No Sound of Footsteps 2/2
Dec. 10th, 2010 11:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: No Sound of Footsteps 2/2
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John, if you squint
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, "Sherlock/John. He was a beautiful fiction I invented to keep out the cold."
Cold (1/2)
Warm.
John blinked his eyes open, groggily identifying the squares of tile above him with a brown stain as the tiles of a ceiling. His body was wrapped up tightly in blankets, swaddling him so securely that he could barely move. He considered trying to unwrap himself from their folds before the languid warmth in his limbs was too nice to upset. His head fell back, taking in the room. An IV stand stood next to his bedstead and there was a cup of coffee on the table. Either a doctor had forgotten it or he had a visitor while he was unconscious.
“Oh, good, you’re finally awake,” a voice startled him. He looked to see Sherlock perched at the end of the bed, flipping through a book and sneering at every other page. “Bedside vigils are as incredibly dull as they seem on the telly.”
“What happened?” John managed. His voice sounded dry and raspy in the air, crackling faintly at the last syllable.
“You nearly died,” Sherlock said bluntly.
“Gathered that,” John said.
“More specifically? Frostbite to most of your extremities, though you’ll be gratified to know that you still have all of your fingers and toes. They tried to warm you but you were under the snow for quite a while. Malnourished, as well, which I gather didn’t help.”
John nodded. It made sense. “No insulation,” he said aloud.
“Indeed.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, John concentrating on the warmth surrounding him, his body growing toasty under the layers of blankets surrounding him. His chest felt as if it thawed, still aching faintly with remembered cold that was fading under the quiet companionship filling the room.
There were footsteps out in the hall, growing louder under they reached the door. Whoever it was hesitated.
“John?”
His sister stood just outside the doorway, taking one step in before pausing. Her hair was in disarray and her cheeks were flushed as if she had been crying. John smiled at her.
“Your mascara’s run, Harry,” he said after a moment.
She burst into tears again, rushing forward and wrapping him in a hug. He reached up a hand and patted her arm before ducking it under the covers again, reluctant to leave his cocoon of heat for long. She sniffled and took a step back, appraising him. Once the big sister, ever the big sister, he supposed.
“Do you know how close you were to dying?” Harry said, and her voice sounded more scared than angry. “It was a near thing. If Sergeant Donovan hadn’t happened on you when she did…”
She trailed off, clearly reluctant to finish that train of thought, but John nodded soberly. He had seen cases of hypothermia before, homeless people out on the street who drank too much alcohol and collapsed into a stupor. He knew a Russian doctor who referred to them in her mother tongue as “spring flowers”; when the snow melted under the first glimmering sunshine of spring, they found them in alleyways and parks, their frozen bodies preserved under a sheen of ice. He shuddered at how close he was to that same sad fate.
“I need to go tell the doctors,” Harry said, straightening. John felt a surge of pride, seeing that same stubborn steel core breaking through. For all her faults, Harry had never backed down or given in to despair, but soldiered through with the same Watson spirit their parents had. “They’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”
She sat down in the chair beside his bed, however, reluctant to leave.
“How long was I unconscious?” John asked.
“A long time,” Harry said somberly. “They kept telling me that they were optimistic, but I’ve been around you too long to not see that they were worried.”
“Idiots. It was obvious you would wake up,” Sherlock scoffed.
John let his head fall back against the pillow, closing his eyes. “It wasn’t obvious, they had good reason to be worried. Hypothermia is a nasty business.”
“I know that,” Harry said irritably. John felt a pang of remorse; it was clear she had been waiting at the hospital for him to wake up for quite a while.
“I’m sorry,” he said, putting out a hand and grasping hers tightly.
“For what?”
“For worrying you,” he explained.
“Me? I wasn’t worried at all.” Harry gave a small smile.
Sherlock stretched. “Touching. Very touching.”
John wanted to shoot him an irritated glare, but refrained himself. Even if it was just a hallucination, Sherlock had helped him through the worst of it and John felt obligated to him for that. “We’re having a sentimental moment.”
“Yes, we are,” Harry said. “It’s absolutely dreadful.”
John laughed, giving her hand one last squeeze before letting go. He felt his eyelids closing, weighted by the comforting hum of the machines in the room and the warmth seeping through his body.
“I’ll get the doctors,” Harry said, patting his shoulder.
John made a small noise of acknowledgement, burying himself further underneath the blankets piled on top of him. Sherlock stared at him until finally John sighed. “What?”
“Just making certain you’re still alive,” Sherlock straightened with a sudden inappropriate grin. “I’m going to find Sergeant Donovan and congratulate her on finding a John Watson on her day off. It took me years to find one, and here she just stumbles upon one in the snow.”
“Don’t heckle her too much,” John reminded him, but he watched the man stride out of the room with a fond expression.
Harry came in shortly after his flat mate had left.
“A doctor will be by shortly,” she said, tucking the blankets around John for lack of anything better to do.
