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 .
When he got home (milk, bread, and something brightly coloured from the International Food aisles that didn’t have any English on it) he made a cup of tea, and settled by the window. He watched John Davidson limp up the street (and that was odd, but it wasn’t, was it? Wait, why was that odd-?) But then Lestrade called and Sherlock quite forgot about the worn man with the limp.
The next time they met, Davidson was struggling with some bags of heavy shopping, so Sherlock helped him up the stairs to the flat with them. He hoped that Davidson didn’t notice how out of breath he was, it had been quite difficult to get dressed in time to meet him outside. John smiled at him at the door and Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat.
“Do you want to come in for a cuppa?” John fiddled with his key-ring.
“Uh. No, it’s- I have to- uh- excuse me, I think I left my mould samples on the boil,” Sherlock fled.
About a month passed (spoke five times, smiled at each other twice, introduced Colin, who was John’s husband (Sherlock hadn’t liked him) and once, magically, amazingly, Sherlock had grabbed John by the right arm, (upper), and round the waist (three layers of clothing) when he slipped on a patch of ice). Sherlock had a case about cat-burglary that lasted a week, ending in an arrest and Sherlock nursing a black eye (Lestrade had been very nice about it, and hardly giggled at all at the sight of Sherlock fending off a sweet old granny with the biggest knuckledusters in the history of things designed to make you bleed). He sighed and sat on the couch, holding a bag of peas to his eye, a cup of tea next to him, and answered some e-mails. He was particularly absorbed in working out a veiled insult to Mycroft, who was once again fussing over him, so he didn’t hear the stairs till someone tapped on the door.
“Oh... Uh...” Sherlock could feel ice-water sliding down into the sleeve of his (now he came to think about it, quite ratty) dressing-gown. “Hi... John...”
John Davidson grinned up at him. He was holding a carrier bag in one hand, along with Sherlock’s mail. “Hi. Busy day then?”
“Uh... Oh. Yes. Little old ladies have the most interesting things in their handbags,” Sherlock took away the bag of peas so that he could look at John without having to turn his head awkwardly.
“Ouch, quite a shiner. Shall I take a look at that?”
“What, no-,” Sherlock backed up, and John put down the carrier-bag.
“Don’t worry, I’m a doctor. Well, I used to be,”
“You’re not working?” Sherlock bumped against a chair, and John reached up his right hand (why not his left? That was his dominant hand) to touch a cut under his eye.
“Not at the moment. Did anyone look at this?”
“No.” Sherlock clutched the bag of peas. John smelled of clean laundry and soap, and faintly of London at night. His hands were warm where they touched his face. Sherlock tried not to breathe, in case it blew away the feathering feel of his fingers.
“Well, it probably should be alright.” John stepped back. “Don’t pick at it, and you’ll be fine.” Sherlock tried to smile, and winced in pain. John chuckled.
“I did have an ulterior motive for coming over.” John fiddled with his cane. “I noticed you’d been out a lot recently, and you didn’t seem to be getting shopping in, and Colin is working late but I didn’t know till I’d cooked dinner...”
Sherlock didn’t really hear what John had cooked. John had noticed he’d been out a lot? Did that mean he’d been watching him from 219? Even noticed the shopping? What else had he noticed?
“Hmm?” Sherlock started out of his shopping-bag based reverie.
“I said, where are the plates?”
“Oh. Um. One moment,” Sherlock was suddenly terribly aware of the state of the kitchen. He was pretty sure there were plates. Plates for eating even. Maybe- maybe in the sink? He flapped through the kitchen, dropping the peas on the counter with a sort of splat, and scrabbled about in a cupboard.
“Um, they’re a bit dusty,”
John raised his eyebrows at the state of the kitchen, but said nothing. As Sherlock found a dishcloth and rubbed at the plates, he looked round the flat in evident interest.
“That’s a skull,” he pointed with his cane at the mantelpiece.
“Oh, yes. Friend of mine. Well, I say friend,” Sherlock tried not to giggle nervously, and brought the plates through to the front room. “Sorry, I’ve got all the... the experiments...” he faded away, and briefly considered throttling himself with the tea towel.
“That’s alright. I didn’t mean to disturb, anyway,” John carefully sat in the chair by the fire. Sherlock thought it quite suited him. John Davidson (what was his other name, anyway?), in the chair, sitting, in Sherlock’s flat. Sitting. Oh lord.
“Um, so, were you in Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked once the silence was quite awkward enough.
“What?”
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Because even when he was close to throwing himself out of a window with nerves, Sherlock was still Sherlock and he hated repeating himself.
“Afghanistan- how did you know that?” John stopped, fork full of stewed meat. Sherlock smiled. He knew about this. This was easy.
