Fic post: Longing, Sherlock
May. 26th, 2012 11:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
goseawardUm, and then I wrote some random angst on Tumblr.
Title: Longing
Rating: ...G?
Length: 971
Summary: John's been injured. Mycroft tells Sherlock to come home.
On Ao3, or here:
***
"John doesn't get hit by cars," Sherlock said.
"Unfortunately, your certainty did not prevent it," Mycroft said. "He's unconscious, and the doctors will keep him that way so he can heal—if he doesn't die, that is."
"I have faith in the undoubtedly excellent doctors you diverted from diplomats and politicians to save him," Sherlock said in the same acerbic tone, bad connection marring it with static. Mycroft smiled—he was making progress. "If that's all?"
"That's not all, Sherlock. You should come home."
"And what would I do at John's bedside? Weep over his lifeless hands? Provide official mourning if he should happen to die?" Still no change in the tone. One more twist and Mycroft had him.
"Well, if you don't wish to see him one last time, I suppose I cannot force you."
The line went dead.
***
When Mycroft came by to check on John the next day, Sherlock was sitting, aquiline, in the chair next to the bed, hair clipped short and dyed a dusty blond, thinner than he'd been since the last overdose. His fingers were steepled under his chin and he was staring unblinkingly at John's face. Mycroft could tell by the tension in his arms that he'd been using again, but not recently, thanks be for small mercies.
"His respiration is better today," Mycroft said quietly.
"Yes, yes, thank you for the gift of adequate medical care," Sherlock said.
"I suspect it was not the doctors."
"I suspect you have been taken in by sentiment."
Mycroft sighed. "Thank you for coming."
"You're welcome," Sherlock said sarcastically. "You've now discharged your obligations, as distasteful to you as they must have been."
"I don't think of them as obligations," Mycroft said. "John's well-being is essential to your own, so I—"
"LEAVE!" Sherlock yelled.
Mycroft left.
***
He made arrangements to keep Harriet Watson away so that Sherlock needn't move from John's room.
Mycroft stayed away three days and even when he returned he merely stood outside the room, looking through the glass at his brother and his brother's companion. He had never discovered an adequate word for what they were to each other. They held each other in mutual highest esteem; that was the best Mycroft could do, as far as descriptions went. He had never seen two people with less need for the rest of the human population when they were together. Even now, in a coma, John looked more like himself with Sherlock in the room than he had since the terrible day at St Bart's.
The doctors thought, now, that John would pull through. They wouldn't know for sure until he awoke, but they no longer looked as though they expected to be sacked when they updated Mycroft on his condition. He had perhaps overdone the initial intimidation.
***
He rushed to the hospital when he heard the news, but too late: Sherlock had absconded in the night and John was sleepy and half-aware, barely conscious. "Hi, Mycroft," he said hoarsely. "You didn't have to come."
"Welcome back to the land of the living," Mycroft said. His smile felt, for once, genuine.
They released him two weeks later. Perhaps a bit cautious a time frame, but after all John lived alone. Mycroft came by personally with provisions and made tea.
"How are you feeling?" he said as he handed John a cup. John was sitting on his soft blue sofa that looked nothing like the sofa in Baker Street, here in his new flat that felt nothing like Baker Street, and still Mycroft could feel Sherlock's ghost in every pint of air he breathed.
"Better," John said. "But I don't think the morphine has worn off yet."
Mycroft smiled and took a sip of his tea. "Mrs Hudson sent biscuits, by the way. They're in the cupboard."
"Thank you," John said. He toyed with the handle of his teacup. "Are you a religious man?" he said finally.
"No," Mycroft said, curious. "Are you?"
"I didn't think so." John closed his eyes and the pain washed over his features—pain, Mycroft thought, that was not physical. "I saw him, though. Sherlock. When I was..."
"Ah," Mycroft said. "Sherlock is a reasonable person to have dreamed of. It need not be supernatural."
John shook his head slightly. "No. I dreamed him, yeah, but at the end, when I was waking up—I was certain he was there. Really there, in the room."
"I'm sure it was disorienting, waking up after nearly a week," Mycroft said.
"No." John shook his head again, more forcefully. "It was him. I know it was him. He said—" His voice failed him for a moment. "He said it was very important that I get better, that I be around for a long time. And then he was gone."
"Then that is what is important," Mycroft said. He could see, now, that it might be better for John if he were not here, that his presence was more painful than helpful. He stood. "I'm afraid I have to go. I've arranged for your physical therapists to come here, and a part-time nurse as well—I assume they told you." John nodded. "Take care, John."
"Unfortunately I'm used to recuperation," John said with a wry smile.
"I quite rely on that," Mycroft said and smiled back. And he did, the longer Sherlock was away. "I am available to you if you should need anything—you have my number."
"Yes." John reached out and shook his hand. "Thanks, Mycroft."
"It's no trouble at all," Mycroft said.
He was texting even as he walked down the stairs: There is nothing you can do right now that is more important than coming back to him. —MH
The reply was instantaneous. I'll be the judge of that. —SH
No, he will. —MH
Title: Longing
Rating: ...G?
