Fic - On The Days When It Would Rain - John/Sherlock - PG-13
Title: On The Days When It Would Rain
Author: lotherington
’Verse: Long Ago and Far Away
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: WWII AU. October, 1943. John visits St. Bart’s to see about doing something useful now he’s back in England. Set three weeks after Home Again.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2350
Notes: The title is from It’s a Lovely Day Tomorrow by Irving Berlin.
October, 1943
John stood outside the doors of the main entrance of Barts, leaning heavily on his stick. A light rain had begun to fall shortly after he’d left the flat and his coat and hat were damp following the long walk to the hospital. He’d hoped that the exercise would ease his leg and his shoulder, but the wet conditions and the hour the trip had taken him had only served to make him stiff and sore. He really ought to have taken the tube.
Letting a breath out in a short huff, John managed to get up the few steps to the door with minimal fuss and entered the hospital, breathing in the familiar and comforting smell of disinfectant and carbolic. He pulled his hat off and tucked it under his arm. For the first time that week, a smile, faint though it was, pulled at his lips.
The hospital was chaotic as usual - even more so, with everything thrown into disarray by the war - and John tried to get in the way as little as possible as he made his way over to the back of the queue to speak to one of the girls on the reception desks. It took ten minutes before he was able to talk to one of them, confirming his appointment with Dr. Miller, the chief of staff.
‘Yes, that’s all in order, Dr. Watson,’ the girl John was speaking to said with a pleasant smile after checking his details against a large, leather-bound book of appointments. ‘If you’ll be kind enough to sit down over there-’ she waved vaguely at a roughly set-out collection of wooden chairs, the plastic beads she wore around her wrist clicking as she gestured, ‘Dr. Miller will be with you soon enough. Is there anything else?’
‘No,’ John replied, clenching his left hand, willing it to still its trembling. ‘No, thank you, I’ll...’ he excused himself with a nod and went to sit at the end of an empty row of wooden chairs, straight-backed, his hand still wrapped around his stick. He was wearing the suit he’d had on the night he’d met Sherlock; the practical, no-nonsense brown one that now bordered on ill-fitting. After months of marching in the desert followed by months of being too downhearted to eat properly, it was really rather loose on him.
Noise from the long corridors echoed into the busy reception area, the familiar sounds of the hospital at work putting John at ease. He rubbed at his bottom lip with the tip of his index finger whilst he waited, watching people as they left the wooden chairs and answered the summons of their names from doorways along the corridor.
It would do him good, to be working here again.
‘Dr. John Watson!’ A voice bellowed, and John smiled as he got to his feet, gritting his teeth against the flash of pain in his leg, refusing to look as though it was troubling him even as he limped over to where Dr. Miller was standing in the doorway of his office.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ he said, offering his hand once he reached Dr. Miller - the right one, so as to delay the discovery of his tremor.
The small smile that had previously graced Dr. Miller’s face faded slowly as he shook John’s hand. ‘Good morning to you, Dr. Watson.’ He stroked his rich brown, grey-flecked beard as he stepped back to let John inside. ‘Do, ah... do come and sit down.’
Dr. Miller closed the door behind John and walked round to the other side of his desk, hitching his trousers up by the knees as he sat down. John lowered himself into one of the wooden chairs in front of the mahogany desk, resting his stick against his thigh. The room was lined with bookshelves, editions of medical journals and textbooks and models of the human body stuffed onto each shelf. A utilitarian tea service balanced precariously on an occasional table next to the desk.
Leaning forwards, linking his hands together on top of a stack of papers, Dr. Miller asked, ‘What is it I can do for you?’
John flexed his left hand and kept it hidden in his lap. He licked his lips nervously. ‘Well, uh, as you know I was part of the North African Campaign until April this year--’
‘Yes, yes, I heard you were shot.’ Dr. Miller nodded slowly. ‘Unfortunate business, that.’