“I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists — you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, and when you come back from either psychotherapy or physiotherapy, and sometimes in the morning- I suppose you sleep on it wrong or something, but you made it all the way up the stairs with my mail and a pot of stew, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic — wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan — Afghanistan or Iraq.”
John stared at him for a moment. Sherlock changed his mind- after John stormed out, he would throw himself down the stairs instead of out of the window.
“That... Was amazing,” John said finally, and ate a forkful of peas.
“You think so?” Sherlock looked at him warily. He might still throw the plate of stew and steaming gravy. You only needed to be hit in the face once by ballistic potatoes to know you didn’t want it to happen again.
“Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary,”
Sherlock blinked. “That’s not what people normally say.”
“What do people normally say?” John seemed interested.
“Piss off,” Sherlock’s mouth twitched. John’s twitched back. The silence was more companionable after that.
John left soon after dinner. Sherlock remembered to thank him. Mummy would have been proud.
“It’s no problem, any time,” John carefully started to move down the stairs.
The next day, Sherlock accidentally bumped into John going to the shops.
“We can walk together,” Sherlock heard himself offer.
“Oh, alright then,” John agreed amicably. There was silence for a moment.
“Why aren’t you working?” Sherlock asked, finally. He’d never been good at small talk.
“Well, I can’t, really. Not with this leg. The army don’t want me back.” John smiled thinly, frustrated. “Anyway, Colin- Colin says I’ve done enough looking after people. It’s his turn to look after me,”
“It sounds like he cares for you a lot,” Sherlock said softly.
“Yes, he’s very good to me,” John smiled at the cane in his hand. After a moment he said:
“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”
“Girlfriend?” Sherlock tried not to sound surprised. “No, not really my area.”
“Oh. Right then. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No,” Sherlock said shortly.
“Right, okay.”
“Um. I’m married to my work, really,” Sherlock cleared his throat.
“Shame,”
“What?”
“You could use someone else about the place. Feed you up. Tell you where the plates are kept,” John was looking at him sidelong, teasing.
“Is that what girlfriends do? Feed you up?” Sherlock tried to keep the disdain from his voice.
“That’s part of it, certainly,” John sounded more amused than offended though. Sherlock tried to ignore the warm glow in his chest.
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Fill: Sing All You Want Part Two
May. 31st, 2011 10:06 pmFandom: 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
Part One
When he got home (milk, bread, and something brightly coloured from the International Food aisles that didn’t have any English on it) he made a cup of tea, and settled by the window. He watched John Davidson limp up the street (and that was odd, but it wasn’t, was it? Wait, why was that odd-?) But then Lestrade called and Sherlock quite forgot about the worn man with the limp.
The next time they met, Davidson was struggling with some bags of heavy shopping, so Sherlock helped him up the stairs to the flat with them. He hoped that Davidson didn’t notice how out of breath he was, it had been quite difficult to get dressed in time to meet him outside. John smiled at him at the door and Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat.
“Do you want to come in for a cuppa?” John fiddled with his key-ring.
“Uh. No, it’s- I have to- uh- excuse me, I think I left my mould samples on the boil,” Sherlock fled.
About a month passed (spoke five times, smiled at each other twice, introduced Colin, who was John’s husband (Sherlock hadn’t liked him) and once, magically, amazingly, Sherlock had grabbed John by the right arm, (upper), and round the waist (three layers of clothing) when he slipped on a patch of ice). Sherlock had a case about cat-burglary that lasted a week, ending in an arrest and Sherlock nursing a black eye (Lestrade had been very nice about it, and hardly giggled at all at the sight of Sherlock fending off a sweet old granny with the biggest knuckledusters in the history of things designed to make you bleed). He sighed and sat on the couch, holding a bag of peas to his eye, a cup of tea next to him, and answered some e-mails. He was particularly absorbed in working out a veiled insult to Mycroft, who was once again fussing over him, so he didn’t hear the stairs till someone tapped on the door.
“Oh... Uh...” Sherlock could feel ice-water sliding down into the sleeve of his (now he came to think about it, quite ratty) dressing-gown. “Hi... John...”
John Davidson grinned up at him. He was holding a carrier bag in one hand, along with Sherlock’s mail. “Hi. Busy day then?”
“Uh... Oh. Yes. Little old ladies have the most interesting things in their handbags,” Sherlock took away the bag of peas so that he could look at John without having to turn his head awkwardly.
“Ouch, quite a shiner. Shall I take a look at that?”
“What, no-,” Sherlock backed up, and John put down the carrier-bag.
