Martin in The Rake Issue 43
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@captain-three-continents-watson
Martin in The Rake Issue 43
Shot Through The Heart
He had known the bandages would get wet but he had still warned against it. And why? Was it some half-hearted attempt to make himself needed? Or was he just hoping Sherlock would find it too difficult to follow those instructions and ask for John’s help in keeping the bandages from getting sopping wet? They would need to change the bandages anyway, so really there was no point it trying to prevent them from getting wet when they were destine to be thrown in the rubbish bin.
John blinked, realizing he’d been having this entire internal crisis while standing in the middle of the bathroom watching his best mate get into the shower. He quickly glanced up at the roof to distract his mind from focusing on the obvious nakedness before him. What the hell was going on with him lately? He was never this shy when it came to the human body, so why did his cheeks feel like they were burning. Maybe it was just the heat from the shower. Yes, that must have been it.
Clearing his throat, John replied, “You’re not even supposed to be showering yet but I doubt very much you could tear the wound anymore. The bandages are waterproof but only to a point, so try your best not to get to much water on them.” he moved to the doorway and opened the door to Sherlock’s bedroom, “When you get out we’ll take a look and go from there with the aftercare.” he couldn’t get out of the bathroom quick enough, shutting the door behind him.
John figured five to ten minutes would be enough time for Sherlock to clean up. He wasn’t supposed to soak in the water and anymore then that would probably mean the waterproofing was no longer going to work. So he busied himself will changing the bedding of Sherlock’s bed, carefully cleaning up around the bed so that there was nothing in Sherlock’s path that he could trip on. Once the bedding was changed and rolled up into a ball, he tossed it in the corner of the room where the laundry basket currently sat full of dirty clothes waiting to be taken care off.
Satisfied with the remade bed, John went to Sherlock’s dresser and selected a pair of pants and a set of pajamas, or rather what he assumed were pajamas considering Sherlock’s usual state of appearance.
"It’s nearly time for you to take your antibiotics, did you want something to eat with them? or did you just want to skip solid food all together and wait till dinner?" he asked, re-entering the bathroom with the clothes. The first aid kit was out in the living room but John figured they would end up there again anyway, so why make more trips then necessary.
Sherlock grunted in agreement, distantly aware of John shuffling around the bathroom and eventually leaving through the bedroom door. Judging by the sound of opening and closing wardrobe doors he was sorting out the sheets. He took a deep breath, regretting it immediately, cursed, and slowly reached out for his shampoo on the shelve.
The traction between him an John was awkward, but functional. The doctor’s departure was a relief and a disappointment at the the same time, the later sensation being a heavy persistent weight around his wound and a nuisance. He pushed it away as much as he could, behind the remnants of opiate haze. Just because he knew why and how he was feeling (more or less), didn’t me he liked it or wanted it. This was not the time (there never will be time, regardless of what a small part of his mind palace might be whispering to him when he doesn’t concentrate on shutting it down.)
The shampoo had a mild peasant scent of citrus and mint, though Sherlock liked to rotate his shampoos from time to time (John found it to be a great source for jokes in his direction, without any malice in his words.) Raising his hands was difficult, but Sherlock managed to brush fingers through his hair and wash out the suds of foam regardless. He’d turned around, stepping out of the water and bending his head forward just enough to let the water help him wash the shampoo away. The position was less uncomfortable, though less effective in washing his hair, Sherlock noted.
The shower gel came next and took some extra effort to maneuver both the gel and the body to avoid sopping or touching the wound. His concentration invested completely into washing up, Sherlock’s mind had managed to quieten, letting the manual work sooth his thoughts. He was just finishing washing off the last of gel when he heard John approaching the bathroom again and open the door. The awareness came back rushing with the gush of cold air, cutting through the steam and Sherlock’s own daze.
"Well, feeling a bit better?" John asked, opening the door to the shower and handing Sherlock his towel through the small opening. He didn't really expect Sherlock to be completely finished but thought he'd offer the warmth of the towel to try and coax him out from under the water. "I expect you feel a hell of a lot better considering this is the first time you've had an actual shower since leaving the hospital." He was rambling, he knew but there was nothing else he could do at the moment. He didn't want to leave the room in case Sherlock needed him but there was also a pull that held him firmly in place and wouldn't let him move, something that he couldn't quite place but assumed was because this was his best friend. His best friend, who had been shot by his wife.
Mouth forming a thin line and causing the smile that had been there in good humor away, he tried to think of the positive things. There was a part of him that was still worried about Mary's well being but that had to be because she was carrying his child.
He waited in silence for a few more seconds before Sherlock finally shut the water off and took the offered towel. Once it was out of his hands, John turned towards the door to give Sherlock a bit of privacy. No doubt he was feeling rather exposed these last few days and would appreciate it. "I've got a change of clothes for you but don't bother putting the shirt on since we'll need to fix you up with some new bandages."
His eyes followed the grain of the wooden door as he waited for the sound of Sherlock exiting the shower. "It occurred to me that you'll probably need a hand getting your pants and trousers on," he explained, trying to make his continued presence in the bathroom seem less awkward. "Bending with a chest wound is best kept to a minimum if we're trying to get you healed as soon as possible." he waited a few more seconds before deciding it was time.