‘Yes,’ John said, frowning. ‘Yes, that’s one way of putting it.’ He cleared his throat and continued. ‘Anyway, I’ve spent some time recovering and...’
Dr. Miller lifted both of his eyebrows. ‘And?’
‘And... and I’d like to take up my position here again, I know you need people and--’
‘Dr. Watson,’ Dr. Miller said softly, interrupting, his eyes sad and kind. He shook his head. ‘I can’t have you back, you must know that?’
John licked his lips again, his breath leaving him in quick punch. ‘Dr. Miller, the limp’s just psychosomatic, it’s not--’
‘It’s still a limp, Dr. Watson,’ Dr. Miller said. ‘And if it wasn’t your leg you were shot in, where was it?’
Cringing, John inwardly cursed himself for letting that slip. He glanced up at the ceiling as he spoke.
‘My... my shoulder, but it doesn’t stop me doing--’
‘Let me see.’ Dr. Miller stood up and walked round to where John sat, reaching out with both hands to straighten John’s left arm. ‘Unclench your fist.’
Face screwing up in shame and embarrassment, John turned away from Dr. Miller before slowly unclenching his hand, the fine tremor causing his fingers to shake minutely.
‘John.’
‘Give me something to do,’ John said, his teeth clenched. He turned his head to face Dr. Miller. ‘Give me something to do, let me work, I need to do something, I need to, please.’ His voice was tight and desperate.
Sighing, Dr. Miller released the grip he had on John’s arm and moved to sit back down at his desk. A gold carriage clock on the shelf behind him ticked loudly.
‘You are one of the finest doctors I have seen trained and employed here, Dr. Watson. However, your current state of health is such that it would be incredibly foolish and short-sighted of me to allow you to practise, here or indeed anywhere else.’
John shook his head, his tongue pushed into his cheek. ‘I thought you needed everyone you could get,’ he muttered, his hand shaking violently against the armrest of the chair.
Dr. Miller nodded. ‘Everyone who is fit to practise, Doctor,’ he said quietly.
The use of the title felt like a kick in the teeth.
‘I’d be fit to practise as soon as somebody gave me something to do!’ John bellowed, his temper getting the better of him. ‘I want to help, I need to help.’
‘You’re not exactly helping your case with outbursts like that, Dr. Watson,’ Dr. Miller said, his voice soft and patient. ‘I’d like to refer you to someone, someone who could help, someone you could talk to.’
‘I don’t need referring,’ John snarled, grabbing his stick and pushing himself to his feet. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me, Dr. Miller, nothing that being allowed to work wouldn’t fix.’
‘Have you been suffering from symptoms or feelings of depression of late?’ Dr. Miller asked, pulling a notebook and a fountain pen towards himself.
‘I refuse to listen to this,’ John said, tightening his grip on his stick, worrying the brim of his hat with his thumb and forefinger. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘John, I’d like to help.’
John splayed his hands on Dr. Miller’s desk and bent down, narrowing his eyes. ‘I don’t need help,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Not yours, not anyone’s.’
Dr. Miller sighed. ‘Then there’s nothing further I can do for you.’
The gold carriage clock struck for half past eleven.
‘Fine,’ John said, straightening. ‘Fine. Good morning, Doctor,’ he muttered from ingrained politeness before walking out of the office, the pain in his leg twice as sharp as before and more insistent as he limped out into the rain and grey of London.
***
There was a small package waiting for John on the doormat when he got home half an hour later, having taken the underground back to Baker Street rather than walk in the rain. His anger of earlier had turned into despondency somewhere on the Central line, and he bent to pick the parcel up with a sigh. It was neatly wrapped with brown paper and masking tape and a familiar hand had scrawled Dr. J. H. Watson, 221b Baker Street, London, NW1 across the front in blue-black ink.
Despite himself, John managed a smile. He trudged up the seventeen steps to 221b and unlocked the front door, hanging his coat and hat up before going to sit at the kitchen table. He pulled a knife out of the cutlery drawer and cut along the edge of the masking tape, folding the paper back and smoothing it out on the stained and scorched wood with the palms of his hands.
