Bookish dragon with a pen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bookish_dragon) wrote2010-08-14 05:28 pm
bookish_dragon) wrote2010-08-14 05:28 pm
Before I fall to pieces
Title: Before I fall to pieces
Fandom: BBC-Sherlock
Pairing/characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Ella Thompson.
Rating: PG.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, various movie-companies, and in this incarnation, by Moffat and Gatiss and the BBC.
Summary: During the summerheat, John goes to pieces.
It's hot in London, even hotter in their flat, the country in the grip of a heatwave that shows no signs of abating any time soon. Even so, John is fully dressed, sitting in his chair, hand on his cane, staring at Sherlock in the chair opposite and not staring at him at the same time. Sherlock is only stopped from falling out of his chair by virtue of one arm he's draped around its back, and he doesn't seem to pay any attention either.
The Afghani sun was hotter, a lot hotter, and the air was drier. 40 in the shade if you were lucky, and if you weren't lucky you'd end up sun-stroked in the field-hospital, where it'd 50 because the fans never worked properly.
John's shirt's drenched with sweat, just from sitting, but he doesn't notice. His leg's hurting more, and he grips his cane tighter, knuckles whitening, starkly relieved against the ever-present tan.
'Drink,' his mind tells him, and he knows he should. He's a doctor, of course he knows the value of proper hydration, but he can't bring himself to get up for this either.
The bullets flying through the air like lethal mosquitoes, bloodstains on the sand and he couldn't help them all if though he wanted to, God please let him be able help them all. Overhead the sun shone on, not giving a damn.
“John, tea.” Sherlock, who still hasn't looked up. The heat means the criminals keep quiet; they haven't had a case for the past two weeks, and Sherlock's bored. Lack of a proper freezer in the flat puts a crimp in Sherlock's other plans, and the morgue doesn't want to see either of them after the latest mess. Which John wasn't even around for, so he wonders why he's banned as well.
John gets up, limps into the kitchen. Sherlock flounces off with his mug of tea. John's tea sits by his elbow, forgotten, and slowly grows cold.
–
The lights in the supermarket hurt his eyes and John hunches up his shoulders in a futile effort to keep out the incessant noises around him. Everything is too loud, too bright and he doesn't want to be here but there's absolutely nothing edible left at the flat. Unless you want to count the sheep's entrails in the fridge, an experiment Sherlock doesn't remember anymore. The sight is enough to make most people consider becoming vegetarian. Beyond a frustrated sigh it doesn't bother John much, though he's not going to make haggis out of it either. He's just left wishing Sherlock would clean up his own messes every once in a while as he made his way out the flat and down the street. Groceyshopping seemed a good idea, a normal thing, until he steps into the building. But now he's inside, and the place feels too large and too small; he can't see what's in the other aisles, what's going and who's there.
They got ambushed in the hillside, a band of insurgents hidden, keeping his unit under continual fire. They hit the team-leader, killing him mainly through rotten luck. The man had died instantly. What was his name again?
He finds himself in front of the dairy-section, and going by the looks the other shoppers are giving him, he's been there for too long. He can't remember ending up here, and leaves the supermarket without having bought anything.
–
“Are you eating, John?” Ella asks him, her eyes large and worried, hands folded over her clipboard.
“Yeah, sure,” he says, not really knowing what he's just answered.
Her gaze shifts to his cane, held tightly in his hands. “You look like you lost weight,” she says, and that's where his mind leaves the conversation to float around in a blank haze, leaving some autonomous system to do all the hard work.
He must have said something, he thinks later, when the world has snapped back into focus, something that sounded right, because he's back at Baker Street, and not in a hospital somewhere. What scares him, even if the thrill of fear is only very vague, is that he can't remember what's happened. He limps upstairs to his bedroom. It's hot in there as well, but it's better than spending the rest of the afternoon in his chair. His back is going to kill him one of these days.
–
The next morning finds him in that chair again, cane resting against its side. He's alone at the flat, Sherlock having buggered off to god-knows-where. Not knowing where the other man is manages to clear up his mind enough to get up and grab his phone. It shouldn't be too hard to text him, should it? John sits back down and ends up looking at his phone like he's never seen it before. Eventually it falls down into his lap.
The heat and the grime and the ever-present sun and the never-ending screams and he wants to get out of here, wants to leave this place, this hell, behind him, but he can't get out, there's no exit anywhere , and it wasn't a never-ending litany of this he knows, but it's all he can think about, all he can see, and he wants to scream but no sound comes out, and a hand drops down on his shoulder, cutting through the memories and the horrors, and he hears a voice say his name, and before John knows what's he doing, he's risen out of his chair, pinning the man whose hand it is to the fireplace.
“John?” Sherlock.
“What?” John snaps to, realises what's going on. His heart is racing.
“Let go off me. If I had know you'd get this violent over a new case, I would have let you be.” John can't see Sherlock's face, but he fancies he can hear some sort of amusement in his voice.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he mumbles, letting go off Sherlock's arm. He doesn't move away, instead rests his head against Sherlock's back, between his shoulderblades. The contact makes his heart beat more normal.
“John,” Sherlock says after a minute. “The case. We have a case, finally.” He moves impatiently.
“Ah yes,” John says. He steps back now. “Let me find my shoes.” Sherlock straightens his shirt, and they leave the flat. John has his cane still. Outside he can smell the change in weather. Rain's coming. Heat's nearly over. No summer lasts forever.