Turning on his heel, John made sure his eyes went to the clothes beside the basin of the sink before anything else. He fished out the pair of pants then did his best to kneel down in front of Sherlock without looking at his groin. He held the fabric open to allow Sherlock to step into each of the holes all the while thinking he should move one of the loungers into Sherlock's room to ensure the sleuth got some proper rest that night.
Shot Through The Heart
Once the light to the bathroom was on and the door was closed, John went about gathering up a towel from beneath the sink. He made an offhand comment about Mrs. Hudson getting ideas were they to leave the door open, then set the towel near the toilet, within reach from the shower. Then he turned his attention back to Sherlock, to help him undress or rather, to make sure he didn’t trip amongst the tangle of sheet around his feet.
But when he turned, he saw that Sherlock hadn’t needed his help at all. He’d turned away from John to face the shower and was already stripping out of his pants. The cuts and slashes permanently imprinted on his back gave John pause. He knew about then and how Sherlock had been tortured but he’d only seen them a small handful of times. The sight always made his chest hurt when he looked upon it. How had Sherlock survived that kind of abuse? What did they think he knew that they could possibly torture out of him?
Every time he saw the marks, he couldn’t help his hatred for Moriarty from growing and his anger towards Mycroft sparking once again. Not only had the oldest Holmes let his brother get captured but he’d had a part in the whole fake suicide bit. John was still far too upset to even consider being in the same room as Mycroft without literally wanting to punch him.
"Are you sure?" he asked, when he realized Sherlock had spoken. "It’s still going to be a bit difficult for you to bend around. I can help if you’d like, unless you’re uncomfortable with that. In Which case I can leave." he offered, moving towards the other door that led into Sherlock’s bedroom. He would need to change the sheets anyway and get Sherlock a change of clothes. "Just-.. try you best not to get the dressing completely soaked through. It’s easier to take off when it’s not a sopping mess."
Despite his efforts, he could still feel John’s anger (ridiculous yet fascinating, feeling emotions on such a physical level) like a completely separate entity existing in a space that was too small for it. It was naive of him to think he could avoid triggering John’s emotions (if only he was still able, still had the privilege of evoking other, more pleasant emotions in his best friend.) And thus he was at yet another metaphorical crossroad, another minefield to be tread with caution. A simple “yes” or “no” would not cut it. Sherlock had to decide on a best course of action and pick out his words accordingly (exhausting, but necessary. John deserved his consideration, at the very least, and infinitely more than that, with no bar set for “the most”.) Should he let John go? Avoid the awkwardness that would surely be ensued, were he to ask his best friend to stay? Then again, if he had gathered anything about the workings of John’s mind and heart (he barely scratched the surface of the ever changing and ever surprising enigma that was John Watson, it felt like), then purposefully distancing himself from John (but not when John wanted the space), denying his competence as a doctor and a chance to employ his caretaker skills, as well as showing arrogance (John would perceive it as arrogance or pride or who knows what) was Not Good. Besides, it was more reasonable for John to keep an eye out for him, their dual relationship (or whatever was left of it) aside (and yes, he did want John close. He liked John being here, caring, solid, reliable, a steady rock to hold on to despite the turmoil he was going through himself.) Yes. He should have John stay then, shouldn’t he? No, John, I’m not sure, he should say. It would give John an opportunity to shift into his doctoring mode, distance himself from what is bothering him, spook away the unpleasant thoughts, and give something to focus on now, anchor him to the present (anchor Sherlock to the present, too.) Then again, perhaps he should be less specific in his request. There was a potential to compromise John’s ability to make sober and autonomous decisions (he cannot submit John to anymore pressure and manipulation of any kind at this point, must avoid at any cost), as well as unwittingly allowing John to see something that would either confuse him or complicate things between them even more (or both, John was a relatively perceptive man, when given the opportunity, which is why so many people went out of their way when lying to him, Sherlock included.) "You are my doctor, John, and I am your morphine addled patient. I’m sure you trust your expertise more at this point, than my personal estimations and will be doctoring me regardless of what I say, as per usual," Sherlock finally spoke on an exhale, reaching out for the shower valves. "Besides, nothing beats the bending down bit right now, when it comes to ‘being uncomfortable’." He turned his face to John to give him a weak smile, before turning the water on and pulling the shower door in place to prevent the floor from getting wet (John hated it.) He didn’t shut the door completely, leaving a suggestible crack, if John felt like interfering (joining.) "Afraid the dressing will get wet anyway," Sherlock spoke over the sound of the running shower and awoken plumbing, even as he turned around to let the warm water beat at his back, protecting his front from getting too wet.
He had known the bandages would get wet but he had still warned against it. And why? Was it some half-hearted attempt to make himself needed? Or was he just hoping Sherlock would find it too difficult to follow those instructions and ask for John's help in keeping the bandages from getting sopping wet? They would need to change the bandages anyway, so really there was no point it trying to prevent them from getting wet when they were destine to be thrown in the rubbish bin.