One of Sherlock’s origami envelopes lay on top of two packets of tea and a small tin of toffee, an ornate letter J inked onto the paper. John pushed his thumb underneath one of the folds and opened the note out, tilting the paper towards the window to better see in the dingy kitchen.
Please find enclosed my tea and sweet ration for this month, as promised, only a couple of years late.
I love you, I miss you.
- S.
Sighing heavily, John held the note tight, his shoulders slumping. He looked around the barren kitchen, at the counters empty of beakers and test tubes and chemicals and body parts, glanced into the living room at the dining table clear of notes and newspapers and empty cigarette packets. He got up from the table and limped back into the living room, over to their telephone table. He lowered himself cautiously to sit on the floor, back resting against the wall behind the door. John picked the heavy telephone up and placed it in his lap, putting the receiver to his ear, dialling the number Mycroft had given him, pushing his index finger into the holes for each number, twisting the dial round and watching it as it slowly wound back. It started to ring as soon as the dial clicked back into place after the last number had been keyed in.
They hadn’t spoken since Sherlock had left for Bletchley again almost three weeks ago.
The line at the other end picked up without a sound.
‘Dr. Watson for Sherlock Holmes, please,’ John said quietly.
‘Just a moment.’
***
Fifty miles away, in a cramped attic room at Bletchley Park, stuffed to the gills with Sherlock’s knick-knacks and curio, Sherlock rolled over in bed and snatched his phone up off its cradle, clearing his throat before answering.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me,’ John said. Sherlock blinked in surprise. ‘Are you still asleep?’
‘Not anymore,’ Sherlock muttered, curling in on himself under his covers, burrowing into his pillow and closing his eyes again. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to telephone.’ The sheets and patchwork blanket that covered Sherlock were twisted around his lithe form, ensconcing him in the rickety little bed. The afternoon sun crept underneath the blackout curtains and over Sherlock’s brow.
‘I... I just wanted to hear your voice,’ John said quietly, coughing before he spoke again, his voice stronger and steadier. ‘Why are you still asleep? It’s gone midday.’
‘I worked through the night,’ Sherlock murmured, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand to stop an itch. ‘Only finished at eight.’
‘Well, you’ve had a good four and a half hours, you should be ready to face the day again,’ John said with a soft laugh.
Sherlock chuckled. ‘Did you get my package?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did, thank you. I got it just now.’
They were both quiet for a long moment, listening to each other breathe down the line.
‘I’m sorry,’ John whispered eventually, his voice breaking as he spoke. ‘I’m sorry, I never meant to--’
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry about,’ Sherlock said, uncharacteristically gentle as he played with the cord of the telephone.
‘No,’ John said firmly. ‘No, I should never have... .’
‘I love you, John,’ Sherlock breathed.
‘Sherlock--’
‘The phone’s not tapped, don’t worry, Mycroft’s had his people all over it--’
‘No.’ John laughed, the sound cracking in his throat. ‘No, it’s not that. I need...’ There was a heavy sigh from down the line. ‘No. No, it doesn’t matter.’
‘John,’ Sherlock murmured. ‘Whatever it is...’
‘No,’ John said again. ‘No, it doesn’t matter.’ Sherlock sighed, pressing his ear tighter to the phone as if that would somehow bring John closer. ‘Are you back on duty this evening?’
‘Yes. At eight again.’ Sherlock rolled onto his back and blinked his eyes open, his free hand playing with his hair, stroking through the curls as John so often did, before everything.
‘I’d better let you get some more sleep, in that case. Thank you for the tea and the... the sweets.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘I love you too,’ John whispered. ‘And I miss you. Very much.’
Sherlock frowned in pain. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I feel quite the same.’
‘Take care of yourself, now.’
‘I will do. Same to you.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ John said. ‘Goodbye, Sherlock.’
Sherlock swallowed. ‘Cheerio,’ he whispered, but the line had already gone dead.
