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errantcomment) wrote2011-05-31 11:01 pm
Fill: Sing All You Want Part Five
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock/John (eventual, UST), John/OC
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7,500. This part about 1500.
Summary: Sherlock lives alone in 221B. John is one of Mrs Turner's 'married ones' next door. Almost every day he sees the doctor limping home...
Notes/Warnings: Domestic violence, abusive relationships, violence. Written for a prompt on the kink meme. Beta'd by the very lovely
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heqakheperre . Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
“You fucker,” someone grunted and then he was choking. He scrabbled at the strong hands round his throat. He could smell alcohol and cologne and tobacco and a familiar rank smell and that was enough to overwhelm him too. He kicked out with his legs, hoping to thump against something, bring someone’s attention. Colin slapped him. Sherlock’s vision started to go dark, which was bad considering he hadn’t closed his eyes. Suddenly the pressure stopped. Colin reeled back clutching his head. Sherlock surged upright hacking and coughing, forcing air into his lungs. In the light from the streetlamp outside, he could see that John was standing over Colin, on his knees in front of him. He held his cane, that expensive length of wood cut down just for him, in both hands. As Colin moved to stand up John smacked him again, this time in the side of the head. The cane broke, and Colin toppled with a dull crunch.
“Are you alright?” John asked Sherlock, at his side immediately.
“Yes- yes.” Sherlock waved him off, clearing his throat. “You should- hem- you should call the police, I think,”
Colin came round about the same time the police came over. Lestrade was one of them.
“Do you know, everytime your name comes over the radio, I get called?” he asked Sherlock wearily. He was wearing crumpled trousers and no socks.
“Really?” Sherlock filed it away for further use.
“Yes. Really. Come on, this better be good.” Lestrade rubbed his face. Mrs. Hudson recruited ‘one of your strapping young men’ to bring up tea and biscuits. Sherlock gave a statement. John gave a statement. About midway through, John’s hand touched Sherlock’s, sat side by side on the couch, and then laced his fingers through Sherlock’s.
Of course, that’s not the end of the story. It so rarely is. Sherlock went to the station with John so that he could give a longer statement. He wasn’t allowed into the room, John (leaning on a very old medical-issue cane)was shown in by Lestrade and Donovan. Someone went in with tea, but the door clicked shut behind them. All Sherlock caught was John, looking at the table, saying something that he couldn’t catch. He felt ill. If this had been anyone else, he would have already dismissed it. Domestic violence, so very ordinary. Thousands of men and women and children had gone through similar things to John. If it had been anyone else, Sherlock would have already dismissed it, berated Lestrade for bringing him out for no reason, maybe with a zinger to Donovan over his shoulder as he swept out of the door. But this wasn’t anyone else. It was John Davidson (and he really wanted to know his other name, the name that wasn’t in any way connected the bastard in the holding cell). So Sherlock sat in an uncomfortable chair with a polystyrene cup of weak tea in a room with one ancient magazine and a buzzing fluorescent light and played chess in his head and tried not to think of how small John had looked bowed over the table.
“Where are you staying at the moment?” Lestrade asked, as he opened the door to the tiny room.
“With me,” Sherlock said, standing. John stared at him. “You can have my bed, it’s just down the road from your old place if you need anything, I should think it would be perfect,”
Everyone looked at him.
“No, I think I should stay home tonight,” John said, finally. Sherlock didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say, which was an interesting, if unpleasant feeling.
He spent most of the day staring at the wall, only heading out when it transpired that the last of the drinkable milk had been used last night. When he got home, Mycroft was sitting in his accustomed chair.
“What do you want?”
“You were attacked last night, allow me some brotherly concern,” Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the floor.
“I’m fine, see?” Sherlock dumped his coat and went into the kitchen, determined to ignore his brother till he smarmed off.
“You’re not going to try and pursue a relationship with him at this moment, are you?” Mycroft didn’t look at him, but Sherlock could tell he looked smug. Like a smug git who just won a smugging competition.
“I don’t see that that’s any of your business,” because Sherlock honestly didn’t know himself.
The silence was meaningful, undercut with the sound of the kettle boiling. Finally, it was broken by a knock at the door. Sherlock, glaring at his brother’s ear (since he couldn’t see his face from this angle), pulled it open.
“Yes- Oh. Uh. Hello,” he said, stepping back from the door. It was John. And Mycroft was here. It was like some sort of horrible nightmare.
“I uh- wanted to say thank you and um-,” John held up a steaming bag by means of explanation.
“Oh, um, come in,” Sherlock wondered if John would comment if he coshed Mycroft with his own umbrella.
“Oh, I didn’t realise you had company...” John shot a worried look at Mycroft and then the carrier bag, no doubt already working out how well the food would split between three.
“I was just about to go,” Mycroft said smoothly, standing and hooking his umbrella over one arm. “Mycroft Holmes.”
“My brother.” Sherlock mumbled. “Very busy, he has to leave now,” But Mycroft showed no inclination to leave.
