Comfortably Numb - Sherlock BBC
Title: Comfortably Numb
Characters/Pairings: John, Sherlock
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: None/Non-specific post TBB
Summary: John is having a Bad Day. (Written for this Make Me A Monday Prompt. Title from the Scissor Sisters song by the same name, it seemed to fit.)
It has not been a good day. He's late for work because a certain flatmate has appropriated his phone, and therefore alarm clock, again; and then has the gall to whine about John's selfishness in going to work when Sherlock is clearly bored with a capital B. Being late means he's forced to take a cab he can’t afford and leaves him with exactly eleven pounds in his wallet. He chucks the pound at the homeless guy who hangs around outside the surgery to even it out again but it still nags at him all morning.
Sarah sees it in his face the moment he arrives and ushers him through to his office with an understanding smile and a promise of coffee which never actually arrives because then there's vomit. Everywhere. The unfortunate patient is bundled off to hospital and John spends the next half hour in the bathroom carefully dabbing at his clothes and determinedly washing his hands once. Well okay maybe twice but certainly no more than that. He's never managed to work out exactly what it is about vomit that sets him off, something to do with the texture possibly, because blood, guts and other bodily fluids have never been a problem. It's one of the reasons he chose the army actually, way down the list but a consideration none the less.
By the time he leaves he's exhausted. He counts his steps all the way home, cursing every time something causes him to lose count on an odd number and doubly cursing Sherlock for rendering his headphones unusable and leaving him with no way to jam his brain's infuriating signal.
He deliberately mis-counts the stairs on his way up to the flat, uses the kitchen door to make ignoring the state of the living room easier (though it doesn't bother him nearly as much he'd first thought it might) and heads for the kettle. Much to his relief there is actually milk in the fridge, unopened, in date and therefore hopefully safe. He's counting again from the moment he flicks the kettle on and he knows it's stupid, knows it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference but he's had a rough day and he's tired and all he wants is a nice cup of tea and some mindless telly so he can maybe switch off for five minutes.
It's probably more than a bit not good that he's half hoping someone gets horribly murdered overnight; because then tomorrow will be spent chasing Sherlock all over London and if he's running then he's not thinking and not thinking sounds like the best idea since teabags right now.
The kettle finally boils (one hundred and four though he may have rushed the last few) and he pulls open the drawer for his spoon. Which isn't there.
…..
John has had a bad day. It's obvious from the moment he steps through the door. He’s holding himself stiffly, breathing far more harshly than the single flight of stairs would usually merit and he doesn't so much as glance in Sherlock’s direction let alone voice his usual cheery, if often forced, greeting.
He watches idly as John opens the fridge, allowing himself a congratulatory smirk for having remembered not to use the new milk in his experiment, notes the flexing of John’s left calf as he taps his foot inside his shoe (roughly once per second, counting again then) and then freezes in horrified anticipation as John opens the cutlery drawer. Damn, he'd been so pleased with himself for remembering about the milk he'd completely forgotten the spoon.
…..
There's a strange noise in his head, a kind of rising whine almost like the washing machine on full spin but lower and more organic and it's only when it pauses as he gulps air into too tight lungs that John realises it's him. He's clutching the edge of the cutlery drawer like it's the last solid thing in existence and oh, this is not good, this is so very not good because Sherlock is right over there and John is having a full on freak out in excruciatingly plain view and he'd tried so hard to keep this all inside.
He's fighting the urge to scream when long, gentle hands prise his away from the drawer and turn him towards a solid presence. He's too far gone for embarrassment now and unashamedly buries his face in smooth silk and familiar scent as strong arms wrap around him and guide him out of the kitchen.
…..
John's laptop is on the coffee table and Sherlock fumbles to open the music player one handed. His violin would be better but it’s on the other side of the room and John doesn't seem to want to give him his other hand back just yet so he’s resigned himself to his position on the edge of the sofa for the time being. The crisis seems to be past but John's breath is still ragged and heavy as if he’s holding back tears or, more likely knowing John, a scream of frustration.
It's summer and early enough that he hadn't had the lights on but he seems to remember that darker is usually better so he hooks his scarf from the floor with one foot and folds it across John's eyes. John squeezes his hand and makes a visible effort to relax so Sherlock thinks he's probably on the right track though it's frustrating not to know, these things are so horribly individual. There's a blanket draped decoratively over the back of the sofa (Mrs Hudson's doing no doubt) and he pulls it down to cover John from chest to knee, it's not big enough to do more and he makes a mental note to acquire a larger one at the earliest opportunity.
…..
John wakes to soft music and warm darkness. He feels loose and heavy the way he only does when he's pushed himself to point of collapse and he cringes a little as he remembers. There's no sound other than the quiet music and the room feels empty; either Sherlock has gone to bed (unlikely) or he's off on one of his unexplained midnight jaunts. Sitting up dislodges something from where it was lying unnoticed on his chest and he catches it without thinking. His fingers recognise it a split second before his eyes catch up, there's a label attached, one of those little card tags they use in charity shops and the like and he brings it closer to his face so that he can see what it says. It's hard to make out in the dark but he's had practice at deciphering Sherlock's scrawl and the words “John’s spoon” are written large and clear. He hasn't laughed so hard in years.