John blinked, realizing he'd been having this entire internal crisis while standing in the middle of the bathroom watching his best mate get into the shower. He quickly glanced up at the roof to distract his mind from focusing on the obvious nakedness before him. What the hell was going on with him lately? He was never this shy when it came to the human body, so why did his cheeks feel like they were burning. Maybe it was just the heat from the shower. Yes, that must have been it.
Clearing his throat, John replied, "You're not even supposed to be showering yet but I doubt very much you could tear the wound anymore. The bandages are waterproof but only to a point, so try your best not to get to much water on them." he moved to the doorway and opened the door to Sherlock's bedroom, "When you get out we'll take a look and go from there with the aftercare." he couldn't get out of the bathroom quick enough, shutting the door behind him.
John figured five to ten minutes would be enough time for Sherlock to clean up. He wasn't supposed to soak in the water and anymore then that would probably mean the waterproofing was no longer going to work. So he busied himself will changing the bedding of Sherlock's bed, carefully cleaning up around the bed so that there was nothing in Sherlock's path that he could trip on. Once the bedding was changed and rolled up into a ball, he tossed it in the corner of the room where the laundry basket currently sat full of dirty clothes waiting to be taken care off.
Satisfied with the remade bed, John went to Sherlock's dresser and selected a pair of pants and a set of pajamas, or rather what he assumed were pajamas considering Sherlock's usual state of appearance.
"It's nearly time for you to take your antibiotics, did you want something to eat with them? or did you just want to skip solid food all together and wait till dinner?" he asked, re-entering the bathroom with the clothes. The first aid kit was out in the living room but John figured they would end up there again anyway, so why make more trips then necessary.
Shot Through The Heart
mrsigerson:
Sherlock arched a brow at John’s back as he shuffled after him and to the bathroom. Physical exertion was taking its tall on his body and making him slouch (hateful, absolutely hateful weakness of his transport), running and filtering the morphine through his bloodstream and out of his system faster, than he would have liked it. Breathing (not boring, but annoying anyway) was becoming an uncomfortable affair yet again. John walked ahead of him and entered the bathroom first, turning the lights on, stepping aside to let Sherlock in, and then closing the door after they were both in the room with a small off-hand comment about Mrs. Hudson and “getting ideas” (attempt at their regular humor to ease the anxiety and tension, unsuccessful, misplaced, and landing completely flat as of late.) The smell of cleaning solutions and disinfecting ointment dominated over the usually warm and mostly scentless (though sometimes damp or slightly chemical, if ventilation or Sherlock’s chemistry exercises were involved that day, though less frequent than everyone’s complaining might have led to believe) air in the bathroom, sharply reminding Sherlock of his recent stay at the hospital in all the unpleasant details. A shiver slithered down his spine, contracting his healing muscles in most unpleasant manner. He ignored the sensation to the best of his current ability, taking even cautious breaths as he dropped the sheet and reached out to take off his pants (his back was to John, sparing him the challenge of keeping his eyes above Sherlock’s pelvis, but ultimately exposing his other, slightly older scars, though between two evils his scarred back was winning over his bullet wound scar, at least because John did have a chance to glance at them before and they certainly bore no similarly significant and emotionally distressful meaning to him like the bullet wound did.) If there was any time and way he dared to speculate and imagine taking his pants in John’s presence, this was not the scenario at the top of his mental list (not that he had one, not really, he certainly didn’t make a mental index to his restricted fantasies, not at all, of course) or the one he gave much thought to begin with (admittedly he did think that a minor injury could be a plausible excuse to get suggestively undressed in John’s presence, not that he thinks about it anymore, he can’t, those files have been sealed and put away for undetermined period of time.) Bending was not an option or worth his efforts and Sherlock simply shimmied out of the garment before John could chime in, pushing the fabric down with his hands as far as he could reach without changing his posture and then stepping out of his underwear as it slid the rest of its way down his legs and onto the floor. There was no point in making John go through what would surely turn into an awkward situation for both of them (more so for John, it was obvious that years of their acquaintanceship topped with social pressure had made John distinguish Sherlock from other people and male associates in particular, dictating his behavior during their interactions, though not in a way Sherlock himself would have preferred.) In fact, were Sherlock in a better health he’d certainly have a different and very distinguishable response to John’s offer (probably, possibly, he might have exploited the situation and used it to his benefit, not that there is any point in speculating about this now.) The again, if Sherlock was in better health none of this would be happening in the first place, for better or worse. As it was, he couldn’t muster energy for anything more than basic state of operating, let alone some kind of emotional or socially-conditioned reaction to their current predicament.
"I cant take it from here, for now," Sherlock offered anyway (there was no point in arguing John out of the bathroom, it was both a fruitless task and an unreasonable request in his current state of dazed consciousness), climbing into the shower carefully, holding onto the tiled walls. He purposely avoided showing his torso to John more, than absolutely necessary, acutely aware of just what kind of effect it had on John seeing his bullet wound and what the frown on his friend’s face entailed. He might not have any strength to feel concern or stir of certain emotions (or physical reactions) in the context of his own sentiment for John and the complexity of their relationship (the complexity of something, something huge like an elephant in the corner of their peripheral sight that neither of them seemed to have been able to look straight on in the eyes quite yet), but his physical presence was yet again at the epicenter of John’s anger and hurt and distress, albeit in a slightly different context from last time. It was the least he could do to prove the sincerity of his remorse and to keep to his vows and promises he made to John (and to himself.)