'Verse Index
Author: lotherington
’Verse: Long Ago and Far Away
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: WWII AU. October, 1943. John visits St. Bart’s to see about doing something useful now he’s back in England. Set three weeks after Home Again.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2350
Notes: The title is from It’s a Lovely Day Tomorrow by Irving Berlin.
October, 1943
John stood outside the doors of the main entrance of Barts, leaning heavily on his stick. A light rain had begun to fall shortly after he’d left the flat and his coat and hat were damp following the long walk to the hospital. He’d hoped that the exercise would ease his leg and his shoulder, but the wet conditions and the hour the trip had taken him had only served to make him stiff and sore. He really ought to have taken the tube.
Letting a breath out in a short huff, John managed to get up the few steps to the door with minimal fuss and entered the hospital, breathing in the familiar and comforting smell of disinfectant and carbolic. He pulled his hat off and tucked it under his arm. For the first time that week, a smile, faint though it was, pulled at his lips.
The hospital was chaotic as usual - even more so, with everything thrown into disarray by the war - and John tried to get in the way as little as possible as he made his way over to the back of the queue to speak to one of the girls on the reception desks. It took ten minutes before he was able to talk to one of them, confirming his appointment with Dr. Miller, the chief of staff.
‘Yes, that’s all in order, Dr. Watson,’ the girl John was speaking to said with a pleasant smile after checking his details against a large, leather-bound book of appointments. ‘If you’ll be kind enough to sit down over there-’ she waved vaguely at a roughly set-out collection of wooden chairs, the plastic beads she wore around her wrist clicking as she gestured, ‘Dr. Miller will be with you soon enough. Is there anything else?’
‘No,’ John replied, clenching his left hand, willing it to still its trembling. ‘No, thank you, I’ll...’ he excused himself with a nod and went to sit at the end of an empty row of wooden chairs, straight-backed, his hand still wrapped around his stick. He was wearing the suit he’d had on the night he’d met Sherlock; the practical, no-nonsense brown one that now bordered on ill-fitting. After months of marching in the desert followed by months of being too downhearted to eat properly, it was really rather loose on him.
Noise from the long corridors echoed into the busy reception area, the familiar sounds of the hospital at work putting John at ease. He rubbed at his bottom lip with the tip of his index finger whilst he waited, watching people as they left the wooden chairs and answered the summons of their names from doorways along the corridor.
It would do him good, to be working here again.
‘Dr. John Watson!’ A voice bellowed, and John smiled as he got to his feet, gritting his teeth against the flash of pain in his leg, refusing to look as though it was troubling him even as he limped over to where Dr. Miller was standing in the doorway of his office.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ he said, offering his hand once he reached Dr. Miller - the right one, so as to delay the discovery of his tremor.
The small smile that had previously graced Dr. Miller’s face faded slowly as he shook John’s hand. ‘Good morning to you, Dr. Watson.’ He stroked his rich brown, grey-flecked beard as he stepped back to let John inside. ‘Do, ah... do come and sit down.’
Dr. Miller closed the door behind John and walked round to the other side of his desk, hitching his trousers up by the knees as he sat down. John lowered himself into one of the wooden chairs in front of the mahogany desk, resting his stick against his thigh. The room was lined with bookshelves, editions of medical journals and textbooks and models of the human body stuffed onto each shelf. A utilitarian tea service balanced precariously on an occasional table next to the desk.
Leaning forwards, linking his hands together on top of a stack of papers, Dr. Miller asked, ‘What is it I can do for you?’
John flexed his left hand and kept it hidden in his lap. He licked his lips nervously. ‘Well, uh, as you know I was part of the North African Campaign until April this year--’
‘Yes, yes, I heard you were shot.’ Dr. Miller nodded slowly. ‘Unfortunate business, that.’
‘Yes,’ John said, frowning. ‘Yes, that’s one way of putting it.’ He cleared his throat and continued. ‘Anyway, I’ve spent some time recovering and...’
