And this is about as graphic as I get when I write.
He winced at the bright halogens that flashed on, his eyes adjusted to complete darkness.
|You're viewing anomoly_fetish's journal|
Create a Dreamwidth Account Learn More
Title: Remember When It Rained
Characters: Sherlock, John, friendship, hurt/comfort fic
Original Prompt: Sherlock is broken and traumatised on his return and doesn't want to leave 221B.
Author’s Note: The fact it’s raining in buckets and it’s dark inspired this. Somewhat.
Part of this is Sherlock watching John deduce what’s going - so it’s not exactly reading his mind, it’s just that they both have medical knowledge, and he comes to some of the same conclusions Mycroft’s doctors did anyway - only it’s a far less helpless situation, because John knows he can help. It’s just going to be a lot of trial and error. And this is NOT meant to be slash, so you are one sorry shipper if you do.
Title:Remember When It Rained
Fandom: Sherlock, BBC
Characters: Sherlock, John hurt/comfort, friendship fic
Original Prompt:Sherlock is broken and traumatised on his return and doesn't want to leave 221B.
A/N: I really don't think this is how it's going to be played in the series so consider it AU, to a degree. Someone already filled this in the comm, and I took it as a personal challenge to do it from a different perspective. Apparently most fills are considered easier when you add John's POV. Not for me, really.
He entered the flat, blinking at the dim light.
He was hoping John would be here, but - he likely wouldn’t get in otherwise.
The eighteen months he’d been gone had shattered him, more than he dared to admit.
He locks the door behind him, noting the strange silence. It was neither soothing nor unnerving … it was just…
He sits in his chair, staring at the floorboards. The room's been dusted, clearly Mrs. Hudson or perhaps John takes to regularly cleaning. He barely bothers to observe this, it was only noted because there wasn't a puff of dust when he sat down.
There had been many times during his tenure abroad he had thought of this moment.
Perhaps the only thing that kept him alive and fighting when they tortured him in Yemen - but now he was here, he felt blank.
He didn’t want to move, he only wanted to stay here in his flat.
Never leave 221B Baker Street ever again as long as he lived.
It wasn’t really because he was afraid something would happen if he left. Or perhaps it was.
He couldn’t make himself care about the answer.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, in the silence, but it was getting dark and there was no lamp, but he couldn’t make himself move. The darkness again.
Neither comforting nor unnerving. Only nothingness.
There were lights of a taxi outside the door. He suspected who it was, but he didn’t turn to look. In fact, he barely moved any muscle, other than occasionally blinking his eyes. But that was involuntary, if he could have remained utterly still, he likely would have.
A key fitted into the lock, and it turned slowly with a click, nearly too loud for the quiet room. He likely would have jumped if he weren't expecting the noise, and didn’t leap up as he had expected. John would just throw him out in the streets - probably what he deserved. Even though that's not what he wanted.
There were footsteps. Slow. He wasn’t really paying attention to the scraping on the each step - indicative that John had kept their - it was really his flat now, considering the will. And the awful limp had returned.
Was he supposed to feel anything about that? Had he before? Couldn't really recall, it was somewhat of a haze. He had a little feeling as though someone had their fist around his beating heart, which was surely too loud for the quiet room.
The lights had turned on in the hallway. Now the kitchen. The kettle took sometime to boil, as though it were stubborn.
When John walked into the sitting room there was a crash that indicated he’d dropped his mug, and it was quite nearly in about 50 pieces. Or more. He didn’t bother to count them.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?”
No. he wasn't missing his tongue or ability to speak; it was just like he was eight years old again and he didn’t want to talk. Or when they'd tried to "cure" something that was ingrained in his psyche.
He’d had a response planned - before they’d injected the sodium pentathol and forced electrodes through his bloodstream.
He couldn’t quite recall what it was now. The only response he could manage was a brief nod.
"Answer me, Sherlock. Where the bloody hell have you been?"
"Everywhere you can imagine," was the reply. A direct, simple answer. As few words as possible. Not because it still hurt to talk, because it hadn't been that way for a long while. Out of pure force of habit. His voice was gruff, slightly hoarse from disuse, the baritone dull. He looked up briefly and from the way John drew back, he knew the doctor had seen the too-prominent cheekbones, and the darkness around his eyes, the hollowness that he felt so keenly. He had been everywhere in hell John could possibly imagine.
He'd thought returning here to the flat would be rid of that, but it was quite clear that that would not be the case.
John took two strides until he stood in front of him.
Was there a reason? Did he remember that reason or not? He wasn't supposed to be here. Mycroft would have cardiac arrest if he knew, but even that did not entice any expression. From his tone, it was clear the doctor was still unsure of weather to hug him or punch him, and frankly he didn't care which.
John was waiting for his answer. "You would be dead if I hadn't. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson."
He expected a punch, a slap in the face, in fact he imagined it so vividly, he wasn't sure if John hadn't hit him at all.
He would have smiled, but somehow the emotion didn't seem quite enough there to show up on his face. John never had been dull or stupid.
"I'm not a hero," this time he looked up though it took quite a bit of effort to force himself to move when he really didn't want to. John stepped back, and he turned to gazing at the empty fireplace, the ashes gray and black.