Once the light to the bathroom was on and the door was closed, John went about gathering up a towel from beneath the sink. He made an offhand comment about Mrs. Hudson getting ideas were they to leave the door open, then set the towel near the toilet, within reach from the shower. Then he turned his attention back to Sherlock, to help him undress or rather, to make sure he didn't trip amongst the tangle of sheet around his feet.
But when he turned, he saw that Sherlock hadn't needed his help at all. He'd turned away from John to face the shower and was already stripping out of his pants. The cuts and slashes permanently imprinted on his back gave John pause. He knew about then and how Sherlock had been tortured but he'd only seen them a small handful of times. The sight always made his chest hurt when he looked upon it. How had Sherlock survived that kind of abuse? What did they think he knew that they could possibly torture out of him?
Every time he saw the marks, he couldn't help his hatred for Moriarty from growing and his anger towards Mycroft sparking once again. Not only had the oldest Holmes let his brother get captured but he'd had a part in the whole fake suicide bit. John was still far too upset to even consider being in the same room as Mycroft without literally wanting to punch him.
"Are you sure?" he asked, when he realized Sherlock had spoken. "It's still going to be a bit difficult for you to bend around. I can help if you'd like, unless you're uncomfortable with that. In Which case I can leave." he offered, moving towards the other door that led into Sherlock's bedroom. He would need to change the sheets anyway and get Sherlock a change of clothes. "Just-.. try you best not to get the dressing completely soaked through. It's easier to take off when it's not a sopping mess."
Hello, everyone. This is Tom.
I like to watch them talk without words.
sherlock looks so scandalized
and john like a hedgehog who just pooped
katzensprotte:
Shot Through The Heart
That didn’t answer his question but John let it slide. He didn’t have to imagine the pain Sherlock was feeling, John himself had gone through the same thing. Granted, Sherlock’s surgery had been cleaner then John’s and he hadn’t had to live through a fever with few supplies to aid his recovery.
However, they had needed to restart Sherlock’s heart because the idiot had taken off from the hospital in an attempt to prove Mary was not who she seemed. Of course, he had succeeded but the cost had left him drained physically and barely alive when they rushed him back to the hospital. Had the ambulance been any later, Sherlock might not be alive and breathing before him now.
But he was resilient if anything.
John remembered the shock that surged through him when one of the nurses came out to tell him that Sherlock’s heart had stopped. It felt like his entire world had gone up in flames again. As if the idiotic genius had thrown himself off the roof for a second time. He’d barely been able to stand, knees weak as the words penetrated his mind and he grasped the entirety of what he had been told. Of course, the world had gone foggy with this realization and John was barely aware of the nurse being called back urgently to the surgery. There was a commotion in the background and all John wanted was some sign that this had all been some bad dream.
He’d stayed at the hospital never leaving Sherlock’s side, sleeping in an uncomfortable position in one of the waiting room chairs. The rest of the time, he sat in Sherlock’s room (provided by his brother of course), watching him sleep in a drug induced coma. It was when Sherlock first drifted out of sleep and mumbled Mary’s name that John realized he had completely forgotten to inform his wife what had happened and where he was.
Not that he needed to. She had known.
At the time he was just so relieved that Sherlock was alright that he didn’t even notice the lack of messages and calls from, Mary. Usually she wanted a constant update just to make sure they were both alright but at the time that didn’t seem important. Now it just irked John. Now he was back at Baker Street looking after the detective because he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as his wife. What was wrong with him to have been attracted to her of all people? He was so angry that he’d blocked her number on his mobile. There was no way he wanted to read her pathetic plea’s; he couldn’t even talk to her without getting upset.
Shaking the thoughts from his mind, knowing that he was once again letting his mind fuel the anger he was trying so desperately to get rid of. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, across from Sherlock. "Your morphine is wearing off so you decided the best course of action was to get up out of bed and make a cuppa?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. How did the thoughts in Sherlock’s head find that in any way the logical course of action? "And what happened to your clothes? You were wearing sleeping trousers and the gray shirt before I went off to fetch my things." he rested his elbows on the table before resting his chin in his hands.
John watched Sherlock cataloging his ever move, knowing that the sleuth must have been bored out of his mind without a case. But what was happening in John’s life at the moment was not something he wanted to have Sherlock deduce and pick apart.
"You really shouldn’t be up, Sherlock. You had a very invasive surgery and then before it was able to heal, broke out of the hospital. You’re not doing yourself any favors pushing through the pain and trying to act like you’re okay. I don’t want you to strain yourself unnecessarily," he explained, feeling utterly useless.
He’d let Mary shoot his best friend. He’d let his best friend walk around after being shot just to find out that his wife had been lying to him all this time. He should have seen it. He should have stopped himself from getting involved with a woman that obviously couldn’t be trusted, rather then get swept up in the whirlwind of it all. And now, he wasn’t even useful as a doctor because Sherlock would never listen to his advice. What good was he to anyone?