“Harry,” John said, hesitating before plunging forward. “What happened, exactly?”
Her face fell and her hands fell away, nervously tugging at the hem of her jumper.
“You should have told me,” her voice was tight with emotion, “You know you could have moved in with me.”
“What?” John stared at her.
“I can’t believe you didn’t even day—I was so worried about you when you didn’t write back, and you just disappeared—“
“Harry, what on earth are you talking about?” John interrupted her.
She raised her hand to her eyes, roughly brushing away the tears starting to form. “What were you thinking, John? My baby brother, living on the streets like a vagrant. I know when you came home you had some… problems, but I thought…” She paused. “I thought that you knew you could come to me.”
“Living on the streets—Harry, I don’t,” John protested. “I haven’t. I’ve got a flat. You just saw my flat mate a moment ago.”
She stared at him uncertainly. “What?”
“Sherlock Holmes? The man who was just sitting on my bed? We share a flat together, have done for quite some time now.”
Harry covered her mouth, great breathless gasps that John was sure were originally sobs muffled by her hand. She shook her head slowly. “There’s no Sherlock Holmes, John. You’ve been living on the streets since you came back from Afghanistan, don’t you remember?”
“No,” John said. For a moment, he felt the fog which had descended on his mind while he was out in the cold coming back. He shook it off. “Didn’t you see him?”
“There was no one here, John,” Harry said gently.
“He’s real, dammit,” John shouted. He could feel warmth gathering in the pit of his stomach, sending red tides of anger over him in washes. “He was right here.”
“There wasn't anyone,” said Harry sharply. “If there were a Sherlock, how did you end up where you were?”
“I don’t…” John tried to remember. He was numb. Before that he was cold, stumbling like a drunkard through the park, biting his lips and tongue to keep his teeth from chattering out of his skull. Before that, he was. He was.
Flashes of him jumping over rooftops turned into him sleeping in alleyways. The warm grandmotherly smile of Mrs Hudson faded into a kind woman tossing him some spare change. The brilliant face of Sherlock shimmered in his mind's eye like a mirage.
“I’ll,” Harry said helplessly. “I’ll go see where the doctor is.”
She fled the room, leaving John to his thoughts.
No Sherlock Holmes. No flat in 221B. No mad adventures, rushing through the streets of London triumphantly, giggling on a staircase with a best mate and brilliant man at his side, just products of a malnourished mind wandering through back-alleys and sleeping on park benches before being rousted by early morning joggers.
All of a sudden, the room felt very cold.
Optional Tag with Happy Ending
Author:
tripatchRating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John, if you squint
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, "Sherlock/John. He was a beautiful fiction I invented to keep out the cold."
Cold (1/2)
Warm.
John blinked his eyes open, groggily identifying the squares of tile above him with a brown stain as the tiles of a ceiling. His body was wrapped up tightly in blankets, swaddling him so securely that he could barely move. He considered trying to unwrap himself from their folds before the languid warmth in his limbs was too nice to upset. His head fell back, taking in the room. An IV stand stood next to his bedstead and there was a cup of coffee on the table. Either a doctor had forgotten it or he had a visitor while he was unconscious.
“Oh, good, you’re finally awake,” a voice startled him. He looked to see Sherlock perched at the end of the bed, flipping through a book and sneering at every other page. “Bedside vigils are as incredibly dull as they seem on the telly.”
“What happened?” John managed. His voice sounded dry and raspy in the air, crackling faintly at the last syllable.
“You nearly died,” Sherlock said bluntly.
“Gathered that,” John said.
“More specifically? Frostbite to most of your extremities, though you’ll be gratified to know that you still have all of your fingers and toes. They tried to warm you but you were under the snow for quite a while. Malnourished, as well, which I gather didn’t help.”
John nodded. It made sense. “No insulation,” he said aloud.
“Indeed.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, John concentrating on the warmth surrounding him, his body growing toasty under the layers of blankets surrounding him. His chest felt as if it thawed, still aching faintly with remembered cold that was fading under the quiet companionship filling the room.
There were footsteps out in the hall, growing louder under they reached the door. Whoever it was hesitated.
“John?”
His sister stood just outside the doorway, taking one step in before pausing. Her hair was in disarray and her cheeks were flushed as if she had been crying. John smiled at her.
“Your mascara’s run, Harry,” he said after a moment.
She burst into tears again, rushing forward and wrapping him in a hug. He reached up a hand and patted her arm before ducking it under the covers again, reluctant to leave his cocoon of heat for long. She sniffled and took a step back, appraising him. Once the big sister, ever the big sister, he supposed.
“Do you know how close you were to dying?” Harry said, and her voice sounded more scared than angry. “It was a near thing. If Sergeant Donovan hadn’t happened on you when she did…”
She trailed off, clearly reluctant to finish that train of thought, but John nodded soberly. He had seen cases of hypothermia before, homeless people out on the street who drank too much alcohol and collapsed into a stupor. He knew a Russian doctor who referred to them in her mother tongue as “spring flowers”; when the snow melted under the first glimmering sunshine of spring, they found them in alleyways and parks, their frozen bodies preserved under a sheen of ice. He shuddered at how close he was to that same sad fate.
