jaundice of the eyes (her liver must be in peril), and Clara leaving her.
Why should she worry about his silly dreams?
~~
The single door on the wall opens readily enough. The problem is, that there are a trillion doors underneath it. Frantic to find his sister, John opens every last one of them.
“Probably have a concussion,” he mutters, squinting in the light. “My head is sure killing me.”
The last door is pretty small, but as he crouches down and peers through it, he thinks he can possibly fit. That's when he hears Harry crying.
“Harry!”
“I just wanted to find the white raaaabbiiit!” she wails.
He cringes, her voice at high decibels is rather piercing.
“Not another famous Harriet tantrum,” he mutters.
On hands and knees, he sticks his head through, then nearly yanks himself back.
His little sister is....not so little anymore.
And her tears are landing like water grenades on the ground. John scrambles back as water starts to flow through the door.
“Oh, bugger.”
Steeling himself, he crawls back to the door to slip through, but a wave of water crashes into him and shoves him back.
“Stop crying, girl! You'll drown me!” a voice shouts.
“Harriet!” John bellows. “Harriiiiieeet!”
He stands, backing away from the quickly submerging door, but as he spins in a circle he seems that there is nowhere to go. The water reaches his knees, then his hips. When it reaches his chin, he gives out one more desperate yell of “Harry!” before the water flows into his mouth.
It's salty, like the ocean.
All of a sudden, all of the water rushes back out of the room, and John is yanked away with it in a swirl of inexorable water.
~~
The physical therapy goes as well as he can expect, although John can definitely say that he doesn't appreciate being on the other side of the fence when it comes to medicine. His doctors patronize him, and he's just too weary at this point to object. The bullet wound heals over, messy, but that's his fault.
He was the one who dug it out in the field with a tactical knife.
The infection wasn't his fault, but remnants of it seize him late at night in his stiff hospital bed and send him running in circles in a forest he doesn't recognize chasing after a very toothy cat.
When his left hand still trembles even after he's regained the strength in his arm, and the limp persists even though he only received a flesh wound, they officially invalided him home.
When they do, they let him know at the same time that he's being discharged from the hospital.
“We're for soldiers, you see,” the doctor gently tells him. “You'll be fine, get set up with pension and everything.”
The day before he leaves, Harry gives him her phone.
He turns it over and inspects the inscription on the back.
Harry Watson
From Clara
XXX
“The separation final, then?”
“Twat,” she replies, spinning on her heel and stalking off.
But he can't help but notice that she left behind a few jumpers and trousers for him, one an off-white with a dreadful cable knit.
It's cuddly and he loves it. Much more than the second-hand phone.
The phone buzzes in his hand, and he peers at it, glad that the message plays out across the screen.
We should meet. When you come to London. H
~~
John awakens in a bed of pine needles. His head feels heavy as a rock, and upon twitching his muscles, he discovers that the rest of his limbs feel that way as well. Deciding that anything else would be too much trouble, he blinks open his sticky and reluctant eyelids.
He's in a forest. The little little tangles one in the park, but a wild, old, dark one. Nameless birds hoot from above his head, sending little shivers down his spine. For a few minutes he just lays there, dizzily trying to remember exactly where he is, and why.
“Your name is John Watson,” he murmurs to himself, asserting reality. “You have a little sister named Harriet, who you lost in the woods. You need to find her and get her home by four, or your mum will have your head.”
His left arm is pinned under his head, so it's only a matter of rolling towards his back and dragging his wrist into view to read his watch.
The face of it is cracked and the hands seem to have stopped turning.
John groans. “Just my luck.”
He flops entirely onto his back, and gazes into the gloomy branches above his head. Dimly, he wonders how he can see anything, because he sure can't see any light streaming through the cover.
“Well, well. What do we have here?”
He rolls his head to the right, only to see a large and toothy mouth hovering above a branch. His breath catching in his throat, and he's ready to yell when his mouth seems to seal shut.
“Ah, ah,” the voice warns. “I wouldn't shout if I were you.”
John rolls to his knees, ignoring the stiffness, and tries to pry his jaw apart.
“You wouldn't want,” the sly voice oozes, “To attract the attention,” he chuckles, “Of anything here in the forest.”
Slowly, a form appears around the mouth, revealing it as belonging to a rather bright blue and striped cat.
John just stares.
“Much better,” the cat praises, languishing on the branch. “I trust that you won't shout now?”
~~
Against his better judgment, John finds himself reluctantly clicking Harry's name in the phone's address book, idly noting that it's the only number in there.
It rings twice before she picks up.
“Hullo?”
“Harry,” he greets.
“John. You called.”
John can hear the unsaid 'I thought you never would' as clear as a bell. He clears his throat.
“Yeah, about meeting up...”
“It's only been a couple of days.”
“Well, I'm in the city and my bedsit is awful so I thought I'd call you.”
He leans against his hospital issue cane, cursing the limp that makes him have to pause just to chat on the phone with his sister. His mental cursing also covers the fact that said limp is just in his head.
