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elrhiarhodanTitle: Tea and Soldiers
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, implied John/Sherlock
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: John had a really bad day, all he wants is some peace and quiet. Written forladygray99 in response to her prompt on my meme. This is the first SH fic I’ve ever written, and the first non-White Collar fanfic I’ve published in years. No beta. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.
__________________
It had been more years than he cared to count since a patient died on him. Well, in the civilian world. John had lost too many men and quite a few women – in Kandahar, in Kabul, in Korengal Valley. But not in London.
Shortly before lunch, a young man staggered into the clinic, complaining of a stiff neck, headaches and extreme sensitivity to light. He filled out the forms, collapsed into a seizure and was dead before anyone realized what was happening. It wasn’t until John opened his shirt and saw the purple-blue waves of a petechial rash covering the lad’s body that he understood what he was dealing with – an advanced case of meningitis.
The aftermath was, in its way, almost worse than a battlefield cleanup. The boy had died in a waiting room filled with people – many with already compromised immune systems. Everyone – patients and staff – needed to be treated with antibiotics and antivirals, the BIS had to be called in, follow-ups and paperwork to fill out. A bloody, fucking nightmare.
John left clinic, contemplated getting on the Underground and realized what a completely awful idea that would be. Except that his wallet was empty, his credit cards all over drawn and it was a two mile hike back to Baker Street. He supposed he could catch a cab and get the fare from Sherlock when he got home.
Except it was rush hour and he couldn’t get a cab to save his own life. At least it wasn’t raining.
The walk really wasn’t that bad, considering. Nothing else went wrong – he didn’t trip or get mugged or find himself in the middle of something he didn’t want to get involved in. The last of which was the norm these days if Sherlock was with him.
Mrs. Hudson called out a cheerful greeting and John grunted a reply, climbed the stairs to the apartment. It was too much to hope that his flat mate was out. He loved Sherlock, but there were times that the man pushed the wrong buttons at the wrong time. Tonight, all he wanted was a cup of very strong tea, perhaps augmented with a generous splash of Scotland’s best, and to fall asleep to the sounds of a rugby game coming from the television. If Sherlock was home, that would be unlikely.
As John put his key in the lock, he listened carefully for the sounds of mayhem and quite possibly madness. Sherlock hadn’t had a case in weeks, and his descent into ennui could be fatal for the plaster and lathe and wallpaper. John heard nothing and turned the key, but was still cautious as he opened the door.
There was no sign of Sherlock, but there was music playing. Something soft and intricate. John listened for a moment and recognized the piece as Bach. Sherlock must have left the stereo playing before he went out. John stood there, letting the sound flow through him.
A shower first, then tea.
The water was hot and plentiful, two things that John never took for granted anymore. Not after Afghanistan and the horrors of the so-called sanitary facilities there (a boy from the Orkneys was electrocuted in the shower – bloody fucking contractors got away with murder). But no such dangers here. The near-scorching water flowed over him, easing tight muscles, washing away the sense of failure at that kid’s death. Logically, he knew that there was nothing he could have done to save the boy – but still. It all seemed so damn unfair.
The hot water wasn’t infinite after all, and when he opened the shower curtain, he couldn’t help but notice a mug on the sink top, filled with dark liquid that looked suspiciously like tea. He dried off, wrapped himself in his old robe and picked up the mug. A careful sniff and he could deduce the contents – tea (his favorite Assam blend) and yes, a smoky hint of whiskey. The first sip was … ambrosia.
John went back into the living room, was greeted by Vivaldi this time and the rather delicious odor of toast and marmalade and butter. Sherlock came out of the kitchen holding a plate stacked with toast soldiers and gave John a single directive.
“Sit.”
Helpless to do anything except obey, he dropped onto the couch. Sherlock handed him the plate and John felt the tiniest prickle of tears behind his eyes. They stared at each other for a handful of long, drawn out seconds. John recalled a bit of ancient lore - never thank the fairies. He nodded and Sherlock gave the slightest nod back. He took the plate and started to eat. There was a reason why it was called comfort food.
Replete and just slightly drunk, John leaned back and closed his eyes. The sounds of baroque strings were replaced by the low voices of the announcers for the match of the day. He couldn’t bring himself to shift as Sherlock sat down next to him.
John didn’t resist as hands tugged at him, and he sort of fell-drifted sideways, his head landing on a lap. Sherlock’s lap. As he fell asleep, long fingers combed through his hair and he thought he heard Sherlock say, “Tomorrow, it gets better.”