Dr. Miller lifted both of his eyebrows. ‘And?’
‘And... and I’d like to take up my position here again, I know you need people and--’
‘Dr. Watson,’ Dr. Miller said softly, interrupting, his eyes sad and kind. He shook his head. ‘I can’t have you back, you must know that?’
John licked his lips again, his breath leaving him in quick punch. ‘Dr. Miller, the limp’s just psychosomatic, it’s not--’
‘It’s still a limp, Dr. Watson,’ Dr. Miller said. ‘And if it wasn’t your leg you were shot in, where was it?’
Cringing, John inwardly cursed himself for letting that slip. He glanced up at the ceiling as he spoke.
‘My... my shoulder, but it doesn’t stop me doing--’
‘Let me see.’ Dr. Miller stood up and walked round to where John sat, reaching out with both hands to straighten John’s left arm. ‘Unclench your fist.’
Face screwing up in shame and embarrassment, John turned away from Dr. Miller before slowly unclenching his hand, the fine tremor causing his fingers to shake minutely.
‘John.’
‘Give me something to do,’ John said, his teeth clenched. He turned his head to face Dr. Miller. ‘Give me something to do, let me work, I need to do something, I need to, please.’ His voice was tight and desperate.
Sighing, Dr. Miller released the grip he had on John’s arm and moved to sit back down at his desk. A gold carriage clock on the shelf behind him ticked loudly.
‘You are one of the finest doctors I have seen trained and employed here, Dr. Watson. However, your current state of health is such that it would be incredibly foolish and short-sighted of me to allow you to practise, here or indeed anywhere else.’
John shook his head, his tongue pushed into his cheek. ‘I thought you needed everyone you could get,’ he muttered, his hand shaking violently against the armrest of the chair.
Dr. Miller nodded. ‘Everyone who is fit to practise, Doctor,’ he said quietly.
The use of the title felt like a kick in the teeth.
‘I’d be fit to practise as soon as somebody gave me something to do!’ John bellowed, his temper getting the better of him. ‘I want to help, I need to help.’
‘You’re not exactly helping your case with outbursts like that, Dr. Watson,’ Dr. Miller said, his voice soft and patient. ‘I’d like to refer you to someone, someone who could help, someone you could talk to.’
‘I don’t need referring,’ John snarled, grabbing his stick and pushing himself to his feet. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me, Dr. Miller, nothing that being allowed to work wouldn’t fix.’
‘Have you been suffering from symptoms or feelings of depression of late?’ Dr. Miller asked, pulling a notebook and a fountain pen towards himself.
‘I refuse to listen to this,’ John said, tightening his grip on his stick, worrying the brim of his hat with his thumb and forefinger. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘John, I’d like to help.’
John splayed his hands on Dr. Miller’s desk and bent down, narrowing his eyes. ‘I don’t need help,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Not yours, not anyone’s.’
Dr. Miller sighed. ‘Then there’s nothing further I can do for you.’
The gold carriage clock struck for half past eleven.
‘Fine,’ John said, straightening. ‘Fine. Good morning, Doctor,’ he muttered from ingrained politeness before walking out of the office, the pain in his leg twice as sharp as before and more insistent as he limped out into the rain and grey of London.
***
There was a small package waiting for John on the doormat when he got home half an hour later, having taken the underground back to Baker Street rather than walk in the rain. His anger of earlier had turned into despondency somewhere on the Central line, and he bent to pick the parcel up with a sigh. It was neatly wrapped with brown paper and masking tape and a familiar hand had scrawled Dr. J. H. Watson, 221b Baker Street, London, NW1 across the front in blue-black ink.
Despite himself, John managed a smile. He trudged up the seventeen steps to 221b and unlocked the front door, hanging his coat and hat up before going to sit at the kitchen table. He pulled a knife out of the cutlery drawer and cut along the edge of the masking tape, folding the paper back and smoothing it out on the stained and scorched wood with the palms of his hands.