Characters/Pairings: John, Sherlock
Rating: G
Warnings/Spoilers: None/Non-specific post TBB
Summary: John is having a Bad Day. (Written for this Make Me A Monday Prompt. Title from the Scissor Sisters song by the same name, it seemed to fit.)
It has not been a good day. He's late for work because a certain flatmate has appropriated his phone, and therefore alarm clock, again; and then has the gall to whine about John's selfishness in going to work when Sherlock is clearly bored with a capital B. Being late means he's forced to take a cab he can’t afford and leaves him with exactly eleven pounds in his wallet. He chucks the pound at the homeless guy who hangs around outside the surgery to even it out again but it still nags at him all morning.
Sarah sees it in his face the moment he arrives and ushers him through to his office with an understanding smile and a promise of coffee which never actually arrives because then there's vomit. Everywhere. The unfortunate patient is bundled off to hospital and John spends the next half hour in the bathroom carefully dabbing at his clothes and determinedly washing his hands once. Well okay maybe twice but certainly no more than that. He's never managed to work out exactly what it is about vomit that sets him off, something to do with the texture possibly, because blood, guts and other bodily fluids have never been a problem. It's one of the reasons he chose the army actually, way down the list but a consideration none the less.
By the time he leaves he's exhausted. He counts his steps all the way home, cursing every time something causes him to lose count on an odd number and doubly cursing Sherlock for rendering his headphones unusable and leaving him with no way to jam his brain's infuriating signal.
He deliberately mis-counts the stairs on his way up to the flat, uses the kitchen door to make ignoring the state of the living room easier (though it doesn't bother him nearly as much he'd first thought it might) and heads for the kettle. Much to his relief there is actually milk in the fridge, unopened, in date and therefore hopefully safe. He's counting again from the moment he flicks the kettle on and he knows it's stupid, knows it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference but he's had a rough day and he's tired and all he wants is a nice cup of tea and some mindless telly so he can maybe switch off for five minutes.
It's probably more than a bit not good that he's half hoping someone gets horribly murdered overnight; because then tomorrow will be spent chasing Sherlock all over London and if he's running then he's not thinking and not thinking sounds like the best idea since teabags right now.
The kettle finally boils (one hundred and four though he may have rushed the last few) and he pulls open the drawer for his spoon. Which isn't there.
…..
John has had a bad day. It's obvious from the moment he steps through the door. He’s holding himself stiffly, breathing far more harshly than the single flight of stairs would usually merit and he doesn't so much as glance in Sherlock’s direction let alone voice his usual cheery, if often forced, greeting.
He watches idly as John opens the fridge, allowing himself a congratulatory smirk for having remembered not to use the new milk in his experiment, notes the flexing of John’s left calf as he taps his foot inside his shoe (roughly once per second, counting again then) and then freezes in horrified anticipation as John opens the cutlery drawer. Damn, he'd been so pleased with himself for remembering about the milk he'd completely forgotten the spoon.
…..
There's a strange noise in his head, a kind of rising whine almost like the washing machine on full spin but lower and more organic and it's only when it pauses as he gulps air into too tight lungs that John realises it's him. He's clutching the edge of the cutlery drawer like it's the last solid thing in existence and oh, this is not good, this is so very not good because Sherlock is right over there and John is having a full on freak out in excruciatingly plain view and he'd tried so hard to keep this all inside.
He's fighting the urge to scream when long, gentle hands prise his away from the drawer and turn him towards a solid presence. He's too far gone for embarrassment now and unashamedly buries his face in smooth silk and familiar scent as strong arms wrap around him and guide him out of the kitchen.
…..
John's laptop is on the coffee table and Sherlock fumbles to open the music player one handed. His violin would be better but it’s on the other side of the room and John doesn't seem to want to give him his other hand back just yet so he’s resigned himself to his position on the edge of the sofa for the time being. The crisis seems to be past but John's breath is still ragged and heavy as if he’s holding back tears or, more likely knowing John, a scream of frustration.
It's summer and early enough that he hadn't had the lights on but he seems to remember that darker is usually better so he hooks his scarf from the floor with one foot and folds it across John's eyes. John squeezes his hand and makes a visible effort to relax so Sherlock thinks he's probably on the right track though it's frustrating not to know, these things are so horribly individual. There's a blanket draped decoratively over the back of the sofa (Mrs Hudson's doing no doubt) and he pulls it down to cover John from chest to knee, it's not big enough to do more and he makes a mental note to acquire a larger one at the earliest opportunity.
…..
John wakes to soft music and warm darkness. He feels loose and heavy the way he only does when he's pushed himself to point of collapse and he cringes a little as he remembers. There's no sound other than the quiet music and the room feels empty; either Sherlock has gone to bed (unlikely) or he's off on one of his unexplained midnight jaunts. Sitting up dislodges something from where it was lying unnoticed on his chest and he catches it without thinking. His fingers recognise it a split second before his eyes catch up, there's a label attached, one of those little card tags they use in charity shops and the like and he brings it closer to his face so that he can see what it says. It's hard to make out in the dark but he's had practice at deciphering Sherlock's scrawl and the words “John’s spoon” are written large and clear. He hasn't laughed so hard in years.