Stay Away From Rooftops
Title: Stay Away From Rooftops
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~800
Warnings: Post-Reichenbach
Summary: The first time John sees Sherlock on the roof of a building after Sherlock returns.
This was written for a prompt on the kink meme.
---
He's with a patient when his phone beeps for the first time. It's certainly not the first time this has happened, nor will it be the last. John smiles awkwardly at the elderly woman and both of them silently agree that the continual beeping of new text messages will be ignored. He finishes his examination and sends her on her way with a prescription. Only then does he fetch his mobile from his desk drawer and look at the screen.
New case. - SH
Come to 4 Grafton Way. - SH
Murder. - SH
Spleen is missing. - SH
How long would it take for a grown man to bleed out if body is packed in dry ice? - SH
John shakes his head and tucks the phone back into his pocket. As his last patient of the day has just left, he's free to dash to his mad flatmate's side. He puts his office back in order, fetches his jacket, and leaves through the back door of the surgery. He hails a cab and climbs in, rattling off the address. The cabbie gives a curt nod and pulls out.
More messages come through during the brief journey. John reads every one but doesn't bother to respond. They're not the kind of texts Sherlock wants answers to; it's Sherlock's way of having an audience when John (and the skull) aren't around to provide one.
In retrospect, it wasn't his best idea.
The cab lets him out right in front of the police line. By now they let him pass without question. Everyone knows who he is. He spots Lestrade and starts walking towards him, but then he notices that Lestrade's head is craned back into an odd position, his hand shielding his eyes so that he can look up at something.
Someone.
Sherlock Holmes is sauntering along the edge of a four story building.
What he's doing, John doesn't know.
Frankly he doesn't care.
Something seizes in his stomach, like a vicious cramp that leaves him breathless. He wants to shout at Sherlock, to tell him to get the fuck down right this bloody second you mad idiot but the words won't come. They stick in his throat, making him feel clumsy, and it's a good thing he's not moving anymore because one step would have him flat on his face.
He can't move.
Can't think.
Can't take his eyes away.
The edges of his vision turns smokey gray; the rest tunnels until Sherlock is all he can see.
Sherlock.
Falling.
Sherlock.
Hitting the ground.
Sherlock.
His blood, warm and red and spreading.
Sherlock.
His wrist cold to the touch.
Sherlock.
No pulse.
"John!"
Hands grasp his shoulders and someone shakes him, shouting his name. It's Lestrade. He sounds like he's panicking.
Sherlock.
And then, like he's been summoned by will alone, Sherlock pushes Lestrade aside and stares down at John, who has somehow ended up on the ground. He pulls his hand back and lands one solid thump on John's back, right between his shoulder blades. John lurches forward from the force of the blow and draws in a sharp breath. Immediately he starts choking and coughing as greedy lungs and muscles try to make up for a lack of air all at once.
"John," Lestrade says again, less frantic, more helpless.
"We're leaving," Sherlock says. Only those who know him well would notice the subtle little waver to his voice. "I'll text you my conclusions."
Lestrade doesn't argue.
Sherlock picks John up - possibly literally, John doesn't really remember leaving the crime scene. The next thing he knows they're in an alley and Sherlock is crouched down in front of him, holding John's index finger and middle finger to his wrist, directly over his pulse. The rhythmic throb beneath John's fingertips make reality seem a little firmer, a little more grounded, as Sherlock speaks.
"I'm here," he says gently. "Right here, John, with you."
"Christ." It's little more than a ragged exhalation. John falls forward, throwing his arms around Sherlock, not a hug so much as desperate clinging. He presses his face against the soft fabric of Sherlock's coat and tries not to shake. "When I saw you - "
Slowly, Sherlock's arms wind around him. He's gotten much better at this since he came back, though he still reserves physical affection solely for John and occasionally Mrs Hudson, and then only in private.
"I'm sorry," he says somewhat stiffly. One of his hands touches John's hair. "I was caught up in the case. I didn't consider the effect it would have on you."
"No you bloody well didn't," John says weakly. God, it was like living through it all over again. "No more, Sherlock. Stay away from rooftops for a while."
Sherlock shifts, like he might protests, but in the end he just says, "Okay."