"Come on then, finish your tea and then we’ll get you back to bed."
I know, John, I was there, Sherlock wanted to say, but didn’t, filling his mouth with another portion of now comfortably warm tea, aware of the repercussions that would follow, if he back-talked.
"If I wasn’t ok I would still be at the hospital," He muttered into the half-empty mug anyway, letting his overall discomfort and dissatisfaction escape his restrain and shape into words of exasperation (which was a stupid thing to allow. John most certainly caught his comment, sitting this close. He hasn’t been developing any hearing problems, despite the extensive exposure to the sounds of explosions and gunfire and many other no less loud, damaging noises of war zone. He does need reading glasses, however.)
"Sweat," He spoke up after a moment of unpleasant suspense, before the other shoe could drop (or be thrown at his head as a likely alternative, if he wasn’t recovering from a bullet wound.) "I need a change of clothes, preferably after I take a shower. If I have your permission, of course, doctor."
Voice neutral, he did allow a small smile pull at the corners of his mouth, trying for some humor to release the stifling tension that kept their interactions from progressing any further than a small talk (which still wasn’t his forte, despite the redeeming constancy of John’s presence and friendship) or strictly medical talk (tedious and repetitive, save for the moments when John’s clinical approach slipped into something less professional and more caring and warm and intimate- no, stop, don’t think about it now.)
Sherlock finished his tea and left the cup where it was. No point in being tidy since his efforts would be reprimanded anyway. He rose from the chair carefully, very aware of how he handled his body and the duress it was undergoing. His wound was almost healed on the outside, - John was going to take out the stitches sometime soon, perhaps in a few days from now. The damage was all on the inside now, hidden, unseen, throbbing, disabling, and much slower to dissipate (damaged muscle tissues, fractured rib, nicked liver, IVC, diaphragm, right lung, and internal thoracic artery, shock, and finally blood loss. By all accounts he was a dead man walking, even if his heart and respective nerve bundles were spared any lethal damage by sheer chance and collision of circumstances.)
"John?" He turned to look at his best friend, inquiring cautiously (softly, gently, with consideration and regard for the man’s life-saving opinions) and waiting for a verbal response to confirm what he saw in his body language.
John knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking from the way he omitted saying it and instead favored hiding behind his cup of tea. It was a usual tactic whenever they had a conversation that Sherlock didn't particularly want to have. He would take a sip of liquid or leave the room in some vain hope that John would forget what they were talking about or distract him into talking about something else. It was something John was used to and under any other circumstance he would have made a comment, but for now he would keep it to himself.
Until Sherlock opened his mouth and muttered behind the safety of the cup and John heard the exasperation in his voice. He raised an eyebrow but made no comment. Sherlock was right. If he wasn't okay then the hospital never would have released him, regardless of the fact John had promised to keep an eye on him.
It was just hard not to worry about his best friend when it was his fault all this had happened. If he hadn't met Mary, if he'd stayed away from her then Sherlock would never have been placed before her like a target. All the damage that the bullet had caused; it was a wonder Sherlock was still alive, much less walking around the flat.
"I suppose anyone would want a shower after the amount of time you've spent in bed," he said, leaning back in the wooden chair and watching Sherlock. "Not sure you should though...we'd have to wrap the wound up to make sure it doesn't get wet and then there's the strain you'd be putting on yourself by standing for so long. Sitting in a chair is one thing but standing for the amount of time it takes you to get showered and ready..." he shook his head. He was being silly. If Sherlock wanted to have a shower then he should. It wasn't as if someone was going to break in while he was in the shower and try and kill him. John just didn't want to let Sherlock out of his sight.
So maybe he was being a little overbearing and protective.
When he heard his name, he glanced up to find that Sherlock was already standing and waiting for John to respond. "Right. Yes. Obviously sponge baths can only go so far," he pulled himself up from the chair and smirked, trying like Sherlock to somehow cut through the tension that had enveloped them lately. "I'll help you. Come on." he didn't wait for a response, instead he stepped around Sherlock and headed towards the bathroom.
Shot Through The Heart
There was a number of ways to respond to John’s predictable commentary (at least five), but none of them would lead to a desirable or tolerable resolution. So Sherlock stayed silent, pulled the sheet back around his shoulders, and took another sip of his tea.