“Pleased to meet you, Mister...?” Sherlock promised to leave something vile in Mycroft’s desk drawer. Soon.
“Uh. John. Call me John, for now,” John put the bag down to shake hands with Mycroft.
“John. Charmed, I’m sure. Perhaps we will see more of each other,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow as he walked past Sherlock, who did not push him down the stairs, in an admirable show of self-restraint.
“Right,” he said, turning to John. “Plates,”
“Your brother? I dread to think that there are two of you,”
“He’s nothing like me. He’s a smug git,” Sherlock said. John raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything as Sherlock came back through with two mostly unchipped plates.
At about the time John would usually leave to go to bed, he stood awkwardly.
“You can have my bed if you like.” Sherlock offered. “It’s cold out and you know, your flat...” What was a nice way to say ‘Your flat might have bad memories in it’? John just said,
“Thanks,”
Sherlock was woken with a start. Someone was in the kitchen.
“Sorry,” John whispered.
“It’s alright,” in the dark, Sherlock’s voice sounded loud and unnatural. He reached up and switched on the light. They both squinted in the light. John had moved a chair and knocked over some cardboard shoeboxes.
“What were you doing?” Sherlock rubbed his hair.
“I was getting a glass of water,” John stood very still, like he was worried that one move would bring a blade down. “I really am sorry for waking you,”
“No, it’s fine, really,” Sherlock held out a placating hand, and found two glasses. He wasn’t thirsty, but he knew the gesture was important. John sat down. “What woke you?”
“I... I have nightmares,” John looked into his glass.
“Oh,” was all Sherlock could think to say to that. What was it with this man and his unanswerable sentences? He reached out. John flinched, but forced himself to stay still as Sherlock touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that. Next time, there are generally glasses by the sink,” Sherlock yawned. “I can play violin,”
In the front room, in the two am stillness, Sherlock played the violin for John.
That’s still not really the end of the story though. There was a court case. John came to see Sherlock a lot, and then when it turned out he couldn’t make the mortgage on their flat without Colin’s input (and he wasn’t giving it, with the sort of malicious pleasure of a child stealing sweets from another), Sherlock offered him his bed for as long as he needed it. John found another place, a tiny bedsit on the other side of the park, but he was still over a lot. Sherlock would tell him about cases, cases he had done, or was in the middle of. John listened spellbound. Then one day, when the daffodils were trying their best to grow in Mrs. Hudson’s window box, he came over and said:
“Well, I’m John Watson again,”
“You’ve been John Watson for months,” Sherlock was staring into his microscope, not really listening. Finding out John’s other name had been like discovering fire, or plutonium, or a fingerprint on a windowsill.
“But now I’m officially John Watson, for better or worse,” John held up a bit of paper. Sherlock looked up, and smiled.
Three months later, Colin was staying on Her Majesty’s pleasure, both for John and for half a dozen other assault charges that for one reason or another hadn’t stuck properly. That night Sherlock and John ate Chinese food and watched the telly. This was unremarkable except that Sherlock turned down quite an interesting case from Lestrade to stay in.
The story, or at least, this part, actually ends about a month after that. John turned up at Baker Street, surer than he’d ever been before. When Sherlock opened the door, John kissed him smack on the mouth.
“I just wanted to say, thank you,” he smiled up at Sherlock. Sherlock blinked, and his face was so surprised and silly that John laughed, and did it again. This time Sherlock got the idea. When the lease came up on John’s bedsit, he didn’t bother to renew it.
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:) lovely.
Jenn who somehow always thought those 'married ones' were of the more conventional type, dunno why. Silly little grey cells!
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I'm so glad you liked it.
Thank you for reading.
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And after a story about domestic abuse that's quite an impressive reaction to get, I feel...
So very sweet though. Beautiful H/C with Sherlock providing the C and tripping over himself because he's fallen for John so very hard and...
Awwww!!!
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I'm pleased you liked it.
Thank you for reading.
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Thank you for reading. ^^
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How perfect, that he broke that elegant cane defending Sherlock -- and himself.
When he said he was small and weak, it tore my heart, because we all know that's not true. I'm so glad you've given him the chance to become the John Watson we know.
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Thank you for reading, I'm so pleased you liked it.
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...Sherlock could tell he looked smug. Like a smug git who just won a smugging competition.
still has me giggling.
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Thank you for commenting. ^^
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I was a bit worried that dealing with such a delicate topic like that would go down badly, so I'm pleased you liked it. ^^
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Thanks for commenting.
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<3
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Thanks for reading. ^^
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Glad you enjoyed it. ^^
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I loved this xD Great Job!
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Thanks for reading. ^^
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Shy!Sherlock is impossibly adorable, as is John.
In short, I love this story to bits and pieces.
Thank you so much for writing and sharing this gem with us!
(I hope one of these days you'll be inspired to write about Sherlock/John again because this fic just that good :P)
*adds to memories*
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Thanks very much for reading. ^_^
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