“I've got the afternoon off tomorrow. Forecast is good, like to enjoy the weather?”
Glad that he doesn't have to worry about small spaces, pubs, or territory issues, he quickly agrees. “Yes, let's.”
“How about that park we used to go to as kids?”
“That one where I nearly lost you in the forest because you were chasing a rabbit?”
He blinks, wondering at his prompt response when everything else from his childhood pales in comparison to the war fresh behind his eyelids.
“I didn't think you'd remember that. And yes, that same park.”
“All right,” he says. “What time?”
“Let's make it one.”
“Sounds good.”
They both hang up without saying goodbye. John slips the phone into his pocket, looks up at the sunny sky, and sighs.
It figures that London is in for good weather when he's just not in the mood for it.
He's not sure he ever will be.
~~
“Who are you?” John demands quietly but earnestly. “You can't be a real cat.”
The cat rolls over, chuckling, and it's apparent that he doesn't need the branch at all as he drifts away from it.
“No,” it grins toothily. “I'm not. Shall I say that you aren't real either?” It tumbles onto its front and props its massive head on delicate but pointy paws. “Because you look awfully funny yourself.”
“I'm real,” John snaps. “How about we just agree that we are both real?”
“Oooh,” the cat rolls over, purring with glee. “What an excellent idea. I am the Cheshire cat. Who, are you?”
“John Watson. My name is John Watson.”
“Hello, John Watson. But I didn't ask for your name, I asked: who, are you?”
“I'm afraid that I don't really understand the question.”
~~
John limps down the street, resting heavily on his cane, and wishes that the tube was closer to the park. It certainly didn't feel as far away when he was a teenager and used to spend lots of time there with Harry.
He pauses.
“Used to, that's the key word,” he mutters. “Whyever did we stop going?” He shakes his head, “I doubt it's important anyways.”
“John!” Harry calls out. “Come on, slow poke!”
He jerks his head up, realizing that he has reached the park. Harry is sitting on the same old bench they used to sit at as kids, with a bag of bread resting at her side. She gestures at the little pond in front of her.
“Thought we could feed the ducks.”
“Good idea,” John agrees, and sits heavily beside her.
They sit in silence, tearing the bread apart and tossing it at the water, and John almost can't stand it.
“You know I-”
“Did you know that I-”
They stop, turn towards each other, then burst out laughing, the tension broken.
“You go first,” John urges, setting his cane to the side and relaxing for the first time since he arrived.
“All right,” she inspects her fingernails. “I remembered, the other day, what happened here the last time we came to this park.”
“Remembered?”
“Mother told me that it wasn't real,” she reminisces. “That I made it up and that it was better to put it out of my mind.”
John hms, sure that whatever she's going to say is unimportant.
“Do you know how you said the other day, that you dreamt you had to paint the roses red?”
John startles. “Yes,” he says slowly. “Why?”
“There was a rabbit, with a pocket watch. I wanted to prove to you so badly that it was real. I wanted you to believe me for once.” She looks away. “But I fell down the rabbit hole by accident.”
“Yes,” he interrupts. “I remember. I dove after you, got a concussion, and mum had to come retrieve us from the park.”
“I didn't have a concussion, John.” she says quietly. “You had to paint the roses red because that was what the Queen of Hearts demanded. She only liked the color red, and was so furious that the roses were white. There was a cat, too. The Cheshire cat. He had so many sharp teeth, but I wasn't frightened because I thought that you wouldn't have been frightened.”
“Stop it, Harry.” He grabs his cane up, tense and uncomfortable again. “Just stop it. I had a concussion, and I had a dream. A vivid one, yes, but a dream nonetheless. I don't remember telling you about it, but I must have: none of that happened.”
“Who are you, John?” She turns to face him earnestly. “Think about this seriously for me, please.” She grabs his hands and stares straight into his eyes.
“Who. Are. You?”
“I don't know, Harry,” he sighs gustily, rising from the bench. “I just, I don't know.”
~~
“Well then,” the Cheshire cat says. “If you don't know who you are, how can you be real?”
“Because I can touch me, because I know that I am here.”
“I think,” the Cheshire cat quotes, “Therefore I am.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Hm. You don't need to see Absolem, then.”
“What's that?”
“Oh, nothing. But I think you could do with a tea party.”
“A what?”
“Come along then!” The cat twirls on his tail and begins to fade away. “Follow the sound of my voice!”
John scrambles to his feet, and pelts down the path. “Wait!”
“Hurry, hurry! And don't shout!” the voice calls from up ahead.
“Don't leave me behind!” John cries out, running pell mell after the strange cat.
“Don't worry,” the voice murmurs right behind his ear. “I won't.”
He jolts forward, and runs as though his life depends upon it, following the sound of the Cheshire cat's laughter.
“All a mimsy, were the borogroves, teehee, and the momeraths outgrabe! Come John! Run, run!”