The milk and sugar were cleaned up and put away, leaving the kitchen as unnaturally bare, clinical, and sterile as it never was before he returned home from the hospital and John followed after him. The space felt entirely too empty and big and ridiculously unwelcome without any of his work equipment or even the customary kitchen inventory being scattered all over the counter tops and table. Sherlock looked around the room, until his eyes settled on John and took in the tale-telling details he carried within his appearance (different pair of loafers, recently cleaned, already worn outside, same clothing as yesterday, bags upstairs, keys in the left back pocket of his jeans, shaved with his regular blade, skin red around the wedding ring, fiddled or twisted or tugged and pushed back and forth or both, - went home early in the morning to pack his bags, but encountered Mary, did not have time to change there, only packed bare minimum of his things, left in a hurry, keys still in the pocket where he put them in a haste and without conscious thought, fiddled with his ring the entire time after the encounter, Mary tried to initiate a talk, possibility of emotional manipulation and provocation, John probably did not respond or did not give a response she wanted, left the place in urgency, is still disoriented, packed his toiletries last, unpacked first, shaved, but did not change, did not finish unpacking, deep in thought, distracted, got sidetracked by Sherlock’s fiddling in the kitchen.) Sherlock looked back at his cup, feeling the unfailing scrutiny of John’s stare. The man did not look exactly welcoming either, nor was he exactly hostile in his body language. Just infinitely angry, probably. He should have settled in the sitting room, after all.
"Morphine’s wearing out," Sherlock decided in favor of replying, voice rough and quiet from medicated sleep and the words scratching at his throat as his vocal cords tried to make do. John wouldn’t have appreciated his silence and would certainly take it for either Sherlock purposefully ignoring him or lack of complete awareness and ability to respond, when addressed. Or both. Neither options presented themselves as appealing and he settled on something neutral and helpful to divert John’s attention into a slightly more peaceful direction.
Tea was gradually cooling down and Sherlock took a bigger drink from his mug. He should enjoy his independently brewed cuppa while he can, since John was probably about to send him back to bed and administer another doze of morphine, which was an acceptable development of events. There was no benefit in the pain he felt and no reason to tolerate it more, than absolutely necessary.
That didn't answer his question but John let it slide. He didn't have to imagine the pain Sherlock was feeling, John himself had gone through the same thing. Granted, Sherlock's surgery had been cleaner then John's and he hadn't had to live through a fever with few supplies to aid his recovery.
However, they had needed to restart Sherlock's heart because the idiot had taken off from the hospital in an attempt to prove Mary was not who she seemed. Of course, he had succeeded but the cost had left him drained physically and barely alive when they rushed him back to the hospital. Had the ambulance been any later, Sherlock might not be alive and breathing before him now.
But he was resilient if anything.
John remembered the shock that surged through him when one of the nurses came out to tell him that Sherlock's heart had stopped. It felt like his entire world had gone up in flames again. As if the idiotic genius had thrown himself off the roof for a second time. He'd barely been able to stand, knees weak as the words penetrated his mind and he grasped the entirety of what he had been told. Of course, the world had gone foggy with this realization and John was barely aware of the nurse being called back urgently to the surgery. There was a commotion in the background and all John wanted was some sign that this had all been some bad dream.
He'd stayed at the hospital never leaving Sherlock's side, sleeping in an uncomfortable position in one of the waiting room chairs. The rest of the time, he sat in Sherlock's room (provided by his brother of course), watching him sleep in a drug induced coma. It was when Sherlock first drifted out of sleep and mumbled Mary's name that John realized he had completely forgotten to inform his wife what had happened and where he was.
Not that he needed to. She had known.
At the time he was just so relieved that Sherlock was alright that he didn't even notice the lack of messages and calls from, Mary. Usually she wanted a constant update just to make sure they were both alright but at the time that didn't seem important. Now it just irked John. Now he was back at Baker Street looking after the detective because he couldn't stand to be in the same room as his wife. What was wrong with him to have been attracted to her of all people? He was so angry that he'd blocked her number on his mobile. There was no way he wanted to read her pathetic plea's; he couldn't even talk to her without getting upset.
Shaking the thoughts from his mind, knowing that he was once again letting his mind fuel the anger he was trying so desperately to get rid of. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, across from Sherlock. "Your morphine is wearing off so you decided the best course of action was to get up out of bed and make a cuppa?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. How did the thoughts in Sherlock's head find that in any way the logical course of action? "And what happened to your clothes? You were wearing sleeping trousers and the gray shirt before I went off to fetch my things." he rested his elbows on the table before resting his chin in his hands.
John watched Sherlock cataloging his ever move, knowing that the sleuth must have been bored out of his mind without a case. But what was happening in John's life at the moment was not something he wanted to have Sherlock deduce and pick apart.
"You really shouldn't be up, Sherlock. You had a very invasive surgery and then before it was able to heal, broke out of the hospital. You're not doing yourself any favors pushing through the pain and trying to act like you're okay. I don't want you to strain yourself unnecessarily," he explained, feeling utterly useless.
He'd let Mary shoot his best friend. He'd let his best friend walk around after being shot just to find out that his wife had been lying to him all this time. He should have seen it. He should have stopped himself from getting involved with a woman that obviously couldn't be trusted, rather then get swept up in the whirlwind of it all. And now, he wasn't even useful as a doctor because Sherlock would never listen to his advice. What good was he to anyone?
"Come on then, finish your tea and then we'll get you back to bed."
Shot Through The Heart
Someone (who? Too many candidates to name) hit a Pause button on his life, putting its every aspect into what seemed like a single frozen frame, distorted at the edges (like morphine sleep) like an old VHS tape. Moving through every (same, repeating, dull) day in a slow motion was mighty irritating. It was perhaps the biggest source of irritation and restricted restlessness at this juncture in his life (the one he allowed himself, at least, if he was careful not to stray too far away with his thoughts and think about matters he resolutely did not want to (couldn’t) touch just yet, at least not all of them, not like this.)