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, implied John/Sherlock
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: John had a really bad day, all he wants is some peace and quiet. Written for
ladygray99 in response to her prompt on my meme. This is the first SH fic I’ve ever written, and the first non-White Collar fanfic I’ve published in years. No beta. All mistakes are mine and mine alone. It had been more years than he cared to count since a patient died on him. Well, in the civilian world. John had lost too many men and quite a few women – in Kandahar, in Kabul, in Korengal Valley. But not in London.
Shortly before lunch, a young man staggered into the clinic, complaining of a stiff neck, headaches and extreme sensitivity to light. He filled out the forms, collapsed into a seizure and was dead before anyone realized what was happening. It wasn’t until John opened his shirt and saw the purple-blue waves of a petechial rash covering the lad’s body that he understood what he was dealing with – an advanced case of meningitis.
The aftermath was, in its way, almost worse than a battlefield cleanup. The boy had died in a waiting room filled with people – many with already compromised immune systems. Everyone – patients and staff – needed to be treated with antibiotics and antivirals, the BIS had to be called in, follow-ups and paperwork to fill out. A bloody, fucking nightmare.
John left clinic, contemplated getting on the Underground and realized what a completely awful idea that would be. Except that his wallet was empty, his credit cards all over drawn and it was a two mile hike back to Baker Street. He supposed he could catch a cab and get the fare from Sherlock when he got home.
Except it was rush hour and he couldn’t get a cab to save his own life. At least it wasn’t raining.
The walk really wasn’t that bad, considering. Nothing else went wrong – he didn’t trip or get mugged or find himself in the middle of something he didn’t want to get involved in. The last of which was the norm these days if Sherlock was with him.
Mrs. Hudson called out a cheerful greeting and John grunted a reply, climbed the stairs to the apartment. It was too much to hope that his flat mate was out. He loved Sherlock, but there were times that the man pushed the wrong buttons at the wrong time. Tonight, all he wanted was a cup of very strong tea, perhaps augmented with a generous splash of Scotland’s best, and to fall asleep to the sounds of a rugby game coming from the television. If Sherlock was home, that would be unlikely.
As John put his key in the lock, he listened carefully for the sounds of mayhem and quite possibly madness. Sherlock hadn’t had a case in weeks, and his descent into ennui could be fatal for the plaster and lathe and wallpaper. John heard nothing and turned the key, but was still cautious as he opened the door.
There was no sign of Sherlock, but there was music playing. Something soft and intricate. John listened for a moment and recognized the piece as Bach. Sherlock must have left the stereo playing before he went out. John stood there, letting the sound flow through him.
A shower first, then tea.
The water was hot and plentiful, two things that John never took for granted anymore. Not after Afghanistan and the horrors of the so-called sanitary facilities there (a boy from the Orkneys was electrocuted in the shower – bloody fucking contractors got away with murder). But no such dangers here. The near-scorching water flowed over him, easing tight muscles, washing away the sense of failure at that kid’s death. Logically, he knew that there was nothing he could have done to save the boy – but still. It all seemed so damn unfair.
The hot water wasn’t infinite after all, and when he opened the shower curtain, he couldn’t help but notice a mug on the sink top, filled with dark liquid that looked suspiciously like tea. He dried off, wrapped himself in his old robe and picked up the mug. A careful sniff and he could deduce the contents – tea (his favorite Assam blend) and yes, a smoky hint of whiskey. The first sip was … ambrosia.
John went back into the living room, was greeted by Vivaldi this time and the rather delicious odor of toast and marmalade and butter. Sherlock came out of the kitchen holding a plate stacked with toast soldiers and gave John a single directive.
“Sit.”
Helpless to do anything except obey, he dropped onto the couch. Sherlock handed him the plate and John felt the tiniest prickle of tears behind his eyes. They stared at each other for a handful of long, drawn out seconds. John recalled a bit of ancient lore - never thank the fairies. He nodded and Sherlock gave the slightest nod back. He took the plate and started to eat. There was a reason why it was called comfort food.
Replete and just slightly drunk, John leaned back and closed his eyes. The sounds of baroque strings were replaced by the low voices of the announcers for the match of the day. He couldn’t bring himself to shift as Sherlock sat down next to him.
John didn’t resist as hands tugged at him, and he sort of fell-drifted sideways, his head landing on a lap. Sherlock’s lap. As he fell asleep, long fingers combed through his hair and he thought he heard Sherlock say, “Tomorrow, it gets better.”
no subject
Date: 2012-04-14 07:07 pm (UTC)Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2012-04-14 07:10 pm (UTC)