Length: 971
Summary: John's been injured. Mycroft tells Sherlock to come home.
On Ao3, or here:
***
"John doesn't get hit by cars," Sherlock said.
"Unfortunately, your certainty did not prevent it," Mycroft said. "He's unconscious, and the doctors will keep him that way so he can heal—if he doesn't die, that is."
"I have faith in the undoubtedly excellent doctors you diverted from diplomats and politicians to save him," Sherlock said in the same acerbic tone, bad connection marring it with static. Mycroft smiled—he was making progress. "If that's all?"
"That's not all, Sherlock. You should come home."
"And what would I do at John's bedside? Weep over his lifeless hands? Provide official mourning if he should happen to die?" Still no change in the tone. One more twist and Mycroft had him.
"Well, if you don't wish to see him one last time, I suppose I cannot force you."
The line went dead.
***
When Mycroft came by to check on John the next day, Sherlock was sitting, aquiline, in the chair next to the bed, hair clipped short and dyed a dusty blond, thinner than he'd been since the last overdose. His fingers were steepled under his chin and he was staring unblinkingly at John's face. Mycroft could tell by the tension in his arms that he'd been using again, but not recently, thanks be for small mercies.
"His respiration is better today," Mycroft said quietly.
"Yes, yes, thank you for the gift of adequate medical care," Sherlock said.
"I suspect it was not the doctors."
"I suspect you have been taken in by sentiment."
Mycroft sighed. "Thank you for coming."
"You're welcome," Sherlock said sarcastically. "You've now discharged your obligations, as distasteful to you as they must have been."
"I don't think of them as obligations," Mycroft said. "John's well-being is essential to your own, so I—"
"LEAVE!" Sherlock yelled.
Mycroft left.
***
He made arrangements to keep Harriet Watson away so that Sherlock needn't move from John's room.
Mycroft stayed away three days and even when he returned he merely stood outside the room, looking through the glass at his brother and his brother's companion. He had never discovered an adequate word for what they were to each other. They held each other in mutual highest esteem; that was the best Mycroft could do, as far as descriptions went. He had never seen two people with less need for the rest of the human population when they were together. Even now, in a coma, John looked more like himself with Sherlock in the room than he had since the terrible day at St Bart's.
The doctors thought, now, that John would pull through. They wouldn't know for sure until he awoke, but they no longer looked as though they expected to be sacked when they updated Mycroft on his condition. He had perhaps overdone the initial intimidation.
***
He rushed to the hospital when he heard the news, but too late: Sherlock had absconded in the night and John was sleepy and half-aware, barely conscious. "Hi, Mycroft," he said hoarsely. "You didn't have to come."
"Welcome back to the land of the living," Mycroft said. His smile felt, for once, genuine.
They released him two weeks later. Perhaps a bit cautious a time frame, but after all John lived alone. Mycroft came by personally with provisions and made tea.
"How are you feeling?" he said as he handed John a cup. John was sitting on his soft blue sofa that looked nothing like the sofa in Baker Street, here in his new flat that felt nothing like Baker Street, and still Mycroft could feel Sherlock's ghost in every pint of air he breathed.
"Better," John said. "But I don't think the morphine has worn off yet."
Mycroft smiled and took a sip of his tea. "Mrs Hudson sent biscuits, by the way. They're in the cupboard."
"Thank you," John said. He toyed with the handle of his teacup. "Are you a religious man?" he said finally.
"No," Mycroft said, curious. "Are you?"
"I didn't think so." John closed his eyes and the pain washed over his features—pain, Mycroft thought, that was not physical. "I saw him, though. Sherlock. When I was..."
"Ah," Mycroft said. "Sherlock is a reasonable person to have dreamed of. It need not be supernatural."
John shook his head slightly. "No. I dreamed him, yeah, but at the end, when I was waking up—I was certain he was there. Really there, in the room."
"I'm sure it was disorienting, waking up after nearly a week," Mycroft said.
"No." John shook his head again, more forcefully. "It was him. I know it was him. He said—" His voice failed him for a moment. "He said it was very important that I get better, that I be around for a long time. And then he was gone."
"Then that is what is important," Mycroft said. He could see, now, that it might be better for John if he were not here, that his presence was more painful than helpful. He stood. "I'm afraid I have to go. I've arranged for your physical therapists to come here, and a part-time nurse as well—I assume they told you." John nodded. "Take care, John."
"Unfortunately I'm used to recuperation," John said with a wry smile.
"I quite rely on that," Mycroft said and smiled back. And he did, the longer Sherlock was away. "I am available to you if you should need anything—you have my number."
"Yes." John reached out and shook his hand. "Thanks, Mycroft."
"It's no trouble at all," Mycroft said.
He was texting even as he walked down the stairs: There is nothing you can do right now that is more important than coming back to him. —MH
The reply was instantaneous. I'll be the judge of that. —SH
No, he will. —MH