Waking up was a painfully (literally and figuratively speaking) vague and evasive process, stripped of a clear line of awareness that divided dream from reality. If it wasn’t being horizontal and unconscious in his bed, it was certainly very taxing on his body, more taxing than Sherlock could have predicted. No injury has ever put him in a condition this disabling (he had a rather fascinating collection of wounds and illnesses and their lasting remnants to raise to this bullet wound.) Then again, he was never shot before, was he? Shot at? Grazed by a yet another “close one”? Sure. Taking a shot with his body opened up for a clear hit was a first.
Then there were people. People he knew, but more annoyingly people he didn’t know. An abundance of anonymous attention from faceless mob of strangers, cluttering his hospital room with obnoxiously smelling and looking flowers and balloons and some such. If he hoped his home would stand strong and untouched by this nonsense, he was in for a big and unpleasant surprise (Mrs. Hudson met him with another pile of flowers and “Get Better” cards and gifts at the door of 221b, chipper as ever.)
Even the tea was taking longer than usual to steep (which was not a case of tachypsychia, but the very dull hyper-awareness of the vacancy of his time, a skewed perception of it at its best.) Sherlock drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table top (bare, empty, cleaned), his left hand holding the sheet around his shoulders. Standing was not an option (even if John wasn’t there to bully him back to bed every time he tried to get up without permission or support), but sitting seemed like a good compromise. Whatever pain he was supposed to feel was eased away by the generous doze of morphine (made him loopy and slow, but was ultimately better and more fruitful than trying to function through pain.)
You should be in bed, you idiot. If you keep putting pressure on the wound before it heals properly, you’ll never recover.
Shut up John, I know. I’m not stupid.
You are right now.
Sherlock scowled at his tea. His feet were getting chilled by the linoleum floor (also cleaned) in their kitchen, the chair he sat on was solid wood and hardly comfortable even in his current state (or any state, for that matter), and his head was still foggy with morphine (which did not improve the sensation of flat hard wooden surfaces supporting his weight), though not to an extent where operating autonomously was not possible.
He looked out into the sitting room, which seemed undisturbed from its usual state of disarray. Nothing to betray another presence settling into the abundant (empty, cold, incomplete) space of the flat. Well, nothing that would tip off a regular person, at least. The signs were laid out in plain sight and obvious to Sherlock (tea mug, set and turned by left hand, laptop charger still plugged in, disturbance in the dust over shelves and coffee table, imprints on the carpet around John’s chair, creases in the fabric of the blanket thrown over the back of John’s chair, coffee table moved to the right, hit his foot on the wooden leg, second dent growing on the couch, the union jack pillow resting on the other side of the couch, John taking a quick nap.) Would’ve been obvious even if they haven’t previously discussed the matter (John merely stated it as a fact, Sherlock had little objection or strength to argue, though he did try to reason with the man, which didn’t change a thing, obviously.) John traveled with few and necessary possessions, his shirts being already packed and put aside into a bag long before the catalysis of the recent events took place (don’t think about it, don’t think about implications, not right now, not like this.)
The tea had finally steeped and Sherlock pulled the teabag out by its string, holding the paper piece with the label between his thumb and index finger. He let go of the sheet in favor of picking up a spoon, depositing the still damp and steaming bag in the deep of the utensil’s bowl, tying the string around the tea bag and spoon, and pulling the string, squeezing the remaining hard-steeped liquid into the cup. Discarding the teabag into the bin he’s previously moved next to his current seat, Sherlock kicked the plastic bucket under the table and focused on adding milk and sugar to his yet incomplete cuppa.
There were noises coming from outside, leaking through the slightly opened window in the kitchen. There were also sounds (and smells) coming through the ventilation, announcing Mrs. Hudson’s cooking project for that day. Then there were muffled sounds (no crude remarks, so far) coming from upstairs bedroom: closing and opening of the drawers and footsteps traveling around the small bedroom above. Suitcase, bed, wardrobe, desk, and then back to suitcase. John had more belongings to unpack than when they first moved in together, but it still didn’t show outside of John’s bedroom. John’s presence in the living space of 221b was marked by other little things, incorporated and integrated in the spaces between and around Sherlock. Things they shared sat squarely in the middle, space divided strictly between the two (it felt stricter than it used to be, product of accumulated and unresolved tension, probably years’ worth of words unsaid.) Sherlock looked at John’s chair (an inanimate object with no particular history or qualities, inherited with the rest of the flat. Its metamorphosis into “John’s chair” was something that happened outside of his notice and awareness. Associations, repetitive positive reinforcement) and saw an open book, turned to hug the armrest, but left too close by the edge (did not have time to find a bookmark, did not fold the corners, not his book, missing space on the shelves, a lamp moved from its place by the couch next to the chair, left side, John was reading at night, sitting in his chair, picked up a book from Sherlock’s library, was listening for any calls of distress from Sherlock, reacted immediately, responsible doctor, best friend, caring- Halt. Save for later.)
