Fill: Sing All You Want Part One

[errantcomment]

Title: Sing All You Want
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  heqakheperre.

 

Really, it could have been a lot worse, Sherlock conceded as he threw himself on the sofa of 221B Baker Street, the new residence of the world’s only consulting detective. It would have been nice if Mike had been able to find him a flatshare, especially since the rent was a little steep, but the odious Sebastian had paid generously, so he had given Mrs. Hudson six months in advance, which meant something else he didn’t have to worry about, and now... what? There was some piffling case from his brother, who seemed to worry that Sherlock would somehow wither and die without a regular dose of government-based intrigue. That could wait. His violin was on the other side of the room, but he had already made himself comfortable. The last text from Molly had not been complimentary, so presumably the morgue was off for this evening. Tomorrow he would be able to go back and worm his way in with a throwaway comment about her new dress, but for tonight he was stuck in the flat.

 

His eyes drifted across to the rug in front of the fireplace. He knew that if you levered up one of the boards, there would be a little box inside... but that would mean getting up as well. He sighed and looked at the ceiling, listening to the buzz of the fridge and the quiet clanking of the hot-water pipes. Mrs Hudson fumbled and dropped a mug with a clack. A car shushed past in the damp of the evening. The silence crowded in. Sherlock lay on the couch with his hands on his chest, and looked at the cracks in the plaster.

 

The next day, when it transpired that the Milk Fairies had not visited in the night (along with the Bread Without Green Bits Fairy and the Lettuce That Wasn’t Brown And Kind Of Soupy Fairy), Sherlock wrapped himself in his coat and sallied forth. Once out the door, he checked for his phone and wallet just as his scarf chose that moment to attempt to wrap itself round his face, picked up by the cold wind.

 

“Ow,” said someone outside Sherlock’s field of vision (which wasn’t hard, at that very moment it was mostly grey fabric) as they bounced off his chest.

“Oof,” Sherlock responded. Finally taming his scarf (mentally promising to burn it as soon as he got in again) he looked down into the eyes of... What was his name? Something beginning with J? They’d met briefly at the corner-shop that one time... Anyway, one of Mrs. Turner’s “married ones”. The one that used to be in the military until he was invalided home. Sherlock had often spotted him leaving and returning home, along with that tall chap who wasn’t in the military, probably a lawyer, judging by the standard of his pristine suits. This one did the shopping at Tesco’s three times a week (except when they ran out of small essentials, when he went to the corner-shop), did some sort of medical thing- therapist, maybe physio, once a week, and didn’t get enough sleep. He had a cane, expensive, made of wood, cut down to be the right height for him- probably a present from the tall chap. His face was worn.  Right now he was sitting on the pavement.

“I’m ever so sorry,” Sherlock said, and was surprised that he actually meant it. “Let me help you up,”

The other man looked up, annoyed and then resigned. (Did he know every emotion he felt flitted across his face like that?) He took Sherlock’s hand and, with the use of the stick, hauled himself upright.

“Are you alright?” More sincerity. It must be because of the Green Bits. Didn’t scrape them all off the toast last night or something.

“Just my pride. You’re... Sherlock, right? From next door,”

“Yes. I’m renting 221B. You must be...”

“John, John... Davidson,” A little pause, still not used to the name change.

“Ah, yes, sorry, I have the most appalling memory for names,” a social lie, better than ‘I never thought I’d need to remember it’.

“Yes, well, not everyone can have such an... Interesting name,” John smiled.

“I suppose not. Are you sure you’re alright?” Sherlock wondered who’d taken over his mouth. He usually wouldn’t bother to continue a conversation with someone so ordinary, let alone over such mundane things as his name.

“Yes, really. I fall down a lot,” John waved the stick by means of explanation. “Winter’s the worst time,”

“I can imagine,” Sherlock mentally slapped his forehead. He really was the king of sparkling wit today. “I was just off to the shops, need milk... And things...” Oscar Wilde, eat your heart out.

“I’m going to therapy.” John’s face closed down at that. “In fact, I’m going to be late.”

“Oh, well, nice to bump into you- I mean, nice to meet you,” Oh god, this was terrible. Like lumpy custard in conversation form.

“Yes...” John looked amused as he moved off. Sherlock allowed himself a wince. Maybe instead of buying milk, he could just fling himself into the Thames, thus never having to even think about John Davidson ever again.

Part Two

 

Comments

[sachtastic.livejournal.com]

I saw the blurb for this, and I thought was a lovely idea that was. Good on you for having it. It's absolutely living up to expectations thus far.

[errantcomment]

Oh, that's good. ^^

[casey-bee.livejournal.com]

Can I just say before I jump onto part 2:

"Like lumpy custard in conversation form."

YES. BEST METAPHOR EVER. I'm gonna start using it myself for those ten times a day when sentences get away from me. ^_^

[errantcomment]

Excellent, so glad to have been of service. *bows*

[kholly.livejournal.com]

Just have to say this :
this was terrible. Like lumpy custard in conversation form
Is a perfect line.

[errantcomment]

Haha thanks, glad you thought so. ^_^