No Sound of Footsteps Tag
Dec. 10th, 2010 11:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: No Sound of Footsteps Tag
Author: 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."
Author's Note: This should alleviate the soul crushing. *hands over puppies*
Cold (1/2)
Warm (2/2)
The doctors had said some confusion was normal, clearly blaming his delusions of a man on a combination of malnourishment, severe hypothermia, and probably a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. He was released into Harry's care and was waiting in his room, sitting on the neatly made bed waiting for her to come pick him up.
The past few days had been trying. Every memory he second-guessed, wondering if it was another hallucination, another fiction he invented to lock himself away further into his own mind. He hadn't seen Sherlock since that first day when he woke, and even the man's face had paled in his mind. He could barely remember what the man looked like, just faint memories of pale grey eyes and long, delicate hands. Those slid away too when he thought too hard about it.
Raised voices outside caught his attention.
"If you'd stop being such an idiot," a man's low voice ranted.
Another one joined in, older by the sound of it. "We can't do anything about it! It's not as if we can bloody well waltz in and say, 'Oh, he's not really in a coma, here, let me inject him with this to prove it', now can we?"
"You could," the first voice pouted. "If you wanted."
There was a snort of disbelief. "Not bloody likely, Sherlock."
John's head shot up. He stood and walked to the doorway, poking his head around the corner. There, in a great blue coat and scarf that looked vaguely familiar, stood a man with pale grey eyes and long, delicate hands, talking to a silver-haired older man with tired lines in his face.
"Sherlock?" John said in disbelief. "Sherlock Holmes?"
Both the men looked up. The taller of the two frowned.
"Do I know you?" he asked, peering at John curiously.
John felt his mouth hanging open in shock. He closed it with a snap, taking a step forward and extending his hand.
"My name's John Watson. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think," John swallowed, his throat suddenly gone tight. "I think I'm supposed to know you."
Author: 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."
Author's Note: This should alleviate the soul crushing. *hands over puppies*
Cold (1/2)
Warm (2/2)
The doctors had said some confusion was normal, clearly blaming his delusions of a man on a combination of malnourishment, severe hypothermia, and probably a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. He was released into Harry's care and was waiting in his room, sitting on the neatly made bed waiting for her to come pick him up.
The past few days had been trying. Every memory he second-guessed, wondering if it was another hallucination, another fiction he invented to lock himself away further into his own mind. He hadn't seen Sherlock since that first day when he woke, and even the man's face had paled in his mind. He could barely remember what the man looked like, just faint memories of pale grey eyes and long, delicate hands. Those slid away too when he thought too hard about it.
Raised voices outside caught his attention.
"If you'd stop being such an idiot," a man's low voice ranted.
Another one joined in, older by the sound of it. "We can't do anything about it! It's not as if we can bloody well waltz in and say, 'Oh, he's not really in a coma, here, let me inject him with this to prove it', now can we?"
"You could," the first voice pouted. "If you wanted."
There was a snort of disbelief. "Not bloody likely, Sherlock."
John's head shot up. He stood and walked to the doorway, poking his head around the corner. There, in a great blue coat and scarf that looked vaguely familiar, stood a man with pale grey eyes and long, delicate hands, talking to a silver-haired older man with tired lines in his face.
"Sherlock?" John said in disbelief. "Sherlock Holmes?"
Both the men looked up. The taller of the two frowned.
"Do I know you?" he asked, peering at John curiously.
John felt his mouth hanging open in shock. He closed it with a snap, taking a step forward and extending his hand.
"My name's John Watson. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think," John swallowed, his throat suddenly gone tight. "I think I'm supposed to know you."