One of Sherlock’s origami envelopes lay on top of two packets of tea and a small tin of toffee, an ornate letter J inked onto the paper. John pushed his thumb underneath one of the folds and opened the note out, tilting the paper towards the window to better see in the dingy kitchen.
Please find enclosed my tea and sweet ration for this month, as promised, only a couple of years late.
I love you, I miss you.
- S.
Sighing heavily, John held the note tight, his shoulders slumping. He looked around the barren kitchen, at the counters empty of beakers and test tubes and chemicals and body parts, glanced into the living room at the dining table clear of notes and newspapers and empty cigarette packets. He got up from the table and limped back into the living room, over to their telephone table. He lowered himself cautiously to sit on the floor, back resting against the wall behind the door. John picked the heavy telephone up and placed it in his lap, putting the receiver to his ear, dialling the number Mycroft had given him, pushing his index finger into the holes for each number, twisting the dial round and watching it as it slowly wound back. It started to ring as soon as the dial clicked back into place after the last number had been keyed in.
They hadn’t spoken since Sherlock had left for Bletchley again almost three weeks ago.
The line at the other end picked up without a sound.
‘Dr. Watson for Sherlock Holmes, please,’ John said quietly.
‘Just a moment.’
***
Fifty miles away, in a cramped attic room at Bletchley Park, stuffed to the gills with Sherlock’s knick-knacks and curio, Sherlock rolled over in bed and snatched his phone up off its cradle, clearing his throat before answering.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me,’ John said. Sherlock blinked in surprise. ‘Are you still asleep?’
‘Not anymore,’ Sherlock muttered, curling in on himself under his covers, burrowing into his pillow and closing his eyes again. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to telephone.’ The sheets and patchwork blanket that covered Sherlock were twisted around his lithe form, ensconcing him in the rickety little bed. The afternoon sun crept underneath the blackout curtains and over Sherlock’s brow.
‘I... I just wanted to hear your voice,’ John said quietly, coughing before he spoke again, his voice stronger and steadier. ‘Why are you still asleep? It’s gone midday.’
‘I worked through the night,’ Sherlock murmured, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand to stop an itch. ‘Only finished at eight.’
‘Well, you’ve had a good four and a half hours, you should be ready to face the day again,’ John said with a soft laugh.
Sherlock chuckled. ‘Did you get my package?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did, thank you. I got it just now.’
They were both quiet for a long moment, listening to each other breathe down the line.
‘I’m sorry,’ John whispered eventually, his voice breaking as he spoke. ‘I’m sorry, I never meant to--’
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry about,’ Sherlock said, uncharacteristically gentle as he played with the cord of the telephone.
‘No,’ John said firmly. ‘No, I should never have... .’
‘I love you, John,’ Sherlock breathed.
‘Sherlock--’
‘The phone’s not tapped, don’t worry, Mycroft’s had his people all over it--’
‘No.’ John laughed, the sound cracking in his throat. ‘No, it’s not that. I need...’ There was a heavy sigh from down the line. ‘No. No, it doesn’t matter.’
‘John,’ Sherlock murmured. ‘Whatever it is...’
‘No,’ John said again. ‘No, it doesn’t matter.’ Sherlock sighed, pressing his ear tighter to the phone as if that would somehow bring John closer. ‘Are you back on duty this evening?’
‘Yes. At eight again.’ Sherlock rolled onto his back and blinked his eyes open, his free hand playing with his hair, stroking through the curls as John so often did, before everything.
‘I’d better let you get some more sleep, in that case. Thank you for the tea and the... the sweets.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘I love you too,’ John whispered. ‘And I miss you. Very much.’
Sherlock frowned in pain. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I feel quite the same.’
‘Take care of yourself, now.’
‘I will do. Same to you.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ John said. ‘Goodbye, Sherlock.’
Sherlock swallowed. ‘Cheerio,’ he whispered, but the line had already gone dead.
'Verse Index