“I need to go tell the doctors,” Harry said, straightening. John felt a surge of pride, seeing that same stubborn steel core breaking through. For all her faults, Harry had never backed down or given in to despair, but soldiered through with the same Watson spirit their parents had. “They’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”
She sat down in the chair beside his bed, however, reluctant to leave.
“How long was I unconscious?” John asked.
“A long time,” Harry said somberly. “They kept telling me that they were optimistic, but I’ve been around you too long to not see that they were worried.”
“Idiots. It was obvious you would wake up,” Sherlock scoffed.
John let his head fall back against the pillow, closing his eyes. “It wasn’t obvious, they had good reason to be worried. Hypothermia is a nasty business.”
“I know that,” Harry said irritably. John felt a pang of remorse; it was clear she had been waiting at the hospital for him to wake up for quite a while.
“I’m sorry,” he said, putting out a hand and grasping hers tightly.
“For what?”
“For worrying you,” he explained.
“Me? I wasn’t worried at all.” Harry gave a small smile.
Sherlock stretched. “Touching. Very touching.”
John wanted to shoot him an irritated glare, but refrained himself. Even if it was just a hallucination, Sherlock had helped him through the worst of it and John felt obligated to him for that. “We’re having a sentimental moment.”
“Yes, we are,” Harry said. “It’s absolutely dreadful.”
John laughed, giving her hand one last squeeze before letting go. He felt his eyelids closing, weighted by the comforting hum of the machines in the room and the warmth seeping through his body.
“I’ll get the doctors,” Harry said, patting his shoulder.
John made a small noise of acknowledgement, burying himself further underneath the blankets piled on top of him. Sherlock stared at him until finally John sighed. “What?”
“Just making certain you’re still alive,” Sherlock straightened with a sudden inappropriate grin. “I’m going to find Sergeant Donovan and congratulate her on finding a John Watson on her day off. It took me years to find one, and here she just stumbles upon one in the snow.”
“Don’t heckle her too much,” John reminded him, but he watched the man stride out of the room with a fond expression.
Harry came in shortly after his flat mate had left.
“A doctor will be by shortly,” she said, tucking the blankets around John for lack of anything better to do.
“Harry,” John said, hesitating before plunging forward. “What happened, exactly?”
Her face fell and her hands fell away, nervously tugging at the hem of her jumper.
“You should have told me,” her voice was tight with emotion, “You know you could have moved in with me.”
“What?” John stared at her.
“I can’t believe you didn’t even day—I was so worried about you when you didn’t write back, and you just disappeared—“
“Harry, what on earth are you talking about?” John interrupted her.
She raised her hand to her eyes, roughly brushing away the tears starting to form. “What were you thinking, John? My baby brother, living on the streets like a vagrant. I know when you came home you had some… problems, but I thought…” She paused. “I thought that you knew you could come to me.”
“Living on the streets—Harry, I don’t,” John protested. “I haven’t. I’ve got a flat. You just saw my flat mate a moment ago.”
She stared at him uncertainly. “What?”
“Sherlock Holmes? The man who was just sitting on my bed? We share a flat together, have done for quite some time now.”
Harry covered her mouth, great breathless gasps that John was sure were originally sobs muffled by her hand. She shook her head slowly. “There’s no Sherlock Holmes, John. You’ve been living on the streets since you came back from Afghanistan, don’t you remember?”
“No,” John said. For a moment, he felt the fog which had descended on his mind while he was out in the cold coming back. He shook it off. “Didn’t you see him?”
“There was no one here, John,” Harry said gently.
“He’s real, dammit,” John shouted. He could feel warmth gathering in the pit of his stomach, sending red tides of anger over him in washes. “He was right here.”
“There wasn't anyone,” said Harry sharply. “If there were a Sherlock, how did you end up where you were?”
“I don’t…” John tried to remember. He was numb. Before that he was cold, stumbling like a drunkard through the park, biting his lips and tongue to keep his teeth from chattering out of his skull. Before that, he was. He was.
Flashes of him jumping over rooftops turned into him sleeping in alleyways. The warm grandmotherly smile of Mrs Hudson faded into a kind woman tossing him some spare change. The brilliant face of Sherlock shimmered in his mind's eye like a mirage.
“I’ll,” Harry said helplessly. “I’ll go see where the doctor is.”
She fled the room, leaving John to his thoughts.
No Sherlock Holmes. No flat in 221B. No mad adventures, rushing through the streets of London triumphantly, giggling on a staircase with a best mate and brilliant man at his side, just products of a malnourished mind wandering through back-alleys and sleeping on park benches before being rousted by early morning joggers.
All of a sudden, the room felt very cold.
Optional Tag with Happy Ending
