Something where Sherlock has a traumatic experience and he doesn't react like a normal person. Not "He's suppressing it, but in the end he really wants to cuddle and cry", but something where he really is highly intellectual, emotionally detached, possibly sociopathic, and deeply strange, and everything about how he reacts to trauma and what helps him cope reflects that. And very much no healing cuddles and no crying.
Okay, I finally did this! I'm afraid I may have failed in some major way, but this is just what came out of the prompt, and hopefully you can enjot it anyway. Mrs. Nancy Smithers had contacted Sherlock through Mrs. Hudson, an old friend. She had reported a burglary to the police several days ago, but she couldn't interest them in the matter that the burglar seemed to have rifled through her pantry before making off with various valuable items. The old widow kept a very tight house, and she knew something was amiss. This suspicion was confirmed when a series of tests revealed lethal levels of Amatoxin mixed with the baking soda. Sherlock suspected the middle-aged step son, who's father's capitol was tied up until the death of the old woman, and he had instructed Mrs. Smithers to very casually let drop the information that the baking soda, for whatever reason, had been discarded - a spring cleaning, a baking accident, anything. The step-son had recently taken to bi-weekly phone calls, so this was easily arranged. Having analysed
( ... )
John was home after two days in the hospital. Sarah was over, helping to set him up on the couch, and Sherlock eyed her from his seat at the table. He didn't like her touching the blanket, or the pillows, or that her shoes were touching the carpet, or that she was there at all, really. John of course had to be there because he payed half the rent and 221B was his home, but when Sarah made her way to the kitchen and began rifling through the cabinets, Sherlock drew the line
( ... )
There were no cases that week. The only distractions which came through were the woefully inadequate problems which trolleyed in through his website. Sherlock attended to each of these with meticulous detail. He brushed his teeth. He put things back which John had moved. He drew the blinds to hang precisely one quarter inch above the window sill. He went out and checked his homeless network to see if anything was afoot. When he returned there was a coat hanging on a peg near the door. It was his coat, except Sherlock didn't have a coat anymore. John was sitting in the chair near the window. He never sat in that chair, he always sat in the one with it's back to the kitchen. Sherlock's teeth pressed reflexively together.
"Mycroft was here," said John. "He, um, brought your coat. Or a coat. Have you been going out without your coat, Sherlock? It's freezing
( ... )
"If my behavior disturbs you, then please recall that you agreed to our present arrangement when you moved in, and are free to leave if that arrangement no longer pleases you
( ... )
It was bitterly cold. All of London seemed to be tilting a bit to one side, and suddenly Sherlock was torn between the desire to go home, and the need to see the case through to conclusion. He felt very fragile, and for a moment he was thankful for John's presence. He immediately quashed that feeling without knowing why
( ... )
Sherlock's eyes opened, darted about the flat before he locked his frantic gaze on John. John was steady. John was his friend. Sherlock wanted to breath, and he tried to twist away again, but John held him firm
( ... )
"I'm tired," he tried to say, but his voice had dissipated to a noiseless rasp. He was aware of John rising, setting his own mug down, and gently prying Sherlock's from his hands.
"Okay," John said. "Okay." John had a regular iron intake and no history of substance abuse; that's why his hands were always so warm. Sherlock's were always cold. "I'll let you get some sleep, then."
Sherlock slumped sideways onto the couch, barely noticing when John slid off his shoes. He curled up his knees and huddled deep into his coat, listening to John's uneven gait as he walked away, keeping nearby but not too close. There arose from the kitchen a comforting clack and rustle as he washed the dishes and tidied up, putting things in order.
Re: FILL um...8/7
anonymous
November 6 2010, 21:16:44 UTC
I heart your numbering system. :D
This is wonderful, the way you show Sherlock falling apart from the inside. He's a jerk when he's trying not to be emotional, isn't he? And the gruesome details about the clingfilm and the sucking sounds John was making--at the very end, when Sherlock was remembering John standing up, I was getting the image of Zombie!John, and Sherlock being terrified and not sure which was worse, if John were dead or if he should have been and wasn't.
Okay, that's just me, I'm weird like that.
And I like that in the end, he finds John's habit of tidying up to be comforting. Keeping things the way they should be. *snuggles them both*
Re: FILL um...8/7iachaNovember 7 2010, 23:20:04 UTC
Thanks!
Sherlock's jerkness was difficult to write, not because it's actually difficult to write him as a jerk - that's easy; he is a jerk - but because I was like, "Noooo! Don't be so mean to John!" I try to be strict about it, but fluff is a guilty pleasure of mine. I would love nothing more than for them to go on a picnic with puppies and hearts, but alas, it's not their style.
I'm glad you enjoyed (is enjoyed the word?) the gruesome details!
Re: FILL um...8/7
anonymous
November 7 2010, 07:42:29 UTC
This is just amazing, you detail Sherlock's falling apart so well; and I'm glad there's no magic cuddle-cure--just Watson keeping him from hyperventilating. Thank you.
Re: FILL um...8/7iachaNovember 7 2010, 23:28:27 UTC
Thanks! I think I came close to failing the terms of the prompt - in fact, I definitely violated the no-crying clause - but I was adamant about the no magic-cuddle-cure. In fact, I was like, "Does medicinal suffocation count as cuddling?" I went with it anyway because brown paper bags lack drama.
Re: FILL um...8/7
anonymous
November 7 2010, 22:27:27 UTC
Oh, my heart! Oh, Sherlock, you magnificent idiot. And good on Mycroft for getting Lestrade to get him out to a triggery case so John could snuggle strangle him until he was okay again. *sigh* Oh, boys.
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tempted to write something. Probably won't be very big though. *ponders*
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"Mycroft was here," said John. "He, um, brought your coat. Or a coat. Have you been going out without your coat, Sherlock? It's freezing ( ... )
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"I'm tired," he tried to say, but his voice had dissipated to a noiseless rasp. He was aware of John rising, setting his own mug down, and gently prying Sherlock's from his hands.
"Okay," John said. "Okay." John had a regular iron intake and no history of substance abuse; that's why his hands were always so warm. Sherlock's were always cold. "I'll let you get some sleep, then."
Sherlock slumped sideways onto the couch, barely noticing when John slid off his shoes. He curled up his knees and huddled deep into his coat, listening to John's uneven gait as he walked away, keeping nearby but not too close. There arose from the kitchen a comforting clack and rustle as he washed the dishes and tidied up, putting things in order.
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This is wonderful, the way you show Sherlock falling apart from the inside. He's a jerk when he's trying not to be emotional, isn't he? And the gruesome details about the clingfilm and the sucking sounds John was making--at the very end, when Sherlock was remembering John standing up, I was getting the image of Zombie!John, and Sherlock being terrified and not sure which was worse, if John were dead or if he should have been and wasn't.
Okay, that's just me, I'm weird like that.
And I like that in the end, he finds John's habit of tidying up to be comforting. Keeping things the way they should be. *snuggles them both*
Reply
Sherlock's jerkness was difficult to write, not because it's actually difficult to write him as a jerk - that's easy; he is a jerk - but because I was like, "Noooo! Don't be so mean to John!" I try to be strict about it, but fluff is a guilty pleasure of mine. I would love nothing more than for them to go on a picnic with puppies and hearts, but alas, it's not their style.
I'm glad you enjoyed (is enjoyed the word?) the gruesome details!
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