In Which I am a Ridiculous Fangirl
Jan. 11th, 2012 09:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
islandofwordsThe last couple of days have been a blur. I blame the BBC's Sherlock and the fandom community. Anyway, there's a meme and there was a prompt and I wrote a thing (not that anyone reads this anyway) and I'm working on embracing my utter ridiculous nerd/geek instead of being embarrassed about things like an obsessive love of fan fiction. Anyway.
Based on a prompt at sherlockBBC-fic. Stop looking at me like that. Anyway, the prompt:
In ACD!canon, when Holmes returns from Reichenbach, Watson faints.
Same scenario in BBC!verse. But when John wakes up all he says is, "It's your turn to get the milk."
(Note: I'm not British but I tried. It was written fairly quickly.)
Sunday. 10:34 p.m. Baker Street.
John's mobile buzzes. Harry again, checking in, making sure he's alright. He's not, but he thinks he's lied enough for today so instead he just ignores it and flips the channel on the telly. Today's newspaper sits on a pile of yesterday's paper, last week's papers, last month's papers. He's not sure why he keeps getting the paper; it's not like he reads it. He used to, but London has murders and murders make him think of Sherlock and he usually tries not to think about that too much.
His therapist says he needs to stop blocking it all out, he needs to grieve, he needs to keep writing his blog. He tells her, "Yes, yes, of course" but ultimately ignores her advice.
He changes the channel again. Without Sherlock, nothing really happens to him anyway. Lestrade and company consulted him in the beginning, perhaps thinking some of Sherlock's genius had rubbed off on John, but now they don't even inquire if he's alright. Donovan certainly thinks he's better off now.
John glances idly at the time. Getting late. He has to work tomorrow. Dragging himself out of the flat is difficult enough when he's not also exhausted. (Not that he won't be exhausted anyway; it seems he never feels anything but exhaustion these days.)
He has just entertained the thought of switching the telly off when he hears a door open from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson's in her flat and she still hasn't had any luck with the damp one, so John's not sure who is entering the building. He leaves the telly on but grabs his gun from a drawer in the table next to him.
He approaches the door to their--his--he's still recalling it has their flat even after so many months--his flat silently and slowly opened the it. He peers down the staircase, gun in hand. At the bottom of the stairs, there is a man, tall and lean with a mop of black curls carefully shutting the door.
It can't be. John's a doctor and he's been through a war so he knows the signs of PTSD when he sees them. He tells himself that it's not him, can't be him because he died going after Moriarty even after John told him not to, begged him not to. It's his mind playing tricks on him. There's are plenty of tall curly-haired blokes in London and John tells himself firmly to calm down. But he can't will away the vice grip something seems to have gotten on his heart.
John forces himself to take a deep breath, then steps into the doorway. He trains the gun on the figure at the bottom of the stairs. Without turning around, the figure says in a familiar deep tone, "I don't think you'll be needing that, John; you're just going to hurt someone."
And then the vice on his heart tightens and he can't breathe and he thinks his knees might give out, so he sets the gun on the table just inside the door. And then the figure turns around and John's knees really do give out and he's dimly aware of his hope he doesn't pitch down the stairs as everything goes dark.
Sherlock's up the stairs in a flash, catching John before he topples down the stairs and pulling him back into his--their--flat.
When John regains consciousness a moment later, he's on his back on the floor, Sherlock hovering over him with something akin to concern on his face. John opens his mouth to speak, to verbalize the swelling he can feel in his chest, the rush of endorphins because he's here and he's not dead (of course he wasn't dead; like Sherlock would let anyone kill him). All the words John wants to say bubble up in his head but they get stuck on the way out of his mouth so instead of something terribly affectionate or clever or even angry at the deception (how could he be angry right now, when the whole world's been righted again?), all he can manage is, "It's your turn to get the milk."
Based on a prompt at sherlockBBC-fic. Stop looking at me like that. Anyway, the prompt:
In ACD!canon, when Holmes returns from Reichenbach, Watson faints.
Same scenario in BBC!verse. But when John wakes up all he says is, "It's your turn to get the milk."
(Note: I'm not British but I tried. It was written fairly quickly.)
Sunday. 10:34 p.m. Baker Street.
John's mobile buzzes. Harry again, checking in, making sure he's alright. He's not, but he thinks he's lied enough for today so instead he just ignores it and flips the channel on the telly. Today's newspaper sits on a pile of yesterday's paper, last week's papers, last month's papers. He's not sure why he keeps getting the paper; it's not like he reads it. He used to, but London has murders and murders make him think of Sherlock and he usually tries not to think about that too much.
His therapist says he needs to stop blocking it all out, he needs to grieve, he needs to keep writing his blog. He tells her, "Yes, yes, of course" but ultimately ignores her advice.
He changes the channel again. Without Sherlock, nothing really happens to him anyway. Lestrade and company consulted him in the beginning, perhaps thinking some of Sherlock's genius had rubbed off on John, but now they don't even inquire if he's alright. Donovan certainly thinks he's better off now.
John glances idly at the time. Getting late. He has to work tomorrow. Dragging himself out of the flat is difficult enough when he's not also exhausted. (Not that he won't be exhausted anyway; it seems he never feels anything but exhaustion these days.)
He has just entertained the thought of switching the telly off when he hears a door open from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson's in her flat and she still hasn't had any luck with the damp one, so John's not sure who is entering the building. He leaves the telly on but grabs his gun from a drawer in the table next to him.
He approaches the door to their--his--he's still recalling it has their flat even after so many months--his flat silently and slowly opened the it. He peers down the staircase, gun in hand. At the bottom of the stairs, there is a man, tall and lean with a mop of black curls carefully shutting the door.
It can't be. John's a doctor and he's been through a war so he knows the signs of PTSD when he sees them. He tells himself that it's not him, can't be him because he died going after Moriarty even after John told him not to, begged him not to. It's his mind playing tricks on him. There's are plenty of tall curly-haired blokes in London and John tells himself firmly to calm down. But he can't will away the vice grip something seems to have gotten on his heart.
John forces himself to take a deep breath, then steps into the doorway. He trains the gun on the figure at the bottom of the stairs. Without turning around, the figure says in a familiar deep tone, "I don't think you'll be needing that, John; you're just going to hurt someone."
And then the vice on his heart tightens and he can't breathe and he thinks his knees might give out, so he sets the gun on the table just inside the door. And then the figure turns around and John's knees really do give out and he's dimly aware of his hope he doesn't pitch down the stairs as everything goes dark.
Sherlock's up the stairs in a flash, catching John before he topples down the stairs and pulling him back into his--their--flat.
When John regains consciousness a moment later, he's on his back on the floor, Sherlock hovering over him with something akin to concern on his face. John opens his mouth to speak, to verbalize the swelling he can feel in his chest, the rush of endorphins because he's here and he's not dead (of course he wasn't dead; like Sherlock would let anyone kill him). All the words John wants to say bubble up in his head but they get stuck on the way out of his mouth so instead of something terribly affectionate or clever or even angry at the deception (how could he be angry right now, when the whole world's been righted again?), all he can manage is, "It's your turn to get the milk."