Fandom: BBC-Sherlock
Pairing/characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Ella Thompson.
Rating: PG.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, various movie-companies, and in this incarnation, by Moffat and Gatiss and the BBC.
Summary: During the summerheat, John goes to pieces.
It's hot in London, even hotter in their flat, the country in the grip of a heatwave that shows no signs of abating any time soon. Even so, John is fully dressed, sitting in his chair, hand on his cane, staring at Sherlock in the chair opposite and not staring at him at the same time. Sherlock is only stopped from falling out of his chair by virtue of one arm he's draped around its back, and he doesn't seem to pay any attention either.
The Afghani sun was hotter, a lot hotter, and the air was drier. 40 in the shade if you were lucky, and if you weren't lucky you'd end up sun-stroked in the field-hospital, where it'd 50 because the fans never worked properly.
John's shirt's drenched with sweat, just from sitting, but he doesn't notice. His leg's hurting more, and he grips his cane tighter, knuckles whitening, starkly relieved against the ever-present tan.
'Drink,' his mind tells him, and he knows he should. He's a doctor, of course he knows the value of proper hydration, but he can't bring himself to get up for this either.
The bullets flying through the air like lethal mosquitoes, bloodstains on the sand and he couldn't help them all if though he wanted to, God please let him be able help them all. Overhead the sun shone on, not giving a damn.
“John, tea.” Sherlock, who still hasn't looked up. The heat means the criminals keep quiet; they haven't had a case for the past two weeks, and Sherlock's bored. Lack of a proper freezer in the flat puts a crimp in Sherlock's other plans, and the morgue doesn't want to see either of them after the latest mess. Which John wasn't even around for, so he wonders why he's banned as well.
John gets up, limps into the kitchen. Sherlock flounces off with his mug of tea. John's tea sits by his elbow, forgotten, and slowly grows cold.
–
The lights in the supermarket hurt his eyes and John hunches up his shoulders in a futile effort to keep out the incessant noises around him. Everything is too loud, too bright and he doesn't want to be here but there's absolutely nothing edible left at the flat. Unless you want to count the sheep's entrails in the fridge, an experiment Sherlock doesn't remember anymore. The sight is enough to make most people consider becoming vegetarian. Beyond a frustrated sigh it doesn't bother John much, though he's not going to make haggis out of it either. He's just left wishing Sherlock would clean up his own messes every once in a while as he made his way out the flat and down the street. Groceyshopping seemed a good idea, a normal thing, until he steps into the building. But now he's inside, and the place feels too large and too small; he can't see what's in the other aisles, what's going and who's there.
They got ambushed in the hillside, a band of insurgents hidden, keeping his unit under continual fire. They hit the team-leader, killing him mainly through rotten luck. The man had died instantly. What was his name again?
He finds himself in front of the dairy-section, and going by the looks the other shoppers are giving him, he's been there for too long. He can't remember ending up here, and leaves the supermarket without having bought anything.
–
“Are you eating, John?” Ella asks him, her eyes large and worried, hands folded over her clipboard.
“Yeah, sure,” he says, not really knowing what he's just answered.
Her gaze shifts to his cane, held tightly in his hands. “You look like you lost weight,” she says, and that's where his mind leaves the conversation to float around in a blank haze, leaving some autonomous system to do all the hard work.
He must have said something, he thinks later, when the world has snapped back into focus, something that sounded right, because he's back at Baker Street, and not in a hospital somewhere. What scares him, even if the thrill of fear is only very vague, is that he can't remember what's happened. He limps upstairs to his bedroom. It's hot in there as well, but it's better than spending the rest of the afternoon in his chair. His back is going to kill him one of these days.
–
The next morning finds him in that chair again, cane resting against its side. He's alone at the flat, Sherlock having buggered off to god-knows-where. Not knowing where the other man is manages to clear up his mind enough to get up and grab his phone. It shouldn't be too hard to text him, should it? John sits back down and ends up looking at his phone like he's never seen it before. Eventually it falls down into his lap.
The heat and the grime and the ever-present sun and the never-ending screams and he wants to get out of here, wants to leave this place, this hell, behind him, but he can't get out, there's no exit anywhere , and it wasn't a never-ending litany of this he knows, but it's all he can think about, all he can see, and he wants to scream but no sound comes out, and a hand drops down on his shoulder, cutting through the memories and the horrors, and he hears a voice say his name, and before John knows what's he doing, he's risen out of his chair, pinning the man whose hand it is to the fireplace.
“John?” Sherlock.
“What?” John snaps to, realises what's going on. His heart is racing.
“Let go off me. If I had know you'd get this violent over a new case, I would have let you be.” John can't see Sherlock's face, but he fancies he can hear some sort of amusement in his voice.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he mumbles, letting go off Sherlock's arm. He doesn't move away, instead rests his head against Sherlock's back, between his shoulderblades. The contact makes his heart beat more normal.
“John,” Sherlock says after a minute. “The case. We have a case, finally.” He moves impatiently.
“Ah yes,” John says. He steps back now. “Let me find my shoes.” Sherlock straightens his shirt, and they leave the flat. John has his cane still. Outside he can smell the change in weather. Rain's coming. Heat's nearly over. No summer lasts forever.