“Don’t worry, I’m a doctor. Well, I used to be,”
“You’re not working?” Sherlock bumped against a chair, and John reached up his right hand (why not his left? That was his dominant hand) to touch a cut under his eye.
“Not at the moment. Did anyone look at this?”
“No.” Sherlock clutched the bag of peas. John smelled of clean laundry and soap, and faintly of London at night. His hands were warm where they touched his face. Sherlock tried not to breathe, in case it blew away the feathering feel of his fingers.
“Well, it probably should be alright.” John stepped back. “Don’t pick at it, and you’ll be fine.” Sherlock tried to smile, and winced in pain. John chuckled.
“I did have an ulterior motive for coming over.” John fiddled with his cane. “I noticed you’d been out a lot recently, and you didn’t seem to be getting shopping in, and Colin is working late but I didn’t know till I’d cooked dinner...”
Sherlock didn’t really hear what John had cooked. John had noticed he’d been out a lot? Did that mean he’d been watching him from 219? Even noticed the shopping? What else had he noticed?
“Hmm?” Sherlock started out of his shopping-bag based reverie.
“I said, where are the plates?”
“Oh. Um. One moment,” Sherlock was suddenly terribly aware of the state of the kitchen. He was pretty sure there were plates. Plates for eating even. Maybe- maybe in the sink? He flapped through the kitchen, dropping the peas on the counter with a sort of splat, and scrabbled about in a cupboard.
“Um, they’re a bit dusty,”
John raised his eyebrows at the state of the kitchen, but said nothing. As Sherlock found a dishcloth and rubbed at the plates, he looked round the flat in evident interest.
“That’s a skull,” he pointed with his cane at the mantelpiece.
“Oh, yes. Friend of mine. Well, I say friend,” Sherlock tried not to giggle nervously, and brought the plates through to the front room. “Sorry, I’ve got all the... the experiments...” he faded away, and briefly considered throttling himself with the tea towel.
“That’s alright. I didn’t mean to disturb, anyway,” John carefully sat in the chair by the fire. Sherlock thought it quite suited him. John Davidson (what was his other name, anyway?), in the chair, sitting, in Sherlock’s flat. Sitting. Oh lord.
“Um, so, were you in Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked once the silence was quite awkward enough.
“What?”
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Because even when he was close to throwing himself out of a window with nerves, Sherlock was still Sherlock and he hated repeating himself.
“Afghanistan- how did you know that?” John stopped, fork full of stewed meat. Sherlock smiled. He knew about this. This was easy.
“I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists — you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, and when you come back from either psychotherapy or physiotherapy, and sometimes in the morning- I suppose you sleep on it wrong or something, but you made it all the way up the stairs with my mail and a pot of stew, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic — wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan — Afghanistan or Iraq.”
John stared at him for a moment. Sherlock changed his mind- after John stormed out, he would throw himself down the stairs instead of out of the window.
“That... Was amazing,” John said finally, and ate a forkful of peas.
“You think so?” Sherlock looked at him warily. He might still throw the plate of stew and steaming gravy. You only needed to be hit in the face once by ballistic potatoes to know you didn’t want it to happen again.
“Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary,”
Sherlock blinked. “That’s not what people normally say.”
“What do people normally say?” John seemed interested.
“Piss off,” Sherlock’s mouth twitched. John’s twitched back. The silence was more companionable after that.
John left soon after dinner. Sherlock remembered to thank him. Mummy would have been proud.
“It’s no problem, any time,” John carefully started to move down the stairs.
The next day, Sherlock accidentally bumped into John going to the shops.
“We can walk together,” Sherlock heard himself offer.
“Oh, alright then,” John agreed amicably. There was silence for a moment.
“Why aren’t you working?” Sherlock asked, finally. He’d never been good at small talk.
“Well, I can’t, really. Not with this leg. The army don’t want me back.” John smiled thinly, frustrated. “Anyway, Colin- Colin says I’ve done enough looking after people. It’s his turn to look after me,”
“It sounds like he cares for you a lot,” Sherlock said softly.
“Yes, he’s very good to me,” John smiled at the cane in his hand. After a moment he said:
“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”
“Girlfriend?” Sherlock tried not to sound surprised. “No, not really my area.”
“Oh. Right then. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No,” Sherlock said shortly.
“Right, okay.”
“Um. I’m married to my work, really,” Sherlock cleared his throat.
“Shame,”
“What?”
“You could use someone else about the place. Feed you up. Tell you where the plates are kept,” John was looking at him sidelong, teasing.
“Is that what girlfriends do? Feed you up?” Sherlock tried to keep the disdain from his voice.
“That’s part of it, certainly,” John sounded more amused than offended though. Sherlock tried to ignore the warm glow in his chest.
Part Three