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~800
Warnings: Post-Reichenbach
Summary: The first time John sees Sherlock on the roof of a building after Sherlock returns.
This was written for a prompt on the kink meme.
---
He's with a patient when his phone beeps for the first time. It's certainly not the first time this has happened, nor will it be the last. John smiles awkwardly at the elderly woman and both of them silently agree that the continual beeping of new text messages will be ignored. He finishes his examination and sends her on her way with a prescription. Only then does he fetch his mobile from his desk drawer and look at the screen.
New case. - SH
Come to 4 Grafton Way. - SH
Murder. - SH
Spleen is missing. - SH
How long would it take for a grown man to bleed out if body is packed in dry ice? - SH
John shakes his head and tucks the phone back into his pocket. As his last patient of the day has just left, he's free to dash to his mad flatmate's side. He puts his office back in order, fetches his jacket, and leaves through the back door of the surgery. He hails a cab and climbs in, rattling off the address. The cabbie gives a curt nod and pulls out.
More messages come through during the brief journey. John reads every one but doesn't bother to respond. They're not the kind of texts Sherlock wants answers to; it's Sherlock's way of having an audience when John (and the skull) aren't around to provide one.
In retrospect, it wasn't his best idea.
The cab lets him out right in front of the police line. By now they let him pass without question. Everyone knows who he is. He spots Lestrade and starts walking towards him, but then he notices that Lestrade's head is craned back into an odd position, his hand shielding his eyes so that he can look up at something.
Someone.
Sherlock Holmes is sauntering along the edge of a four story building.
What he's doing, John doesn't know.
Frankly he doesn't care.
Something seizes in his stomach, like a vicious cramp that leaves him breathless. He wants to shout at Sherlock, to tell him to get the fuck down right this bloody second you mad idiot but the words won't come. They stick in his throat, making him feel clumsy, and it's a good thing he's not moving anymore because one step would have him flat on his face.
He can't move.
Can't think.
Can't take his eyes away.
The edges of his vision turns smokey gray; the rest tunnels until Sherlock is all he can see.
Sherlock.
Falling.
Sherlock.
Hitting the ground.
Sherlock.
His blood, warm and red and spreading.
Sherlock.
His wrist cold to the touch.
Sherlock.
No pulse.
"John!"
Hands grasp his shoulders and someone shakes him, shouting his name. It's Lestrade. He sounds like he's panicking.
Sherlock.
And then, like he's been summoned by will alone, Sherlock pushes Lestrade aside and stares down at John, who has somehow ended up on the ground. He pulls his hand back and lands one solid thump on John's back, right between his shoulder blades. John lurches forward from the force of the blow and draws in a sharp breath. Immediately he starts choking and coughing as greedy lungs and muscles try to make up for a lack of air all at once.
"John," Lestrade says again, less frantic, more helpless.
"We're leaving," Sherlock says. Only those who know him well would notice the subtle little waver to his voice. "I'll text you my conclusions."
Lestrade doesn't argue.
Sherlock picks John up - possibly literally, John doesn't really remember leaving the crime scene. The next thing he knows they're in an alley and Sherlock is crouched down in front of him, holding John's index finger and middle finger to his wrist, directly over his pulse. The rhythmic throb beneath John's fingertips make reality seem a little firmer, a little more grounded, as Sherlock speaks.
"I'm here," he says gently. "Right here, John, with you."
"Christ." It's little more than a ragged exhalation. John falls forward, throwing his arms around Sherlock, not a hug so much as desperate clinging. He presses his face against the soft fabric of Sherlock's coat and tries not to shake. "When I saw you - "
Slowly, Sherlock's arms wind around him. He's gotten much better at this since he came back, though he still reserves physical affection solely for John and occasionally Mrs Hudson, and then only in private.
"I'm sorry," he says somewhat stiffly. One of his hands touches John's hair. "I was caught up in the case. I didn't consider the effect it would have on you."
"No you bloody well didn't," John says weakly. God, it was like living through it all over again. "No more, Sherlock. Stay away from rooftops for a while."
Sherlock shifts, like he might protests, but in the end he just says, "Okay."