The shuffling above seized and Sherlock heard the squeak of the door from John’s bedroom, opening and closing, followed by steady, but quiet footfall heading downstairs, accompanied by the slow creak of boards under John’s weight.
John thought he was still asleep (even if he were asleep it would’ve been a morphine laced sleep, safe from any amount of noise John would make on regular basis. Habit?) Sherlock blew lightly on his tea and took a sip. Still didn’t taste like what John made for him. Pity, that.
There was something surreal about being in the same room that he had run from almost a year earlier. Nothing had changed. The one floorboard that creaked still made an awful noise when he put too much pressure on it. The bedding was still tucked in with military precision and the few items he had left behind had not been moved if the level of dust was anything to go by.
He’d left this room a year ago believing that everything he had become accustom to in his life after being invalided home, was gone. His best friend had jumped from the roof of St. Barts Hospital and all the goodness in John’s life had died with him. How many weeks did he wake up screaming Sherlock’s name in some vain hope that he could prevent the genius’ suicide? How often had he tried to stay awake in a futile effort to keep from reliving the moment in his nightmares?
He had felt betrayed and broken, everything in life becoming nothing more than a painful reminder that the great Sherlock Holmes, had killed himself.
Then Mary came along.
This intelligent, whimsical beauty that somehow managed to break through his mundane shroud of life with her gorgeous smile and cheery attitude. She was what brought him out of the dark of his depression. Not the therapist. Not memories or the will to fight. Mary Elizabeth Morstan, had been like a shining beacon calling him back to the world and he loved her for it.
She had been his rock. The reason he woke up in the morning, the reason he smiled and found life was once again worth living. Their life together was perfect so it was no wonder he asked her to marry him.
Of course that hadn’t gone as planned. The man downstairs at the moment having ruined all of John’s careful planning.
He’d been furious and what was worse was Mary hadn’t reacted to Sherlock the way all his previous girlfriends had. That should have been his first clue that something wasn’t right about her but he was too surprised by the fact that someone else could actually like Sherlock, that he had dismissed it for just another reason to marry her.
And they had gotten on so well. Mary and Sherlock seemed to be on similar wave lengths that he never bothered to wonder what could be wrong with the situation. He should have known! Should have seen the signs that it was too good to be true.
They’d only been married little over a month when she shot Sherlock. Suddenly John’s world was once again thrust into disarray and everything he had become used too was swept from the board to once again be mourned.
Only this time he couldn’t run from it. This time he had to stick through it because she was the woman carrying his baby and he wasn’t about to be the type of father to abandon his child.
But he sure as hell wasn’t going to stay in the same house as her when she had shot his best mate two days earlier.
So here he was back at Baker Street, standing in the room he had once called his own, staring down at the few items he had brought with him. He had been so angry when he packed that there wasn’t any rhyme or reason to the content shoved into the duffel bag. A few pairs of pants, a set of trousers and his favorite jumper along with an assortment of vests and his toothbrush.
But staring down at everything now, felt so strange. Was he really married? Had all that happened? Had Sherlock really jumped from the roof of St. Barts three years earlier and left him devastated? It all felt like a dream as he glanced around the familiar room.
What the hell had he done to deserve this?
There was movement from the kitchen that snapped his attention back to the present. Sherlock was moving around again it seemed, even after John had warned him not to. Glad of the distraction, John left the room and unpacking for later, heading to the kitchen to find Sherlock had attempted to make himself a cuppa.
Taking in the overturned bag of sugar on the counter and the milk that hadn’t been returned to the fridge, he rolled his eyes.
“You could have asked.” He scolded, moving to the counter to clean up the mess that Sherlock didn’t seem at all bothered by. Once everything was back in place, he turned his attention to the other man once more.
“I thought I told you to stay settled,” John crossed his arms and stared down at Sherlock expectantly, “You’re supposed to be recovering, not making things worse.”
My love, you’re still here
About this blog
This is a John Watson (BBC) RP blog. Originally created for the SuperWhoLock RP community; this is now an independent RP blog. My current Sherlock Holmes (BBC) RP blog partner is Sherlock Holmes.
The old RPs (Before September 2014) on this blog that relate to the superwholock community are in the process of being archived and will have no influence what-so-ever on the new ones. Once this is done, I'll be deleting them from this blog and this part of the post will disappear.
While most of the cases and RPs will be based around our plot, we are open to OOC/in character suggestions.
If you have any interesting cases/ideas for cases/interactive questions feel free to submit them to either of us. You will be credited for anything we use in the RPs.
OOC questions and messages are also welcome. The Submit and Ask Box are always open and will be responded to according to what is asked/submitted and who has done so (example: an in character ask will be responded to by John. While an OOC one will be answered by the muse.)
Updates will be posted on the blog and then categorized and archived under the story tab in chronological order.
This RP takes place after Mary shot Sherlock and will continue without the Charles Magnussen case. We've decided to deviate from His Last Vow and will explain in more detail later about who Sherlock and John were investigating when Mary shot him.
Sherlock AU: With John and Mary living together, it makes it easier for Sherlock to resume his drug habits.