He's running so fast, and so furiously that he's no longer even looking where he's going. Sweat it dripping into his eyes, and his vision is blurry, which is why he doesn't see the root when it quite literally raises up out of the ground and sends him flying arse over tea-kettle.
Luckily, he plows into the ground in a neat little manicured garden near a small cottage.
“Boring,” a voice calls out. “Absolutely boring. I give you a five for dismount.” The drawl pauses, the resumes. “That's out of ten, in case you couldn't figure that out.”
~~
John wakes with a shout, shivering, and covers his ears with his hands.
They don't help.
Gunshots ring in his ears, and he can hear the death cries of soldiers, of his mates.
No one is left from his squadron, he's all alone.
Sweat drips down his face, down his back, down his chest. He is utterly soaked and is panting like he has run a race.
But his left hand isn't trembling.
He raises it up, adrenaline pumping through his veins, and holds it in front of his watery eyes.
It still isn't trembling.
He heaves himself from the tiny little bed in his dreary little room, and drags himself to his desk. He doesn't bother sitting, just opens the drawer, and slides his ride hand in.
His gun is a familiar weight in his hand.
He checks to see that it is loaded, makes sure the safety is on, then raises it and sights.
The gun holds steady.
He huffs a trembling laugh.
“Stupid quack,” he mutters, placing the gun back into the drawer. “Stupid doctors. I don't have PTSD at all.”
He looks around the tiny little room, and decides he won't miss it, not one single bit.
“Thanks, Harry. I owe you one.”
~~
“Dismount? Dismount?! That tree root nearly killed me and you're concerned with my dismount?” John demands.
“Yes,” the voice says, a pair of black leather boots stepping into John's, limited, point of view from where he's lying face down on the ground. “You could go back to the forest and try again. It won't be attempted homicide if you're aware of it and trip anyways. Might do better if you try again.”
John closes his eyes against the madness.
“Then again, if you're deliberately tossing yourself at the thing, would that change it to suicide?”
“I wish you would commit suicide,” John mutters into the dirt.
“What was that? Oh. Sorry, but no. Dull. Very dull. When I go, it will be in a...in a....burst of glory!”
John rolls over and groans, peering up at the man man standing over him.
Dark curly hair floats around his head like a halo, and pale bugged out eyes stare from the gaunt pale face, darting anxiously, as though taking in absolutely everything John has to offer.
“Not much, at that,” the man comments, looking John up and down. “To offer, I mean.” He hms considerately. “You're awful small,” he remarks.
He's wearing a purple shirt, the first few buttons unbuttoned, the shirt untucked, and the collar askew. His nice slacks taper down to the boots, but fall outside of the leather.
“Yes,” John agrees. “It's because I am still a child.”
When his mum calls him that, he objects. But when a six foot scarecrow is looming over him, he definitely feels like one.
“Oh yes, I know what those are.” The man nods agreeably, then stops, his head tilted like a bird. “Wait, what is a child again? No, wait,” he flaps his hands impatiently, turning away and walking off. “Unimportant, I don't need to know.”
John closes his eyes again, wondering where the Cheshire cat has gone.
“Well?” the voice demands from above him again, startling his eyes open. “Are you coming? Mrs. Hudson's sure to have made tea, and since it is not your birthday, you're perfectly able to attend our little tea party.”
John obligingly pushes himself to his hands and knees, then to his feet. As he brushes the dirt off of his rather worse-for-wear jumper and jeans, he asks “Not my birthday?”
“Yes,” the man frowns. “Mycroft, my brother, likes to call it an un-birthday party. But I thoroughly disapprove of anything that comes out of his mouth.”
John nods. “I feel that way about Harry sometimes, too.”
“Very well then,” the man looks him up and down. “Small talk over, it's time to impose upon Mrs. Hudson.”
John follows to the cottage, but stops just outside the door after the man goes inside.
“Well?”
“I don't even know your name!” John exclaims. “My mum always taught me not to talk to strangers,” he folds his arms over his chest defiantly, “And I think that going into their houses nearly counts.”
“Only nearly?”
“Definitely. Definitely counts.”
“I know plenty about you. I know that you are 15, no, 14, and that you have a younger brother whom you mostly dislike, but love dearly anyways. Your mother is in poor health, perhaps your father died recently? And you don't feel much inclined to do anything she says, and aren't quite sure whether you actually love her or not anymore because she blames the both of you for the accident that took your father's life.”
The man tilts his head in its bird-like maneuver again. “There, satisfied? I know plenty about you, so we aren't strangers. Come along. Mrs. Hudson! We require tea!”
“Brilliant,” John proclaims, shaking his head in wonder. “Absolutely brilliant.”
“What is?” the man demands. “What are you talking about?”
“You,” John laughs. “You're bloody brilliant. How you...did that.”
Sherlock eyes him warily. “Really, that's not what people normally say.”
“What do they normally say?”
“Piss off,” he replies promptly.
Laughing, John steps over the threshold, and the door shuts behind him.
“I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock!”
Part Two HERE